Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [129]
Marge said, “Once Wanda recovers the bullet, we’ll know for certain that it’s the .22, and Dylan will be toast. But that’s not what I’m telling Kerkin’s lawyer, because there’s always an off chance that Kerkin’s Luger or Glock fired accidentally. The kid was packing two firearms.”
“No wonder Kerkin wants to deal.”
“He deserves time,” Marge said.
“Yes he does, and he’ll get it. We’ve got a lot against Kerkin. His attorney will be grateful for any plea we give him.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“We could go with anything from assault and kidnapping to illegal possession of firearms in exchange for testimony and limited jail time. Dylan’s a bigger fish. If the bullet is a .22 and you combine it with the residue on Dylan’s hand, we’ve got attempted murder on Dylan. If you add that to what you and Oliver found in his locker, you can stick a fork in him. He’s done.”
“That’s very good.”
“One thing in Kyle Kerkin’s favor is the info on Gregory Hesse’s suicide. Any luck in finding the camcorder?”
“Not yet.”
“It’d be nice if Kyle wasn’t lying.”
“A kid in possession of two illegal firearms might have a veracity problem,” Marge said. “Wasn’t he the one who held the gun to Gabe’s head?”
“Yes, and that is serious. We just have to see how much Kyle can give us and what Chris Donatti can live with.”
Marge said, “He’s not going to be satisfied with anything less than the death penalty.”
Decker didn’t answer her. Chris had his own way of dealing with things. Right now the safest place for Kyle Kerkin and Dylan Lashay was jail. He said, “If there are any changes in the arraignment times, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks. We’re going through Cameron’s locker right now. I’ll let you know what we come up with.”
“Very good. Anything else you need from me, Sergeant?”
Marge said, “I really, really like all this power and deference you’re giving me.”
“I’m an old man. I’ll retire one day.”
“When you’re gone, old man, I’m gone with you.”
The wait, from being wheeled into the OR to returning to the hospital room after being in recovery, was three and a half hours. Gabe was groggy when they transferred him into the bed and immediately fell back asleep. The first time he stirred was at six in the evening. His face distorted in pain when he moved, and Rina rang for the nurse.
“Let’s see if we can make you more comfortable,” she told him.
He tried to focus on Rina’s face. Everything was fuzzy. His insides alternated between electric shocks and dull throbs. He whispered, “Rina?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Can I go home?”
“I think they’re planning to keep you here overnight.”
“That sucks.” It was too much energy to look around. He closed his eyes. “I hate my life!”
“I’m sorry, Gabriel.” Rina took his hand, and he didn’t resist. “I promise you things will get better.”
A few minutes later, a fortysomething black nurse came in, reading Gabe’s hospital folder. “Okay, young man, let’s see what we can do for you.”
“You can shoot me.”
The nurse ignored him and injected a small bottle into his IV. “You should start feeling better soon.”
Gabe didn’t answer. It took too much energy to talk.
Rina sat with him as he dozed in and out of consciousness. Ten minutes later, Wynona Pratt walked into the hospital room. “Everything okay?”
“The surgery went very well,” Rina said.
“I heard they did it with fiber optics or . . .”
“The surgeon used the path of the bullet to extract it.”
Wynona held up an evidence bag. “Got it.”
Gabe opened his eyes and said, “What caliber?”
“Pardon?” Wynona asked him.
“The bullet?”
“It was a .22.”
“Dylan’s gun,” he mumbled. “Tell the Loo.”
“I will,” Wynona said. “You just concentrate on getting better.”
“Anything is up from this vantage point,” Gabe said.
Rina smiled. “You’ve got a wicked sense of humor, my son.”
Gabe couldn’t even muster a smile. He started to drift off and was awakened again—this time by a male voice. He opened