Proven Guilty (The Dresden Files 8)

Mouse's tail wagged even more at the mention of hot dogs. He chuffed out a breath, nudged my hip with the side of his head in a fond gesture, and we went outside to wait for Murphy.

She pulled up and eyed Mouse warily as I opened the back door and he jumped up onto the backseat. The car rocked back and forth with his weight and sank a little.

"He's car-broken, right?"

Mouse wagged his tail and gave Murphy an enthusiastic, vacant doggie grin, tilting his head back and forth quizzically. It was easy for my imagination to subtitle the look: Car-broken? What is that?

"Wiseass," I muttered at the dog, and got in the passenger side. "Don't worry, Murph. We did an insane amount of work on the whole bodily function issue as soon as I realized how big he was going to get. He'll be good." I glared at the backseat. "Won't you?"

Mouse gave me that same grin and puzzled tilting of his head. I frowned at him more deeply. He leaned forward to nuzzle my shoulder with his heavy muzzle, and settled down in the backseat.

Murphy sighed. "If it was any other dog, I'd make him ride in the trunk."

"That's right," I said. "You have dog issues."

"Big dog issues," Murphy corrected me. "Just big dogs."

"Mouse isn't big. He's compactly challenged."

She gave me an arch look as she pulled out and said, "You'd fit in the trunk, too, Harry." Then she frowned at me and said, "Your lips are blue."

"Long shower," I said.

She gave me a sudden, swift grin. "Wanted to keep your mind on business? I think I'll interpret that as a compliment to my sexual appeal."

I snorted and buckled in. "You heard anything from the hospital?"

Murphy's smile faded and she kept her eyes on the road. She nodded without looking at me, her face impossible to read.

"Bad, huh?" I asked.

"The young man the paramedics carried off died. The girl who was already down when you came in is going to make it, but she's in some kind of shock. Catatonic. Doesn't focus her eyes or anything. Just lies there."

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I was sort of expecting that. What about the other girl? Rosie?"

"Her injuries were painful but not life-threatening. They closed the cuts and set the bones, but when they heard she was pregnant they kept her at the hospital for observation. It looks like she'll come through without losing the child. She's awake and talking."

"That's something," I said. "And Pell?"

"Still in ICU. He's an old man, and his injuries were severe. They think he'll be all right as long as there aren't any complications. He's groggy, but he's conscious."

"ICU," I said. "Any chance we could talk to him somewhere else?"

"Those doctors can be real funny about not wanting people in critical condition to nip out for a walk to the vending machines," she said.

I grunted. "You might have to solo him, then. I don't dare go walking in there with all the medical equipment around."

"Even if it was just for a few minutes?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I don't have any control over when things break down." I paused and said, "Well, not exactly. I could blow out the whole floor in a few seconds, if I was trying to do it, but there's not much I can do to keep things from breaking down. Odds are good that if I was only in there for a few minutes, nothing bad would happen. But sometimes things go haywire the second I walk by them. I can't take any chances when there are people on life support."

Murphy arched a brow at me, and then nodded in understanding. "Maybe we can get you on a speaker phone or something."

"Or something." I rubbed at my eyes. "I think this is gonna be a long day."

When you get right down to it, all hospitals tend to look pretty much the same, but Mercy Hospital, where the victims in the attack had been taken, somehow managed to avoid the worst of the sterile, disinfected, quietly desperate quality of many others. The oldest hospital in Chicago, the Sisters of Mercy had founded the place, and it remained a Catholic institution. Thought ridiculously large when it was first built, the famous Chicago fires of the late nineteenth century filled Mercy to capacity. Doctors were able to handle six or seven times as many patients as any other hospital during the emergency, and everyone stopped complaining about how uselessly big the place was.

There was a cop on guard in the hallway outside the victims' rooms, in case the whacko costumed killer came after them again. He might also be there to discourage the press, whenever they inevitably smelled the blood in the water and showed up for the frenzy. It did not surprise me much at all to see that the cop on guard was Rawlins. He was unshaven and still had his SplatterCon!!! name tag on. One of his forearms was bound up in neatly taped white bandages, but other than that he looked surprisingly alert for someone who had been injured and then worked all through the night. Or maybe his weathered features just took such things in stride.

"Dresden," Rawlins said from his seat. He'd dragged a chair to the hall's intersection. He was dedicated, not insane. "You look better. 'Cept for those bruises."

"The best ones always show up the day after," I said.

"God's truth," he agreed.

Murphy looked back and forth between us. "I guess you'll work with anybody, Harry."

"Shoot," Rawlins drawled, smiling. "Is that little Karrie Murphy I hear down there? I didn't bring my opera glasses to work today."

She grinned back. "What are you doing down here? Couldn't they find a real cop to watch the hall?"

He snorted, stuck his legs out, and crossed his ankles. I noted that for all of his indolent posture, his holstered weapon was clear and near his right hand. He regarded Mouse with pursed lips and said, "Don't think dogs are allowed in here."

"He's a police dog," I told him.

Rawlins casually offered Mouse the back of one hand. Mouse sniffed it politely and his tail thumped against my legs. "Hmmm," Rawlins drawled. "Don't think I've seen him around the station."

"The dog's with me," I said.

"The wizard's with me," Murphy said.

"Makes him a police dog, all right," Rawlins agreed. He jerked his head down the hall. "Miss Marcella is down that way. They got Pell and Miss Becton in ICU. The boy they brought in didn't make it."

Murphy grimaced. "Thanks, Rawlins."

"You're welcome, little girl," Rawlins said, his deep voice grandfatherly.

Murphy gave him a brief glare, and we went down the hall to visit the first of the victims.