“I’m okay,” he said.
She grasped his arm. “Please? That woman you were with. She just about begged me.”
Staring down at her hand, he took a deep breath and nodded. “Fine.” He started back toward his seat, but as soon as she disappeared down the hall, he strode out and used his cell phone to call his street pharmacist.
The fury that seethed inside Ink felt like a separate living and breathing entity, one he couldn’t control. No matter what he did, Virgil and his sister always remained just out of reach. Now L.J. was shot and looking as if he had one foot in the grave as he slouched against the door of the truck, and Ink couldn’t even get him some help.
Why he was suddenly so set on saving L.J., Ink didn’t know. For a few minutes in the forest, he’d believed that L.J. was going to abandon him. That deserved no loyalty. Just yesterday, he’d been planning on killing L.J., anyway. But not yet. He wasn’t finished with him. Losing L.J. created another wrinkle in his plans and narrowed his chances of success. It was a victory for the other side.
“You okay?” He’d been barking this question every few minutes, and L.J. would grunt, but this time Ink got no response. L.J. had even quit wincing when the truck’s tires hit various ruts and grooves as they bounced up the dirt road to the cabin.
“Hey!” When Ink shook him, L.J.’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing glassy eyes. Quite a bit of blood soaked his shirt. Was he dying?
“Shit!” Ink slammed his fist into the dash. What was he going to do? He’d always fancied himself as resourceful, capable of doing whatever needed to be done in a pinch. If that meant sewing up a gash in his arm or one of his comrades’, he’d do it. If it meant digging out a bullet, he’d do that, too. He’d removed a slug from his own shin once. It’d been a grisly affair—he’d nearly passed out—but he’d been successful, and it’d made him quite famous among The Crew. They still asked to see the scar, and talked about the balls it took to do something like that.
He had the balls to do this, too. But as far as he knew, he didn’t even have a first aid kit to work with. He hadn’t seen one, anyway. It wasn’t something the men who’d rented the place had thought to bring. Probably because they’d only been planning to do a little hiking and fishing, and take a few pictures, and couldn’t imagine getting hurt. Or they couldn’t imagine getting hurt and being unable to seek help in town. They’d had a vehicle, after all, and there’d been a group of them.
Ink, on the other hand, had no help. And he had to lay low until the heat was off.
But he could work without a first aid kit. He’d sedate L.J. with the last of his pain pills, then use hot water and bandages made from the clothes of the men he’d shot. He’d tossed their suitcases in the back bedroom, so he still had access to them.
“What—what are you…thinking?” L.J. was watching him through narrow slits, as if it was difficult for him to open his eyes.
“I’m thinking how I’m going to patch you up.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he struggled to swallow. “Patch…me up? But…I need a doctor. I think…I’m dying.”
He had to feel like shit to be less concerned about getting caught than getting help. “You’re not going to die,” Ink told him.
“Just…drop me off at…at a hospital. There’s got to be one around here somewhere. You can…you can still get away.”
But he wasn’t done here. Not by a long shot. Besides, running, especially in the vehicle they had now, would only get him arrested. A description of the truck must’ve gone out to every law enforcement agency in the area. The best thing to do was sit tight. They had a few days yet before anyone noticed that the men who’d rented the cabin were gone. That gave them time to get L.J. back on his feet, time for Ink to come up with alternate transportation and time to finish what they’d set out to do in the first place.
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” he told L.J.
“But the pain… Feels as if my heart can’t beat…as if…as if it’s filled with…with blood or something.”
“I’ve been shot before. It always feels like you’re dying,” he said. “Just relax. We’re home now, and I’m going to take care of you.”
And if he couldn’t? He’d bury L.J. in the forest with the other guys and figure out another way. Because he wasn’t leaving Laurel alive. Not after coming this close. That small-town bastard sheriff was going to get his, too.
“Son of a bitch!”
Vivian startled awake to see that she’d fallen asleep in a chair at Myles’s bedside. Despite the late hour, the hospital in Libby was abuzz with various noises and had been the whole time. The beeping machines, the conversation of the doctor who’d spoken to Myles as he cleaned his wounds and bandaged him up, the nurses who came in and out with blood pressure cuffs or medication or pushed carts past his open doorway. It should’ve kept her from dozing off. But she’d somehow grown accustomed to it. Or she’d been too exhausted to let it bother her. She’d drifted off almost as soon as she knew he was going to be fine. But this, coming from the sheriff’s own lips, made her bolt from her chair.
“You okay?” she gasped before she could gather her wits enough to realize he’d just hung up the phone and looked more angry than hurt.
“They let Ink and Lloyd get away.” Hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand, he drooped dejectedly onto the pillow. “I had half a dozen deputies swarming the area and somehow they couldn’t get the job done.”
This wasn’t what Vivian wanted to hear. She’d thought that maybe, finally, the nightmare would be over. There’d been a price. Myles’s injuries had been frightening to her and painful to him. But the bullet that went through his leg hadn’t hit a major artery or chipped the bone. The second bullet, the one that grazed his neck, had left a cut, nothing more.
“Get away?” she repeated dully.
He sighed as he scowled up at her. “They’ve scoured the area. They can’t find them or their truck.”
But they couldn’t give up this soon. “Ink won’t leave until he gets what he wants. That means he’s still here.”
“Where?” he demanded. “For the past three hours, my deputies have stopped every car and truck coming to or from our neighborhood at two different checkpoints. I’ve had a K-9 unit and a bevy of officers with heavy-duty flashlights combing the forest. There’s been no sign of them. The dogs picked up a scent and chased it to where we found some tire tracks, but every white truck we’ve stopped hasn’t been the one they’re driving. Maybe they slipped through before we put up the blockade. But if that’s the case, they could be a hundred and fifty miles in any direction, and we don’t know enough about the make and model of the truck to expect other departments to do much more than be on the lookout.”