Buck shrugged. “Don’t drink it then.”
“Here,” Jessie said. He slid the drink toward Buck. “I’ll drink yours.”
“Fine.”
They swapped drinks.
Buck pretended to take a sip. “Good.”
Jessie followed suit. He nodded. “You’re getting better at this.” Another sip. “I could get used to these. You’ll have to share your recipe.”
“It’s pretty easy,” Buck said. “I’ll write it down for you.”
He walked to the counter where he had seen a pad and pen near the kitchen wall phone. The dead wall phone. He returned to the table and began writing down the ingredients.
“I got to piss,” Jessie said. He headed toward the nearest bathroom. The one in the room where Dennie now slept a peaceful morphine sleep.
Buck worked quickly. He dumped his drink, refilled the glass with tea from the fridge, tossed in a cherry, and was seated by the time Jessie returned. Jessie’s gait already a bit unsteady.
Jessie giggled. “Old Dennie’s out like a light.”
“Morphine will do that.”
Jessie took a sip. “Man these are good.” Another sip. His head gave a slow nod. “You know what I think?”
Did he know? Did he sense something was wrong? The signs were evident. To Buck anyway. His walk a bit off, his speech thicker, his eyes headed toward glassy. “What?”
“I think you’re probably a good guy. And a good doctor.”
“Tell my father.”
“Oh?”
“He thinks I’m wasting my career out here doing ER work.”
“Yeah, well, my father thought I’d never amount to nothing neither. But I’ve done all right.”
Buck refrained from saying that Jessie’s father was probably more correct than Jessie’s own self-image. Instead he said, “You like working with Dalton?”
“I do.” More Manhattan. “And Dennie. Dennie’s a real good guy. Like a brother to me.”
“It’s good to have friends.”
Jessie laughed and slapped the table. “Ain’t that the truth.” He eyed Buck. “Maybe under other circumstances me and you would’ve been friends.”
“I agree.”
Jessie drained his drink. “Man that was good.”
“Want another?”
He considered that a beat. “Maybe so.” He stood, one hand flattened against the tabletop for support. “I wish Dalton would hurry up.” He moved in the direction of the front window but only managed three steps before he wavered and fell to his knees. “Whoa.” His face twisted toward Buck. “What the—?” Now even his knees wouldn’t support him and he lurched forward on all fours. His shirt road up, exposing the weapon tucked beneath his belt in the small of his back.
Buck jumped to his feet, rounded the table. He jerked the weapon free. Jessie toppled to his side, his gaze sweeping toward Buck. Unable to lock on anything, his eyes wavered, glassed over, and he exhaled heavily. He rolled to his back as sleep smothered him.
Buck moved quickly now. He wore only the surgical scrubs he had on when captured and his athletic shoes. He had seen clothing in the closet so he headed that way. A hunting jacket hung to one side. He grabbed it and tugged it on. A little large but it would do. He stuffed Jessie’s gun in the pocket.
Now where was the shotgun? He had seen a dozen shells in one of the kitchen drawers so there should be one somewhere. He shoved the clothes aside, hoping to find it leaning against one corner. Nothing. Nor was it on the closet shelf. He saw a cardboard box on the floor and lifted the lid. Two dolls and a teddy bear. Whoever lived here had kids. Or more likely grandkids that visited from time to time. Nothing in the house told him kids lived there but these toys just might mean they visited.
So if a shotgun existed, it would be in a safe place. Where kids who liked dolls and teddy bears couldn’t reach it. He checked the closet in the other bedroom before returning to the living room. He scanned everything, his gaze finally resting on the hutch that stood against the wall. Filled with plates and cups. He stood on tip toes and ran his hand over the top. There. The shotgun. He lifted it.
Dusty, the twelve-gauge pump otherwise looked to be in good working order. He racked it a couple of times. So far, so good. Back in the kitchen, he shoved three shells into the shotgun, stuffed the others in a jacket pocket. Then, he was out the back door. The rain was lighter. It had been coming in waves and the current lull was welcome.
Which way to go? The trees, then downhill. He moved that way. He passed the garage. Did they have a car? The side door wasn’t locked. He pushed it open. A white Toyota Celica sat inside. Could it be his path to freedom? He rounded it, tripped, nearly fell. As he grabbed the car’s fender for support, he looked down. Two bodies. An elderly couple.
Dalton had taken care of the owners. That’s what took him so long to return the night they located this cabin. That’s how he knew they wouldn’t return and surprise them.
Time to get the hell out.
Before he could move headlights swept across the garage and leaked through the edges of the door. The sound of an engine and gravel crunching followed. Dalton and his crew were headed up the drive.
He eased out the door and slid behind the garage. Another set of headlamps swept over the yard and lit up the trees.
He had only one choice.
Run!
CHAPTER 47
At The Crossroads, Harper turned The Rig north, uphill. Rain, now heavier, battered the windshield and the wipers fought to keep their path visible. Harper held her pace down and the vehicle gripped the slick road well.
“Conditions like this, he could’ve easily slid off the road,” Harper said.
“Could have,” Cain said.
“But, he didn’t.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“If he did get sideways with our bad guys, and he was searching up this way, their hidey-hole must be in this direction, too.”
“Also means they haven’t cut and run yet,” Cain said.
“Which might or might not bode well for Dr. Buck.”
“I’d say his fuse is
