“Stand still,” Buck said. “Get your legs under you.”
Dennie gritted his teeth. He looked toward the house. “Looks a million miles away.”
“Come on. You can make it.”
With Buck’s help, Dennie shuffled up the steps, through the kitchen and dining area, and into the living room, where he stretched out on a plaid sofa.
“Where you want to do this?” Dalton asked. “One of the bedrooms?”
“Let me check things out,” Buck said.
“Just so you know,” Dalton said, “I cut the phone line.”
“I assumed you would,” Buck said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you don’t impress me as the sort to leave much to chance.”
Dalton nodded. “Probably something you should keep in mind.”
The house was cozy. Dining room, living room, and kitchen a single large space. Two bedrooms. The largest just off the living area had an attached bath. The other down a short hallway, a second bath across the way. Buck returned to the kitchen to find Jessie rummaging in the refrigerator.
“Look at this,” Jessie said. “They got some cold cuts, cheese, milk, and half a chocolate cake in here.”
He flipped open the overhead cabinets. Dishes, glasses, bread, crackers, cereal, a bag of cookies, cans of tuna, and two jars of peanut butter. The final cabinet held bottles of whiskey, gin, vodka, and scotch.
“Jackpot,” Jessie said. “We got food and alcohol.”
“Good,” Dalton said. “I’m starving.”
“Hey,” Dennie yelled from the living room. “What about me?”
“Chill, Dennie. Dr. Buck’s figuring out where he’s going to cut on you.”
“Jesus,” Dennie moaned. “You sons-of-bitches are going to fool around and let me die.”
Dalton looked at Buck. “What’s the decision?”
“Dining room table. It’s stable and the right height to work.”
“All right. Let’s get to it.”
“Who’s going to assist me?” Buck asked.
“Assist you? Can’t you do this on your own?”
Buck shook his head. “I’m going to need you both. One to work with me and help with the instruments.”
“You mean like blood and stuff?” Dalton said.
“Yeah, blood and stuff.”
“Jessie’ll do that,” Dalton said.
“Why me?” Jessie asked.
Dalton glared at him. “Because I said so, that’s why. Besides, you’re the big hunter. You’ve skinned and gutted more deer than I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m not a goddamn deer,” Dennie shouted.
“Let’s get to work,” Buck said.
He dragged the chairs away from the table, lining them up against one wall, out of the way. He turned on the overhead light and moved a floor lamp from the living room, stationing it near one end of the table. Not exactly surgical lights but it was the best he could do.
Buck spread a blue surgical drape over the table. He had seen two TV tray tables in the living room and brought them in, placing them on one side of the table. He draped them also. He then grabbed the trash can from beneath the kitchen sink and settled it on the floor nearby.
“Let’s get your clothes off, Dennie,” Buck said.
“Why you got to do that?”
“Because they’re dirty and bloody and right now you don’t need them. Or an infection.”
It took a few minutes and a lot of moaning and complaining from Dennie, but finally his clothes were removed and he was stretched out on the table.
“This ain’t very comfortable,” Dennie said.
“Once you go to sleep, you won’t feel a thing,” Buck said.
“Asleep? You ain’t going to knock me out. No way.”
“If you’d prefer, we can get you a stick to bite on while we dig around in your belly.” Buck shrugged. “That’s how they did it in the Civil War.” He looked down at Dennie. “Of course most of them died in the process.”
“Goddamn it.”
“Relax. It’ll be okay.”
“So now you’re all confident and everything?” Dennie said.
“Put a cork in it, Dennie,” Dalton said. “Let the man do his job.”
“You ain’t the one he’s going to cut on.”
“Yeah, but you are. So shut up and do what he tells you.”
“You two want to knock it off?” Buck said. “So we can get to work?”
That ended the brotherly squabble. For now, anyway. Siblings did that. He knew; after all, he and his brothers had had their spats. But this wasn’t the time or place. Buck needed Dalton’s focus. Later? Maybe he could use a good spat to his advantage.
If Dennie survived. If Dalton didn’t shoot him as soon as he finished. Both were distinct possibilities.
Buck started an IV, hanging the fluid bag on a standing hat rack Dalton had dragged in from the entryway. He opened up the flow rate and over the next few minutes got half a liter of fluids into Dennie. He gave him four milligrams of morphine, two of Versed, and a gram of the antibiotic Cefazolin. Dennie eased into sleep. Buck wrapped the blood pressure cuff around one arm and checked his BP. Ninety. Low but survivable. Maybe. He scrubbed his chest and abdomen with Betadine.
After slipping on surgical gloves and showing Jessie how to do the same, Buck went through a few sterile procedure techniques, mainly telling Jessie not to touch anything unless he said so, and making sure Dalton understood that when he opened instruments and other materials he must avoid touching anything inside. They seemed to understand but Buck knew that was probably wishful thinking.
Following Buck’s directions, Dalton opened several instrument packages, dumping scalpels, scissors, hemostats, sutures, and two high stacks of gauze on one of the draped TV trays. Buck took a quick inventory, deciding he had most of what he needed.
“One more thing,” Buck said. “Once I give him more drugs to take him way down into unconsciousness, you’re going to have to breathe for him.”
Dalton stared at him. “Mouth to mouth? Not a chance.”
“No.” Buck pointed to the Ambu bag and mask he had collected at the pharmacy. “With that.”
“I don’t know how to do any of that.”
“I know you don’t. That’s why we should be doing this in a hospital where they actually have people who do all this for a living.”
Dalton glared at him.
Buck stared back. He saw this as an opportunity to take some of the power
