Page 71 of The Woodcarver's Model
“How extensive were the damages, Doctor?” Sheila asked.
“I understand it was a gunshot wound?”
“Yes,” Sheila confirmed.
“It seems the bullet nicked the femoral artery before passing through the leg and out the back. It appears that you got the bleeding under control quickly, although there was still significant blood loss. What was Mr Hanson doing at the time?”
“Saving a bear from a gun nut. You know—real manly stuff,” Eric quipped, with a broad smile. “I kept pressure on the wound until we got here. I guess all those hours at the gym paid off.” Eric flexed his biceps. It did the trick. Dr Quinn giggled.
Sheila asked, “Will we be able to see him?”
“Once he’s out of danger and moved up onto a ward.”
“How long until he’s released?”
“It’s too soon to tell. He’s very lucky you were with him. If you weren’t, he would have died.”
* * * *
It was early morning when there was a knock on Maggie’s door. She opened it to find two strangers wearing the operational uniforms of the RCMP—blue pants with a gold stripe, grey shirt under a blue Gore-Tex patrol jacket. The older male had three chevrons on the arm designating him as a sergeant. The younger female’s coat bore the double chevron of a corporal.
“Sergeant. Corporal.” She nodded in welcome.
“Maggie Tupman?” said the older male.
“The one and only.”
“I’m Sergeant Crawley. This is Corporal Evans from the Gabriola Island detachment.” Maggie shook their hands.
“Come on in. I have coffee brewing if you have time for a cup.”
As they entered, Corporal Evans’ eyes checked with her superior, who smiled.
“I think that’s a yes from my corporal.”
“And for the sergeant?”
“It would be rude to have her drink alone.”
Maggie led them into the kitchen of her modest two-storey home. It was a utilitarian structure with little in the way of the bric-a-brac that one would have expected from an eighty-year-old woman. The kitchen, however, was obviously the heart of this home. Counters covered in baking dishes and Tupperware containers, tins of flour and canning jars, empty and full, filled the shelves and surfaces.
Maggie poured out two mugs of coffee.
“Cream and sugar’s on the table, and help yourselves to these,” she said, putting out a plate of fresh-baked cookies. “Don’t worry, they’re not as bad for you as they look.”
Evans took a long draw on her black coffee and helped herself to a couple of the cookies.
“God, these are good.” She sighed.
Crawley laughed, helping himself to a cookie. “Not like the packaged ones at the station.”
“I’ll send you the recipe,” Maggie offered.
“Thanks, but right now, we’re here on official business. I understand that you have taken a man into custody,” Crawley said.
“Yes. He’s in my storage room.”
Maggie walked them out of the kitchen towards the back of the house.
