Lay It Down

by Cara McKenna

  “He really should see a doctor,” Kim said.

  “No way.” Casey sat up again, only to get shoved back down by Dancer. “I never signed up for insurance, and they charge you, like, fifty bucks for an Advil without it.”

  Kim shot Vince a look. “You Grossiers really don’t like paperwork.”

  That, and Vince didn’t relish going a route where too many questions would get asked. He’d see his mother institutionalized over his cold corpse.

  “This might tickle.” Dancer knelt beside the bed, uncapping the glass bottle. “Don’t scream. I’m trying to stay off the sheriff’s dance card.”

  “Fucking h—” Casey abandoned the words to roar, and Dancer abandoned the antiseptic, reaching instead for a different bottle and a rag. He doused the latter; then Casey’s gaze grew wide as Dancer cupped the back of his head.

  “What’re—”

  This time it was the rag that shut him up. Dancer held it over his nose and mouth until Casey’s eyes rolled up into his head and his arm flopped from the edge of the mattress.

  “Was that—” Kim’s question was answered before it was asked, as Dancer set the bottle on the floor, swiveling the label to face her. Chloroform, no doubt. He was already getting back to work with the disinfectant.

  “Are you trained at all this?” she asked.

  “I’ve done it a lot. So yeah, I’m trained. Though usually I’m the patient, so this is a fun new scenario.”

  “Must be a nice change for you to be chloroforming somebody for good,” Vince said dryly.

  Dancer’s attention was on the shiny tweezers, and he polished them with an alcohol-soaked cloth. “Don’t distract the doctor now, Vincey. I’d hate to botch your little brother’s surgery.”

  “And yet I’d love to cripple you, if anything happens to him.”

  “Says the man who got him shot in the first place.” Dancer smiled, creepy-sweet. “You know what I love, Grossier? You, owing me a favor.”

  “Dig the fucking thing out.”

  Kim shut her eyes and turned away as Dancer played Operation on Casey’s leg. After a very long minute and a couple of not-especially-confidence-inspiring whoopses, he drew the tweezers out with a glistening bullet pinched between the tips.

  “Ah shit.” Dancer dropped the tool on the floor as the blood arrived, grabbing the towels Kim held out. “Think we need a tourniquet. Feeling useful?” he asked Vince.

  Vince didn’t reply except to catch the shirt Dancer tossed him and twist it into a fat rope.

  “Above the hole,” Dancer said.

  “I know that, shithead.” When the towels were shifted, Vince threaded the shirt under Casey’s thigh, getting way too close to his brother’s crotch for comfort. He tied it tight.

  Dancer was examining the towels, a tiny blossom of red seeping through the top one. “We might be in luck—not enough volume to be an artery, I don’t think.” To Kim he added lightly, “You wanna check his breathing, sweetheart? Make sure I didn’t kill him?”

  Vince wanted to growl, though the impulse annoyed him. Why should that get his blood hot, hearing some asshole other than himself call this chick sweetheart? Who the fuck did his dick think she was to him?

  “He’s breathing,” she said, “but we really should get him to a doctor. What if it gets infected?”

  Vince reconsidered it, stabbed by a pang of guilt. He’d been feeling way too many of those lately. But what if he could get some credible medical opinion about this situation, one that might convince Casey he’d better stay put for a week or more while his leg healed?

  “Yeah,” he said. “Clinic. If he complains about us trying to save his ass, I’ll pay the tab myself.”

  The parrot bobbed its head and shrieked.

  Dancer told it, “Hush, Cookie.” Then to Vince, he said, “I’ll help you move the bod— Sorry, force of habit. The patient. I’ll help you get him in the car, but after that, I’m done. And he didn’t get chloroformed here. You got that?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Same as he hadn’t gotten shot by their mother. “We never saw you.”

  The men hauled Casey by the feet and armpits to the wagon and dragged him across the backseat. Vince told Kim, “You follow me to the clinic. We get there and they ask questions, I flagged you down, asked you to help me with my brother. You don’t know a thing about what happened to him, or who patched him up. Got it?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

  He headed for his bike. Christ, this woman must think they were all as cracked as his mom. And she wouldn’t be far off. God help him if she really had cut some other man loose two days ago, if the prediction was true, if he really did need to keep her here. That word kept ringing in his head, though—bones. Hard to write that off as mad ramblings. Way too close to the mark. Fucking bull’s-eye.

  And any sane person would run for the hills, after all the shit Kim had seen and heard this morning.

  The clinic was on the good side of the tracks, a block down from the motel. Vince led Kim to the main drag, past Benji’s and toward Railroad Avenue, passing the station where no train had stopped since he’d been a toddler. The wider world had taken to simply passing Fortuity right on by, since the local gold-mining industry had shut down.

  The clinic was a converted double-wide, manned by a rotating team of retired doctors, nurses, and medics. Often there was no one on the premises, just the roster listing that week’s on-call volunteers and their phone numbers. It was a jacked-ass system, but nobody except the ranchers—and sketchy outliers like John Dancer—lived more than ten minutes’ drive from downtown.

  They were in luck this morning; the door to the trailer was propped open.

  As Kim emerged from the driver’s side, Vince asked, “You think you can handle his feet?”

  “I can try.”

  By the time they had Casey’s flopping frame half hauled out of the backseat, the pro on duty had poked his head out to see what was going on. Vince saw it was Ronnie Biscane, an old-timer—a retired EMT and a bygone sweetheart of Vince’s mom, in fact. He’d been kind enough to even pay them the odd house call, after she’d lost her mind. He was soon rolling a gurney down the wheelchair ramp.

  “Morning, Ronnie.”

  A little nod. “Vince. That your brother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, he’s all grown up. And all knocked out.”

  “Not going into any details, but he got shot in the leg, chloroformed. Then the bullet got taken out, and he started leaking some.”

  The older man nodded, frowning. “I can see that.”

  “Basically just do what you need to, to make sure he doesn’t bleed out or get an infection. No insurance, so if there’s any chance I could maybe slip you some cash for whatever supplies this might require, and a little something for your time . . . ?”

  Ronnie waved the thought aside. “Favor to your mother. How’s she doin’?” he asked as they lifted Casey onto the stretcher.

  “She’s hanging in there.” Vince pushed the gurney up the ramp and inside, then helped Ronnie shift Casey onto a hospital bed. “Don’t suppose I could leave him with you for an hour or two?” Through the side window he eyed Kim, who was standing awkwardly in the parking lot.

  “It’ll take that long to make sure he’s conscious and stable,” Ronnie said. “Gimme your number, and I’ll call you when he’s ready to get picked up.”

  “Perfect. I owe you, man.” Theme of the day. Vince wasn’t normally one to ask for help, but in the space of an hour he was suddenly indebted to Kim, Dancer, and Ronnie. As for Casey . . . he still owed him some answers. Though once again he’d managed to dodge that bullet, as it were.

  “One more favor,” Vince added after he’d signed some forms in Casey’s stead.

  Ronnie looked up from prepping first aid equipment. “Yeah?”

  “Could you, ah . . . Could you tell Casey, when he comes to, that he needs to baby that hole for a week? He’s the type to skip town, but I need him to stick around. It
’s about our mom.” That wasn’t quite a lie. Not exactly. Vince was getting a little too good at this whole truth-bending thing of late.

  Another nod from Ronnie. “Sure. Probably good advice anyhow. Though I can’t promise you he’ll listen, of course. Your brother’s not exactly the obedient type, if I recall.”

  “Yeah, well. Case always thought you would’ve made a better dad than our old man, so maybe he’ll listen.” He wrote his cell number on a whiteboard and tapped it with the marker. “Like I said, I owe you.”

  “Who’s that gal driving your mom’s car?” Ronnie asked.

  “Out-of-towner. Wrong place, wrong time. Now I gotta go make this morning up to her.”

  Ronnie smiled dryly, probably thinking Vince meant he needed to get busy convincing Kim to forget whatever shenanigans had gotten Casey shot in the leg. “Good luck with that.”

  Vince nodded. “No doubt I’ll need it. Talk to you later.” He gave the doorframe a couple knocks on his way out. “Be thinking of favors to call in. I owe you big.”

  Kim looked up as Vince trotted down the ramp.

  “He okay?”

  “In good hands, anyhow. Ronnie’s gonna call me when he’s ready to get picked—” He paused at the chime and buzz of his phone coming to life. “Goddamn, what now?” He didn’t recognize the number, and it wasn’t local.

  He hit TALK. “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Grossier, this is Duncan Welch, the charming man who so generously agreed to facilitate your—”

  “The fuck you want, Welch? I’ve had a long morning.”

  “I have some waivers for you to sign. Then we’re cleared to visit the building site tomorrow at eleven thirty.”

  “No shit? Well, swing by Benji’s again and I’ll sign them there. Anytime after five.” God knew he’d need a drink by then.

  “Will do.”

  Vince pocketed his phone and strode to Kim, put a hand on her arm. “How you doing?”

  She seemed to consider it a moment, as though giving herself the luxury of registering everything that had gone on. “I’m . . . I’m not sure.”

  “Not how you planned on your morning going, I bet.”

  She shook her head. “No, not remotely. But I got my frames, at least.”

  “I know it’s pushing lunchtime now, and all this bullshit’s kind of wrecked the mood.”

  She laughed, the noise bright and flustered, lifting away the smog of the drama. “To say the least.”

  “You still want to grab something to eat, maybe?”

  “I dunno . . .”

  “C’mon. I owe you eggs, after all that.” And though he genuinely wanted to hang out with her, get them back to where they’d found themselves at Big Rock . . . well, there was also that matter of his mom’s proclamation.

  His hand was still on her arm, and he ran it up and down, wondering how soft her skin was, underneath that sweater. The contact brought her eyes to his. What was that look? Uncertainty . . . ? No. Surrender.

  “Yeah,” she said with a shrug. “Sure.”

  He let his hand fall away. “Mind following me back to my mom’s? Then we’ll ditch the boat and ride into town together.”

  She nodded, already heading for the wagon.

  Vince felt strange on the ride. Not on account of the morning’s drama, he didn’t think. Not even because he was worried maybe his mom really had dropped another goddamn mystery in his lap. Just . . . weird. Like he was strung together with this woman he shared absolutely nothing with, aside from a crossed path and a bygone pitcher of beer, one mind-blowing make-out session. It didn’t feel like plain old lust. Actually felt like a string. The most tenuous little tether—a spiderweb’s strand stretched between them, fine but strong. His brain didn’t tend to come up with poetic bullshit like that on its own, either. No, this was a physical sensation, real as a shiver or a hunger pang.

  He idled on his bike while Kim parked.

  She handed him the keys and accepted the helmet. Mounting up behind Vince, she exhibited none of the wide-eyed uncertainty she’d shown before. Just swung a leg around and circled his middle. Natural. Practiced, even. Like that period of a relationship Vince had so rarely reached with a woman . . . that point where you knew what the other person needed, in bed. Past the negotiation and showmanship of the early encounters, just two bodies going through their shared, familiar script, scratching each other’s itches. No instructions required.

  Jesus, where were these thoughts coming from?

  Or any thoughts, for that matter, aside from ones where he’d be gaming the quickest route to find himself in a bed with this girl.

  Chapter 11

  Vince glided them into the diner’s lot, letting Kim off, then walking the bike backward into a spot.

  She was waiting for him at the door, sweater and flannel draped over her arm now that the sun was doing its job. Nice arm, bare from her tiny sleeve down. Women had a name for that kind of sleeve, but Vince couldn’t remember it. Her arm was slender, rounded at the shoulder with a little muscle. It matched the rest of her. Not a curvaceous sort, but not skinny, either, and not wispy like some meat-shunning yoga chick. Capable. An understated kind of feminine, he thought. And understated wasn’t normally a quality that caught a man’s eye. Not Vince’s, anyhow.

  “After you,” she said, pulling open the door.

  Vince smiled as he passed. He headed for a booth in the middle of the long restaurant, waving to Abilene, the waitress on duty. She was new to Fortuity, a transplant from he didn’t know where. He hadn’t managed to get the story out of her, and everyone who moved here had a story; this was the kind of town the desperate favored for their fresh starts, a place where your past didn’t bother following you. Cute girl, plump, with a round, innocent face, big blue eyes, and long brown hair. Sadly, girls didn’t tend to stay cute or innocent if they stuck around Fortuity too long. A few turned into that wild kind of sexy like Raina, but most woke up at thirty with a couple of kids and the wear and tear to match.

  And no women around here look like Kim, he thought as she sat across from him. This girl was something. Had a passion and a skill and an education, a future. Women who valued those things knew better than to linger here. Which suggested his mom’s prediction must be wrong—no way this girl was hanging around Fortuity to be the ears or the eyes or any other kind of witness. And the realization quite disappointed him.

  Still, he needed confirmation. But first things first.

  “Thanks, for all that BS,” he said. “You’re officially off duty from all my family’s craziness.” Provided my mom got that little prediction wrong.

  Kim smiled at the jam packet she was toying with. “Those were, hands down, the most interesting few hours of my life.”

  “Aren’t you sheltered. That’s just how we pass a Sunday morning around here, while the good folks are in church.”

  She met his eyes, zapping him with a dangerous little taste of that weird connection he felt with her. “Promise me that’s a joke.”

  “Promise. We’re all normally too hungover on a Sunday to get up to anything before noon.”

  “Phew.”

  “So.” He shed his shoulder holster and jacket in one discreet motion and got down to business. “About all that spooky shit that went down in my mom’s kitchen.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, nodding. “About that. What was that? What’s . . .”

  “Wrong with her?”

  She bit her lip.

  “No need to be all PC with me, sweetheart. And I dunno exactly what’s wrong with her except she’s goddamn crazy. Has been since I was about twenty-four.”

  “That thing she said, about me. About me having to stay?”

  He waved the worry away just as Abilene came by with coffee. “Know what you guys want?”

  “Give us a few minutes,” Vince said with a smile. Once she was gone, he looked back to Kim. “She does that sometimes, my mom. Makes some spooky-ass declaration. Harmless, though.” You are getting damn good at lying, mo
therfucker. “Don’t worry yourself about it.”

  She hugged her cup in both hands, staring thoughtfully down at the black coffee.

  “Really,” Vince said, though that look had his gut churning with a mix of dread and curiosity. “Let it go. It’s just crazy talk.”

  She looked up with those blue eyes, and if that stare didn’t freeze him solid, her words did the job. “She was right, though.”

  His heart plugged his throat like a cork. “Right?”

  “I did just leave somebody. I broke up with my boyfriend, right before I went to Benji’s and ran into you. Two nights ago, just like she said.”

  His blood cooled, creeping through his veins like sap. Ancient-slow.

  “And she mentioned the bones you told me about. Had you talked about those with her?”

  He shook his head.

  “Has she ever been right before?” Kim asked, opening a creamer. “Her . . . declarations?”

  He ought to lie again. Ought to keep papering over the insanity like he’d gotten so good at, this past decade. Except if this was all true, if Kim really was wrapped up in it, if she really was the ears and eyes, the key to getting to the bottom of Alex’s talk of bones . . .

  Christ, this sucked. Nothing made Vince feel more naked than this shit with his mother.

  He cleared his throat, reaching for a packet of sugar, shaking it out. “Yeah, they’ve come true before. All the ones I’ve heard her make, in fact.” If only she’d predicted Alex’s death. Given him a chance to maybe stop it.

  “Do you know what it means?” Kim asked. “About me being the eyes or whatever?”

  He stirred the sugar around and around, watching the vortex in the cup. “I don’t know for sure what it means . . . only that she thinks you need to stay, to see and hear something to do with the bones. Maybe you’re the key to my finding them and figuring out what happened to my friend. And I know I want that,” he said plainly, finally owning the truth. He met her eyes. “I believe her, and I want you to stay.”

  The way she held his stare just about stripped him bare to the core. Like she’d heard more than just his words, “I want you to stay.” Like she’d read the deeper truth in them, an urge that went beyond the circumstances, beyond anything as simple as sexual attraction. He wanted her to stay here, yes. Because of this prediction shit, but not just that. He wanted to know her, and to get inside her, in too many ways. It felt raw, and judging from how Kim’s eyes darted away, he had to wonder if she was feeling it, too.