“Has anyone shown up in connection with the black kid who was killed?” Clint asked.
Axel noticed the cowboy’s face twitching with each distant sob from the grieving mother. Axel’s attention turned to the father, who paced the hallway outside the room where his wife was crying, yet seemed unable to enter. The man looked lost and broken, a mountain crumbling.
“A couple of young guys came in asking about him just before you arrived,” Devlin said. “They wanted to know if he’d survived. As I said on the phone, he didn’t.”
“Do you know if they’re still here?”
“I’m not sure…” Devlin started, then paused as two young black men in their early-to-mid-twenties appeared in the hall, walking swiftly toward the ER waiting room. “I think that might be them,” he told Clint.
The young men swept past without acknowledging them, shoved through the doors into the waiting room, and Clint broke away to follow them. Axel stayed behind.
“How is the young man?” Axel asked quietly.
Devlin sighed. “About the same.” He motioned for Axel to join him as he headed back toward the exam room. “He’s lying down, and we got him out of his soiled clothes and washed him up. His mother got him to drink a little water, but he isn’t very responsive.” Devlin shook his head, a deep strain showing in hisface. “I think he’s afraid to come back to reality, afraid of what’s waiting for him.”
“His little brother?” Axel whispered. “Is he still in surgery?”
“Yeah.” Devlin paused a few feet from the exam room, watching the father troll the hallway. “Dr. Landers is doing his damnedest to save the boy, but he knows it’s a losing battle. Everyone who saw the boy knew it.”
“But miraclesdohappen. He could still…”
Devlin shook his head sadly. “God would have to come down and touch the boy Himself for him to have any chance of making it. Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
The father’s steps faltered slightly as he passed by, and Axel was sure he had overheard their conversation. His suspicions were confirmed when the father turned to them. “The boy… what happened to him?” The man’s voice was rough and gravelly, yet fragile and vulnerable.
Devlin cleared his throat as he shifted. “He was shot during a drive-by.”
The big man seemed to quake from the feet up, his large hands slowly clenching like battering rams. “Was it the same shooter who…” His neck muscles strained, popping like steel cords. “… who hit my boy?”
“The driver in your son’s accident hasn’t been identified,” Devlin said calmly. “However, the two incidents are believed to be related.”
“When they ID him,” the man said, his face flushing with tightness and a vein throbbing in his forehead, “I want to know who it is.”
Devlin shifted nervously, and Axel sensed his struggle to keep from looking toward the exam room. “You’ll have to speak with the police about that.”
The man stared at him for a moment, his jaw clenching so tightly Axel thought something might crack. He nodded and resumed pacing, sliding his hands back to the nape of his neck, fingers locking, and his head bowing.
“I’m scared for the kid,” Axel whispered. “What’s going to happen to him when that man—when thepublic—finds out? They’llcrucifyhim… whatever’s left after that man…” His face pinched as the corridor swam before him, the hulking father’s blurred image looming like a stalking beast, ready to snap.
Devlin touched his arm. “We’re going to do whatever we can to protect him until the detective arrives. Then he will know better how to keep him safe.” He exhaled shakily. “I hope.”
The waiting room was empty when Clint entered, the young men nowhere in sight. He crossed to the windows, fingers sliding between the blinds to make a narrow slit. Outside, beneath the sickly glow of parking lot lights, the young men's silhouette moved with purpose. Another figure emerged between two vehicles, slightly older than the other two men.
At the outer entrance door, Clint smacked the large metal button that opened it, and the door swooshed open with a soft hiss. He stepped through into the cool evening air, moving with caution toward the three men. Clint was halfway across the parking lot when the men noticed he was heading their way. Oneof the young men turned, tension stiffening his limbs. The older man slowly stepped around him, eyes widening a bit.
“You’re the… cowboy.” A guarded look etched his face, and a sprinkling of fear. Good. He was maybe thirty, at most, and looked like every drug dealer Clint had ever met. The fierce look on Clint’s face alarmed him, and he held up his hands. “We don’t want any trouble with you.”
“Shut up and listen,” Clint growled, in no mood forpleasantries.“I don’t give a fuck about you or yourdealings.I want to know about the shooting.”
“The shooting…?”
“The fuckingdrive-by,”Clint snapped. “The black kid who was shot—he was one of yours?”
“Yeah,” the man said slowly. “Why?”
“Who was the shooter?”
The man frowned. “Why do you want to know?”
