I couldn’t hear sirens. Yet. That could mean my neighbors hadn’t called the police. Yet. I grabbed some clean clothes and dressed as quickly as I could. In my stocking feet and carrying my boots, I walked out my door. Three minutes or less. The street was empty. Cadillac was still gone, and so was Rod. But not far. He was sitting on the steps of Ginny’s side of the duplex, his mangled and bloodstained hat in his hands.
“You sucker-punched me,” he said, the fight if not the anger gone from his voice.
“Yes,” I said, “I did. You wouldn’t back off. And only a sucker can be sucker-punched. You might want to keep that in mind for next time.”
Screw John Wayne westerns. I’d been in enough fights to know that when men get into it as Rod and I just had, they don’t just get up and laugh, shake it off, and have a beer together. Rod and I were not going to have a beer together, then or ever—and no laughs, either. He was hurt, and hurt badly. My right hand was throbbing and torn to hell. The only thing both of us could be thankful about was there hadn’t been any guns readily available.
I listened and still didn’t hear any sirens. “You want to talk now?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then maybe you’ll listen.” I sat down next to him and pulled on my boots as I spoke. “You’re not going to believe me. I know that. But there’s another story about Ginny and Annabelle and it’s a sight different than the one you were told.”
“You calling Nadine a liar?” He made certain he made eye contact with me. “Because if you are, I can go again. It might turn out differently.”
I ignored him. Whether or not it turned out better for him, I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to fight the first time. “This is what I think,” I said. “I think you’re a decent man—a good man. And if you actually knew me, you might think the same about me. Maybe not. I’ve got a long history of poor decisions, and one way or another every damn day I answer for them. But bedding a teenager isn’t one of them.”
“Still sounds as if you’re calling the woman I love a liar.”
“If you love Nadine and you’ve offered her and Ginny and Annabelle a home, then good for all of you. If you get a few months or a year down the road and you still think I’m a piece of shit, then you give me a call and I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.”
This got him thinking. “The three weeks I’ve been with Nadine have been the happiest of my life. She’s been good to me and like a mother to my three kids. My wife died a couple years ago and they’ve missed the hell out of her. So have I.”
And there it was, upfront and clear as a bell. Nadine couldn’t seem like a good mother and wife if she turned away her own child. This was all about appearances, until she married him. After that the truth would come out and it would be too late, for Rod, his kids, and Ginny would be worse off than she was now. Nadine had to make herself and her daughter the victims and me, the bad guy. There was no use trying to get that through to him.
I stood up. “Remember what I just said. You know where I live.”
“I’m set pretty good for money and I don’t mind supporting Ginny until she gets settled on her own. If you have an ounce of honor you’ll send some money here and there to help out.”
I said I would, but not because of honor or out of guilt. “I’m going to go get Annabelle now. It’s a fair piece of driving and the weather could be bad. But I’ll deliver her to Ginny as soon as I can. Guaranteed.”
“You do that,” he said.
The skin on his face was weeping blood from the wire mesh I’d driven into it. His nose was near the size of a lightbulb and there was a three-inch gash over his right eye that was still bleeding. He needed stitches, but I wasn’t going to recommend he get them. I was way past any more talking. We were both alive and that was something—no thanks to Nadine. I walked over and picked up the pieces of my screen door and tossed them on the porch without another word.
It was only a five-minute drive to the hospital from my place. I thought I’d pick up the medical supplies from Dr. Stafford before she changed her mind. A quick side trip wasn’t going to amount to much in what was going to be a long round-trip to Rockmuse to get Annabelle. The emergency waiting room was empty when I arrived and she was standing in the admission area.
I was nearing the reception desk when she saw me. “Meet me outside around back,” she said.
It was a bit of a walk to get to the rear of the hospital. I had to go to the parking lot and then a block or so along the side of the building. She was standing just off the empty helicopter pad waiting for me. She held a small white chest with a red cross on it. When she handed it to me she said, “Technically this is stealing. Hospitals in general shouldn’t be confused with charities.”
I reminded her I had offered to pay. The offer was still on the table.
“I had to sit through three fund-raising receptions this year. I feel like I’ve already paid for this myself.”
Her eyes immediately went to my bloodied knuckles. “Christ, have you relapsed in two hours? I guess it’s true, leopards don’t change their spots.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Spots don’t matter. There’s always someone who won’t ever let you forget you’re a leopard.”
She got my meaning. “Well, leopard, you should get some ice on those knuckles. Then some antibiotic.” She examined my face and seemed surprised there wasn’t a violent mark on it. “The other guy must be in bad shape. It was a man, wasn’t it? Should I call the police?”
I wasn’t sure if she was serious. It stung to hear the accusation that I might have hit a woman. “I wish you wouldn’t. It wasn’t my fault and the other man is fine.”
She tipped her head in the direction of my knuckles. “He’s probably alive but judging from that I’d say he’s far from fine. I won’t call them this time.” She added, “But I won’t forget in case it becomes an issue later.”
I thanked her and started back to my truck. She caught up with me in a few feet. “By the way, how’s Walt Butterfield doing?”
I stopped. She said she treated him when he had his motorcycle accident. Only Walt and I knew he hadn’t had a damn motorcycle accident; that’s the story he told when he was admitted. The truth was he got caught in the same flash flood that had killed Claire and her former husband. I’d carved Walt out of an arroyo wall and the churning water of sand and rocks beat him near to death. It must have been like being caught in a commercial washing machine. Still, he waited a week to go to the hospital, and when he did he rode his vintage Vincent motorcycle there. His choice.
“Okay, I guess. How’d you know I knew Walt Butterfield?”
“When we treated him this past June he listed you as his emergency contact and next of kin on the admissions form.”
Articulate as ever, I expressed my shock that Walt would do such a thing. “No shit?”
“No shit,” Wanda repeated. “I thought it was odd too.”
I knew why I thought it was out of character for Walt—and I was oddly touched he’d do such a thing. I was curious why she thought so and asked her.
“Usually people list a family member.”
I’d known Walt for twenty years and he had no family, or friends, unless I counted myself, and that was probably just unbridled optimism on my part. “Walt doesn’t have any family,” I said. “He doesn’t have any friends either, unless you count me. I’m surprised he did.”
“That explains it then.”
“What?”
“The commotion when his son visited him. I wasn’t there, though I understand it wasn’t a happy reunion. Hospital Security had to escort the man out and Mr. Butterfield had to be sedated.”
I just stood there.
“Next time you see him, tell him we’d like for him to drop by for some follow-up. No one ever answers his phone.”
I walked away without thanking her and got in my truck and drove almost all the way to the junction of US 191 and State Highway 117 before I could take a regular breath. I was wrong; Walt still had secrets. At least this one wasn’t a corpse. A son? Walt had a son.