Mike threw the gray envelope through the open rear window of the station wagon for safekeeping, the pages coming free and scattering across the backseat. He stumbled around the tailgate, crossing the faded set of tire tracks pressed into the loose dirt, and staggered right past Dodge, heading for the crane. His side was warm, so warm, and his left shoe squished with each step. He fought not to scream as he hoisted himself up into the high cab, his wound tearing open a bit more. His shirt, matted to his side, felt dense and heavy. The rumbling of the cab was agony.
From the higher vantage, he could see down into the crusher and piece together what had happened. With the crane Dodge had hoisted the car – a ’68 Bug as the license plate proclaimed – into the crusher, but the machine had jammed, popping the vehicle onto a tilt and jogging the body half out a smashed window. Dodge had climbed in to fix the snag and slide the body back into the car.
Mike reached for the control, popping the clear plastic lid over the wide red button. Down below, Dodge finally turned, hip-deep in the huge bucket of the crusher, his legs lost in the snarl of the partially crumpled front wheel well. Their eyes met across twenty yards of dust-filled sunshine.
Mike pushed the button.
The hydraulic crushing cylinders hummed to life, the contraption beginning to clench. Like a dumb animal, Dodge moved deliberately and without panic toward the edge, trying to climb out. But then he stiffened, and it was clear that the jagged metal had folded in on him. With his flat gaze fixed on Mike, he started his descent without whimper or complaint, descending until only one hand remained in sight, lifted as if for a life preserver. It quivered once and vanished slowly into the metal crush.
Pressing a hand to the wound in his side, Mike slumped forward over the controls, his vision spotting. It occurred to him how very nice it would be to go to sleep. His blinks grew longer.
A faint movement registered through the black-and-white speckling before his eyes, and he blinked several times, squinting through the cab window.
William.
His left leg trailed lifelessly behind him, the screwdriver still jammed through the side of his wilted knee, but he was tugging himself forward with his forearms, making herky-jerky progress, like some awful stop-action film. His face scraped along the ground, his mouth and nose powdered with dirt.
Mike stared for maybe a full minute in disbelief. William belly-crawled, arm over arm, past the rows of smashed cars and into the clearing. He paused now and again to catch his breath, his head wriggling on the yoke of his shoulders.
Mike’s hands twitched forward onto the console, moving across the steering levers, the joystick, the pushbuttons. Having worked a lot of big construction machines, he found the controls familiar. The magnetic hoist hung high in his field of vision, maybe forty feet above the ground. Mike clicked the joystick, and the boom whirred over toward the car crusher, the hoist rocking at the end of the giant cable.
He tried three buttons before he found the servomotor. The entire crane vibrated from the massive charge, the generator shooting a jolt of current to the magnetic hoist at the cable’s end. Mike rode the joystick left a few beats more and dropped the boom, undershooting the release to compensate for the skewed perspective from the cab, a trick he’d learned from years on wheel loaders and hydraulic shovels. The giant magnet clanged onto the roof of the crushed VW Bug. Mike lifted the neat bale of metal and flesh from the vise of the crusher and began to swing it across the clearing.
William paused to take note, his raw face tilted to the early-morning sun.
The rectangular shadow fell across him, and he began tearing at the dirt, trying to make quicker progress, but it seemed his arms had nothing left.
Mike pulled back on the control and raised the compacted car to the clouds. Seventy feet, eighty – he kept on until all he saw was the underside of the vehicle, the wheels smashed up into the box of the frame.
William lay still, panting, glaring across at Mike through a tangle of fallen hair.
A moment of perfect tranquillity stretched out and out.
Then Mike tapped the button, cutting the power to the magnet above. The car detached from the hoist without a whisper of noise and plummeted in absolute silence. William let out a bark of a cry and had just enough time to cover his head.
An explosion of dust, pluming like the aftermath of a bomb. The cloud rose halfway to the hoist and then began to dissipate. The warmth of the sun slanted through the glass, and again Mike was tempted to set his head down on the console and doze off.
Mustering strength, he shoved open the door of the cab and tumbled to the dirt. He lay there panting, holding his side, the flesh tacky and warm. Parked before him was the station wagon that William and Dodge had planned to crush him in, but his slanted view also took in the swirling brown mist in the air, thinning by degrees. Emerging from the dust, stacked against the chain-link across the lot, was a distinct stack of smashed cars, clearly set apart from the other rows. Some were newer, some so rusted that no color was discernible. The dust thinned further, and he saw, wired to the front of every neatly baled car, a license plate – FRVRYNG, MSTHNG, LALADY. Metal coffins, a body interred in each one. Just John. Danielle Trainor. Ted Rogers.
Mike’s breath kicked up little puffs of dust, Indian red and oddly beautiful. His hand, lying a few inches in front of his face, was caked with layers of blood, slick and bright over dry and black.
A snowy patch blotted out all sight, and then somehow he was standing, leaning heavily against one of the crane’s high, hot tires. He staggered forward, falling onto the back of the station wagon and then shoving himself along its side, leaving mime handprints in blood along the dusty windows. The driver’s door groaned open, and his legs went to water. He fell into the soft cloth seat, the springs sighing beneath him. He would not be able to pull himself from the car, so he prayed the broke-down piece of shit ran. His arms felt heavy, filled with gravy. He swatted a hand forward once, twice, his fingers somehow hooking onto a key, but he didn’t believe it was real until he twisted and the engine sputtered irritably to life.
He’d been driven into this mess in a station wagon; now he’d go out in one.
Yanking the stick into drive was a herculean task. Tailpipe dragging, the car shuddered around the dropped bale of VW, out of the yard, down the harsh slope of the desolate dirt road. The turns were punishing, the switchbacks agonizing.
He realized halfway down the hill that he was probably going to die.
Chapter 57
Time became a wash of movement, a confusion of images. Impressions swam through his head. A house on a shady lane at the end of a road, jungle-gym bars, a faded salmon-pink shirt, the yellow cushion reeking of cat piss, him with his elbows propped on the sill, waiting. Mike Doe at the bay window blended into Katherine Smith at the bay window. My dad’s coming back.
You swore it, now. You swore it.
A film reel turned in his head, the run-on sentence that was his daughter’s life.
– her fist, hours old, around his pinkie, Where’s Kath-a-rine?, rocking her to sleep to the na na nas from ‘Hey Jude’, her baby tongue fluttering, scorched with thrush, the soporific pulse of the breast pump at midnight, goodnight chair and the red balloon, holding on to his leg, reaching for him to pick her up, him looking at—
—the sunlight through the windshield, so strong that he had to fight to keep his eyes open so he could see—
—a plaster of paris handprint, the pchhhhht sound of pouring imaginary tea, that No Tears scent, her going boneless in a grocery-store aisle, him struggling with the jointless arms, like trying to pick up water, crying the first time she watches Annabel get her hair cut, the movie-theater seat popping up beneath her tiny legs until he reaches over and holds it down, covering her eyes when the teapot shrieks, walking in his sneakers, in Annabel’s high heels, in his boots, and—
—the station wagon was off the road now, stopped, and he was slumped forward, his lips smashed against the top of the steer
ing wheel. He looked down through the rip in his T-shirt and saw the glittering stick of his rib in the wash of blood at his side. The surrounding skin was fish white. He closed his eyes again and dreamed about how lovely it would be just to keep them that way.
You will come back for me.
I will come back for you.
He set his hands on the wheel and pushed himself upright. He was shuddering; his flesh was shuddering. He willed his arm to move, to throw the car into reverse. The station wagon thumped its way up out of the roadside ditch and onto the road, and he gritted his teeth, blinked the sweat from his eyes, took a creaking breath, and—
—then she is five, jumping rope, smiling at him, missing eyeteeth, the lavender dress with the flaking Disney princess iron-on she sleeps in until it grows brittle, the first time she can read her own fortune at a Chinese restaurant, round red-framed spectacles, the spring break she wants to eat only licorice, orange slices at halftime, the Abominable Snowman on the Matterhorn, High School Fucking Musical. You swore it, now. You swore it—
—a horn blared, bringing him back to life, but by the time he lifted a sluggish arm, the driver had skidded angrily around him and kept on, leaving him behind, coasting down the wrong side of the road. A flash of awareness told him he was driving about five miles per hour, and he did his best to send a signal to his foot to tamp down on the gas pedal. Sometime in the past few minutes, the pain had shifted to numbness. His flesh felt as hard and cold as ice. Vaguely aware of the loose photocopies fluttering around the backseat, he cranked the wheel, righting the station wagon’s course. The road looked wider, a real road now. The sun had notched a few clicks higher in the sky. Pins and needles pricked his fingertips and his breaths were shallow, almost delicate, the breaths of a newborn.
He closed his eyes for a quick prayer, but then, like magic, he has flown forward in time. He sees the future, and it is present. It floats out of reach, as fragile and elusive as a butterfly, and—
—there she is at graduation, the free spirit with the peace sign stitched to her gown who busts a dance move on the dais before shaking the principal’s hand, the pale blue sky filled with graduation caps, and then her wedding night, a speech from a younger sister, or brother maybe, Annabel squeezing his hand beneath the table, and the first strain of the song for the father-daughter dance, him rising, cameras winking from the surrounding tables, and there she is, his daughter, in a shower of white, he takes her gloved hand and—
The collision hammered him into the dashboard, his eyes flying open. He rolled to the side, his forehead leaving a smudge on the driver’s window. He noted the clean little homes spaced on the landscaped slopes outside, the old folks in their yellow golf shirts and beige walking shoes, pointing at him.
Through the wobbling sheet of steam rising from the crumpled hood, he saw the barely dented stucco pillar of the activity-center building and realized he must have been going only about three miles per hour. The car had ended up on some shrubs a few yards through the rear gate, a sad little terminus to a slow-motion journey.
A photocopied ledger page drifted dreamily past his face and settled on the dashboard. His lips barely moved. ‘Help me,’ he said to the wall of steam.
He heard whistles and footsteps, the rattle of a gurney, and at once a medical team was there, guiding him out of the driver’s seat, pulling at his arms, questions raining down on him:
‘Flank wound there, see?’
‘Were you shot or stabbed? Shot or stabbed?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Any allergies?’
‘¿Hablas español? ¿Te pegaron un tiro o te apuñalaron?’
‘We need to roll him. Give yourself a hug now.’
‘. . . can’t . . .’ He forced the words out. ‘I can’t die. You don’t understand. My daughter . . . Katherine Wingate . . .’
‘Don’t move. Let us do the work.’
‘Pain here? Here? ¿Dolor aquí?’
‘Tenth rib, midaxillary line. We’re gonna need the blood bank.’
He heard what was left of his shirt rip away, and then leads plopped onto his chest. The pressure beneath his chin, he realized, was a cervical collar. ‘. . . in a foster home. Have to fix me.’ His voice was so hoarse and weak that the sound barely reached his own ears.
‘Open your mouth.’
‘Deep breath. Again.’
Now he was being rolled down a walk, past puzzled elderly faces and manicured flower beds. He passed by the rear gate, a sign drifting by, cheerily announcing NEW BEGINNINGS ACTIVE LIVING CENTER. That painted smiley-face sun winked at him.
‘Push six of morphine.’
‘. . . so I can get to her. Tell her mother . . . Annabel. Jocelyn Wilder is the name.’
‘Little pinch, okay? Good.’
Air-conditioning on his face. Overhead lights flying past, one after another.
‘He’s tachycardic, hypotensive, blood in his belly. He needs to get to the OR now. Who’s on call?’
Mike’s words were fainter yet. ‘My daughter . . . she’s hidden. Tell my wife . . . Annabel Win . . . gate . . .’
‘Dr Nelson’s in already with the shattered hip.’
‘He’s lost a lotta blood. I don’t know.’
‘. . . can’t die . . . without . . .’
‘CT?’
‘No time – he’ll bleed out in the scanner.’
A sturdy male nurse leaned over him, sliding a finger into his numb left hand. ‘Squeeze my finger. Squeeze. That’s good, that’s good.’
Mike focused hard on forming words, shaping his lips. ‘. . . Jocelyn Wilder . . . Parker, Arizona. Tell . . . my wife . . .’
The nurse leaned closer. ‘What’s that, pal? Tell your wife what?’
Our daughter is with Jocelyn Wilder of Parker, Arizona.
Right before time stopped, Mike realized that the words had not left his head.
Chapter 58
The voice was blurred, as if Mike were listening underwater. ‘Where’s Katherine?’
He mumbled, ‘I won’t fucking tell you ever.’
Another voice said, ‘Pleasant, ain’t he?’ And then he sank beneath another black swell.
This time he sensed the mattress beneath him.
‘—press is climbing all over everything,’ Shep’s voice was saying. ‘The state paid to medevac you in to Cedars-Sinai Med Center. And Annabel, too. Top care – bastards are scared of a lawsuit. They’re relieved you lived. I guess you had a cut in your kidney vein. What? Okay – renal vein. Bleeds fast, but not as fast as an artery. Lucky for you, huh?’
Mike tried to make his mouth move, but it wouldn’t obey.
Shep continued. ‘The feds raided the wrecking yard, found your parents’ remains in two of those crushed cars. McAvoy’s in custody. Looks like he’s fucked pretty good.’
‘He can’t hear you,’ someone said.
Shep said, ‘Yeah he can.’
Now his eyes were open, if barely, his vision blurry. His tongue was too thick to talk around. Metal pinched the skin of his stomach. A tan face was floating over him, saying, ‘Congratulations, Mr Wingate. You just inherited a Class III casino.’
Mike said, ‘Mmrm.’
‘You’ll be immediately commenced at a salary of three million.’
‘A month,’ Shep’s voice added from somewhere. ‘And the annual dividend? It’s got more zeros than can fit on a check.’
Mike could discern the shape of Shep now, standing at the foot of the bed.
‘Guess who’s a leading expert in casino law?’ Shep flicked his nail against something that Mike finally registered as a familiar taupe business card. Shep’s face came into focus briefly, time enough for Mike to see the gleam of that crooked front tooth. ‘’Member that high-ticket lawyer Two-Hawks hooked me up with?’
Mike took in the man who’d spoken earlier as a collection of parts – sun-baked face, hammered sterling oval belt buckle with a turquoise inlay, Gerry Spence buckshin jacket with fringe sloping acros
s the shoulders. The man nodded solemnly, a hint of wryness livening his eyes, and said, ‘Chief Two-Hawks looks forward to a long era of peace and prosperity between our tribes.’
The scene blurred again, and a sharp female voice said, ‘You can’t be in here.’
Fading out, Mike heard Shep say, ‘What?’
He came awake this time – fully awake – with a single thought branded across his brain: Katherine.
He sat up abruptly but a hot spear lanced his gut, flattening him back down onto a brace of pillows. Even tilting his head was excruciating, but he managed to look down at himself. The hospital gown he was wearing was thrown open to reveal a railroad track of surgical staples running from below his belly button to his sternum. The edges of the wound were purple-pink. It took some time for him to register the slit as a permanent addition to his body. A large gauze patch was adhered to his side with paper tape. With some trepidation he peeled it back. The stab wound was cleanly sealed, tiny black sutures sticking out like cat whiskers. The skin below was trash-liner black, a shade he hadn’t known that skin could turn.
‘They had to open you up.’ The voice, from across the room, surprised him. A man sat in a visitor chair, picking a piece of lint from the thigh of his pressed slacks, a red tie sealed firmly to his throat. Mike recognized the clean-shaven face, but it took a few moments for him to place him as Bill Garner, the governor’s chief of staff. He noted, also, that there was no one else in the room.
‘Had to stop the bleeding, check your liver and bowel, all that,’ Garner continued. ‘You’ve been in and out for a few days. I guess you’re recovering really well, but there’s still gonna be a lot of—’
Mike tried to sit up again and cried out.
‘—pain.’
Mike rolled his head, looking around. The door was open, nurses and patients walking briskly past in the hall. On his nightstand, blood-sopped bandages rested in a bedpan. Still processing the shock of the scar, Mike tried to retrieve memories from the slush of the past few days. Shep had been here. And Two-Hawks’s attorney. Something about the state fearing a lawsuit – Yup, there it was.
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