Read Online Dig Ten Graves by Heath Lowrance - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Heath Lowrance
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the other direction. The footsteps kept coming, the whistling louder and louder, and again Bridges said, “Help.”
The footsteps stopped very suddenly and the whistling died. Bridges tried to call out again but couldn’t. The footsteps resumed, a bit more slowly, coming closer, until a pair of expensive shoes appeared in front of him and stopped. Bridges could see the shoes and the pant legs and the bottom part of a dark raincoat. His fingers scrambled weakly on the sidewalk toward the shoes.
The shoes stepped back a little, and a voice that seemed to come from miles above said, “Well. You don’t look so good, friend.”
It was a deep, confident voice, like the voice of a really good telephone solicitor. Bridges said, “Ah…” but couldn’t manage anything else.
The pant legs went up slightly and the stranger crouched down on his haunches. Bridges could see the open raincoat now, the well-made suit and tie under it. He tried to roll his eyes up to see the face but couldn’t manage it.
“What happened to you?” the man said.
“Sh… sh…”
“Shot? You’ve been shot?”
“Ah.”
“Well,” the man said. “That’s pretty goddamn interesting. It’s not often you stroll around the block in the rain and come across someone who’s been shot. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Help,” Bridges wheezed.
“What’s that?” the man said.
Bridges squeezed his eyes shut. “Help,” he said.
The man chuckled. He actually chuckled. “Help what?”
Bridges was confused. He couldn’t think straight. Did this stranger just laugh at him? He was sprawled out on a sidewalk in the rain, a bullet in his back, dying for Christ’s sake, and this man laughed at him?
He said, “Please,” but the word was barely audible even to his own ears.
The stranger said, “I’m just kidding. You need help, like medical help, right? You’re asking me to, I don’t know, call an ambulance or something. Right?”
“Please.”
“An ambulance, or the cops. Because if you don’t get medical attention right away, well, you aren’t going to make it. Right? You could die, any second now.”
Bridges moved his fingers, trying to reach out and grab hold of the man’s pant leg. He couldn’t muster the strength.
“And here I am,” the man said. “Yakking away while your life bleeds away in the rain. What sort of Good Samaritan am I, huh?” And he laughed again.
He moved a little closer, close enough that he shielded some of the rain from Bridges’ head. He said, “Wow. This is really something. Here I am, walking along, and bam , outta nowhere, I stumble across a guy dying from a gunshot in the back. I mean, what are the odds?”
Bridges didn’t know the odds, and he didn’t care. He was beginning to suspect that this stranger wasn’t going to help him.
“So, where’d they get you?” Bridges felt the man’s fingers on his shoulder, probing. He felt the fingers travel down his back and come to rest on the place where the bullet had entered.
The man pressed hard on the spot.
“Right here?” he said.
The pain came roaring back, and Bridges cried out weakly and nearly passed out.
The man let go of the spot and gently slapped Bridges on the head. “Don’t black out,” he said. “You do that, you’re not going to wake up again.”
Bridges couldn’t think through the pain. Every part of him was clenched—his fists against the sidewalk, his eyes squeezed tight, his teeth scraping against each other.
After a long moment, the pain started to recede again and Bridges was sobbing. The stranger crouched there, not moving.
“Wow,” he said again. Then, “Hell of
The footsteps stopped very suddenly and the whistling died. Bridges tried to call out again but couldn’t. The footsteps resumed, a bit more slowly, coming closer, until a pair of expensive shoes appeared in front of him and stopped. Bridges could see the shoes and the pant legs and the bottom part of a dark raincoat. His fingers scrambled weakly on the sidewalk toward the shoes.
The shoes stepped back a little, and a voice that seemed to come from miles above said, “Well. You don’t look so good, friend.”
It was a deep, confident voice, like the voice of a really good telephone solicitor. Bridges said, “Ah…” but couldn’t manage anything else.
The pant legs went up slightly and the stranger crouched down on his haunches. Bridges could see the open raincoat now, the well-made suit and tie under it. He tried to roll his eyes up to see the face but couldn’t manage it.
“What happened to you?” the man said.
“Sh… sh…”
“Shot? You’ve been shot?”
“Ah.”
“Well,” the man said. “That’s pretty goddamn interesting. It’s not often you stroll around the block in the rain and come across someone who’s been shot. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Help,” Bridges wheezed.
“What’s that?” the man said.
Bridges squeezed his eyes shut. “Help,” he said.
The man chuckled. He actually chuckled. “Help what?”
Bridges was confused. He couldn’t think straight. Did this stranger just laugh at him? He was sprawled out on a sidewalk in the rain, a bullet in his back, dying for Christ’s sake, and this man laughed at him?
He said, “Please,” but the word was barely audible even to his own ears.
The stranger said, “I’m just kidding. You need help, like medical help, right? You’re asking me to, I don’t know, call an ambulance or something. Right?”
“Please.”
“An ambulance, or the cops. Because if you don’t get medical attention right away, well, you aren’t going to make it. Right? You could die, any second now.”
Bridges moved his fingers, trying to reach out and grab hold of the man’s pant leg. He couldn’t muster the strength.
“And here I am,” the man said. “Yakking away while your life bleeds away in the rain. What sort of Good Samaritan am I, huh?” And he laughed again.
He moved a little closer, close enough that he shielded some of the rain from Bridges’ head. He said, “Wow. This is really something. Here I am, walking along, and bam , outta nowhere, I stumble across a guy dying from a gunshot in the back. I mean, what are the odds?”
Bridges didn’t know the odds, and he didn’t care. He was beginning to suspect that this stranger wasn’t going to help him.
“So, where’d they get you?” Bridges felt the man’s fingers on his shoulder, probing. He felt the fingers travel down his back and come to rest on the place where the bullet had entered.
The man pressed hard on the spot.
“Right here?” he said.
The pain came roaring back, and Bridges cried out weakly and nearly passed out.
The man let go of the spot and gently slapped Bridges on the head. “Don’t black out,” he said. “You do that, you’re not going to wake up again.”
Bridges couldn’t think through the pain. Every part of him was clenched—his fists against the sidewalk, his eyes squeezed tight, his teeth scraping against each other.
After a long moment, the pain started to recede again and Bridges was sobbing. The stranger crouched there, not moving.
“Wow,” he said again. Then, “Hell of
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