Dale mentioned the name of the hospital.
“Judy, isn’t that where you said they took that red-headed woman?” Irene questioned.
“Yes, but they wouldn’t call Dale about her. She’s a stranger. If someone we know was hurt. If Peter—”
“It is Peter. I tried to break the news gently,” Dale said in so grave a tone that Judy found herself staring at him in silent terror.
“Dale, what has happened?” she cried when she could find her voice. “Why is he in the hospital? What are they going to do to him?”
“They’re going to operate—”
“But why? Why? Peter is never sick. He must be hurt. Was he—was he—” The word wouldn’t come. Judy knew Peter’s work was dangerous. She knew, too, that his latest assignment was one of his biggest. He couldn’t discuss it, but he had said, just before he left, “Wish me luck, Angel. This is something really big.”
To an FBI man, something big was usually a raid. Peter carried a gun but seldom used it. “Criminals carry guns, too,” thought Judy. Aloud she said, “Tell me the truth, Dale. Was Peter—shot?”
Dale nodded, adding quickly, “It could have been worse. They’re going to operate to remove a bullet from his shoulder. There’s not much danger—”
“But there is a little. He came close to being killed, didn’t he? How soon can I see him?” Judy questioned breathlessly.