“Joe Weaver.”
She eyes the bag. “You a doctor?”
“No, ma’am,” Joe says.
“Looks like a medical bag.”
Joe stares at her, not sure how to respond. Adam’s gaze moves from Gina to me. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“He’s … got some medical training,” I tell her. “He’s going to treat that gunshot wound before infection sets in.”
Using her uninjured arm, she pushes herself to a sitting position, propping her back against the wall at the head of the cot. “So if he’s not a doctor, what the hell is he?”
“He’s your best bet,” I tell her.
“I’m an animal practitioner,” Joe offers.
Before anyone can add anything, Gina laughs. It’s a slightly manic sound in the silence of the room, with the wind and snow battering the window. The two men exchange another look, not sure how to react, likely wondering if she’s not only on the outs with the law, but insane, too.
Under different circumstances I might’ve joined her. But I don’t. That she would laugh in the face of two men who’ve offered their help, perhaps at the risk of legal repercussions or their standing in their community, ticks me off.
“A simple thank-you would be a good way to get things rolling,” I tell her.
“Sorry, it’s just that…” Choking back laughter that isn’t entirely born of humor and contains a distinct edge of desperation, she sobers. “I’m a little out of my element here.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, all of us are out of our elements.” I look at Joe. “What do you need to get started?”
“I have everything I need right here.” He pats the bag.
I go to Gina. “He’s going to need to take a look at that shoulder.”
“All right.” Grimacing, she nods at Joe. “Thank you.”
The Amish man steps forward, looks around for a place to set his bag. I spot an old-fashioned rack of TV trays against the wall, pull one out, and unfold it for him.
Joe nods. “Danki.”
Adam sets his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Ah … we probably ought to go break ice for the cattle.”
“And check on Suzy to see if she had her calf,” Sammy adds, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Gina.
I make eye contact with Adam. “Thank you.”
Giving us a final nod, the Amish man guides his son from the room. I close the door behind them, fold my arms at my chest, and lean against it. From her place on the cot, Gina watches as Joe opens the medical bag and sets a roll of wrapped gauze, a large plastic syringe, and a bottle of Betadine solution on a small tray.
“Have you ever treated a gunshot wound?” she asks.
Joe continues his work, disinfecting his hands and pulling on a pair of disposable gloves. “Two years ago, one of Mark Miller’s buggy horses was shot in the withers. An accident, you know. A stray bullet from a hunter, probably. It was deer season.”
“The horse survived?” she asks.
“No,” he says, deadpan.
At her stricken expression, Joe glances at me over his shoulder and grins. “The horse was fine. Got him out of work for a few weeks.”
I’ve always had an appreciation for Amish humor and I smile back at him.
“How are you feeling overall?” he asks Gina.
Her gaze flicks to mine. “Is that a serious question?”
A hint of a smile whispers across his features. “Any sweating? Sensations of heat? Throbbing at the site of the wound?”
“Some throbbing,” she responds. “It’s getting worse. No heat.”
Joe finishes readying his tools, uncaps a digital thermometer, slides a cover onto the tip, and passes it to Gina. “Under your tongue. No speaking for twenty seconds.”
Frowning as if she’s not quite sure if he’s messing with her, she eyes the thermometer, then does as she’s told.
When the thermometer beeps, Gina removes it from her mouth and hands it to Joe. He squints at the reading. “No fever. That’s a good sign.” He tips his head at me and clears his throat.
Realizing he’s not comfortable asking her to remove her shirt, I leave my place at the door and go to Gina. “You’re going to have to slip that shirt off your shoulder.”
“Right.” Using her uninjured arm, she sets to work unbuttoning her shirt.
Seeing that she’s having difficulty, I go to her, kneel next to the cot. I finish the last of the buttons. She’s wearing a turtleneck beneath the flannel shirt, so I roll it up at the hem and stretch it out at the armpit. Wincing in pain, she maneuvers her arm out of the sleeve.
“Schmatze,” Joe murmurs, which is Deitsh for “be in pain.”
“Miah sinn glikk see is net yoosa fluch-vadda,” I say. We’re lucky she’s not cursing.
“Net alsnoch,” he says. Not yet.
“I can’t defend myself unless you insult me in English,” Gina grumbles as the damaged flesh looms into view.
Gunshot wounds are hideous things. I’ve seen several in the years I’ve been a cop, both accidental and intentional, inflicted by everything from a .22 to a shotgun. I’ve suffered a gunshot wound myself. Though mine wasn’t life-threatening and I received prompt medical care, it was a traumatic experience, not just physically but psychologically.
Like most cops, I’m an emergency medical technician. I’ve read enough to know that the main elements that affect tissue damage are caliber, velocity, and distance. Luck, of course, has a lot to do with it, too. Noting the location of this particular wound—which is an inch or so into the muscular part of her shoulder—I suspect Gina is one of the luckiest people walking around.
The wound itself is about the size of a pencil eraser and round in shape. The surrounding flesh is the color of eggplant, swollen, and covered with dried blood.
“If you could lower that.” Joe indicates her bloodstained bra strap.
I slide the narrow strip of lace off her shoulder.
“Glad I wore my good bra,” Gina murmurs.
Rising, I step away to give Joe better light and room to work. I watch as he swabs the entire shoulder, front and back, with a sterile gauze saturated with the Betadine solution. He uses a fresh gauze to pat it dry. Once the area is clean, the full impact of the wound looms large.
“Are you able to remove the slug?” I ask.
“There is no slug,” he tells me. “The bullet passed through.” The Amish man indicates the hole I noticed initially. “It entered here. Exited in the back.”
I hadn’t noticed the second wound. Craning my neck, I spot the quarter-size, slightly jagged cavity on the back side of her shoulder. “The bullet passed through cleanly,” I say. “That’s good, right?”
“Passed through, yes.” He makes a sound with his tongue. “Cleanly … probably not. You see, the bullet picks up bits of clothing and other debris as it enters, and forces it into the wound.”
“She’ll need antibiotics?” I ask.
“And I’ll need to flush the wound,” he tells me.
“I’d appreciate it if you two would stop talking about me as if I’m not here,” Gina grumbles.