“Thirty-five or forty from me, on the other side of the glass.”
“What did you see?”
“Shooter wore a charcoal coat. He fired both rounds before I had the sidearm out."
Through the line, I heard the sounds of the safehouse: the radiator and a chair creaking, probably Cabot’s. I listened for Dane’s breathing.
“Farrow, there were two shots.”
“I’m not hit, Dane.”
“Building security caught the second shot,” he said. “I watched it go in. I saw the angle. Doing the geometry, if you’d been six inches to the left, they’d have taken you out in a body bag.”
His words knocked the breath out of me.
“Farrow, are you okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“He was carrying a sealed envelope, Farrow.”
“Envelope?”
“It was in the case. Cambridge PD has it.”
I paused. “Dane, I’m bringing Wiley back.”
“Yes, you are.”
He hung up. After one more beat, I stood and walked back down the corridor. Eamon was on the phone, and he ended the call when I was three chairs short of Wiley.
I stopped at the foot of Wiley’s chair.
“Patterson’s out of surgery,” Eamon said. “He’s going to live.”
Wiley closed his eyes. His shoulders dropped a full inch.
“There’s something else,” Eamon said. “He woke up in recovery and asked for a pen. He wrote one word on the inside of a chart and then he went back under.”
“What word?”
Eamon looked at me. Then at Wiley.
“Cabot.”
Chapter eleven
Dane
Eamon hung up, and I turned toward Cabot.
He was on his feet beside the coffee table, one hand resting on the back of the armchair. He’d stood the moment I’d answered Eamon, and he hadn’t moved since.
“Patterson?”
“Alive,” I said. “He came out of surgery. He’s stable. They’ve put him under, and they’re keeping him there for now.”
“That’s good.”