White Lies (The Arcane Society #2)(56)
Author: Jayne Ann Krentz

“Sorry I’m late for dinner, honey,” Jake said. “Got held up at work.”

She rushed toward him. He had the distinct impression that she was about to throw her arms around him. But to his great disappointment she stopped short, horrified at the large white bandage that enveloped the upper portion of his left arm.

It dawned on him that he probably looked more than a little rough around the edges. The ER team had cut off his shirt. He was leaving the hospital bare to the waist. No one had bothered to clean him up, either. There was a lot of dried blood on his pants and boots.

“How bad is it?” Clare whispered.

“I probably won’t be playing golf for a while,” Jake said, feeling quite cheerful. “You look lovely. Is that a new T-shirt?”

Clare frowned worriedly and turned to the doctor. “He sounds out of it.”

“He may be,” Benton said, frowning a little. “I gave him something for the pain. Some people react in odd ways to painkillers. Which reminds me.” He pulled out a notepad. “Here’s a prescription for an antibiotic and some more pain meds. He’s going to feel that arm when the local wears off.”

“Are you sure he’s ready to go home?” Clare asked.

“Yep,” Jake said, rocking a little on his heels. “I’m ready.”

“He’ll be fine,” Benton said to Clare. “If I had any real concerns I’d admit him for twenty-four hours. But as long as he has someone to stay with him, I don’t see any problem. Keep Mr. Salter quiet for a couple of days and watch for a fever or any other sign of infection. There will be some seepage from the wound, but if he starts to bleed heavily get him back here right away.”

“How badly was he hurt?” Clare asked.

“It was just a flesh wound,” Jake assured her. “You know, like in those old Westerns where the hero gets shot from behind. Except I was shot from the front. Sort of. More like on an angle, maybe. The guy was up on the hillside hiding in some boulders.”

He wondered if he had become invisible. No one was paying any attention to him.

“There’s some soft tissue trauma, naturally,” Benton said to Clare, “but no damage to the bone. He did an excellent job of getting the bleeding under control right away.”

“Thank goodness.” Clare’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Stitches, I assume?”

“Sure,” Benton said, “lots of ’em. He’ll need to make an appointment to have them removed in a few days. Will you be the one changing the bandages in the meantime?”

Jake got a sudden visual of the gory state of his left arm.

“Hell, no,” he said loudly. “I look like something that was sewn together by Dr. Frankenstein. I’ll take care of my own arm.”

Neither Clare nor Benton looked at him.

“Yes, I’ll deal with the bandages,” Clare said.

“In that case, here are the instructions for wound care,” Benton said, handing her a sheet of paper and the prescriptions he had just written.

Clare scanned the list of instructions. “I assume I can get these things at any good drugstore?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Benton said. “Or you can pick them up at the hospital pharmacy on your way out. You can fill the prescriptions there, too.”

“I’ll do that,” Clare said. She folded the paper and tucked it into her shoulder bag. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Hey, it’s what I do,” Benton said, smiling broadly. “Got to tell you, Mr. Salter was definitely one of the more interesting cases I’ve seen in a while. We don’t get a lot of gunshot wounds here in Stone Canyon. They show up all the time at the big hospitals in Phoenix and Tucson, of course. But this town is not exactly Crime Central.” He glanced at Thompson. “Isn’t that right?”

“We like to think we have a nice, safe little community here.” Thompson studied Clare with a considering expression. “Haven’t had a gunshot fatality in six months.”

“Right, the McAllister murder,” Benton said genially. “I didn’t start working here until a couple of months after it happened but people were still talking about it. McAllister’s death was a big sensation at the time. They never caught the killer, did they?”

Jake was starting to get irritated by the way Thompson was looking at Clare.

“Case is still open,” Thompson said.

Benton nodded thoughtfully. “Officially they chalked it up to an interrupted burglary, but as I recall there were a lot of rumors going around. Everyone seemed to think the truth was that McAllister was murdered by his lover, who just happened to be his wife’s half sister. One of those messy love-triangle situations.”

“Something like that,” Thompson agreed.

“I guess it only goes to show that just because a family is rich and powerful doesn’t mean it can’t be just as screwed up and dysfunctional as any other family,” Benton said. He punched in the code to unlock the security doors again. “Well, folks, you’ll have to excuse me. Got a long night ahead. Lives to save and coffee to drink, you know. Hope I don’t see you in here again anytime soon, Mr. Salter.”

The doors closed solidly behind him.

Jake looked at Clare. Her mouth was very tight at the corners.

Thompson had removed a notebook from his pocket. “I didn’t catch your name, ma’am.”

Well, damn, Jake thought. He could almost see Thompson’s cop-brain grinding away. He tried to shake off the fuzzy, disoriented sensation that had enveloped him.

“Clare Lancaster,” Clare said politely.

“Thought so,” Thompson said. He made a note.

“Hey,” Jake growled. “Stop that.”

Neither Thompson nor Clare looked at him.

“Do you have any idea who shot Jake?” Clare asked aggressively.

“Not yet,” Thompson said.

Clare narrowed her eyes. “Shouldn’t you be out looking?”

“We’re working on it. I just finished taking Mr. Salter’s statement. Do you mind telling me where you were around six o’clock this evening, Miss Lancaster?”

“I was at Mr. Salter’s house,” Clare said. “Cooking dinner.”

Jake put his good arm around her shoulders. “Nothing a man looks forward to more after a hard day’s work getting shot than coming home to a nice home-cooked meal. What are we having, sweetheart?”