“Right crutch,” Sheppard said. He stood in the doorway and pantomimed the action, swinging an imaginary crutch toward Worth’s head. He was still smiling.

“Clank,” one of the EMTs said.

In the living room, John sat in the blue chair, leg up on the footstool, holding a gel pack to the left side of his face. The EMT stood by, replacing the batteries in his penlight. His partner rolled up a blood pressure cuff and shoved it in a bag.

The woman from the minivan knelt beside the chair, one hand on John’s shoulder. John’s daughter, Worth assumed. Elizabeth.

“Didn’t see his face,” John muttered.

“Jesus, John.” Worth went over. He gestured toward the gel pack. “Can I see?”

John peeled the pack away from his face. Worth saw a purple knot the size of a racquetball above his neighbor’s left eye.

“Don’t think there’s a fracture,” EMT #1 said.

“But he has a concussion,” John’s daughter said. “They knocked him completely unconscious. Just completely unconscious.”

John sighed and patted her hand. Liz, he always called her. Worth knew that she lived down in Plattsmouth with her husband and kids, but he’d never actually met her before tonight. Worry lines crinkled her brow.

“Guess the guy got me better than I got him.”

John said it like a joke, but he was obviously hurting. His complexion was the color of spoiled cheese, and large drops of sweat beaded on his forehead. Worth looked to the med techs and said, “How’s his leg?”

“He didn’t fall on it,” EMT #2 said. “But as far as whether anything twisted on the way down…”

“It’s fine,” John said.

“…his orthopedist needs to have a look. Right now, he’s got some pain.”

John grunted. “Nothing new there.”

“I’ve been trying to get him to come stay with us,” Elizabeth said. She shook her head and rubbed her father’s forearm. “Stubborn.”

EMT #1 said, “One burglar in town who won’t be back, though. Right, John?”

“Johnny Crutches,” said EMT #2. “That’s what we call him.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Elizabeth said.

Sheppard caught Worth’s eye. Worth put a hand on John’s shoulder, then followed the detective back into the kitchen. He took care to step over the blood evidence.

The occasional flashlight beam passed over the windows as cops searched the perimeter outside. It felt as though he were walking through a dream.

“Lab unit should be en route,” Sheppard said. “There’s been a two-person team working houses around Field Club, maybe…maybe something here matches up.”

Worth nodded along, not bothering to point out what Sheppard hadn’t said. This place wasn’t a house around Field Club. It wasn’t even close.

Somebody was on to him; it just wasn’t the good guys. Not yet. Worth couldn’t decide if he was relieved or not.

“What can I do?”

“Well, first thing, take a look around,” Sheppard said. “See if anything’s missing.”

There wouldn’t be, Worth knew. Whoever had broken in here had been looking for one thing, and they wouldn’t have been able to find it.

“You had some storm damage, I take it?”

“Big limb through the window,” Worth said. “Barely started cleaning up in there yet.”

“Besides that room, nothing much looks disrupted.” Sheppard dropped his voice. “I figure Mr. Pospisil broke up the party, but just to cover all the bases, can you think of any recent collars that stand out? Any BGs making threats on the street?”

BGs. Bad guys.

On the street, the only undisputable good guys were your fellow cops. In this situation, Worth didn’t know what that made Sheppard. Let alone what it made him.

“Let me think about that,” he said.

18

In high school, Gwen Mullen had gone to the senior prom with the quarterback of the football team. He’d had too much to drink at the after-party, and they’d gotten in a car wreck on the way home.

There wasn’t much to it. Just them and a light pole, more or less head-on. Keith had tumbled out with a scuff mark on his cheek, a totaled graduation present, and his first DUI. Gwen had spent two days in the hospital: concussion, broken ribs, a punctured lung.

“It feels about like that,” she said.

Dr. Mandekar smiled. “Then you must be healing.”

“Almost like a new girl.”

“I want you to rest in bed for the next several days.”

“You’ll write me a note for my midterms?”

The doctor raised a finger to show that he meant what he said. “If you experience any of the symptoms we discussed, you must call the nurses.”

“Low output, fatigue, fluid retention,” Gwen said, continuing until she’d repeated the entire list by memory. “Got it.”

Dr. Mandekar patted her shin through the bedcover. “A good student. I’d like to see you in one week’s time.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll repeat the IVP, evaluate the kidney. And then we’ll see.”

Gwen nodded. She’d observed a couple surgeries during practicals so far this semester, but the idea of going under the knife herself still scared her a little. It must have shown on her face.

“But I’m very optimistic,” the doctor said, sensing the question she hadn’t asked. “You’ll follow my instructions?”

“Cross my heart.”

Mandekar nodded and patted her leg again. On the way out the door, he stopped and turned back.

“Miss Mullen?”

“Yes?”

For the first time since he’d come in, the doctor glanced toward Marly Kenna, who sat behind the roll-around table on the other side of the bed. Kenna wore a turtleneck sweater and slacks today, ID badge hanging around her neck.

“Please consider everything Detective Kenna tells you to be an order from your physician.”

Up went the serious finger.

Gwen said, “Yes, Doctor.”

Dr. Mandekar maintained a stern expression, but he winked. Then he turned and went on his way.

After he was gone, Detective Kenna—Marly—said, “Quarterback of the football team, huh?”

It was like she’d seen through it the whole time. Gwen dropped her eyes, felt herself blush. Not because she was embarrassed.

“Am I that easy to read?”

“I’ve had a little practice.”

“He wasn’t a quarterback,” she admitted.

“Keith?”

“He was the assistant guidance counselor.”

Marly gave a little smile. “The assistant guidance counselor took you to the prom?”

“He took me to a Super 8.”

“Classy.”

“His wife was out of town. I was stupid.”

“Not stupid. Young.”

“He lied his butt off,” Gwen told her. “But he still ended up losing his job.” She didn’t mention how everybody had looked at her after that. The other male teachers especially.

“What about the wife? I hope she divorced the scumbag.”

“I never heard.”

They sat for a minute, comfortable, almost like girlfriends. Then Detective Kenna asked a question Gwen hadn’t considered.

“So why turn him into a quarterback?”

“Why what?”

“When you tell the story,” Marly said. “Why do you make him the quarterback of the football team?”

“Oh.” Gwen rested her head against the pillow. “Sometimes I make him a wrestler I thought was cute.”

“Yeah?”

“Or this one kid from band.”

“Why make him anything?”

Because if you let somebody catch you lying about something small, it’s that much easier to lie to them about something big. People always thought they had you figured out.

“I don’t know.” Gwen shrugged. “The truth seems so…trashy, I guess.”

“I understand.” And it seemed like she honestly did. After a pause, Detective Kenna added, “As long as you understand who the trash is in that story. You know?”

“I know.”

“Because it isn’t the high school girl.”

“Anyway,” Gwen said. “I don’t tell it very often.”

The door opened, and the morning nurse came in. Sharon. She smiled at Gwen on her way to the chart.