Blood Lines (33 page)

You know enough,
he told himself.
You stretch it out, give it to them a piece at a time, you're gonna be fine. Fat Mike or Tran will come through for you.

And then he was going to find that Marine sergeant and blow his candle out.

32

>> Intensive Care Unit

>> Presbyterian Hospital

>> Charlotte, North Carolina

>> 1402 Hours

“What are you doing?”

“I'm getting out of bed,” Shel said. “It's what you do when you choose not to sleep all day. Like some people I could name.” He pulled the IV stand toward him.

“I don't think you're supposed to get out of bed.” Don pushed himself up from the chair.

Suddenly light-headed, Shel hesitated for a moment. He breathed slowly and steadily till the feeling passed. Then he disconnected the sensors attached to the adhesive pads stuck to his chest and pulled off the finger sensor.

The machines immediately chirped for attention.

“The nurse is going to know,” Don said.

“If you would stop being such an Eeyore,” Shel complained as some of the pain hit him, “we might be able to make an escape before the nurse comes to investigate.”

“You're going to get into trouble.”

“Not if we hurry. And they don't build Marine-size trouble here.”

“
I'm
going to get into trouble.”

Shel chuckled. “If I hadn't gotten you into trouble when we were kids, you would have turned out boring. You wouldn't have anything to talk about in church.”

“We didn't get into any real trouble.”

“
This
isn't any real trouble.”

“Says you,” Don told him. “All you have to do is fake being in pain and they'll leave you alone.”

“Tell them you came after me as soon as you found out I was gone. I'll back you up.”

“You're not going to be able to escape. You're decrepit.”

“I'll warm up.” Shel used the IV stand as a crutch and got to his feet. He was actually amazed to find that he could stand on his own.

“You're going to fall flat on your face.”

“When I do, you can tell me that you told me so then. At the moment, a little more help with the escape, please.” Shel started to shuffle off.

“Hey,” Don called. “Wait.”

“I don't have time to wait. Escaping's more of an active thing.”

“Yeah, well unless you intend to moon the rest of the people in ICU, you'd better put this robe on.”

Shel turned to find Don standing there with a robe. “Thought I noticed a draft.” He held his good arm up, and Don slid the robe's sleeve over it. Then, with his good arm over Don's shoulders and Don holding on to the IV stand, they were off.

“Do you have any idea where you're going?” Don asked.

“Yeah. To see my dog.”

“Max left with Commander Coburn and Remy last night.”

“Yeah, well he's back now.”

“How do you know that?”

“I'm a Marine,” Shel said. “We know things.”

>> Rafter M Ranch

>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas

>> 1307 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Tyrel dished up bowls of pinto beans flavored with jalapeños and onions, then put them on the table at the same time the oven timer went off. He used a dish towel to fetch out the pan of corn bread.

Before he reached the counter, he knew he should have gotten an oven mitt. The towel was damp enough to conduct the heat. Still, he managed to get the pan to the counter without dropping it. The distraction provided by the hangover helped.

He waited a few minutes for the corn bread to cool while he watched ESPN. Watching baseball was only a habit, though. His thoughts were on Shel and Don. And the danger they faced.

Victor Gant was probably the most dangerous and cold-blooded man Tyrel had ever had the misfortune to meet. He could remember that night in Qui Nhon like it was yesterday. The metallic odor of blood filled his nostrils.

“Don't you worry none about this, Private McHenry. You're Army. We're Army. We'll take care of this. Ain't nobody never gonna know. This'll be our little secret.”

But that little secret had gotten bigger and heavier to carry every year. Tyrel sometimes thought it was amazing that his back and shoulders weren't bent under the weight of it. Back when the boys' mother had still been alive, it hadn't weighed as much. Being alone had made the burden worse.

>> 1322 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Ramon entered the small kitchen and looked a little apprehensive. Tyrel knew the boy wasn't completely at ease around him even though they'd known each other for years. Most people, Tyrel reflected, hadn't been at ease with him.

He didn't regret it. That was just how things had been. With the hand that God had dealt him, that was just the best that things could be.

Don was always at him about seeking God's help for one thing and another, but Tyrel knew the truth. That one evil thing he'd done in Qui Nhon had pushed him right out of the Lord's sight.

No sparrow fell without God knowing, but he still let them sparrows fall, didn't he?

“Did you get your hands washed?” Tyrel asked.

“
Sí
, senor.” Ramon stood awkwardly.

“Pull out a chair and have a sit.”

Ramon did.

Tyrel cut the corn bread into large hunks and put them on a plate. He put the plate on the table, then got the butter—fresh-churned, none of that store-bought stuff—from the refrigerator. His wife had always made it before she died, but he did now because it reminded him of her.

“What would you like to drink?” Tyrel asked.

“Anything will be all right,” Ramon said.

Tyrel opened the refrigerator and peered inside. He ran on coffee all day, but he kept milk and some juice and soda pop for Don and Joanie's kids.

“I got juice and pop,” Tyrel said.

“Either will be fine,” Ramon said. “Thank you.”

“I got strawberry pop,” Tyrel offered. “Don and Joanie's kids seem to like that.”

“I like strawberry.”

Tyrel took a can of pop from the refrigerator and stopped himself short of just plunking it down on the table.

“You want a glass?” Tyrel asked.

“The can is fine.”

Tyrel handed it to the boy, then poured himself a tall glass of buttermilk. He sat at the table and took his hat off.

“Do you want to give thanks, senor?” Ramon asked.

The question caught Tyrel off-stride. Normally he and Ramon didn't take meals together. Tyrel provided food, but generally food was eaten on the run, microwaved from the refrigerator, and eaten out of hand or alone.

Tyrel blinked at the teenager and felt increasingly uncomfortable. He didn't give thanks for meals. There hadn't been much in his life to give thanks for in a long, long time.

“If you don't want to . . . ,” Ramon said.

“No,” Tyrel said. “Giving thanks is all right. Your mama and daddy raised you up right. I was just forgetting myself, is all. I'm not used to eating with somebody and saying it out loud.” He hesitated. “You know the words?”

“
Sí
, senor.”

“Then why don't you say 'em?”

“If you wish, but my father always reserves the right to lead prayer at his dinner table. He says it is a father's duty to show the way to God and all things in the world.”

“Well,” Tyrel said, “I've always thought your daddy was a smart man. One of the smartest I've ever known. Now and again, I've told him that.”

Ramon smiled, more at ease now. “
Sí
, senor. Very smart.”

“But this here's my table, and I do things a little differently. Don was always the one to give thanks.”

“Pastor Don?” Ramon grinned. Don was well liked by most of the community.

“Since he ain't here, why don't you do it?”

“Of course, senor. I will be glad to.” Ramon put his hands together, closed his eyes, and bowed his head.

Even though he felt like a hypocrite, Tyrel put his hands together too. He didn't close his eyes or bow his head, though. He wasn't that much of a hypocrite.

Ramon prayed in a strong, steady voice. All of the insecurity he had shown was gone. “God, we give our thanks for this meal and for your blessing. Thank you for the fine young horse you gave to Senor McHenry. He is beautiful. Thank you for our chance to be together today. Keep us in your sight and always guide us in your ways. Amen.”

Tyrel took a deep, slow breath and tried not to think too hard on the fact that he didn't feel the trust the boy obviously did. God had turned away from him a long time ago. He'd accepted that.

>> 1328 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Tyrel and Ramon ate in silence. Tyrel was never moved much to talk while he ate. Eating was a chore, something to be done so he could move on to his next thing to do. But he remained conscious of the boy, and he was beginning to think he'd made a mistake to ask Ramon to stay. Tyrel still didn't know why he'd done that.

As Tyrel had watched the boy praying, still clad in his dust-covered clothes, he'd been reminded of how many times he'd seen Shel and Don sit across that table from him. He'd watched them grow up at that table, had talked with them about the ranch and chastised them there too. But he'd missed a lot of dinners with them because there was always something to do around the ranch.

Had he attended more dinners than he'd missed? Tyrel honestly couldn't remember, and it hurt him that he didn't know. Then he got angry because he hadn't been the one to choose to be away from the table on those evenings. He would have liked to have been at dinner instead of chasing cows, mending fences, or working on the equipment.

His life hadn't gone the way he'd wanted it to in a long time. Still, the guilt even at this late date was sharp and jagged-edged. It cut especially deeply today, and he didn't know what had caused that.

Looking at Ramon in his work-stained clothes, Tyrel remembered how Shel had been as a boy. Quiet and methodical, always giving himself to everything he'd ever wanted to do. He had constantly challenged himself and everything around him, like he could throw a saddle on the world and ride it till he had it in hand.