Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [97]
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
“I was bleeding. Now I think I’m clotting.”
That earns a small, tired smile. She leans closer to examine my head, frowns, and raises a hand toward me but then draws back.
“You have a small stone in your head,” she says.
“What?”
“There’s a stone in your head. About the size of a marble.”
She casts her eyes around the truck, taking in the dash and console and the seat behind us. She pops open the glove box and, atop a slim plastic folder that probably holds information from the rental agency, she spies a box of tissue.
“Hold still,” she says as she pulls several tissues from the box. In the dim light she studies my head and begins moving the hair away from the wound. I exercise every adult muscle in my body to hold still, to keep from pulling away and screaming like a three-year-old.
There is a sensation of digging, and soon the ordeal is over and she’s holding up something for my viewing pleasure. A jagged stone, covered in my blood. I feel a fresh line of blood running down my face, but quickly Espy applies a tissue to the reopened gash.
“Can you drive and hold this at the same time?”
“I think so,” I say, then slip my hand over hers and she pulls away.
I give the Lexus some gas and use my free hand to crank the wheel, sending us toward Laverton. We’d accomplish nothing by heading in the other direction, other than provide distance from the horror of what just happened, and that would be a temporary salve. Jim and Meredith deserve to have the circumstances of their deaths made known.
Espy lapses into silence again. I pick up speed, and a small white sign indicating that Laverton is ahead comes into view.
“What now?” she asks.
“We have to tell someone what happened.”
She nods, still focused on the passing terrain out the passenger window.
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m getting tired of hearing you say that.”
“Do you want me to lie?”
“I want you to decide how far you’re going to take this.” She turns away from the window and I catch enough of the look in her eyes to understand that what she’s saying is not coming from some emotional well. There’s a calmness to her features that gives added weight to the words. “Six people are dead.” She pauses. “Make that seven, with the one you killed. Jack, you’re carrying a gun.”
“Eight.”
“What?”
“I’ve killed two people tonight, so that makes it eight. Just so you know.”
“Eight. And for what? You’re not even sure you believe in this thing we’re chasing.”
“That stopped being the point days ago.”
“So what is the point?” Her eyes flash with the spark that’s been missing for a while, and I mentally kick myself for wishing its return.
I’m not sure how to respond because it bothers me to think that the only honest answer is that there is no point. Beyond stubbornness, or spite, or the simple fact that I’ve become wrapped up in something that’s carrying me along despite myself. I can’t tell her those things. I’m saved from having to say anything when an insistent crackling cuts through the silence, followed by a voice.
“Status check.”
Esperanza and I exchange glances and then she’s bent over and rooting around the floorboard. When she straightens, she holds a radio. It’s a short- to moderate-range model, with a green indicator light signaling its readiness.
“Status check two.”
I’m not sure how to respond so, in this case, inaction seems to be the best option. We wait for the person on the other end to say something else but the seconds stretch into a minute.
“Now they know that something’s wrong,” Espy says.
“Which means they’ll either disappear or go to the house to see what’s happened.”
“Unless they have a Plan B.”
I have a feeling that there is, indeed, a Plan B. And we can’t wait around to find out what it is. I press down on the accelerator and send the Lexus flying down the road until I see the outskirts of the town. The dashboard clock reads 2:13 a.m. The streets,