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“Shut up and wrap what’s left of her hand,” I commanded. “She’s lost a lot of blood already.”
Surprisingly, he complied.
She was barely conscious. Her black clothing was white with snowflakes. Her right hand looked like a piece of meatloaf. I pushed her to him and ran into the cabin.
It was as I had left it. Mann was on the floor with the tipped-over chair, still securely handcuffed, staring with hate. Cartwright was lying face down in an expanding pool of red.
I carefully rolled him to his side, then onto his back.
“Tried to warn you,” he gasped. His breathing was coming short and shallow.
“Don’t talk.”
He squinted at me as he always did and licked his lips.
“I served…”
“Don’t talk,” I said. “Save your strength. We’re going to get you to a hospital.”
He gave a quick shake of the head. “Too late.”
I undid his coat and shirt. Both were wet with blood. The exit wound looked eight inches in diameter and had shattered his breastbone.
“My grandbaby…I did this for her. I was sending almost all my paycheck but it wasn’t enough. You tell her I served…”
“You can tell her yourself,” I said. “Help’s on the way.”
“No,” he said. “Not this time. I was shot bad in ’Nam. They evac’d me. Hot zone. Medic got shot through the head. It’s a fucked up world.”
“Ed, stop talking. Focus on your breathing.”
I took his hand and he tried to pull it back. Then he clasped mine, hard. His grip was painful. He stared at me and struggled to get the words out.
“I served…with honor.”
Then his eyes were staring at nothing.
I pounded the floor with my fist and cursed. My eyes were wet but it was only the melted snowflakes. I whispered, “Yes, you did.”
Chapter Forty-six
A week later, Peralta and I walked into the Sandra Day O’Connor United States Courthouse. It was safe for him to be on the sidewalks of downtown again. The day after the events in Payson, the U.S. Attorney had called a press conference to announce that forty people had been arrested in six states, an elaborate conspiracy to exchange diamonds for drugs, and a cast of bad guys in the Russian mafia and Mexican cartels.
Critical details about the FBI evidence were lacking but the television cameras were there to show Mike Peralta as a hero. His robbery had been staged. He was one of the good guys. As if any of you bastards had ever doubted it. They put me on the dais, too. And somehow Chris Melton joined the crowd.
The federal courthouse was a big glass box downtown, designed by a New York starchitect and totally unsuited for Phoenix. The jagged ornamental roof provided no shade and from the inside it looked like the ceiling of a hangar at a third-rate airport. The sun easily penetrated. In the summer, the immense atrium was almost unbearable because of the heat. The starchitect somehow thought it would be a good idea not to air-condition the space.
The result was bugs under a magnifying glass aimed at the sun.
To complete the blunder, the building was entirely surrounded by concrete surfaces, no shade trees, no grass. A special uniform had to be designed for the U.S. Marshals working here so they didn’t faint from heat exhaustion.
Fortunately today it was January and raining outside. We were here to testify before the federal grand jury.
After we passed through security, I saw Eric Pham coming down the staircase and quickly walking toward us.
“Hi, guys.” He sounded odd and positioned himself to block us rather than escort us upstairs.
“There’s been a change.” He held up a hand. “Now don’t go ballistic, Mike.”
