I’m quite impressed with how she’s handling herself. She’s tough; I can’t doubt that.
“The hospital will call a cop in for a stab wound. And you’re a cop. How are you going to explain what happened? What if the cop who shows up works for Victor?”
I shake my head and fix her a hard glare. I care more about her safety than squaring off with a dirty cop.
“Say you tell them what happened —you think they’re not going to demand you tell them where it happened? Say they check out the warehouse. Say you keep asking the wrong questions. Think about it.”
Her voice carries a bit of a Midwestern accent to it the more she speaks. It seems that with her rising nerves , the slight twang and soft caress of her drawn out words turn choppier, shorter, and more pronounced. Shelby Connor might be a local, and hell, she might even be a native, but there is a part of her that is distinctively not a Louisianan. Unfortunately, she speaks the truth. I shift in my seat, feeling her gun in my waistband. I adjust it and keep driving over the twin span.
“That piece isn’t registered,” she says. A slight sheen covers her face and neck. The sweat is likely from a fever. Shit . She needs a doctor.
“You mean to tell me you’re carrying around an unregistered firearm?”
She nods. “No serial number, either. But if you insist on taking me to the hospital, and if for some reason a cop wants to investigate what happened, you’re going to have to explain your prints on the gun and the gun powder on your hand.”
“We don’t run those tests unless someone has been shot,” I say.
“Or unless someone mentions the existence of the gun, in which case the cops will run the tests. I’m not the honorable one here, Officer. If I go down, you’re going down with me.”
I tense up and look out over the Mississippi River. I’ve really stepped in it this time. Of course it would be me who is sitting around eating a fucking po’ boy when this little disaster runs in looking for a patsy.
“What the hell are you into?” I yell.
She winces, startled by my voice.
“I’ll tell you everything if you just don’t take me to a damn hospital. I think the bleeding has stopped, so no hospital, okay?” She pulls herself up, crying out in pain, and looks out the window.
“I have to get you cleaned up, and that wound is going to need stitches. I can take care of it, but I can’t do it in the truck.” I give up, completely defeated. Her logic renders my hospital demands useless.
“My dad has a cabin by Lee Lake, just East of Picayune. Nobody’s there , and it’s got just about everything we’ll need,” she says.
I sigh, resolving to remember both my Boy Scout training and the miserable training I received from the Academy, and care for this woman myself. I need this right now like I need a hole in my goddamn head, but I have little choice. We’ve made a deal—she’ll tell me what the fuck is going on beyond the basics, and I’ll make sure she doesn’t see the inside of a hospital. But so help me God, this is a bad fucking idea.
I continue on I-10 East anyway. I drive on, checking Shelby’s breathing and her leg every minute or so. Every other time , I check her pulse, which remains weak but steady. She’s keeping a fairly steady rhythm going—not too fast, not too shallow. The sweat concerns me a bit, but the best I can do is put on the air conditioner. Well, until she tells me she’s freezing cold and I’m only making it worse. So I turn it off and kick myself for forgetting the basics of emergency response. The sarge would not be pleased right now.
A little over an hour out of New Orleans and we’re leaving Picayune. It’s not far now, she says. But her eyes keep drooping, and despite the fact that her breathing remains steady, I’m still nervous for her. I’ve reached over and felt around the temporary bandage at her thigh , and the bleeding seems to have stopped—which is something at least. That and
“The hospital will call a cop in for a stab wound. And you’re a cop. How are you going to explain what happened? What if the cop who shows up works for Victor?”
I shake my head and fix her a hard glare. I care more about her safety than squaring off with a dirty cop.
“Say you tell them what happened —you think they’re not going to demand you tell them where it happened? Say they check out the warehouse. Say you keep asking the wrong questions. Think about it.”
Her voice carries a bit of a Midwestern accent to it the more she speaks. It seems that with her rising nerves , the slight twang and soft caress of her drawn out words turn choppier, shorter, and more pronounced. Shelby Connor might be a local, and hell, she might even be a native, but there is a part of her that is distinctively not a Louisianan. Unfortunately, she speaks the truth. I shift in my seat, feeling her gun in my waistband. I adjust it and keep driving over the twin span.
“That piece isn’t registered,” she says. A slight sheen covers her face and neck. The sweat is likely from a fever. Shit . She needs a doctor.
“You mean to tell me you’re carrying around an unregistered firearm?”
She nods. “No serial number, either. But if you insist on taking me to the hospital, and if for some reason a cop wants to investigate what happened, you’re going to have to explain your prints on the gun and the gun powder on your hand.”
“We don’t run those tests unless someone has been shot,” I say.
“Or unless someone mentions the existence of the gun, in which case the cops will run the tests. I’m not the honorable one here, Officer. If I go down, you’re going down with me.”
I tense up and look out over the Mississippi River. I’ve really stepped in it this time. Of course it would be me who is sitting around eating a fucking po’ boy when this little disaster runs in looking for a patsy.
“What the hell are you into?” I yell.
She winces, startled by my voice.
“I’ll tell you everything if you just don’t take me to a damn hospital. I think the bleeding has stopped, so no hospital, okay?” She pulls herself up, crying out in pain, and looks out the window.
“I have to get you cleaned up, and that wound is going to need stitches. I can take care of it, but I can’t do it in the truck.” I give up, completely defeated. Her logic renders my hospital demands useless.
“My dad has a cabin by Lee Lake, just East of Picayune. Nobody’s there , and it’s got just about everything we’ll need,” she says.
I sigh, resolving to remember both my Boy Scout training and the miserable training I received from the Academy, and care for this woman myself. I need this right now like I need a hole in my goddamn head, but I have little choice. We’ve made a deal—she’ll tell me what the fuck is going on beyond the basics, and I’ll make sure she doesn’t see the inside of a hospital. But so help me God, this is a bad fucking idea.
I continue on I-10 East anyway. I drive on, checking Shelby’s breathing and her leg every minute or so. Every other time , I check her pulse, which remains weak but steady. She’s keeping a fairly steady rhythm going—not too fast, not too shallow. The sweat concerns me a bit, but the best I can do is put on the air conditioner. Well, until she tells me she’s freezing cold and I’m only making it worse. So I turn it off and kick myself for forgetting the basics of emergency response. The sarge would not be pleased right now.
A little over an hour out of New Orleans and we’re leaving Picayune. It’s not far now, she says. But her eyes keep drooping, and despite the fact that her breathing remains steady, I’m still nervous for her. I’ve reached over and felt around the temporary bandage at her thigh , and the bleeding seems to have stopped—which is something at least. That and
Similar Books
