A Teeny Bit of Trouble (38 page)

Oh God, oh God, oh God. Not that. I shook so hard, the chains made a singing noise.

Josh turned on the radio. Snippets of music ran together as he spun the dial. He stopped on a sports station, and I heard the crack of a baseball, the roar of a crowd, then he spun the dial again and landed on WAEV from Savannah. Over the static, the Black Ghosts sang “Full Moon.”

“You like shitty music, don’t you, Teeny? Enjoy it while you can.”

The car turned left onto Willow Street, a dark, two-lane road that led to a county highway—the road to Sweeney. Was the new chop shop located there?

Behind us, the truck’s headlights swept through the rear window. Shadows skated over the floorboard. I lunged for the pliers. The Jaguar made a sharp left turn, and the pliers slipped under the front seat.

If I didn’t bash Josh in the head before we reached the lab, Son and I would die. My bulldog would die. I didn’t have a guarantee that Coop and Red would survive. If they started poking around, Dot would put them into the lake. Emerson would go to that school in Alabama and she’d never know how it felt to be loved.

I glanced around for another weapon. I tried to lift a concrete block, but I was still shaky and couldn’t move it. I slumped against the back seat, feeling utterly defeated. Tonight, Son and I would be on the bottom of the lake, and maybe our organs would help someone; but the money was going to the Dot Agnew Foundation. She would go home, turn on her Wolf range, and heat a pot of soup. More patients would die at Bonaventure Regional because she needed to finish decorating her house. A cornea would buy new dining room furniture. A tendon would buy an oil painting. How many cadavers would buy a $2,000,000 beachfront condominium on St. Simon’s Island?

I pulled myself up and grasped the back of Josh’s seat, trying to crouch low. If he saw me in the rearview mirror, he’d shoot me. Straight ahead, through the windshield, a string of headlights came toward the Jaguar.

Witnesses.

I could beat on the side window and hope the driver saw me. But those lights were so far away. Josh turned on his blinker and turned down a rough-paved road. I bolted forward, grabbed his ears, and twisted as hard as I could.

“Let go!” His fist crashed into my forehead. The blow knocked me into the backseat. I sat there, too dazed to move. I was faintly aware of something moving in my pocket, a skitter-scratch. I opened the pocket, and the tarantula crawled onto the back of my hand. Maybe I should let it bite me, but no, Miss Uma had said tarantula bites weren’t deadly.

Josh had been bitten by one of her pets. I prayed he still harbored a fear of arachnoids.

Again, I raised up, my eyes filling, and moved my outstretched hand toward Josh. “Oh, my god,” I said. “There’s tarantulas in this car. They’re crawling everywhere.”

“Yeah, right.” Josh snorted.

I thrust my hand in front of him. He screamed. I flung the tarantula in his lap. His hands lifted from the steering wheel, and he brushed between his legs. The Jag veered off the road. I leaned over his shoulder and stretched out my arm toward the steering wheel. Just a little closer. One more inch.

The tires bounced into a hole. Branches and saplings beat against the fender. Straight ahead, the headlights picked out bark and pine boughs.

The Jaguar slammed into a tree. I heard the wrench of metal. Needles pinged against the hood. Black air rushed in around me and I was flying.

*   *   *

I came to in the backseat. A horn blared and blared. I smelled smoke and I sat up. Pain lanced through my thigh. Josh lay over the steering wheel. Above him, the windshield was cracked, streaked with red. Steam hissed from the crumpled hood and scattered into the branches.

Son was sprawled against the door. He moaned, and blood streamed out of his mouth.

“Son Finnegan, don’t you die on me.” My fingers dug into the back of his seat. I pulled myself close to him.

“I’m hurt, Boots.” He moaned again.

“Hold on.” I couldn’t help him from this angle, so I yanked open the back door and crawled into the dark weeds. A blast of humid air rushed over my face. As I inched forward, something jerked me back. I spun around, expecting to see Josh’s hand. But it was just the chain, looped tightly around my ankle.

Trying not to panic, I grabbed the concrete block. It felt light as a biscuit. I heaved it out of the car. A warm tickle ran down my knee, and I yanked up my dress. A diagonal gash ran across my leg, in the fleshy part of my left thigh. The wound wasn’t spurting. Just a deep, oozing wound.

I crept over to Son’s door, pulling the concrete block with me. From the road, headlights speared through the trees and washed into the gully. Dot had found us.

I flung open Son’s door. The dome light blinked on. I lifted his face. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth. But he was breathing. Bits of safety glass were scattered in his hair, and I brushed them out.

“Hurts so bad,” he whispered.

I looked at Josh. His chest wasn’t moving I leaned across the seat and felt his wrist. No pulse. I slid my hand into his nearest pocket and searched for the gun. Empty. I started to check his other pocket when flames spiked from the hood, sending up a dazzle of orange sparks. Smoke rolled up from the floorboard. Oh, Lord. Would the engine blow up? Where was the spider? And where was Dot? She’d been right behind us.

I scooted back to Son. “Put your arms around me.”

“Can’t.” His shoe scooted over the floorboard. “My gut hurts.”

“Son, listen to me. I know you’re in pain. But the car’s on fire. Come on, get out. Just lean on me. I’ll help you.”

More cinders spiraled up into the darkness. A circle of heat pushed against me, and I smelled burnt rubber. Son slid his arms around my neck. He didn’t feel that heavy. Or maybe I had super-human strength. I pulled him out of the car, into the grass, dragging that damn block behind me.

From the road, I heard a commotion. Voices. Spangled lights.

“Holy shit,” a man cried.

I led Son into the tall weeds and propped him against a tree. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “I’m going back for that tarantula.”

Son keeled over, thumping against the ground. He dragged me with him, and I fell hard on my butt. I tried to stand. The ground rose up and folded itself around me.

A man in a Coors hat tried to pull Son from my arms. A flashlight moved over my skirt. It was dark red and sticky, warm as a wet washrag. Someone brought a fire extinguisher and aimed it at the car. Sirens drilled through the night, a black sound that chipped against my ears.

Hands lifted me up. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. And don’t hurt my spider. He’s one heck of an arachnid.

thirty-five

Noises rushed around me. Beeping. Rhythmic clicks. The patter of water. I was lost in a forest, soon to be devoured by beetles. A disembodied voice spiraled down from the ceiling, beseeching Elena Samuels to call the operator.

Was I trapped in a department store?

The water shut off. Footsteps. A cool hand on my cheek. Two brown eyes loomed above me. “Miss Templeton, you’ve been in a wreck. How much alcohol did you drink?”

What wreck? What alcohol? I wasn’t much of a drinker. “Where am I? What day is it?”

“You’re in the hospital. It’s August nineteenth. Tuesday night.”

Hospital? This was Dot’s killing ground. I couldn’t stay here. I tried to sit up, but my head wouldn’t leave the pillow. I felt swimmy-headed, and my ears were ringing.

“Don’t move, Miss Templeton.” She wore little white wings on top of her head. A nurse or an angel? Her voice echoed, as if it came from the bottom of hell, a hot place with rock salt and empty margarita glasses. What was the opposite of an angel? A demon?

All I could think of was Mama’s recipe for Coca-Cola Basted Ham. She’d paired it with Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs” and Matthew 8:31:
So the demons begged Him, saying, If Ye cast us out, permit us to go into the herd of swine.

The demon-angel moved beside my bed. She lifted my hand and adjusted a red tube. The tube led to a purple-red bag that hung above my head. Again, the disembodied voice uncurled from the ceiling: “Doctor Braxton, call 3-East. Dot Agnew, call the emergency room.”

Bits and pieces came back to me. Dot, margaritas, Son, eyeballs, Josh, the wreck. And the nurse wasn’t an angel-demon. She wasn’t Dot. She was someone who’d taken an oath to help sick people.

A gurney rattled past my door, wheels spinning on the tile, a sheet draped over a body.

“Who’s that? Josh Eikenberry. Or Son Finnegan?”

The nurse didn’t answer. I grabbed her wrist. “I know you can’t tell me who’s under that sheet. But if Son is alive, he’s in trouble. Dot gave him blood thinner. She put it in our margaritas. I don’t want Son to die. Please help him.”

The nurse’s face hardened. She peeled my fingers away from her arm. “How many margaritas did you drink, Miss Templeton?”

“One. But it was laced with PGA and Sonata and blood thinner.” My hand dropped to my thigh. I felt a bandage, and the flesh beneath it ached. I tried to raise up again, but the nurse gently pushed me down.

“You need sutures. We’re waiting for Dr. Jennings. I’ve got a pressure bandage on your laceration. Try not to squirm, okay?”

“You don’t understand. I was drugged. Tied up. Tasered. He—he tried to rape me.”

“Who?” The nurse looked puzzled.

“Josh. He’s in cahoots with Dot Agnew. She’s a nurse.”

The nurse’s eyes widened. “Miss Templeton, you’re a tad confused on account of your accident.”

“Dot tried to kill me and Son. Call the police.”

“They’re here. But you’d best not talk to them till you’re sober. Try to stay calm.”

How could I be calm? I’d killed a man with a tarantula. And Dot was clever and sugary. Had she gone to the farm to kill Sir? I sucked in air.

“Get the police,” I said. “Send them to my farm. Dot’s going to shoot my dog.”

“No one is going to shoot anyone.”

“I’ll call the police myself. Where’s a phone?”

I knew I sounded crazy. Once time Mama had gotten out of control, and Aunt Bluette had brought her to this hospital. The doctors had pumped Mama with drugs until her craziness eased. She’d just sat there like a potato, her empty eyes staring at the window.

The nurse scurried out of the room. I pulled up on my elbows. The sheet spread out like a white tablecloth. I looked like sacrificial pork tenderloin, just waiting for Dot to carve me into pieces. I couldn’t stay here. She’d find me. I had to find a phone and call Red. He’d go to the farm and ninja-protect my dog.

I jerked out the IV, and blood dribbled down my hand. A dark circle bloomed on the sheet. I dangled my legs off the side of the bed until the wooziness passed. Then I slid off the gurney.

My feet hit the cold tile floor. I pressed my fist against my leg, trying to stop the bleeding, and tottered out of the room.

Light spilled down a brown tiled hall. Doors on both sides. Some open. Some closed. At the far end of the corridor, nurses gathered around a tall desk. If they saw me, they’d haul me back to bed. I stepped in the opposite direction, down another brightly lit hallway, where a baby was crying.

Don’t faint. One foot in front of the other, that’s a girl.

At the end of the hall, a woman in a hospital gown stood outside her door, holding on to an IV pole. “Lady, you’re bleeding,” she said. “How’d you get hurt?”

“I wrecked.” I didn’t just mean the car crash. I was broken in all kinds of ways. I looked down at my leg. Blood pattered against my toes. Dammit, I was barefooted.

I ducked into a linen closet that smelled of bleach and laundry detergent. The humming fluorescents cast a grayish light over metal shelves. I moved toward one that was crammed with scrub suits.

First, stop the bleeding
. It was Aunt Bluette’s voice, soft and nasal. I peeled the pressure bandage off my leg. The red wound gaped open like trout lips. I found an Ace bandage and looped it around my thigh.

Disguise yourself
, Aunt Bluette whispered. I put on scrubs and a cap. Every place I touched felt sore. My face, knuckles, chest. Even my hair hurt. When I bent down to put on blue paper booties, I staggered sideways and hit the wall. How much blood could a person lose before they passed out?

I slipped into the corridor. It was empty, except for a volunteer in a pink uniform who pushed a magazine cart. From the intercom, an operator with a twangy voice said, “Housekeeping to 2-West.”

My heart pounded so hard, the bosom of my scrub suit jerked.
Relax, Teeny. Nurses can smell fear.
I took a deep breath. My lungs couldn’t fail me now because I’d left my inhaler in Dot’s kitchen.

I stepped into the hall. It was long and blue. A light flickered above me. I checked each room. They were empty.

The intercom cracked. “Code Yellow, emergency room.”

Two nurses walked by, then circled back. They stared at the patient armband that dangled from my wrist. I’d forgotten to remove it. The nurse with pale blond hair looked me up and down. “Are you lost?”

The other nurse said, “I bet she’s the Code Yellow.”

I ran in the opposite direction. A red exit sign glowed above a stairwell door. I opened it and raced down to the next floor. Above me, the door opened. Footsteps shuffled over the tile. I flattened myself against the wall and held my breath.

Footsteps started up again. Muffled voices. Then the door creaked shut. I clawed off my ID band and pushed away from the wall. I expected to see the nurses staring down. But they were gone.

Holding pressure against my leg, I climbed down another flight of stairs. My paper booties squeaked, as if I’d walked through a wet field. I looked down. Blood. I scooted to the exit door and crept into a hall. It was darker than the rest of the hospital. I passed by vacant rooms, the beds stripped.

Find a telephone. Call 911.

The hospital operator’s voice spiraled down from the ceiling. “Code Yellow,” she said.

I’d almost made it to the elevator when someone tapped my shoulder. I whirled. A woman blinked down at me, her face narrow and freckled. Perched on top of her head was a white Mr. Coffee filter. Her name tag read
GLINDA REILLY, RN.