It was a race against time. Inside the truck, oxygen helped. And EMTs plugged the bleeding with temporary strips and head wraps. They told him it looked like the guy had tried to kill him. Ridge, now with time to think, sorted through possible reasons.
Just then, the ambulance, red lights flashing, sirens blaring, blasted up to the emergency room entrance. Yanking the doors open, the paramedics pulled his cot from the rear of the truck. It clattered as the wheels scissored down, and Ridge’s ride went wobbly, to bumpy, to smooth. Within the ER, he was lifted and switched to another bed near a white wall. The paramedics had to run. Another call. Ridge thanked them, waved goodbye and waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing happened. He heard people scurrying back and forth and tried to lift his head to scan the room. But as he did, woozy got woozier. Confused, lightheaded, weak. He lowered his head again. Studied the white ceiling. Waited. Waited some more. Finally, he closed his eyes and listened.
There were people, a lot of them, and he glimpsed shadows darting back and forth, left and right. But still, somehow, he was invisible. Not really there. It wasn’t the waiting; he could do patience. Not his strong suit, but he could do it. It was lack of communication. Slab of meat. Oh sure, as a legendary courtroom slayer, Ridge could have jumped up and objected, but he could no longer raise his head. Anyway, he’d been through enough military hospitals to realize waiting your turn was the thing to do. But still, without paramedics, without Patty, it was like being dumped in another world. Being alone threatened to swallow him. He thought of his cat Mister, his dog Pistol—jumping, playing, curled up. He was never alone with them nearby. He smiled, and suddenly the commotion-filled room came into focus as he heard, “What’s this? Headwound. Temp strips. Clean up this blood.” That—got Ridge’s attention.
Next, the voice said, “Let’s deaden it. Start stitching—stat.” Leaning over and gazing into Ridge’s eyes, a red-headed doctor added, “Stay awake, sailor.”
Laying on the table, now under intense light, but still groggy, Ridge focused on the doctor’s blue-gloved hand. Sharp needle. Probably painkiller, he figured, never expecting a second stab and then a third. Each punctured Ridge’s head in a different area above his eyes, like injecting vodka into a watermelon, only it was his head. After a short pause, the doc poked his forehead with still another needle, asking, “Feel that?”
“Not really,” said Ridge. “Kinda mushy. Nothing like those first three.”
“Good.” Then she pierced other areas of Ridge’s forehead, now a pincushion, got similar answers, and said, “We’re ready to go.”
In a heartbeat, her fingers pinched a much longer, glittering needle near his eyes, like a wasp in his face and no way to duck. Yet, not wanting to lose full control, he watched—as best he could. She slowly stitched across his forehead, just above the eyebrows. As the point penetrated a third time, Ridge’s back seemed to roll on the bed. Slowly, involuntarily, shoulder to shoulder. Then back the other way. The doc pulled her needle down, level with his eyes. To see further, Ridge peered left into a nearby hallway. He fixated on a white disc-shaped lamp suspended from the ceiling by a long slender pole. It swung slowly—toward the wall and then back again, quicker.
Someone said, “Quiet. Earthquake.”
Ridge’s back rolled some more; the lamp swung harder, faster. Why didn’t it crash into the wall? Damn, realized Ridge, the walls are moving too. The hospital’s on rollers. His eyes shifted frontward to the blue suture thread running from his head to the eye of the needle. The doctor seemed to freeze it in midair as Ridge continued to roll away from it. How? Then he knew. She was moving with him, involuntarily, on the same roller coaster.
The doc stared into his eyes. “We’re not done, but I’m gonna cut the suture thread.”
Someone else said, “It’s over. Slow-roller. Google says 4.2…not sure where.”
Ridge’s surgeon turned her head toward the voice. “Aftershocks?”
Everyone stayed absolutely still, silent. Eventually a voice said, “Clear. Let’s get back to work.”
The doc gazed down at Ridge. “How you doing?”
Ridge riveted on her green eyes, just above the blue mask. “Good. Just life in L.A. I guess. Let’s get this done.”
“You got it.”
Ridge watched the shiny needle as its point penetrated his skin over and over—spongy pressure, sometimes sharp. Local anesthesia wearing off, but he said nothing. Quicker it was done, the better.
“The scar might blend into the furrow line on your forehead,” the doctor said. “Eventually disappear. If so, maybe no plastic surgery.” Had it with surgery, thought Ridge, gritting, and waiting for sharp pain each time the needle pierced his flesh.
Finally, the surgeon said, “It’s over. Twelve stitches. Still with me?”
“I’m good. Can I go now?’
“Sorry. You’ll need a CT scan and you’ll be our guest overnight for observation. Standard operating procedure with head injuries.”
“Lovely.”
“Could’ve been worse. I’m told you kept pressure on the wound and took a swim in the marina. That helped to control blood loss.”
“It wasn’t my idea to take a dip.”
The doctor laughed. “No, I imagine not. How ’bout Percocet for pain?”
“Sure.”
Next thing, Ridge was laying on a cart, watching ceiling tiles and blinding lights whiz by. Orderlies shook, twisted, and turned the go-cart, hallway after hallway.
“Where’s the fire, guys?” said Ridge.
“Shift change,” said an orderly from behind his head. “Earthquake slowed things down.”
“Got it,” said Ridge, gripping both sides of the cart, like a bobsledder streaking downhill.
He finally reached a room with a large coffin-like machine dead center. Intimidating, yes, but he’d been through worse. After the scan, the orderlies returned with their cart. On his back again, more ceiling squares and lights flew by until he reached another room, bright, small, and stuffy, like a white-washed prison cell, but with odors of antiseptic. After slipping into a blue hospital gown, a pillowcase with armholes and slit back, he got in bed, a bit depressed, and stared at the ceiling.
Minutes later, he brightened when a nurse came in, cuffed his arm, and said his blood pressure was near normal. “Does my heart good,” said Ridge. The nurse laughed. Then, after taking more Percocet and downing some green Jell-o, Ridge tried to think. He focused on his wife, Jayne. Out of town—business trip. Big presentation in the morning. He’d call her afterwards. The office? In the morning. Exhausted, Ridge rolled over to sleep.
But sleeping was always hit or miss. Too much to forget. He knew others had it worse. Veterans. Brothers and sisters. Thousands already diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. He was lucky. No formal diagnosis, yet, despite some flashbacks, night sweats and a few days, now and then that were damn hard to get through. But he didn’t need treatment. Limited resources should go to those in real pain.
As he finally started to drift off, he thought of the maniac who bashed his head and tossed him overboard. What case? Which new client? Why? And why did Ridge’s intuition, that nagging feeling, gut level, tell him this was all about much more than one case.
CHAPTER 3
Time to make it happen. So, on a bright blue Monday morning, in the San Diego area, Calvin Hess and his assistant tugged open the huge, tinted glass doors of the Native American casino, Barona. Hess jerked his head back, signaling his assistant, a young man in his early 20s, to follow. Then they entered the dark, din and dinging of the cavernous game room. Hess whispered, “Lesson One: Killing flies cleanses the world.” He turned left and walked along a blue wall to the brass cashier cages. Hugging the next partition, he and his assistant passed a row of shiny, pulsating slot machines without gamblers. “Not many people. Still early,” said Hess, stopping near a still-covered roulette table with no one around. Like a hawk hunting a mouse, he peered left and right across the dimly lit room. Finally, he spotted the judge’s white hair and ruddy complexion. His Honor was sitting toward the rear, busy at blackjack.
“Can’t help himself,” said Hess. “Recruited him in Vegas. The courthouse loved him. But blackjack and alcohol made recruitment easy. He became our first federal judge. But now, since transferring to San Diego, he won’t cooperate.”
The assistant turned to Hess. “How do we handle this?”
Hess stared at him. “Lesson Two: Never tolerate traitors. Think Dante. He assigned turncoats to the innermost circle of Hell, closest to Satan. Flynn—the filthy fly—deserves the same. And as with the other judges, I studied this one. Loves freedom, above everything. Rip it away, and he’s half done.”
