The wedge of collar prevented any movement of his head or neck.
“You in there, Sparrow?”
“Dallas.” White at the lips, he shifted his eyes, tried to focus on her. “What the fuck?”
She moved closer, making it easier for him to keep her in his line of vision, and laid a hand in what she considered a “survivors of the battle” gesture on his shoulder. “You’re in the hospital. You’re strapped in to restrict movement.”
“I don’t remember. How . . . how bad?”
It was, she thought, a nice touch to look away for a moment as if she was struggling to speak. “It’s . . . it’s pretty bad. He hit us, hard. You took the worst. Vehicle went up like a rocket, crashed like a bomb. Slammed into a maxi on your side. You’re messed up bad, Sparrow.”
She felt his shoulder tremble as he tried to move. “Christ, Christ, the pain.”
“I know. It’s gotta be rugged. But we got him.” She closed a hand over his now, squeezed. “We got the bastard.”
“What? Who?”
“We got Bissel, wrapped and locked. Still had the shoulder launcher he used on us. Blair Bissel, Sparrow, alive and well, and singing like a canary.”
“That’s crazy.” He groaned. “I need the doctor. I need something for the pain.”
“I want you to listen, to dig down and pay attention. I don’t know how much time you’ve got.”
“Time?” His fingers jerked under hers. “Time?”
“I want to give you a chance to clear your conscience, Sparrow. To set the record straight. You deserve that much. He’s dumping the whole ball on you. Listen to me. Listen.” She tightened her fingers on his. “I’ve got to give it to you, and you’ve got to prepare yourself. You’re not going to make it.”
His skin went sickly gray. “What are you talking about?”
She leaned in close so he could see only her face. “They did everything they could. Worked on you for hours. There’s too much damage.”
“I’m dying?” His voice, already a weak tremble, cracked. “No. No. I want a doctor.”
“They’ll be back in a minute. They’ll give you . . . they’ll give you a humane dose. You’ll go out easy.”
“I’m not going to die.” Tears swam, and spilled over. “I don’t want to die.”
She pressed her lips together, as if overcome. “I thought you’d want to hear it from me, from . . . a colleague. His aim had been better, we’d both be on our way out. But he just sheered the front end, and we flipped. They saved your leg,” she continued, and paused to clear her throat. “They hoped that . . . Christ. The impact messed up your insides, messed them up bad. The son of a bitch killed you, Sparrow, and tried for me.”
“I can’t see. I can’t move.”
“You’ve gotta stay quiet, still. It’ll buy you time. You’ve been out of it, Sparrow, and he’s using that. He tried to wipe us both, and because of that I’m trying to give you a chance to go out wit
h some dignity. I’m going to read you your rights.” She paused again, shook her head. “Jesus, this sucks.”
He began to tremble as she recited the revised Miranda. “You understand your rights and obligations, Assistant Director Sparrow?”
“What the hell is this about?”
“It’s about setting the record straight, and getting some of your own back here. A good lawyer’s going to get Bissel off with a few slaps if you don’t tell me how it went down. He’s counting on you just dying. Dying and taking the hard rap. He says you killed Carter Bissel and Felicity Kade.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I know it, but he might convince the PA. Jesus, Sparrow, you’re dying! Tell me the truth, let me shut this down, put him away. He killed you.” She leaned in close, lowered her voice. “Make him pay.”
“Stupid fuckup. Who knew he had it in him? How’d it all end up like this?”
“Tell me, and I’ll see to it he goes down. You’ve got my word on it.”