dying.â
A ripple went through the silent nurses.
Warner smiled. âThatâs more like it.â He waved the nurses away with a flick of the wrist.
After theyâd retreated to the other side of the roomâwhere they could still hear us, but at least werenât hoveringâI continued, âWhoâs going to take care of your daughter, Mary, once youâre dead? Isnât she parked in a high-class mental hospital right now? Itâs a shame you wonât be around to protect her.â
He took a quick breath and let it out slowly. Instead of firing back, he said, âWhat did you need to see me about?â
Had I just won? Warner had to be in really bad shape. I actually felt a little guilty.
I sat down in a wingback chair set near the bed. âWhen was the last time you saw my uncle Bud?â
âThatâs why youâre here?â
âI know he used to work for your father back when you both were teenagers. I heard you were friends.â
âHe was my best and only friend.â Warner looked in mydirection, but his eyes lost their focus. âWe were inseparable, right up until he turned eighteen and volunteered to go fight in Korea.â
âWhy didnât you go too?â
âNo sensible person wants to go to war. And I had responsibilities. My father was sick and my mother was dead. Unlike Bud, I knew what I owed my family.â
I straightened. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
He let his head fall farther into the pillows. âBud wanted adventure. When he came back from the war, he only stayed a year before going to Alaska to fight wildfires. He was addicted to risk.â
I knew Bud had been a smoke jumperâhis knowledge had saved my life last summer when Iâd been covering a wildfire in the mountainsâbut Iâd never thought of that or his military service as selfish.
Warner suddenly turned to me. âWhy donât you ask Bud these questions?â
âHeâs been shot.â
Warnerâs eyes opened as far as Iâd ever seen, which is to say, a little. Still, he looked more sad than frightened. âI donât know why Bud insisted on living the way he did. Petty get-rich-quick schemes, associating with disreputable thugs. He could have been better than that. He wasted his life.â
âYou might try to hold back on all that sanctimonious judgment. Whatever got him shot involves you too.â
He didnât move. Unlike before when heâd at least registered something, now he was a blank slate. âWhy do you say that?â
âHe saw something at a pawnshop yesterday that set him off in a panic. The first thing he did was call someone and shout your name into the phone.â
One of the nurses made a small sound of recognition.
I turned fully to her. âWhat do you know about it?â
âWell, I thinkââ
Warner raised his hand. The skin was a yellow-and-blue patchwork of faded bruises from previous attempts to connect an IVwith a working vein. But even in Warnerâs weakened state, that one gesture was enough to silence the nurse.
I got up and crossed the room. âWhat doesnât he want you to tell me?â
The nurses stared back at me. Clearly, supernurses of the rich and famous knew to keep their mouths shut.
âWhere is Bud?â Warner said. âAnd what is his condition?â
I turned back to the bed. âHeâs in surgery at Bakersfield Medical Center.â
Warner thought for a moment. His body remained still.
âI want answers,â I said. âAnd Iâm not leaving without them.â
âBud lived in a terrible neighborhood and had low friends. Iâm sure whatever bad end he came to had nothing to do with me.â Warner took a deep breath, but the air caught in his chest. âWhy arenât you at the hospital? If Bud is fighting for his life, you should be with him.â
I shook my head. âI have no