Burnt Offerings - Laurell K. Hamilton [130]
“You really do have a higher wisdom score than I do.”
“Which means you wouldn’t have asked for help yet,” he said.
“Well…yeah.”
“When would you have asked for help?”
“When I drove off the road and had to call a tow truck.”
He laughed and took a sharp breath as if it hurt. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I know,” he said. “Thanks for not saying you told me so.”
“I wasn’t even thinking it, Larry.”
“Honest?”
“Cross my heart and…”
“Don’t say it.”
“You getting superstitious on me, Larry?”
He was quiet for a space of heartbeats. “Maybe, or maybe it’s just been a long day.”
“It’ll be a longer night,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said. “Just what I wanted to hear.” He hung up then without saying goodbye.
Maybe I’d trained Dolph never to say goodbye. Maybe I was always the bearer of bad tidings, and everyone wanted to get off the phone with me as soon as possible. Naw.
40
I EXPECTED LARRY to be sitting in his car. He wasn’t. He was leaning against it. Even from a distance I could tell he was in pain, back stiff, trying not to move any more than necessary. I pulled in beside him. Up close he looked worse. His white dress shirt was smeared with black soot. His summer-weight dress pants were brown, so they’d survived a little better. A black smudge ran across his forehead to his chin. The blackness outlined one of his blue eyes so that it seemed darker, like a sapphire surrounded by onyx. The look in his eyes was dull, as if the pain had drained him.
“Jesus, you look like shit,” I said.
He almost smiled. “Thanks, I needed that.”
“Take a pill, get in the Jeep.”
He started to shake his head, stopped in mid-motion and said, “No, if you can drive, I can go to the next disaster.”
“You smell like someone set your clothes on fire.”
“You look pristine,” he said, and he sounded resentful.
“What’s wrong, Larry?”
“Other than my back feels like a red-hot poker is being shoved up it?”
“Besides that,” I said.
“I’ll tell you in the car.” Underneath the sulkiness, he sounded tired.
I didn’t argue with him, just started walking for the Jeep. A few steps and I realized he wasn’t keeping up. I turned and found him standing very still, eyes closed, hands in fists at his sides.
I walked back to him. “Need a hand?”
He opened his eyes, smiled, “A back, actually. Hands work fine.”
I smiled and took his arm gently, half expecting him to tell me not to, but he didn’t. He was hurting. He took a stiff step, and I steadied him. We made slow but sure progress to the Jeep. His breath was coming in small, shallow pants by the time I got him around to the passenger side door. I opened the door, wasn’t sure how to get him inside. It was going to hurt any way I could do it.
“Just let me hold your arm. I can do it myself,” he said.
I offered my arm. He got a death grip on it and sat down. He made a small hissing noise between his teeth. “You said it would hurt worse the second day. Why are you always right?”
“Hard to be perfect,” I said, “but it’s a burden I’ve learned to cope with.” I gave him my best bland face.
He smiled, then started to laugh, then almost doubled over with pain, which hurt more. He ended up writhing on the seat for a few seconds. When he could sit still again, he grabbed the dashboard until his fingers turned colors. “God, don’t make me laugh.”
“Sorry,” I said. I got the aloe-and-lanolin Baby Wipes from the trunk of my car. They were great for getting blood off. They’d probably work on soot. I handed him the wipes and helped him buckle his seat belt. Yes, his wounds would have hurt less if he hadn’t had the belt, but no one rides with me without a seat belt. My mom would be alive today if she’d been wearing a belt.
“Take a pill, Larry. Sleep in the car. I’ll take you home after this next scene.”
“No,” he said, and he sounded so stubborn, so determined, that I knew I couldn’t talk him out of it. So why try?
“Have it your way,” I said. “But what have you been