Stone Cold (32 page)

“About what?” I asked.

He hesitated.

Left Ned spoke up. “Say it or get walking.”

“His enemies are looking for him. For him and his works. I came to offer him protection.”

It was a dramatic sort of thing to say, and he had a nice, deep, dramatic sort of voice for it. Chills did that rolling thing over my arms.

But there was only one problem.

“He's dead,” I said.

“What?”

“My father, Dr. Case, has been dead for years.”

That, more than anything, seemed to take the starch out of him. He exhaled, and it was a wet sound as he tried to get air back into his lungs. I almost reached over to prop him up, afraid he might just pass out and further mess up the clean of my kitchen floor.

He was a big man, but like I said, I'm strong.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

I was twelve years old when the men in black and white came to the farm. I'd hidden, like my father had taught me, up in the rafters of the barn. I'd watched those men kill him. Kill my mother too. I'd watched them search our house and carry out boxes. I'd watched them pick up my parent's bodies, put them in a black van, and then use our garden hose to clean up the drive so not even a drop of their blood was left for me to cry over.

“Very,” I whispered.

“I . . .” He swallowed hard, shook his head. Didn't look like that helped much. His words came out in a slur. “I thought . . . I should have known. Sooner. We thought . . . all our information. That he lived.”

“Neds,” I called.

The stranger's eyes rolled up into his head, and he folded like someone had punched him in the ribs. I instinctively put my hands out to catch him, got hold of his jacket shoulders, and pivoted on my heels, throwing my weight to guide him down to the floor without knocking his head too badly.

I crouched down next to him.

Neds strolled over. “What are you going to do with him, Tilly?” Right Ned asked.

“I don't know. Check his pockets, will you? See if he has a name.” I was already pushing his hand to one side so I could get to his wound. It was deep and bad. Might have been from a crocboar. Might have been from any number of beasts out on the edges of the property.

I could mend this, mend him enough to get him to a hospital hours away, in my old truck, on these old roads. If he hadn't lost too much blood, he might survive.

I stood. “I need the sewing kit. The medicines.”

“Tilly,” Right Ned said, “I don't think that will work.”

I was already halfway across the kitchen, heading toward the bathroom, where I kept all the supplies for taking care of Ned and Grandma.

“Tilly,” Left Ned snapped, “stop. Listen.”

I did not like being bossed around by that man. Either of them. I turned.

Neds hunkered next to the stranger, his shotgun within easy reach on the floor beside him, his shoulders angled so the shirt stretched at the seams. He'd pushed the man's jacket sleeve back to reveal his arm up to his elbow.

Stitches. The man had a thick line of gray stitches ringing his entire forearm. Not medical stitches, not medical thread. Life stitches like mine.

I instinctively held my own hands out, turning them so they caught the light. Thin silver stitches crossed my palms and circled my thumbs. Just as those same silver stitches made paths across my arms, my legs, curved up my stomach, beneath my breasts, and around one shoulder. Just as those stitches traced my left ear to the curve of my jaw and ran a line across the back of my neck. I kept my hair free to cover them up. If I wore gloves and long-sleeved shirts and pants, no one knew I was made like this.

Made of bits.

Not quite human.

I'd never once in my life seen or heard of anyone—of any person—stitched like me.

Until this man. This stranger bleeding on my floor.