mired in the mud by the bank of the Milestone River was in fact just a fridge—albeit one with a body inside—and not the box he has been searching for since finding himself out of place, and out of time in this town.
Just a fridge, and not the box that can spirit him home.
“Hey, easy,” I tell him.
Wintry rounds on me. His face is a picture of hellish madness, his breathing horribly irregular as if his lungs have been replaced with sacks of dust. His eyes are wide and black, dominated by his pupils. They fix on me and the hair stands up all over my body. I suddenly feel threatened by the last man I ever thought would make me feel that way. He withdraws his fist from the guts of the oak tree and takes a step toward me. I take a corresponding step back.
“Where he at?” Wintry asks.
I’m shocked to hear him speak, but don’t dwell on it. No one ever said he couldn’t talk, just that he’d lost his words. Guess I should have given those cryptic messages of his a little more thought. “Who?”
His teeth are bared; his lips, swollen from the burns, are split. Blood laces his gums. “The old man. He made me a bargain. Where he at?”
It’s almost too much. Wintry’s not dead. Burned to within an inch of it, sure, but still up and around, and not only is he alive, he’s talking. For now I’m choosing not to think too hard about what kind of bargain he made with Cadaver, assuming that’s what happened and the big guy hasn’t just been driven crazier than a one-legged possum by his injuries. Right now the sight of those dilated eyes and the tattered state of his fists from ramming them into the oak tree, suggests it’s not at all unlikely that he’s gone off the deep end, in which case, maybe I have every right to feel threatened. Plus, there’s the small fire he set here, which for a man covered in burns, doesn’t seem like the sanest of ideas.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I haven’t seen him since Eddie’s went up. We need to get you to a doctor.”
Wintry takes another step toward me. His arms are trembling, fists clenched so hard that blood trickles from the cuts and drips to the grass. “I put him down.”
“Wintry, take it easy, all right. It’s me, Sheriff Tom.”
That gives him pause. He stops moving but the expression of wild rage on that ruined face doesn’t change.
“It’s Tom,” I tell him, hands raised, as if they have a chance of warding off anything he might throw at me. “It’s me.”
The expression falters, and although I can’t be certain, it looks as if those eclipses in his eyes are passing. The rigidity that has held him upright, has kept his muscles taut, gradually subsides and then all trace of anger evaporates, replaced with suffering of the kind you’d expect to see on a man so badly wounded. He sags, leans, his shoulder hitting the tree hard enough to make it creak and sway back a little. Something in the branches above us lets out a startled cry. Wings beat smoky air.
“Sheriff?” he says, and blinks.
“You all right, Wintry?” I know he isn’t, but it’s all I can think to say.
“Hurts bad.”
“We need to get you to Hendricks.”
“No,” he says, with a sad shake of his head. “You need to put me in the ground.”
“Don’t be a fool. You’re still breathing.”
“I don’t want to be. Shouldn’t be.”
“Bullshit. We’re getting you to the Doc.”
This time it’s him who raises the hand.
“Okay. We can wait a sec.” Truth is, I don’t have the kind of time I’m about to spend with him, but though I may have forgotten a lot about the way people should be treated, there’s no way in hell I’m leaving this man to his suffering, not when there’s a chance something can be done about it.
I walk up close and put a palm on the tree. It feels cold, oily. “Thought for sure you went up with the tavern.”
“Got out. Ran and got myself into the river,” he tells me. “Maybe should’ve stayed under.”
“Don’t say that.”
His eyes find me. “Couldn’t save ’em.”
“I know, but that wasn’t your fault, and you did everything you could. Wasn’t you who started the fire. And you saved Brody.”
He starts to lower his head, at the same time bringing up his ravaged hands to cradle his skull, but they stop short of meeting, as Wintry no doubt remembers the pain it will cause him to do so. “Couldn’t save ’em, Sheriff. I always been tryin’ to save folks and it never works out right. Reckon…one mistake too many got me here, no matter how good the intention. Path to Hell, an’ all that.”
“Well…” A sigh. “I can’t put your mind at ease about that, Wintry, much as I’d like to. Fact is, we’re here, no matter what the reason, but I got a feeling in my gut that we still have a chance to make it out of this. Could be I’m wrong about that too, and we’re just killing time before a great big hand comes down and squashes us all. But I’m not going to just sit around and wait for that to happen, and you can’t either.”
“I was a fighter,” he says.
“You still are.”
“Naw, Tom. I’m done. Put my Daddy down and that’s all there is to that.”
I start to ask him what that means, but think better of it.
Pained eyes find me again. “Your boy all right?”
“I’m not sure. He isn’t dead, if that’s what you mean. It’s where I was heading now when we saw you.”
“We?”
“Brody’s in the truck. Been meaning to stick him in the tank, but it hasn’t exactly been calm tonight, y’know?”
“Where you goin’?”
“Hill’s house. Or at least I was. Gotta get you to Hendricks, or the hospital in Saddleback now.”
“Forget it.”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
“Then take me to the Rev’rends. Maybe I can help.”
I don’t see how he could be of help to anyone right now, but I meant what I said: I’m not leaving him. So I guess if he won’t go to the hospital, or see Doc Hendricks, then he’s coming with.
“All right, but when we’re done up there, you’re going to see the Doc if I have to haul you in there myself.”
The idea of me trying to physically force the wounded giant before me to do anything is a comical one, and neither of us can let it pass without grinning at it.
“Okay, Sheriff.”
I go to him, put my arm around his waist and let him lean on me. It’s almost more than I can handle, and the smell of singed hair and burned flesh is enough to make me choke, but I manage to keep him steady as I guide him back to my truck.
From the back seat, where not so long ago his girlfriend lay dying, Brody’s head is titled back, mouth open. Son of a bitch is catching himself a doze. I can hear him snoring from here.
We reach the truck. Wintry reaches out with an unsteady hand, braces it against the hood as I let him go and quickly open the passenger side door. “C’mon, get yourself in here.” It isn’t easy. He’s almost too damn big to fit, but that isn’t the worst of it. I can see how much he’s suffering with even the slightest of movements.
As for me, I’m fit for nothing but sleep. I’m running on empty and the idea of bypassing Hill’s house and just driving straight on to Saddleback and the hospital there is almost too tempting to resist. After all, what the fuck am I doing here anyway? Three murderers in a car. Sounds like the start of a joke. Heading for a dead priest’s house to try to convince my own son—who hates my guts—not to betray me? What difference will it make if he does? We’re both finished either way.
But I can’t ignore it. Can’t just leave. The clock might tell me it’s a new day, but Saturday night won’t end until all that’s come about because of it has been dealt with. Wintry’s alive, and still fighting. I’ve got a prisoner in
