A Treasure Deep by Alton Gansky Page A

eyes drift down.
    “My name is Perry Sachs,” he began. “I’m the
one . . .” How did he describe what happened? I’m the one who
rescued your husband? I’m the one who beat up the attacker? Some
rescue if the man was dead. “I’m the one who called the
ambulance.”
    “What happen—” Her eyes fell to the satchel.
“Where did you get that?” she asked, eyes wide.
    “It was with your husband,” Perry answered.
His tone was quiet and smooth. “I didn’t think it should be left in
the alley.”
    “Have you opened it?”
    Perry shook his head. “It didn’t seem
appropriate—”
    “Mrs. Henri.” The nurse had returned. “The
doctor said you can come back. Your friend can come with you.”
    “My friend?”
    The nurse cut her eyes to Perry. “It might be
good if he came along.”
    Perry didn’t like the sound of that.
    “Through those doors,” the nurse said,
pointing to her right.
    Reaching for the metal handle, Perry pulled
the door open and stepped to the side to allow Claire Henri and the
tailgating young man to pass. Perry followed a few steps
behind.
    The inside of the ER was unnaturally bright,
belying the fact that it was now well after three in the morning.
The overhead fluorescents could expel the dark of night but not the
abysmal gloom of fear. That gloom seemed to hover over the woman
before him, and she seemed to age a decade with each step.
    The room was large, with a ring of beds
lining the wall, and was separated from the neighbors by a curtain
that seemed all too thin. At least half of the beds were filled.
Sounds and smells assaulted the senses. This was as foreign a world
to Perry as it must have been to any other except doctors and
nurses. Here a special language was spoken, medical shorthand that
took years to fully understand. Here, people came with everything
from cuts to gunshots. Beleaguered and weary looking physicians
moved from the beds to a U-shaped set of counters behind which sat
several nurses doing paperwork and fiddling with computers.
    Claire stopped, clearly uncertain where to
look. She raised a tremulous hand to her mouth. Perry placed a
gentle hand on her arm. “This way,” he said and led her to the
nurse’s station.
    Several eternal moments passed before one of
the nurses looked up. She looked as tired as Perry felt. Perry
initiated the conversation. “This is Mrs. Henri. Her husband is
here. We were told to come back. May we see the doctor who—”
    “I’ve got it, nurse,” a man said. The nurse
said nothing and quickly went back to writing something on a
clipboard. “I’m Dr. Reddy,” he said. His skin was dark, and he
peered back through large eyes. He spoke with an accent that Perry
recognized as Indian. In his hand was a metal clipboard, and a
stethoscope hung around his neck. Both looked well-used. “I’ve been
treating your husband. Let’s step over here.”
    “Can I see him?”
    “In a moment,” the doctor said. He led them
to one of the empty beds. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.
    “Just tell me about my husband.”
    “Of course,” Dr. Reddy said. “Your husband
was brought in about an hour ago suffering from a severe coronary
event and a gunshot wound to the leg.”
    “Gunshot?” Claire gasped.
    “Yes. The wound has been cleaned and treated.
It missed the bone and passed through the muscle cleanly. It should
present no problems. It’s his heart that concerns me most. The
attack was critical.”
    “But he’s alive?”
    “Yes, but he’s not conscious. I understand
that someone gave him CPR at the scene. That kept him alive. The
paramedics kept up the efforts from the scene here. We were able to
get his heart going again, and it seems fairly stable for now.
However, I’m sure there has been serious damage—how serious I can’t
say until further tests are run. Those will be run by a
cardiologist.”
    “What is the prog–prognosis?” asked Claire.
Perry could tell she was fighting back tears, and he couldn’t