“—is going to the clinic.” I meet and hold her gaze. “We are taking him to the clinic.”
“He’s—”
“Will moving him to the clinic hurt his chances of survival, April?”
She starts to answer. I’m ready to cut her off again when a lightbulb flashes behind those blue eyes. Well, maybe not so much a flash as a flicker, with the faint hope that her sister is not so medically incompetent—that I realize even firing a bullet into Garcia’s head wouldn’t “hurt” his chances of survival. He has none.
“I would like him in the clinic,” I say, and she finally seems to get the message.
“All right,” she says, but cannot resist adding, “I don’t think it’ll make any difference, treating him here or there,” for the benefit of the three gathered townspeople. But she doesn’t clarify that he has no chance either way. For that I’m grateful.
When more locals arrive, I shoo them off. Anders has come running from the forest, and between him and the three others, they’re able to lift Garcia. Anders does frown over at me when he sees Garcia’s condition, but when I say, “I’d like him in the clinic,” he nods, needing no further explanation.
As we walk, I clear the way with my best Dalton impersonation, warning the residents that we have a gravely injured man, one who has been shot, and anyone who takes too great an interest will zoom to the top of my suspect list. That clears them fast.
When I catch sight of Diana, I call, “Gather up any militia in town. Have them wait outside the clinic,” and she takes off.
The clinic isn’t meant for long-term patients. There’s one examination room, where Kenny is currently enjoying morphine dreams. We wheel Kenny into the other area, used for supplies and equipment, which feels like sticking him in the closet. I’ll apologize later.
As soon as Garcia’s on the table, I shoo off our three helpers with thanks. By that point, Garcia is barely breathing. Anders has already figured out my plan, and he’s jumped in to work on Garcia. April thankfully follows his lead, and the last thing the trio of residents see is the two of them heroically trying to save a man who cannot be saved.
They don’t stop as soon as their audience is gone. We do make every effort to save the marshal. When he breathes his last, we all step back from the table.
“He’s comatose,” I say.
April gives me that are-you-an-idiot look again. “This man is—”
“Comatose,” I say. “We have about forty-eight hours before the smell will prove otherwise.”
Anders chuckles.
April stares at him. “I realize you are a police officer, Deputy Anders, but let me assure you, I do not share my sister’s sense of gallows humor.”
“Yeah, pretty sure you don’t have a sense of humor, period,” he says under his breath.
“Excuse me?”
“We aren’t making jokes here, Doc,” Anders says. “But you’re right that we’re law enforcement. Your sister is a detective first, medical assistant second, same as me. She has a killer to catch. A killer who shouldn’t know that he succeeded.”
“Or that she succeeded,” I say. “I realize you’re using the masculine for simplicity, but I didn’t even see enough to establish gender.” I turn to April. “Marshal Garcia came to town to catch an alleged fugitive. Unfortunately, he made his intentions clear.”
Anders looks at the body. “Fatal mistake, I’d say.”
“Everyone in town knew what he was here for,” I continue. “I had to tell them. After Garcia went door-to-door, enough people knew for the news to travel like wildfire. Better for me to clarify. Someone in Rockton knew there was a supposed US marshal here to arrest them. That person tried to make arrest impossible.”
“We don’t want them to know they succeeded,” Anders says.
I nod. “I’ll put out the word that Garcia survived but has gone into a coma, from which we hope he’ll recover. I’ll make it clear that Marshal Garcia did not reveal his suspect’s identity, but that he certainly will when he awakes. With any luck, our shooter will move to ensure Garcia never wakes up.”
April thinks this over and then nods slowly. “All right.”
“I’ll set up guards right away,” Anders says.
“Hold off for a bit,” I say. “First, I’m going to need to figure out which militia members we can eliminate. For now, that’ll just be everyone who was in sight at the time of the shots.”
Anders lifts his hand. “I was with Jen and two volunteers.” He looks at April. “You have no idea what a relief that is. Around here, that’s step one in any crime: eliminate the law officers from the suspect list.”
She stares at him.