She lowers her head and begins to softly weep at the loss of her dad, her lungs hitching with emotion, making strangled hissing noises in the silent room, her tears tracking down the front of her sweater. She can’t remember crying like this—even when Josh got killed—and she gasps for air, holding her hand to the bridge of her nose. Her skull throbs. Maybe it’s just the “condition” she’s in, but she feels the sadness roiling within her like the waves of a storm-tossed sea.
“Enough of this shit,” she scolds herself under her breath, biting off the sorrow and the grief.
She draws her gun. Racks the slide. Checks the safety and tucks it back in her belt.
Then she walks out.
* * *
The day dawns clear, the sky bright and high, as Lilly strides down Main Street, her hands in her pockets, making note of the general mood of the few Woodburians who cross her path. She sees Gus with an armful of fuel cans, awkwardly negotiating the loading dock steps behind the warehouse on Pecan Street. She sees the Sizemore girls playing tic-tac-throw on the pavement of an alley under the watchful gaze of their mother, Elizabeth, who cradles a shotgun. The vibe on Woodbury’s streets is strangely calm and sanguine—apparently the rumor mill has quieted down for the time being—although Lilly detects an odd undertow of jitters threading through the people. She can sense its presence in furtive glances and the speed with which folks are crossing streets and carrying supplies through doors and passageways. It makes Lilly think of those old Westerns that used to play on Sunday afternoons on the Fox station in Atlanta. Invariably, at some point, some old grizzled cowboy would say, “It’s quiet … maybe a little too quiet.” With a shrug, Lilly shakes off the feeling and turns south at the corner of Main and Durand.
Her plan is to try the Governor’s apartment first—the previous day she got nowhere with Earl, the tattooed biker guarding the entrance—and if that doesn’t yield any information, then she’ll try the infirmary. She’s heard murmurings among the town gossipmongers that the Governor sustained injuries during a struggle to prevent the strangers from escaping. But at this point, Lilly doesn’t know what or whom to believe. All she knows is that the longer the town goes without a plan, without consensus, without information, the more vulnerable they’ll become.
She sees the Governor’s building in the distance—as well as the guard pacing across the entrance—and she starts to rehearse what she’s going to say, when she notices a figure trundling down the street. The man lugs two enormous thirty-gallon containers of filtered water, and moves with the intense haste of somebody rushing to put out a fire. Squat, broad-shouldered, and bullish, he wears a tattered turtleneck, which is dark under the arms with sweat, and army fatigue pants tucked into his hobnail boots. His big crew-cut head has an awkward forward lean to it like the prow of a storm-rocked ship as he hauls the jugs toward the center of town—toward the racetrack.
“GABE!”
Lilly tries to keep her voice even as she calls out, tries not to appear too alarmed, but the shout comes out tinged with hysteria. She hasn’t seen Gabe in forty-eight hours, not since the strangers escaped in such a shroud of mystery two days ago, and she has a feeling Gabe knows exactly what’s going on. The big, burly man remains one of the Governor’s closest lieutenants and confidantes—an attack dog that has completely sublimated its own personality in favor of serving the iron-fisted town tyrant.
“Huh?” Gabe looks up with a startled, vexed expression. He can hear footsteps but can’t see who’s approaching. He whirls around with the heavy weight dragging on his arms. “Ww-wha—?”
“Gabe, what’s going on?” Lilly says breathlessly as she clamors up to him. She swallows back the jitters and stanches her racing pulse. Then she lowers her voice. “Where the hell is the Governor?”
“I can’t talk right now,” Gabe says, and pushes past her, hauling the water containers down the sidewalk.
“Wait!—Gabe!—Hold on a second.” She chases after him, and clutches at his beefy arm. “Just tell me what’s going on!”
Gabe pauses, glances over his shoulder to see if anybody else is within earshot. The street is deserted. Gabe keeps his voice low. “Nothing’s going on, Lilly. Just mind your own fucking business.”
“Gabe, c’mon.” She shoots a glance over her shoulder, then looks back at him. “All I’m asking is … is he here? Is he in Woodbury?”
Gabe sets the containers down with a grunt. He runs fingers through his short-cropped, sandy hair, his scalp moist with perspiration. Right then Lilly notices something disconcerting about this barrel-chested bull of a man, something she has never seen before. His hands are shaking. He spits on the street. “Okay … look. Tell everybody … tell them…” He pauses, swallowing hard, looking down, shaking his head. “I don’t know … tell them everything’s okay, the Governor’s okay, and there’s nothing to worry about.”
“If there’s nothing to worry about, where the fuck is he, Gabe?”
He looks at her. “He’s … here. He’s … dealing with some shit right now.”
“What shit?”
“Goddamnit—I told you to mind your fucking business!” Gabe catches himself, the gravelly boom of his voice echoing across the far warrens of stone alleyways and brick storefronts. He takes a deep breath and calms down. “Look, I gotta go. The Governor needs this water.”
“Gabe, listen to me.” Lilly steps in closer and gets in his face. “If you know what’s going on, tell me … because the town is starting to come apart at the seams not knowing anything. People are making shit up. The guys at the wall are starting to not show up for their shifts.” Something inside Lilly hardens then, like a block of ice. All her fear and doubt drains out of her, leaving behind a cold, calculating, ticking intellect. She holds Gabe’s wide, shifting gray eyes in her gaze. “Look at me.”
“Huh?”
“Look at me, Gabe.”
He looks at her, his eyes narrowing with anger. “What the fuck is your problem, lady—you think you can talk to me like that?”
“I care about this town, Gabe.” She stands her ground, nose to nose with this nervous, snorting bull. “Listen to what I’m telling you. I need this town to work. Do you understand? Now tell me what’s going on. If there’s nothing wrong, you got no reason to hide anything.”
“Goddamnit, Lilly—”
“Talk to me, Gabe.” She arc-welds her gaze into him. “If there’s a problem, you need me on your side. I can help. Ask the Governor. I’m on his side. I need him on that wall. I need him keeping people sharp.”
At last, the portly man in the turtleneck deflates. He looks at the ground. His voice comes out paper-thin, reedy and defeated, like a little boy admitting to being naughty. “If I show you what’s going on … you gotta promise to keep it on the down-low.”
Lilly just stares at him, wondering how bad it could be.
THREE
“Jesus Christ.”
The words blurt out of her on a gasp, unbidden and involuntary, as she takes in the entirety of the tile-lined subterranean chamber all at once. Gabe stands behind her, in the doorway, still holding the water containers, frozen there as if held in suspended animation.
For a brief instant, all the information assaulting her senses floods Lilly’s brain in one great heaving gulp. The most prominent thing registering with her—overriding every other initial impression—is the pungent mélange of suffering, the coppery tang of blood, the black stench of infection and bile, and the ubiquitous scent of ammonia. But underneath it all, providing an odd counterpoint, is the smell of burnt coffee, an ancient percolator in the corner brewing a pot of bitter Maxwell House. This incongruous odor—a good reason for it, she will soon learn—mingles with other smells of the infirmary in a strangely disturbing way. Lilly takes a step closer to the gurney resting in the center of the room under the big light.
“Is he—?” She can barely speak. She stares at the body lying in the blazing silver light. In its current state, highlighted in that harsh ligh
t, the body brings to mind world leaders lying in state, beloved dictators pickled in death and exhibited in glass sarcophagi for the viewing pleasure of endless queues of mourners. It takes several moments for Lilly to realize that the patient is still breathing—albeit shallow, feeble breathing—his lungs rising and falling slowly under the blanket pulled up to his nude, iodine-stained rib cage. His head lolls to one side on a yellowed pillow, his face almost completely obscured by blood-soaked bandages.
“Hello, Lilly-girl,” a voice says from just behind her right flank, a blur of movement in her peripheral vision that interrupts her stupor. She turns and sees Bob Stookey standing beside her. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”
Now Lilly stands paralyzed by another inconsistency—adding to the surreal sights and smells and sounds in that horrible tile room—another weird detail, which also strikes her as incomprehensible. Standing before her with a towel draped over his shoulder, his bloodstained lab coat buttoned at the collar like that of a competent barber, Bob has completely transformed. He holds a Styrofoam cup of coffee, his hands as steady as cornerstones. His greasy black hair is now combed neatly back off his weathered face, his eyes alert and clear and lucid. He is the picture of sobriety. “Bob, wh—what happened? Who did this?”
“Fucking bitch with the sword,” Bruce Cooper’s voice pipes in. From the corner of the room, the big man rises off a folding chair and comes over to the gurney. The man shoots a glare at Gabe. “What the fuck, Gabe? I thought we were supposed to keep this under wraps!”
“She ain’t gonna tell anybody,” Gabe mumbles, finally putting the water down. “Right, Lilly?”
Before Lilly can answer, Bruce throws a ballpoint pen at Gabe. The pen barely misses impaling itself in his eye, grazing off the top of his head. Bruce roars at him. “YOU STUPID FUCK!—WHOLE TOWN’S GONNA KNOW ABOUT IT NOW!!”
Gabe makes a move toward Bruce when Lilly steps in between them. “STOP IT!” She shoves them back, away from the gurney. “CALM THE FUCK DOWN!”
“Tell him!” Gabe stands nose to nose with Bruce, fists clenched and working. Bob hovers over the patient, feeling the Governor’s pulse. In all the excitement, the man’s head has lolled slightly, but that’s about the only change. Gabe takes shallow breaths, glaring at Bruce. “He’s the one gettin’ his panties in a bunch!”
“Shut up!” Lilly pushes each man aside, staying in between them. “This is not the time to lose your shit. We gotta keep our fucking wits about us—now more than ever.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been saying,” Bruce grumbles, meeting Gabe’s glare.
“Okay, let’s take a deep breath. I’m not gonna tell anybody. Okay? Calm down.”
She looks at both men, and Gabe looks down and says nothing. Bruce wipes his face, breathing hard, looking around the room as if the answer to their problems is hidden inside the walls.
“We gotta take this one step at a time.” She looks at Gabe. “Just answer one question. What they’re saying about Martinez … is it true?” Gabe doesn’t respond. “Gabe? Did Martinez go with those assholes from the other camp?” She turns to Bruce. “Did he?”
Bruce looks down and lets out a pained sigh. He nods. “The motherfucker helped them escape.”
“And we know this how?”
Bruce looks at her. “We got eyewitnesses, saw that cocksucker helping them over the wall at the end of the Durand Street alley.”
“What eyewitnesses?”
Bruce shrugs. “The lady with the sick kid, what’s-her-name, and also Curtis, the kid guarding the alley that night. Said Martinez relieved him, but the kid hung around and saw them going over … saw the black chick splitting off from the group. Bitch jumped the Governor minutes later.”
“Where?”
“In the Governor’s place—right in his fucking home—the fucking bitch bushwhacked him.”
“Okay … let’s just stick to the facts for a second.” Lilly starts to nervously pace the room, every few moments throwing a glance at the patient. The Governor’s face looks swollen and misshapen under his bandages, the gauze bulging where his left eye socket should be. “How do we know these douche bags didn’t have a gun on Martinez the whole time?”
Bruce shoots a look at Gabe, who stares at Lilly skeptically and says, “I wouldn’t bet on it, Lilly.”
“Why?”
Gabe glares at her. “Well … let’s see. How about the fact that Martinez is a lying son of a bitch with no loyalty to the Governor?”
“Why do you say that?”
Gabe snorts disdainfully, almost laughs. “Lemme think.” He points to an oblong bruise spanning his Adam’s apple. “For starters, he waylaid me outside the chick’s holding cell, pretty near cracked my skull open.” He glares at Lilly. “On top of that, wasn’t he part of your little hole-in-the-wall gang last year when you tried to take out the Governor?”
Lilly meets his gaze, doesn’t even flinch, just stares at him and says, “Things change—we made some bad choices.” She looks at Bruce, then back at Gabe. “I don’t know about Martinez but I’m with the Governor a hundred percent now—a thousand percent.”
Neither man says anything. Both just stare at the floor like children in detention.
Lilly gazes at the patient. “I guess it comes as no surprise that Stevens and Alice went along with the strangers; there was never any love lost there.”
Gabe lets out another snort. “That’s a fucking understatement.”
Lilly paces, thinking. “I think that’s what bothers me the most.”
Bruce speaks up: “Whaddaya mean? Because we ain’t gotta doc now?”
Lilly looks at him. “No. That’s not what I’m talking about.” She gestures toward Bob. “I think we’re covered in that department.” She glances back at Bruce. “What I’m worried about is the fact that these assholes have people from our town with them.”
Bruce and Gabe exchange another heated glance. Gabe looks at Lilly. “So what?”
“So what?” She walks over to the gurney and looks down at the Governor. The man clings to life—one lidded eye visible through an opening in the head dressing, the eyeball shifting slightly under the lid. Is he dreaming? Is he brain-damaged? Is he ever going to fight his way out of this vegetative state? Lilly stares at the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest and thinks some more. “Martinez, Alice, and the doctor know this town better than anyone,” she murmurs, not taking her gaze off the patient. “They know the weak spots; they know where we’re vulnerable.”
This sends a paralyzing silence through the reeking tile chamber. Everybody stares at Lilly as though waiting for her to provide an answer. She stares at the Governor’s ravaged body for another moment.
At last she turns to Bob and says with a newfound air of authority, “Bob, gimme a prognosis here.”
* * *
The first twenty-four hours had been anybody’s guess. Once they brought the Governor’s decimated body back to the infirmary, the main issue was keeping his heart beating, followed closely by stanching the blood loss. Despite the fact that he had a crudely cauterized stump halfway up his right arm at the point of dismemberment—slowing the bleeding from the amputation, which was mercifully clean thanks to the sharpness of the katana sword—there had been massive bleeding at other wound sites, especially the detached penis. Bob had done a lot of hasty battlefield stitching with the storehouse of dissolving catgut Doc Stevens kept on the shelf—reattaching the severed penis at one point with shaking hands. When he ran out of sutures, he used a needle and thread procured from the general store on Main Street.
The old lessons from the war zone came back to him in waves. He remembered the four stages of hypovolemic shock—battlefield medics call it the “tennis match,” since the stages of blood loss mimic tennis scores—15 percent loss is minor; 15 to 30 percent is serious, resulting in plummeting blood pressure and tachycardia; 30 to 40 percent is life-threatening, bringing on cardiac arrest; and 40 percent plus is deadly.
>
For hours, the Governor wavered in between stage two and three, and Bob had to resort to CPR twice to keep the man’s heart beating. Luckily, Stevens kept enough electrolytes in the storeroom to maintain the IV drip, and Bob even found half a dozen units of whole blood. He couldn’t figure out how to type the Governor—that was beyond Bob’s skill set—but he did know enough to get plasma into the man as soon as possible. The transfusions weren’t rejected, and after six hours the Governor had stabilized somewhat. Bob even found an old oxygen tank that was half-full, and administered it in dribs and drabs, until the Governor seemed to be holding his own. His breathing steadied and his sinus rhythm returned to normal, he settled into a semi-comatose state.
Later, in the fashion of an insurance investigator piecing together the chronology of a fatal accident, Bob Stookey had drawn crude sketches in a spiral-bound notebook of the instruments of torture left in the Governor’s living room (as well as the assumed points of entry). The puncture wound from the drill was especially problematic, in spite of the fact that it had apparently not severed any major arteries. It had come within two centimeters of a branching vein of the carotid, and Bob had worked for nearly an hour cleaning out the site. He ran out of gauze, ran out of tape, ran out of hydrogen peroxide, ran out of Betadine, and ran out of glucose. Another issue was internal bleeding—the treatment of which was, again, just out of Bob’s reach—but by the second day, Bob was convinced that the assault on the Governor’s rectum, as well as the profusion of blunt-instrument trauma to 75 percent of his body, had not resulted in any internal hemorrhaging.
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