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Seventeen

A t 2 P.M. Jerry’s eyes opened.

Walt sat in a formed fiberglass chair facing his father’s hospital bed. Like his nephew before him, Jerry was hooked up to every kind of wire and tube.

“You’re in recovery,” Walt said, not sure his father heard him. “They operated on you. Got the bullet. Cleaned you up. Your lung’s collapsed and your right shoulder’s going to need some physical therapy, but all in all you should be pretty happy that those private security boys can’t shoot for shit.”

He thought he saw the twinge of a smile and he realized Jerry had heard him, had understood. Jerry tried to say something, but it came out as more of a dry wheeze. Walt slipped an ice chip between his father’s lips. He’d never seen Jerry sick, had never seen him incapacitated. It felt as if this had to be someone else.

His father croaked out, “The shooter?”

Walt nodded. “Liz Shaler is fine. I’m fine. No guests were killed.”

His father shut his eyes. A moment later he was asleep.

“Sheriff?”

Walt turned to see Special Agent in Charge Adam Dryer’s acne-scarred face. “Suspect is out of surgery and has been moved to his room.”

“Thanks.”

“Doc says no visitors for four to six hours. But we’ll get a crack at him later tonight. FYI.”

“I’ll be here,” Walt said. “I’m going to stick around.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said.

“Hell of a thing your father did.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Maybe saved us all.”

“Maybe so.”

An apology hung between them, but it didn’t come.

“Later,” Dryer said. The door hissed shut behind him as he left.

“What a prick,” his father said, one eye creeping open and finding his son.

Walt laughed, surprised at how good it felt.


Sixteen | Killer Weekend | Eighteen