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Authors: Jeffery Deaver
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moment, it seemed to Buffett.
“Doctor . . . ?” Buffett’s voice faded.
The doctor did not encourage him to continue. He closed the metal cover of the chart and said, “Officer, I’d like to talk to you about your injury, tell you exactly what happened, what we did. What we’re going to do.”
“Sure.”
“You were shot in the back. Several slugs hit your bullet-proof vest. They were small—.22-caliber—andshattered right away. A third bullet hit the top side of the vest. It was deflected but it grazed your scapula, your shoulder blade. That’s the pain you feel there. It’s a minor wound. We removed the bullet easily. There’s some risk of sepsis—that’s infection—but the odds are that won’t happen.”
Gould was taking out a pen, a fancy gold and lacquer pen, and was drawing what looked like the lower half of a skeleton on the back of a receipt.
“Donnie, three of the bullets hit you below the vest. They entered here, that’s where the lumbar region of the spinal cord joins the sacral region. One shattered and stopped here.” The pen, top replaced, was now a pointer. “The other two lodged in your intestine but missed the kidneys and bladder. We removed all the pieces of lead. We’ve repaired the damage with sutures that will absorb into the tissue. You won’t need any further surgery, unless we have a sepsis situation.”
“Okay,” Buffett said agreeably. He squinted and studied the diagram as if he’d be tested on it later.
“Donnie, the bullet that shattered—it entered your spinal cord here.”
Buffett was nodding. He was a cop. He had seen death. He had seen pain. He had felt pain. He was totally calm. His injury couldn’t be serious. If it were he’d be hooked up to huge machines. Respirators and jet cockpit controls. All he had was a tube in his dick and an IV that was feeding him fattening sugar. That was nothing. No problem. He felt pain now, a wonderful pain that ran through his legs, playing hide-and-seek. If he were paralyzed he wouldn’t be feeling pain.
“Donnie, we’re going to refer you to a Dr. Weiser,one of St. Louis’s top SCI neurologists and therapists. SCI, that’s spinal cord injury.”
“But I’m okay, aren’t I?”
“You’re not in a life-threatening condition. With upper SCIs, there’s a risk of respiratory or cardiac failure . . . Those can be very troublesome.”
Troublesome.
“But your accident was lower SCI. That was fortunate in terms of your survival.”
“Doctor, I’ll be able to walk, won’t I? The thing is, my job, I’m a cop . I have to walk.” He lifted his palms as if he were embarrassed to be explaining something so simple.
“Uhn, Donnie,” the doctor said slowly, “your prognosis is essentially nonambulatory.”
Nonambulatory.
“What does? . . .” Buffett’s throat closed down and he was unable to complete his question. Because he knew exactly what it meant.
“Your spinal cord was almost completely severed,” Gould said. Buffett was looking directly into his eyes but did not see any of the intense sympathy that was pouring from them. “With the state of the art at the present time I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about it. You won’t walk, no.”
“Oh. Well. I see.”
“Officer, you’re very lucky. You could easily have been killed. Or it might have been a quadriplegic situation.”
Sure, that’s true.
Gould stood up. The chart got replaced on the bed, the doctor’s nifty pen went back into his shirt.“Dr. Weiser is much more competent to talk about your injury than I am. You couldn’t ask for a better expert. A nurse will be coming by to schedule an appointment later.” He smiled, shook Buffett’s hand. “We’ll do everything we can for you, Officer. Don’t worry about a thing.”
It was several minutes later that Donnie Buffett said, “No. I won’t,” and only then realized that the doctor was no longer in the room.
PHILIP LOMBRO HAD this habit. He would polish his
“Doctor . . . ?” Buffett’s voice faded.
The doctor did not encourage him to continue. He closed the metal cover of the chart and said, “Officer, I’d like to talk to you about your injury, tell you exactly what happened, what we did. What we’re going to do.”
“Sure.”
“You were shot in the back. Several slugs hit your bullet-proof vest. They were small—.22-caliber—andshattered right away. A third bullet hit the top side of the vest. It was deflected but it grazed your scapula, your shoulder blade. That’s the pain you feel there. It’s a minor wound. We removed the bullet easily. There’s some risk of sepsis—that’s infection—but the odds are that won’t happen.”
Gould was taking out a pen, a fancy gold and lacquer pen, and was drawing what looked like the lower half of a skeleton on the back of a receipt.
“Donnie, three of the bullets hit you below the vest. They entered here, that’s where the lumbar region of the spinal cord joins the sacral region. One shattered and stopped here.” The pen, top replaced, was now a pointer. “The other two lodged in your intestine but missed the kidneys and bladder. We removed all the pieces of lead. We’ve repaired the damage with sutures that will absorb into the tissue. You won’t need any further surgery, unless we have a sepsis situation.”
“Okay,” Buffett said agreeably. He squinted and studied the diagram as if he’d be tested on it later.
“Donnie, the bullet that shattered—it entered your spinal cord here.”
Buffett was nodding. He was a cop. He had seen death. He had seen pain. He had felt pain. He was totally calm. His injury couldn’t be serious. If it were he’d be hooked up to huge machines. Respirators and jet cockpit controls. All he had was a tube in his dick and an IV that was feeding him fattening sugar. That was nothing. No problem. He felt pain now, a wonderful pain that ran through his legs, playing hide-and-seek. If he were paralyzed he wouldn’t be feeling pain.
“Donnie, we’re going to refer you to a Dr. Weiser,one of St. Louis’s top SCI neurologists and therapists. SCI, that’s spinal cord injury.”
“But I’m okay, aren’t I?”
“You’re not in a life-threatening condition. With upper SCIs, there’s a risk of respiratory or cardiac failure . . . Those can be very troublesome.”
Troublesome.
“But your accident was lower SCI. That was fortunate in terms of your survival.”
“Doctor, I’ll be able to walk, won’t I? The thing is, my job, I’m a cop . I have to walk.” He lifted his palms as if he were embarrassed to be explaining something so simple.
“Uhn, Donnie,” the doctor said slowly, “your prognosis is essentially nonambulatory.”
Nonambulatory.
“What does? . . .” Buffett’s throat closed down and he was unable to complete his question. Because he knew exactly what it meant.
“Your spinal cord was almost completely severed,” Gould said. Buffett was looking directly into his eyes but did not see any of the intense sympathy that was pouring from them. “With the state of the art at the present time I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about it. You won’t walk, no.”
“Oh. Well. I see.”
“Officer, you’re very lucky. You could easily have been killed. Or it might have been a quadriplegic situation.”
Sure, that’s true.
Gould stood up. The chart got replaced on the bed, the doctor’s nifty pen went back into his shirt.“Dr. Weiser is much more competent to talk about your injury than I am. You couldn’t ask for a better expert. A nurse will be coming by to schedule an appointment later.” He smiled, shook Buffett’s hand. “We’ll do everything we can for you, Officer. Don’t worry about a thing.”
It was several minutes later that Donnie Buffett said, “No. I won’t,” and only then realized that the doctor was no longer in the room.
PHILIP LOMBRO HAD this habit. He would polish his
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