Oh! Coffee. Worth waking up for. Ouch! Bright lights! Lucky slitted his eyelids and tried again. Huh. Light blue walls, not white. And way too much fucking sunlight streaming in through a big-assed window. No humming machines. Out of his room now. But… This sure as hell wasn’t a normal hospital room. A couple dozen or so hospitals, visited for various reasons, tended to turn a man into somewhat of an expert.
Walter sat in a chair beside the bed, holding a Starbucks cup. Would killing someone for the contents of one of those cups count as justifiable homicide?
But trusting coffee after his last cup being drugged might be a bit of a stretch.
“Where am I?” Good, enough brain cells survived their pharmaceutically-induced vacation to form words. Holy hell! Grabbing his head didn’t squeeze out the pain. His temples pounded, and the ripped open parts of him now remembered they’d been cut open.
“Safe.” Walter extended the cup toward Lucky. “And no longer in the hospital. It’s not safe for you there.”
More wince-inspiring words never existed.
Walter scowled. “Oh. Need something for pain? I’m afraid we’re limited in our options at the moment. No opioids, but you can have diclofenac.”
Diclofenac. What they gave folks when opioids became a no-no. Lucky shifty-eyed the room. “Where’s Bo? Where am I? And what the fuck ran me over?”
A woman Lucky didn’t recognize hurried into the room and fumbled with his IV tubing. Sweet relief followed. But… an IV again?
“He’s currently busy with a new case. Attempted murder.”
“Say what?” Staring holes through the boss happening in five, four, three… His headache fought a battle with really good drugs and started winning.
“In hospital terms, you coded. Heart attack. I’m afraid you died. Again.” Walter tutted. “You seem to be making a habit of this.”
Lucky settled his head back on the pillow. Dead. Yeah. He’d been there. He’d lie here until he woke up, the world started making sense again, or someone tossed him into the ground and piled on dirt. “Okay. Dead. Got it. Who am I waking up as?”
“I believe it’s your decision.” Walter placed the cup on a bedside table. Lucky’s arms were too heavy to move.
“Gonna stop stalling and tell me what’s going on? If I’m dead, what got me this time? I’m told I’m hard to kill so must be something good.” Had to be creepy-assed Nurse Andy. But…
There’d been someone else too, right?
“The official story is a heart attack, brought on by the stress of your organ donation. It seems the doctors missed a heart defect in your pre-surgical screening.” Walter met Lucky’s bleary gaze head on. “In reality, you suffered a near-fatal overdose. Some form of narcotic, but the lab results so far have been inconclusive.” He leaned against the railing on Lucky’s bed. “How much do you remember?”
“Remember? You’re shitting me, right? I’m so high I can’t keep my eyes open. How am I supposed to remember anything?” Shit! Yelling hurt!
“Try.”
“Some really awful water someone dragged a piece of chicken through for about five seconds and called it soup, orange Jello. Pills in a cup. Walking down the hall…” Nurse Andy, on a cell phone. “I overheard Stalker Nurse talking about me, about me getting suspicious.” Pain or no pain, Lucky struggled to sit. “There was a Starbucks cup in my room when I came back. I figured you’d brought me coffee, and I slurped it down.”
A surprisingly strong hand held him in place. Walter’s bushy eyebrows tried to meet over his now. “Shhh… I can assure you, if I visited your room and you weren’t there, I’d find out why. And no cup was found in your room. Do you remember anything else?”
Fear. Hate. Someone wanting him dead. Someone in his room, maybe? Being helpless sucked big time. “No.”
“You don’t remember a man coming into your room and putting a syringe in your hand?”
“No? Should I?” Someone came into his room and tried to kill him? Who? Why? Most of the folks who’d go through that trouble were all dead themselves. Still, vague notions of someone stabbing his hand lingered around the edges of his mind.
The spot beneath a circular bandage on his hand prickled.
And unless they were playing with Lucky, the two most dangerous men he’d ever met now considered themselves his guardian—somethings. Not angels.
“Did you ever find out anything more on Nurse Andy?” The sneaky-assed nurse needed interrogating.
“No. However, in light of the recent attempt on your life, we’re not ruling out anyone with access to your room. All visitors for the last twenty-four hours will be questioned. And I brought you a present.” Walter picked up Lucky’s computer bag from the floor. “I’d brought it up with me, and merely waited for the right moment to allow you access. I believe the time has come.”
Yay! “What did you tell my mother? My sister?” They didn’t deserve to go through hell again on his account. “Were they told I’m dead? Again.” Mama and Charlotte both might kick his ass this time, for lying.
“I’m not sure they believe me. Your sister said something about you having nine lives. Oh, by the way.” Furrows formed between Walter’s brows. “Exactly what is a pine knot, and how tough is it, exactly?”
***
His laptop! Finally! But no gun stuck in the side pocket. Damn it! He’d rather be home than in wherever Walter stuck him.
Lucky typed in his password and began searching out every scrap of information available on James Andrew “Andy” Polatty.
Nothing. Squeaky clean. Too clean. Like Simon Harrison’s records. Lucky might be out of the hospital now and in protective custody, but the asswipe with the silly grin still roamed the halls near Lucky’s nearest and dearest.
Nothing. Not even a speeding ticket.
And Magnolia Manor Long-Term Care turned out to be a legitimate entity, though they might want to rethink their uncomfortable beds. Why did so many Southern care facilities insist on calling themselves “Magnolia” something or other?
Nothing but four walls to stare at and plenty of time. And no TV. Maybe Lucky could find South Bend Springs online.
But wait. In all the time he’d been outcast, and as many people as he’d dug up dirt on, he’d never checked on family. They didn’t want him around? He’d give them their freedom.
But now?
Now he stood a chance of one day clearing his name and possibly being invited back into the fold.
Embarrassing Lucklighter histories? Come to Papa.
Damn. Things had really gone downhill for Daytona. Twelve stints in rehab, four arrests. Bad credit. The family farm listed for his last known address. Even though Victor paid for his college, he still hadn’t finished.
Dallas hadn’t wasted his education. Ran his own building contracting company. Modest house. Still married to his childhood sweetheart. Still had only the one daughter. Decent credit. Member of First Baptist Church of Greensboro.
Charlotte made the newspapers a few times for being a Boy Scout den mother and doing charity work. Hmmm… She’d started taking some online courses. Maybe she hadn’t lost her dream of becoming a nurse after all.
Her boys seemed to be doing well in school. Ty played high school soccer and Todd ranked second on the tennis team. They’d both been in band.
Next, he searched for his Uncle Ned’s obituary. He’d died of natural causes about midway between Lucky’s arrest and conviction.
Natural causes, huh? Twelve or thirteen different substances could make a death appear natural, and be hard to find unless suspected. No wife. No kids. No telling who the old man left his measly belongings to, though five minutes plus his computer equaled answers.
Did Lucky really want to know about Bristol? The strangest Lucklighter had always been ashamed of the name, never brought friends to the farm.
Wow! Huge house. Decent job at a bank. Decent, but not enough to afford a house four times the size of Lucky and Bo’s. And why such a pretentious place with only him living there?
Country club. Damn, what a car. And get a look at the beauty queens in pictures with him. Bristol always had been the one in the family out to prove himself. Seemed he’d overcome his redneck past after all.
And grew into a no-account asshole who wouldn’t help his own father.
Nice article on him speaking to the Chamber of Commerce. Nothing but time on Lucky’s hands. Why not click the video link?
“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” Some man in a suit droned on and on, singing someone’s praises. Couldn’t be Bristol’s.
When the man stepped away from the podium, another took his place who shared features Lucky saw every morning in the mirror. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
That voice!
Lucky’s blood turned to ice.