Prohibition

Chapter 53

Raymond came to in a hospital bed. His left temple throbbed, and his head felt cramped, as if someone had forced a too-tight cap over his skull. Reaching up to touch his forehead, he found a thick bandage binding it. So that's what was making his head feel so tight. He shifted, and, as he did so, a searing pain shot through his right arm. Looking down, he saw another thick bandage wrapped around his bicep. Had he been shot? Vividly, he remembered entering the speakeasy with David and the other agents. After that, all he could remember was strange visions of monsters and demons and thorny barriers caging him in. Had he fainted and been dreaming? What had happened to him? And how had he gotten shot?

"Raymond Adler." Raymond looked up. Evelyn was standing in the doorway of his room, her eyes red-rimmed and furious.

"Evelyn." Raymond smiled wanly. His mind raced for something to say next—something witty or charming about his situation—anything. But all he could manage was a feeble "How are you?"

"How am I?" Evelyn stormed over to him. "I'm fucking angry, that's what I am. How could you let this happen to yourself?" A tear slipped down her cheek, then another. "You could've died, you fucking bastard..." her voice wavered, then broke off.

"Hey." Raymond reached out to take her hand, then winced as his arm throbbed again. "I'm fine. It's just a scratch...I think."

"You were in surgery!"

Raymond's brow furrowed. "I was?"

"Yes. The doctors had to dig the bullet out of your arm and sew up your head. So don't tell me it's just a scratch."

Raymond fell silent for a long moment, at a loss for words. As scared as Evelyn clearly was, she had managed to frighten him much more than he ever thought he could be. Hysterical as she was, she was right. He could've died in there. It shouldn't have scared him as much as it did. He was a Prohibition agent; every case, every bust and sting operation was inherently dangerous. He could die at any time. Yet, somehow, he had always felt safe from death. Other people died, not him. Never him. Now, the bullet wound in his arm, the gash across his forehead, and his utter inability to remember what exactly had happened told a very different story. He could die, just the same as everybody else—and, apparently, he almost had. That realization shook him to his core—and so he tried to play it off with humor.

"Would you have been sad if I died?" he teased.

Evelyn gaped at him. "Of course, I would've been sad. I love you, for god's sake!" Leaning over, she kissed him furiously. Her kiss was hard and bruising, punishing Raymond for his rash actions. There was a softness, however, in the way her hand knotted into his shirt and pulled him closer that told him, louder than any words could, how much he meant to her—how much she had been frightened of losing him. "You can't leave me," she whispered when she had pulled away. "That's my job."

"Hey." Raymond clasped Evelyn's hand. "You can't leave me either. I'm an invalid now, remember? I need someone to take care of me."

"You shouldn't joke about that," Evelyn murmured. "It's not funny."

"No, Mr. Adler, it's not," a new voice said. Raymond and Evelyn looked up. A spectacled doctor holding a clipboard with a thick stack of papers clipped to it was standing in the doorway, surveying Raymond. "You're very lucky," he said, walking over to Raymond's bedside. "The bullet just barely missed your humerus—and your brachial artery. If it had severed that artery—as it nearly did—you could have bled to death."

Evelyn stifled a gasp, her fingers tightening around Raymond's until her grasp was almost painful.

"What exactly happened in that bar?" the doctor asked, pulling up a chair and sitting down beside Raymond's bed. "I want you to tell me everything."