Something Bad (8 page)

“Why not?” Teddy said. “And why didn’t she change it when she grew up? I would have.”

“The answer is the same for both questions. She likes that it’s a joke. She likes the way people giggle and whisper. You know her. She lives for jokes. The dirtier the better.” Gabe looked up at Billy. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Misty or Wanna anymore.

I want to talk about John. He only plays cards with us when he’s up to something. What’s he got going, Billy?”

Billy looked down at his cards. He started to say something and then stopped. He took a deep breath. “Can’t tell you.” He leaned back in his chair.

Gabe smiled. He knew better than to pry when Billy clammed up about John. Gabe knew about Billy’s father’s alcohol problem and his abusive past. He knew that Billy’s mother killed herself when Billy was only five, when his father turned his wrath on his only child. No one would have blamed her if she had spread the bastard all over the living room wall with a shotgun. But she hadn’t. One time, when he got Billy to open up, Gabe found out that Billy loved his mother for taking the beatings for so long, but he hated her for taking the chicken way out and leaving Billy to his father. Gabe knew Billy was desperate for a mentor and father figure. Although John Johnson was the best of neither, he was a natural draw to Billy.

Gabe looked down at his hand. “Teddy, how many cards you want?”

“I’ll take two. And pass me your truck keys.”

G
ABE SLID HIS
hands into his pockets and the absence of coins reminded him he owed Billy for the card game. That was nearly a week ago. He wondered what was wrong with him. He never forgot things like that. But since the strange little man took up in the rectory, Gabe sensed a background pull of tension, like his mind wasn’t totally his. Something about the man occupied mental space that was earmarked for other things.

Gabe settled in his easy chair and flipped through the absurd television shows that filled the time slot between the news and the bedtimes of most youngsters. His eyes were already heavy from the day’s work.

The phone rang, startling him to an upright posture. Wanna was busy washing the dishes, so he shuffled across the room and snatched the receiver from its resting place. He started to issue his standard greeting but then stopped when Billy’s frantic voice screeched in the earpiece.

“Billy. Calm down. Tell me what happened.”

Gabe shifted the phone to his other ear and leaned to look in the kitchen just as Wanna rounded the corner.

“What’s wrong?” Wanna said.

Gabe held his hand up and looked down at the floor.

“Where is Press now?” He looked back at Wanna and grimaced. “Calm down. I’ll be right there.”

Gabe hung up the phone and Wanna grabbed his arm.

“What wrong? What happened to Press?” she said.

Gabe reached out and surrounded Wanna with his arms. “It was a car accident. Press is in the hospital. I have to go right away. I think Billy said Press’s family is gone. He wasn’t making much sense. You stay here in case anyone else phones. I’ll fill you in when I find something out.”

Gabe walked through the automatic doors of the emergency room entrance and spotted Billy, John and Mac sitting against the far wall. He walked over and John immediately stood up.

Gabe turned to face Billy and Mac. “How’s Press? What happened?”

“We don’t know much,” John said. “Just that there was a car accident. Press is in bad shape. That’s about all they’ve told us.”

Gabe took a seat next to Billy and put his arm around Billy’s shoulders. “You all right, Billy?”

Billy lost his fight with tears; wet streaks ran down his cheeks and dripped from his jaw. He put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

Gabe patted his back and left his right hand on Billy’s nearest shoulder. He was about to say something when Sheriff Sam Merriwether rounded the corner.

John grabbed Sam by the upper arms. “Sam. What happened? Is Press going to make it?”

Sam stepped back to break John’s grip. He turned to face Mac, Billy and Gabe.

“Evidently, Press and his family were driving on twenty-seven, just east of here, and a sudden thunderstorm caught them. There was a car behind them, and the driver said a lightening bolt hit a tree, splitting is right down the middle, from top to bottom. Half of it fell on Press’s car and flattened it. When I got there, they had Press and one of his girls out of the wreckage. There was no need to worry about the wife and the other two girls. At least it was fast. They never knew what hit them.”

“Is Press going to make it?” John said.

Sam still didn’t look in John’s direction. “I don’t know if he’ll make it or not. He’s in terrible shape. The doctors have done what they can.” Sam looked at the ceiling. “It’s up to someone else at this point.”

Gabe stood up. “You said they pulled out one of his girls. Is she okay?”

Sam nodded his head. “It’s a miracle that little girl came out of that mangled car like she did. It was his youngest. What is she, four?”

“About that,” Gabe said.

“She only had a few minor scratches and a bruise or two,” Sam said. “You should have seen the car. Nothing short of a miracle.”

John pushed his way into Sam’s peripheral vision. “Where is Press? Can we see him?”

Sam took a step back and finally looked at John. “I’ll see. You wait here.”

Sam disappeared in the direction he had come, and Gabe sat back down.

John centered himself in front of the others. “Geez. We just saw him day before yesterday. It just shows you that you never know what’s going to happen. One day you’re up and about, and the next day your family is gone and you’re on your deathbed.”

Billy sobbed.

Gabe glared at John. “No one said he was on his deathbed. Let’s just let the doctors make the diagnosis.” He rubbed Billy’s shoulders.

Mac talked through a minor drum solo of movement. “He stopped at the store for some food on the way out of town. He was so excited about the trip. His world turned for his wife and the girls.” Mac wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

Billy rocked back and forth, repeating the same phrase. “Press can’t die. Press can’t die.” Finally, he added to the chorus, “How are we supposed to figure out what Thibideaux is up to with just three of us?”

“Shut up, Billy!” John said. His eyes flicked to

Gabe and then to Mac. “We’re all upset, so let’s just be quiet and pray for Press.”

Six more patients were processed and called back, and John’s guffaw-like exhalations grated on Gabe’s nerves.

John stopped his circular pace directly in front of Billy and stomped his right foot. “Where the hell is Sam? He went back there over an hour ago.”

Gabe looked at John and then at the ground. “Maybe we should tell Press that his accident’s bugging you, John. Maybe then he would cooperate a little better.”

“Screw you, Gabe. Why are you here, anyway?”

Gabe moved his mouth, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This wasn’t the time to get in a pissing match with John.

John resumed pacing, stomping with each step, and nearly ran into a nurse as she rounded the corner. She jumped out of the way and glared at him.

“Are you four waiting to see Preston Cunningham?” she said.

Billy sprang to his feet. “Is he all right? Can we see him?”

The nurse took a step back and held out her hands. “You can see him for a few minutes if you calm down. He’s still critical, but he’s resting right now. It’s too early to say what will happen. He’s in and out of consciousness, and when he’s in, he just mutters. So don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t respond to you. And please be quiet.”

Gabe slowed his walk when he entered Press’ room. It was full of enough gadgetry to make an astronaut envious. Press was on his back with his head propped slightly upward. He didn’t move when they surrounded the bed.

Gabe stood back a little and surveyed the bed. Tubes wove into every available hole, including places in Press’ body where there were no holes to begin with. His eyes were open, but unfocused.

The four drew as near as they could considering the multitude of tubes and wires that connected Press to his monitors and his fluid reservoirs and receptacles.

John put his mouth next to Press’ left ear. “How you doing, Press? You’re going to make it. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, you’re going to be all right,” Billy said. “We talked to the doc.” He leaned on the bed, pulling on a tube that ran into Press’ nose. Mac pulled him back.

John glared at Billy. “What are you trying to do? Kill him?”

Billy looked at his shoes.

Gabe wanted to put his arm around Billy again, but he was on the wrong side of the bed. He was within striking range of John, but he thought better of starting a ruckus in Press’ room. He remembered the speed limit signs and his shotgun. John’s face was on the signs.

Mac’s hands twitched on Press’ blanket. “Hey, guys? Press is looking at me. I think he’s trying to say something.”

Billy looked up and moved close. “Maybe he’s going to tell us what he found out about the freeway shunt.”

“God dammit, Billy, shut up,” John said. His booming voice made Press blink several times.

“What freeway shunt?” Gabe said, looking into John’s eyes.

“Never mind. Billy’s just talking nonsense.” He took a half step back.

Mac’s hands were at it again. “Look, guys. His mouth is moving. He’s saying something. Somebody get close to his mouth. I can’t do it from here.”

Billy leaned his head across the bed so his ear was less than in inch from Press’ lips.

John leaned over and tried to push Billy’s head out of the way. “Move, Billy. Let me hear.”

Billy resisted the push and kept his ear next to Press’ mouth.

John straightened up and cursed under his breath. “Can you hear anything?”

Billy looked up and then put his ear back down. “Maybe if you’d be quiet I could.”

Billy listened and then nodded. Then nodded again, and once more. Press’ eyes closed and his breathing slowed to where his chest barely moved with each breath. Billy looked up at the others and frowned.

“Could you make it out?” Mac said. “What did he say?”

John leaned toward Billy. “If it’s something that Gabe shouldn’t hear, then don’t say anything. We’ll talk about it later.”

Gabe stared at John. He imagined putting the stock of the 12-gauge to his cheek.

“I heard him say it three times, but it don’t make any sense,” Billy said. “Nothing that I know, anyway.”

“What was it, dumb shit?” John said. “Maybe it’ll make sense to people with more than half a brain.”

Gabe cocked the shotgun.

Billy stepped back from the bed. “If you want to hear it, you’re going to have to ask me polite. After you apologize to me for all the insults.”

John’s face turned crimson and he balled his hands into fists.

Gabe lowered the shotgun. He smiled at Billy and nodded his head in agreement.