I was outraged. I was lying there bleeding to death and he refused to call my mother?! If I'd had more energy, I might have done something about it, but as things were, all I could do was lie there and glare, which wasn't having much effect because he wasn't watching me.
Two patrol units, lights flashing and sirens blaring, slid into the parking lot, and two officers, weapons drawn, bailed out of each. Thank goodness each officer driving killed the sirens just before stopping, otherwise we'd have been deafened. There were other units on the way, though; I could hear more sirens, and they seemed to be coming from all directions.
Oh, man, this was going to be so bad for business. I tried to imagine how I would feel if I belonged to a fitness center where there were two shootings in four days. Safe? Definitely not. Of course, if I died, I wouldn't have to worry about it, but what about my employees? They'd be out of a job that paid above the average, plus benefits.
I had visions of the empty parking lot sprouting weeds through the pavement, windows broken, roof sagging. Yellow crime-scene tape would forlornly droop from poles and trees, and kids would walk by and point at the decaying building.
"Do not," I said loudly from flat on my back, "string even one inch of that yellow tape in my parking lot. Enough's enough. No more tape."
Wyatt was busy giving instructions to the four officers, but he glanced down at me and I thought he struggled not to smile. "I'll see what I can do."
Here I was bleeding to death, and he was smiling. Smiling. I needed to start another list. Come to think of it, I needed to rewrite the one he'd confiscated. He'd distracted me with sex, but now I was thinking clearly again and the list of his transgressions would probably take up two pages-assuming I lived to write them.
This was all his fault.
"If a certain lieutenant had listened to me and brought my car to me on Friday the way I asked, this wouldn't have happened. I'm bleeding, and my clothes are ruined, and it's all your fault."
Wyatt paused briefly in the middle of my condemnation, then continued talking to his men just as if I hadn't said anything.
Now he was ignoring me.
A couple of the officers seemed to be coming down with something, because they had simultaneous coughing fits-either that or they were trying not to laugh in their lieutenant's face, which I didn't like because, again, I was the one lying there bleeding to death and they were laughing? Excuse me, but was I the only one who didn't think it was funny that I'd been shot?
"Some people," I announced to the sky, "have better manners than to laugh at someone who's been shot and is bleeding to death."
"You aren't bleeding to death," Wyatt said, his voice showing some strain.
Maybe, maybe not, but you'd think they'd give me the benefit of the doubt, wouldn't you? I was almost tempted to bleed to death just to show him, but where's the profit in that? Besides, if I died, then I wouldn't be around to make his life miserable, now would I? You have to think these things out.
More vehicles arrived. I heard Wyatt organizing a search-and-destroy mission, though he didn't call it that. It was more like, "Find this bastard," but I knew what he meant. A couple of medics, a young black woman with cornrowed hair and the prettiest chocolate eyes I'd ever seen, and a stocky red-haired man who reminded me of Red Buttons, arrived toting tackle boxes full of medical supplies and gear, and hunkered down next to me.
They quickly did the basics, such as checking my pulse and blood pressure, and slapped a pressure bandage on my arm.
"I need a cookie," I told them.
"Don't we all," said the woman with some sympathy.
"To get my blood sugar up," I explained. "The Red Cross gives cookies to people who give blood. So a cookie would be nice. Chocolate chip. And a Coke."
"I hear you," she said, but no one was making any effort to put the requested items in my hand. I made allowances, because it was Sunday and none of the nearby shops were open. I guess they didn't carry cookies and soft drinks in the medic truck with them, but, really, why didn't they?
"With all these people around, you'd think at least one person would have some cookies in the car. Or a doughnut. They are cops."
She grinned and said, "You're right." Raising her voice, she yelled, "Hey! Does anyone have anything sweet to eat in his car?"
"You don't need to eat anything," the red-haired man said. I didn't like him nearly as well as I did her, despite his sweet Red Buttons face.
"Why? I don't need to have surgery, do I?" That was the only reason I could think of not to eat.
"I don't know; that's for the doctors to decide."
"Naw, you won't need surgery," she said, and Red glared at her.
"You don't know that."
I could tell he thought she was being way too free with the rules, and actually I understood his point. She, however, understood me. I needed reassurance, and a cookie would be just that, putting my blood loss on the same plane as giving blood at the Red Cross. If there were sweets available and they wouldn't let me have any, then that meant I was in Serious Condition.
A patrolman appeared, duck-walking between the cars even though no other shots had been fired and any murderer with an ounce of sense would have left the scene as soon as reinforcements arrived. He held a package in his hand. "I got Fig Newtons," he said. He looked puzzled, as if he couldn't understand why the medics needed something to eat and just couldn't wait.
"That'll do," she said, taking the package and tearing it open.
"Keisha," Red said in warning.
"Oh, hush," I said, and took a Fig Newton from the proffered pack. I smiled at Keisha. "Thanks. I think I'll live, now."