Devil's Cut

by J. R. Ward

  "Thank you."

  Gin lowered the dish towel slowly. She had a feeling she was going to be moving that way for a while. "It doesn't hurt."

  "I'm glad." The doctor leaned in and tilted Gin's chin left and right. "Okay, let's check your pupils first."

  Tanesha took a penlight out of her pocket and flashed it in one eye and then the other. "Good. How many fingers am I holding up?"

  Ordering herself to focus, Gin murmured, "Two."

  "Follow my finger, but keep your head in place, okay? Good." Tanesha sat back on her heels, opened the box, and took out supplies. "You've got a nice little laceration over your brow--but I think I can close it with butterfly bandages. Have you had a tetanus shot lately?"

  "Yes, six months ago. I tripped outside and needed to get some stitches in the bottom of my foot."

  And to think she'd felt like that was a big deal.

  "Good. I'm glad you're up to date." Tanesha drew blue gloves on and smiled in a way that suggested Everything Was Going to Be Okay. "After this, we're going to check your leg, all right?"

  "Is it hurt?"

  Tanesha stilled. "Yes, Gin. It is."

  "Oh, I don't feel anything."

  There was a sadness in the doctor's face as she set to work cleaning the wound with medicated pads, and to help ignore that, Gin passed the time looking at the two men in the barren little room: Samuel T. was still up against the wall, although he was watching Tanesha carefully, as if he were prepared to help even though he was a lawyer, not a physician; and Max was over in the shallow kitchen area, a leather jacket hanging on his arm as if he were leaving at any moment.

  He was also watching the good doctor. No doubt for a different reason.

  What was it about her generation in the family that bred relationships that went nowhere? She and Samuel T., Edward and that Sutton Smythe...Max and Tanesha. Lizzie and Lane appeared to be getting it together, but that was either because they were the exception that proved the rule...

  Or destined to fail terribly.

  "All right, how about your leg?"

  "Do you think I've been shot?" Gin extended one foot, and when Tanesha shook her head, she offered the other. "I'm not..."

  Well, this was interesting. There appeared to be a deep stripe running up the front of her shin. As if she had been branded.

  "Oh, God," Tanesha said tightly. After a moment, she moved back and just stared at the wound. "As a mandatory reporter, I'm in a difficult spot here."

  "I'm sorry," Gin offered. "I'm sure it will be fine."

  Tanesha rubbed her eyes with the back of her forearm, keeping her gloved hands out of the way. "Okay, let's just see what we have here."

  The woman refocused, and gently moved Gin's leg left and right--and then she was feeling her way around with careful fingertips. Gin didn't really care what was going on down there, but it seemed rude not to participate in some way--so she sat forward.

  "That should probably hurt, shouldn't it," she said.

  "I think you've got some shock going on." Tanesha took more supplies out of her box. "The good news is that I don't see any evidence that there's a bullet embedded anywhere--it looks like one got very close to you, however. You were very lucky."

  What was the polite response to something like that, Gin wondered. She was quite sure that Emily Post had never covered anything under the heading of "Gunshot Wounds: Aftercare."

  She went with the bog standard: "Thank you, kindly."

  After her leg was bandaged up, Tanesha looked over at Samuel T. "Where is the other party?" When the man just shook his head, she frowned. "Is he or she dead? Because I might be willing to fudge this one wound here, but if there's a homicide involved in all this, I will not be a party to any of it."

  "The other individual is very much alive and well," Samuel T. said. "And they are getting an annulment."

  Tanesha took a deep breath. "Let me ask you something. Dr. Qalbi and his father are your all's personal physicians, why didn't you--"

  Samuel T. cut in. "We called you because the father is retiring, and the son is in Scotland visiting the other side of his family. He's out of the country for two weeks."

  "Fair enough." Tanesha glanced across at Max. "Could you please bring me a trash bag?"

  As he obligingly ducked down under the kitchen sink, the doctor turned back to Gin. "I'm going to need to check you in a day. And I want you on antibiotics. I'll write you a prescription for a broad spectrum--are you allergic to anything?"

  "No, thank you."

  "Good."

  Max brought the trash bag over and fluffed it out, holding the thing open for Tanesha as she put all the used gauze and wipes in there. When the doctor was finished picking up, he closed the bag and tied it; then walked the medical debris out the back of the little house.

  "I want you to get this filled tonight." Tanesha wrote quickly on a pad. "And take one before bed. I don't think you'll need anything more than Motrin or Tylenol for pain. If you have blurred vision, nausea, or vomiting, let me know. You may have a concussion, but it's not like I can tell by an X-ray or a scan. Who's filling this for her?"

  Samuel T. cleared his throat. "I will. Should she be in bed?"

  "Yes, I want you to take it easy," Tanesha said to Gin. "Definitely."

  "Thank you."

  Tanesha gave her a hug. "You're welcome--and I'll see you late tomorrow. I'll stop by on the way home from the hospital."

  As Max came back in, Tanesha stood up. "Walk me out, Samuel T., if you don't mind."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Tanesha hesitated. And then glanced over at Max. "It was, ah, nice to see you, Maxwell. Although I'm sorry for the circumstances."

  "Yeah." He gave her a little bow. "Me, too."

  Samuel T. and the doctor left, and Gin eased back into the stiff cushions. As an awkward silence cropped up between her and Max, she was reminded that she and her brother had never had much in common--and clearly, all of the drama she had been through hadn't changed that: He shifted his weight from one black boot to another. Put his jacket on. Played with his keys.

  Looked anywhere but at her.

  Ordinarily, she would have poked at him just to pass the time: Made fun of that hideous bushy beard he'd grown. Questioned the why of all those tattoos. Demanded to know, not that she cared, when exactly he was leaving: now...or how 'bout now?

  She closed her eyes.

  After a moment, she heard him move around. And then he said, "Here."

  Opening her lids, she frowned at the paper towel he was holding out to her. "I'm sorry?"

  "You're crying."

  "Am I?" She took what he offered only so he didn't have to keep his arm out like that. "Thank you."

  Except then she just closed her eyes again. And slowly wadded the thing up into a fist.

  It was odd to cry and not feel anything. But that was far better than the alternative.

  Wasn't it?

  --

  As Lizzie eased her truck off River Road and bumped her way over to the clutch of vehicles that were in the marsh and among the trees, her first thought was: The Rolls-Royce, really? Lane had seriously taken that beast four-wheeling into this swamp?

  Then again, when you got a call that your sister was in trouble, you didn't stop to get choosy with car keys--and when you found her waaaay off the road? That was where you went with whatever vehicle you were in.

  Fortunately, Lizzie's truck was all-wheel drive. So thanks to that and well-treaded tires, she had no problem pulling around and--okay, wow. Just...wow.

  One of the Bradford family's Mercedes was embedded in a tree, with a busted-out window on the driver's side and a half-spidered windshield in front. The good news? Gary McAdams was on it. With his far larger and even better-equipped Ford, he was backing right up to that rear bumper, Lane waving him forward inch by inch.

  As Lizzie got out, she made sure her headlights were off, even though she wasn't sure what she thought about no one going to the police with all this. Lane ha
d called her a couple of times, updating her, and finally she'd just had to leave the hospital. Besides, Miss Aurora was no longer even remotely conscious, and so there was nothing really to do until, or if, that changed.

  And this situation in the marsh was the sort where another pair of hands was going to help.

  Another set of chains, probably, too.

  Lane spoke up over the growl of the truck's engine. "You're there."

  Gary put things in park, and as he got out, Lizzie went up to Lane and shared a kiss with him. "What the hell happened here?"

  "A whole lot of batshit nuts."

  "Clearly." She glanced at the groundsman. "Hey, I've got extra chains, if you need 'em."

  The man repositioned his John Deere cap on his head. "Might. Gonna have to get the big 'un out, too." As he nodded at the Rolls, he started dragging pounds and pounds of steel links out of his bed. "That's the one I'm worried 'bout. 'Cuz we gonna need to keep 'er pretty."

  As Gary turned around, he had to have almost forty pounds in one hand, and he handled the load like it weighed nothing. Lane and Lizzie both helped him find the hooks under the Benz's rear bumper and then they were all working together to get the hooks locked in. After that, it was a case of Gary getting into his truck and slowly...carefully...gently...inching the Mercedes off of the tree and through the muddy, sloppy ground.

  When the S550 was free and clear, Gary leaned out of his window. "I'm takin' 'er back to the shop. Then we're gonna chop 'er and sell 'er for parts, bury what's left on the mountain. We cain't be turnin' 'er in. Bullet holes, everywhere."

  "Good plan." Lane put his hand on the man's forearm. "Thank you."

  "Just doin' m' job." Gary looked at Lizzie. "You got the Rolls, then?"

  "Yup, I got it."

  "That's m' girl."

  Funny how the approval from him about getting a half-million-dollar car out of a swamp meant so much to her.

  As Gary eased down the tracks that had been made and then inched onto the road, Lane put his arm around her and kissed her on the forehead. "Let's just go home in your truck for now, 'kay? We need to see what happened with Gin, and--"

  "Nay, we shall leave no man nor motorcar behind." She nodded at the Rolls. "First, let me try to drive that out, though. We might get lucky."

  "Oh, that's okay. I've got it."

  As he broke away, she tugged him back around. "Lane. I'd prefer not to have to chain that thing. We've got one shot to make it out of this mess"--she indicated the mucky ground--"and only one shot. That car has to weigh at least six, maybe seven thousand pounds. It's been sitting there how long? An hour? If you put it in reverse and hit the gas? You're going to dig a hole to China and I'm going to have to trash the back half to pull it out."

  Lane opened his mouth. Shut it. Frowned.

  "I know," she pointed out reasonably, "that the guy in you doesn't want to be upstaged by a female, but who are you going to trust? A city boy like yourself--or a farm woman who's been getting heavy machinery out of the mud since she was twelve? And please remember, the longer we're out here, the better the chance we have of getting caught."

  Lane jacked up his pants. "I'm a real man," he said in a deep drawl. "Man enough to step aside when the situation warrants it."

  She gave him a big hug. "I'm so proud of you."

  Heading over to the Rolls, she tried to kick off at least half the mud on her shoes, and then she got behind the wheel. The automobile started up softly, and she put the gearshift in reverse. Testing the accelerator, she gave it a little gas. A little more.

  It was like a hundred-mile-long train, a huge monolith that barely moved. But that was because she was taking things slow: In increments of millimeters, with the gentlest of coaching, she got some traction and some trajectory. And a little more. And a little more...

  All was going well--until she hit an obstacle and couldn't make any more progress. It could have been a root. A stump.

  Jeez, with the way things were going tonight, a dead body.

  She added some more juice. And more.

  Nothing. And she was on the very edge of the wheels beginning to dig.

  Easy on the gas, she told herself. And then redouble it. And easy off. And more with the gas...

  With careful control, she started to rock the Rolls--

  Okay, that was funny.

  Rock, the Rolls, rock, the Rolls--

  And then, just as she felt that she was on top of whatever it was, she gunned it--and up and over she went.

  "You got it!" Lane yelled.

  "Not yet," she murmured.

  Please, she thought. Let's have the front go just as well.

  As she repeated the careful process, Lane watched her, the glow from the running lights illuminating the smile on his face: Unlike most guys, who might have gotten shirty, he was clearly impressed--and when she finally got the front of the Phantom over the hump, and coaxed the massive convertible up onto the pavement, he was clapping as he came over.

  Annnnnnnd that was when the cops showed up.

  As Samuel T. came up Easterly's hill for a second time, he was staging another intervention with himself. Which, he supposed, was a bit like a lawyer representing himself in court--you know, that whole fool-for-a-client thing. But he wasn't going to anyone else with this, and besides, he sure as hell knew both sides to the argument by heart.

  Parking in the front of the mansion, he grabbed the little white Rite Aid bag and went in the front door. Across the black and white marble floor. Up the stairs to the second floor.

  He didn't knock at Gin's door. Just walked right in, and as he saw her lying down over on the bed, he frowned.

  "No shower?" he said as he closed things up.

  When she didn't respond, he got scared. Again. But no, she was still alive. She was still breathing.

  But he couldn't believe this nasty-neat of a woman was lying on her white duvet in that dirty dress. Clearly, all rules were off, however.

  Leaving the bag with the prescription in it on her bedside table, he went into the bathroom and filled up a monogrammed glass with water. Back by where she was curled up, he got the bottle out, popped the lid, and made sure that the description of the pills matched what was inside.

  Then he sat down on the very edge of the mattress.

  She didn't move.

  And you know, it seemed especially apt to conclude his intervention right here, at the basis of his addiction. Somehow, in spite of his best intentions, he had managed to fall for her once again: When she had looked up at him, through tears and her own blood, and said she was sorry about Amelia? He had been, stupidly, ready to forgive her for even the worst betrayal anyone could ever do to him. In that moment, as their eyes had met and she apologized...it was as if she had wiped the slate clean between them.

  Taking her into his arms at that point had been a reunion, even though he had seen her only thirty minutes before.

  But then?

  Oh, Gin, he thought. Then you showed up again, didn't you.

  I get to keep the ring.

  Even after she had nearly been killed, and nearly killed someone else, and in spite of how badly she might have been injured...Gin Baldwine had still showed a finesse and a focus for the bottom line. The financial bottom line.

  As if he needed a reminder of her capacity for calculation.

  And the thing was, after all these years, and all of the backs and the forths, if he couldn't make a break with her now--after the Amelia revelation? When would it happen? What else could she do to him?

  He didn't want to find out.

  Getting to his feet, he stared down at her for a little longer. Then he quietly left, shutting the door behind him. Before he departed from the house, he tried to find someone--and when he failed, he considered knocking on her mother's door and asking the nurse in there to do double time. But that felt like an invasion of the family's privacy.

  In the end, he went out to his Range Rover and texted Lizzie and Lane that somebody needed to make sur
e that Gin took that pill. With food--as the bottle's label had mandated.

  That was not his job, however.

  As he drove back down to the main gates, he called a number out of his recents log and waited. When he got voicemail, he cleared his throat.

  "Hey," he said as he hit his brakes. "I'm sorry for my delay in response."

  The gates opened slowly, and as he passed through, flashbulbs went off but did not penetrate the SUV's darkened windows.

  "So, yes, Prescott. I will go to that party with you this weekend. I'll be there, and I'm looking forward to it."

  --

  "What happened here, folks?"

  As the officer got out of his squad car by the Rolls-Royce, Lane lifted his forearm to shield his eyes from the flashing lights.

  "I went off the road," he called up to where they were on the road. "It's my fault."

  With a quick glance behind, he prayed that all that illumination wasn't picking up on the bullets, shell casings, ruined tree--shit.

  "During the storm, then?" the officer said as Lizzie got out of the Phantom's driver's-side door.

  "Hi, Officer." She stepped in and shook his hand. "My boyfriend--"

  "Fiance," Lane corrected from the marsh.

  As the officer laughed, Lizzie continued in a calm way, "My fiance got stuck driving in the storm--"

  "--and I was blown off the road," Lane finished.

  "So I had to come with my truck to help him out."

  "But she managed to get my car free by herself."

  "Without using my chains."

  "No chains were used," he echoed.

  Shit, he should go up there, but he was frozen, all deer-in-the-headlights.

  Glancing over his shoulder again, he tried to see what the officer could see: Lots of tire tracks, mud, a couple of saplings that had been bent over, Lizzie's truck off to the side. Was the guy going to pick up the fresh scars on that trunk?

  "What about the truck?" the officer asked. "Do you need a tow for it?"

  "Nope," Lizzie said. "She's a four-by-four, with good treads. I'll be fine."

  "Well." The officer looked around. "Bad storm, huh."

  Lane waited for the other shoe to drop. What the hell were they going to do if--

  "You want me to wait while you get the truck free?" the officer asked.

  "Sure," Lizzie answered. "But would you mind moving your car this way? You're kind of in my best path out."

  As she spoke, she moved her arms in a manner that...yup, if the uniform followed her direction, he would get those headlights pointed out of the marsh, not into it.