excrement he’s left in the dirt. But there’s no avoiding the smell. It’s drifting with me, toward Bobby.
“Oh, man!” he says. “That ain’t right.” He shakes his head and repeats, “That ain’t right.”
“No it ain’t.”
“You’ve got no medicine,” he says.
Now that I’m beside him, I take a knee, which causes me to gasp in pain as my ribs shift.
“Smells terrible, don’t it?” he says.
Bobby’s given himself a nine-inch flesh wound. Bullet went in shallow, cut a gully a quarter inch deep, exited cleanly, without hitting the knee.
“You’re in luck,” I say, removing the plastic baggie from my pocket.
“What’s that, Willow’s nutmeg?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it for?”
“It’s a coagulant. It’ll stop the bleeding.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Not much.”
A look of sadness crosses his face as he looks at the nutmeg.
“You fucked my girlfriend, didn’t you?”
I pause. Then say, “Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Why would you do that?”
I sigh. “Because I’m an asshole.”
He nods.
I say, “If it makes you feel any better, she hated every minute of it, and only did it for the money.”
“I believe that,” he says. “She’s a good girl. I love her.”
Feeling charitable, I say, “She was probably going to use the money to buy you something special.”
“I wish. Truth is she’s been trying to sneak money into another account for the past two months, to pay for the cancer treatments.”
“Cancer treatments?”
He chuckles despite the pain. “But I put a stop to that shit,” he says. “Or so I thought.”
I pour the entire packet of nutmeg into the palm of my hand and work it deep into Bobby’s cut, packing it.
“Damn!” he shouts. “That hurts like hell!”
“All done,” I say. “Now press both hands tightly against the wound to keep it from bleeding. You okay?”
He nods.
“I’ll be back as soon as I check on Cameron.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The one thing you want to know about nutmeg is you never apply it to an open wound. I don’t care who you are, the smallest amount of nutmeg in your bloodstream will kill you quickly.
How quickly?
Cameron and Willow are only twenty yards away.
Bobby will be dead before I reach them.
21
Cameron’s been shot in the back. She’s out cold, lying on her side, her head in Willow’s lap.
“Is Bobby okay?” Willow asks.
“He’s resting quietly.”
I take a knee and wince for the second time in two minutes, wedge my fingers in the hole in her blouse the bullet created, and tear it open enough to check the wound in her shoulder.
“How bad’s your cancer?”
She frowns. “Who told you about that, Bobby?”
“I’m a doctor. I’m trained to notice the slightest symptoms.”
“Really? Then what type of cancer do I have?”
“Breast.”
“Guess again.”
I prod the area around the entrance wound. “Leukemia.”
“You really suck at this. Are you even a doctor?”
“I’m a world-renowned surgeon.”
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” she says.
“Do you have a cell phone?” I ask.
“Why? You need to call a real surgeon?”
I smile. “I like you.”
“Bobby’s got my cell phone,” she says. “But it doesn’t work out here.”
“How’d Cameron get this far from the car?”
“She made a run for it. That’s why he shot her.”
“Nice guy you hooked up with.”
“Spare me the lecture, Dr. Asshole.”
“Okay.”
“Dr. Breaking and Entering.”
“Thank you.”
“Doctor Identity Theft. Doctor Crook.”
“Got it. So who taught Bobby how to shoot?”
“What do you mean?”
“He hit Cameron in the shoulder, and missed me from twelve feet away.”
Willow glances at my face. “Who taught you how to fight?”
“I did all right.”
“You think?”
“If you look closely, you’ll see a bruise and a cut on Bobby’s mouth.”
“Cameron did that.”
“She did?”
“You look like Bobby’s punching bag. Why’s there so much blood?”
“On my face?”
“On Cameron’s back, dumb ass.”
“Well, she’s been shot, for one thing.”
“That’s your professional opinion?”
“I really do like you,” I say. “Maybe I can help with your cancer.”
“Just fix my friend, okay?”
“Okay.”
I rip Cameron’s blouse enough to check her chest for an exit wound. There isn’t one, but there is a little ridge protruding slightly from her skin that tells me the bullet came within a hair of getting out on its own. I touch it with my finger, and Cameron gasps.
“Bobby’s gun’s a piece of shit,” I say.
“How bad is she?” Willow asks.
“It looks worse than it is.”
“Will she live?”
“Yes.”
“Will she be able to dance?”
