Nothing But the Bones, page 5
“Does it hurt?” Stan said and pushed his newsboy cap up high on his brow. Nails suddenly wanted to laugh and slap that awful hat off Stan’s head. He did neither. He also didn’t answer his stupid question. It was four inches of steel buried in muscle. Yes, it fucking hurt.
“Get away from him, Stan.” Freddy held the phone to his chest. “Get away from him and go into my office. In the bottom left drawer, there’s a bottle of pills. Big—white—oblong—pills. Go get them and bring them to me.”
Stan stood up. “Oblong?”
Freddy sighed. “Just get the pills.”
Nails tried to swivel in his seat toward the bar. “I don’t want any pills, Freddy. I just—”
“Don’t—tell me what you want, Nails.” He held up a finger. “You just … just sit.” He moved that same finger to his lips and put the phone back to his ear. Nails didn’t push it. Freddy would fix this.
Monk sat heavy on a bar stool. “You didn’t have to hit me, bro.” He was still rubbing his head.
“I’m sorry,” Nails said, as if the definition of I’m sorry had somehow changed recently to mean eat shit.
“I was only doing my job.”
Nails felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. “Your job? Keeping people safe in this place is your job.” He pointed at the dead kid on the floor. “Keeping someone like that from molesting women in the bathroom is your job.”
“I’m only one dude, bro.”
“Are you, bro? Are you only one dude, bro? Come here so I can hit you again, bro.”
“All right,” Freddy yelled. “Enough.” He hung the phone back in the cradle on the wall, leaned on it for a minute, and then scribbled something down on a notepad. He moved the framed picture of him and his brother off the back bar to get at the safe behind it. He spun the combination lock and Stan poked his head in from the poolroom. “I didn’t see no pills in the left drawer, boss. Just a bunch of papers and shit.”
Freddy sighed again and his chin fell to his chest. “Try the other left bottom drawer, Stan.”
“Right, okay. Like stage-left, you mean.”
“Yeah—Okay…”
Stan disappeared a second time.
“Monk, sweep the bar and check everywhere. Make sure there’s no stragglers or drunks in the back rooms, and then lock both doors. Double-check the side exit as well and lock this bitch up, tight.”
“Okay, boss.”
Freddy took a first-aid kit out from under the bar, set something from the safe on top of it, and then grabbed a jug of apple juice from the beer cooler. He walked out from behind the bar, set everything on the floor, pulled another chair over directly in front of Nails, and took a seat.
“I’m sorry, Freddy.”
Freddy’s face tightened at the word sorry. “No,” he said. “We’re not doing that right now.”
“But I am, Freddy. I know I fucked up.”
“Nails. Seriously. We are not talking about that right now. I just need you to listen.”
“Was that Mr. Burroughs on the phone?”
“You know that already.”
“Is he pissed at me?”
Freddy ran both hands back through his hair. “It doesn’t matter who’s pissed at who, Nails. What matters is what we’re going to do now considering that you just killed some random asshole in front of an entire bar full of witnesses.”
“I didn’t mean to kill him, Freddy.”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant to do. Only what you did do.”
“Yeah, I know. But can’t we just get rid of him? Can’t we just dump him in the woods somewhere? You know, no body, no crime? Mr. Burroughs does it all the time.”
Freddy looked around the bar frantically as if they were being recorded. Nails had never seen Freddy look nervous before. “Jesus, Nails—shut up. And no, that’s not the way it works. Not here.”
Monk returned and gave an all-clear. Freddy picked up the first-aid kit and unlatched the lid. “Listen to me, Nails. I know you think Gareth can come in here and make all this go away. And maybe if you were up on the mountain—where things can be controlled—and people can be trusted—maybe he could. But that kid over there?” Freddy turned and motioned to the vampire. “That asshole walked in here with other people. People we don’t know. People I don’t know. People that are now gone. Along with about fifty other people who are also gone. In a few minutes, I won’t have any choice but to call the cops and report this shit because I can’t spin it.” Freddy squeezed the bridge of his nose to hold back the headache that was brewing under his painted eyelids.
“But, Freddy, we don’t need to tell them nothing.”
Freddy held up a finger and Nails stopped talking. “And when the sheriff gets here, me and Monk and Stan are all going to say the same thing. That we didn’t see shit. We’ve got zero idea what happened. But this isn’t just a bar fight, Nails. Someone is dead. A kid is dead. A kid that ain’t from around here, and the goddamn law is not just going to take my word on what happened. They can’t. So, they are going to start sniffing. They are going to want to talk to people. All the people who were here. That kid’s people. And eventually, somebody somewhere is going to tell them about you. They are going to describe you because, let’s face it, you are easy to describe. Next, they are going to find out your name and where you live and what you do. And when they find you, because everybody gets found eventually, you are going to be given an option. Burn for this or burn somebody you know. And we all know who that somebody is.”
Nails shook his head defiantly. This didn’t make any sense. He was just protecting a girl. He didn’t mean for it to get out of hand. This was bullshit. “He stabbed me, Freddy. I’m still stabbed.” They looked at the rainbow metal dangling from Nails’s leg. “I’ll just explain.”
“No, Nails. That idiot must’ve stabbed you before you even came out of the bathroom. Everybody saw it hanging there but you. By the time you bashed his head into my jukebox, he was already beaten, and he was already unarmed. A far cry from self-defense. Too many people saw it that I can’t control.” Freddy took a large wad of gauze out of the first-aid kit and set it in his lap.
“So, what am I supposed to do, Freddy?”
“You’re going to do what Gareth just told me on the phone for you to do. And trust me, considering what this whole shitshow does to expose him, I’m surprised he even gave you an option here. He must be softer on you than I thought.”
“What option?”
Freddy picked up a canvas bag from the floor next to his feet and held it out for Nails to take.
“What’s this?’
“It’s eight thousand dollars and a phone number.”
Nails opened the bag and looked at the cash. He pulled out a folded sheet of notepaper and saw the number that Freddy had written down—and the name Wilcombe.
“Who is that?”
Freddy didn’t answer.
Stan returned from the office with an orange medicine bottle as big around as a Coke can and he shook the pills inside like a maraca. He handed the bottle to Freddy, who set it in his lap along with the gauze.
Nails held up the note. “I don’t understand, Freddy. Who is this? What’s the money for?”
“I don’t know who that is,” Freddy said through his teeth. “But Gareth said you need to call that number and do whatever that guy tells you to do. He’s trusted and he’s apparently high enough up the food chain to be able to keep you off the radar until we can figure all this shit out. The money is to get you where you need to go since you don’t have the time to go home. That’s Gareth’s entire take of this place for the month. It’s a good thing he hadn’t collected already or else you’d be even more fucked than you are. So buy some clothes. Gas. Food. Whatever. Use cash only. That cash. I wish it were more, but that’s all I’ve got here, and Gareth said you need to get gone—now.”
“Wait.” Nails’s brain was spinning like a piñata that just took its first solid hit. He tried to stay focused—to keep his thoughts right. “The money is to get me where? Where am I supposed to be going?”
Freddy pulled in a deep breath and eased it out slowly. The answer to that question tasted like a mouthful of spoiled cheese. “Jacksonville.”
Nails went completely blank. “What?”
“That’s all I know. I’m just supposed to patch you up. Give you the cash and tell you to call our friend … in Jacksonville.”
Nails was quiet for several beats. He looked at the cash in the bank bag and then at his leg, and then over at the dead kid on the floor. “Jacksonville? As in Florida?”
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Burroughs just told you to tell me—to go to Florida? Right now?”
“Yeah.”
“Freddy, I’ve never even been out of McFalls. I can’t go to Florida.”
Freddy was done with this conversation. The clock was ticking and there was a dead kid’s blood turning into strawberry Jell-O on his dance floor. “Put that cash away and hold this.” He handed Nails the gauze. Nails stuffed the bag of money and paper with the phone number into a pocket inside his coat. He took the gauze and held it as if it were a Magic 8 Ball that was about to offer up a fortune better than a midnight run to Florida. Freddy opened the medicine bottle. He shook out six ten-milligram hydrocodone footballs. He dry-chewed two of them and then handed the other four to Nails. “Put those in your mouth and wash them down with this.” He picked up the jug of apple juice. Nails popped the pills and took the jug.
“Okay, now in about ten minutes, you’re going to feel those kick in and then I’m going to pull that blade out of your leg. You hear me? Ten minutes. That’s all we got. Okay?”
Nails nodded. Still holding the gauze in his bad hand, he lifted the jug to his mouth with the other to wash down the chunky pills. Freddy waited until he saw Nails swallow the painkillers and then he gripped the handle of the knife and yanked it out. Nails screamed and dropped the jug. Apple juice exploded all over the floor. Freddy handed the bloody knife off to Stan. “Get rid of that. You know where. I don’t ever want to see it again.” He leaned over and pushed Nails’s hand, full of gauze, into the oozing wound. “Keep pressure on that.”
“You said ten minutes.” Nails bounced in his chair. “Ten minutes, Freddy.”
“Yeah? Well, you said you wouldn’t cause any trouble in my bar tonight. So, suck it up, asshole.” He reached back into the first-aid kit and took out a roll of bandages. He tossed it at Monk. “Once the bleeding is under control, I want you to wrap that leg, give the man his gun back, and get him out of here—now.” Freddy walked back behind the bar and washed his hands in the sink.
Chapter Twelve
Twenty minutes ago, Nails was sitting at a bar debating whether he was going to eat a frozen burrito or some leftover mac and cheese when he got home. Now he was on his way to goddamn Florida with a bank deposit bag full of cash and a phone number for some asshole he didn’t know. He felt like he’d just been dismissed from his own life. Tossed out like a bag of trash after the night shift. He didn’t mean to kill that kid, so he didn’t understand why he was being punished for it. Yes he did. This wasn’t something he’d been ordered to do. He’d acted on his own. That’s not how things got done up here. He knew that, too.
Nails’s head hurt almost as bad as his leg, and the cold night wind was chapping his cheeks. So he rolled up the window of his ’71 LTD and turned up the heat. That’s when he heard it. At first he thought he was still confused, one last bumblebee still bouncing around inside his head. But the second time he heard it he knew it wasn’t in his head. He drove another mile or two down the state road and ran a hand over his .45 before he pulled the car over to the soft shoulder of the road. He cut the engine and got out. Standing there in the darkness, his gun in hand, Nails opened the back door.
“Get out,” he said to the pile of laundry spilled over the seat. Nothing happened. No movement. No sound. He clicked back the hammer on the revolver. “I heard you moving a few miles ago. So, I’m only going to tell you one more time to get out of my car before I unload into that seat.”
The laundry shuffled and a small voice spoke. “Wait. Please, don’t shoot.”
“Get out—now.”
“Okay. Okay.” After an awkward couple of seconds, the pile of clothes and spare coats began to shift enough for the white skin of a woman’s leg to appear—followed by another, and then two small hands, palms out. Next Nails could see a familiar black T-shirt with NIRVANA printed in yellow above a drunken smiley face. Finally, he saw a messy head of bleached blond hair. A stack of Batman comics spilled from a box on the floorboard onto the shoulder of the road.
“Please don’t shoot me, handsome. I just needed a ride to—”
Nails grabbed one of the girl’s wrists and yanked her out of the car a little rougher than he needed to. He let go and she landed hard on the asphalt.
“Ow, shit, man. Take it easy. You nearly pulled my arm off.”
“What are you doing in my car? I could’ve killed you.”
“I’m sorry. I just needed a ride. Can you help me up?”
“Get yourself up.” Nails kneeled over and grabbed the comics, tossing them back into the car. The girl stared up at Nails with the same pout and bashful eyes she’d used on him at the bar, but this time it looked like what it was—a practiced expression. It pissed him off and he was ready to go. It didn’t even occur to him to wonder how she knew that this was his car.
“I said get up and get your ass over there.” Nails tossed the last book through the door and used the .45 to motion toward the back of the car. The girl slowly got to her feet and brushed the dirt off her cutoffs.
“Look, I’m sorry. I just—”
“Just nothing. Move.” Nails nudged her with the gun until he’d pushed her back behind the LTD.
“Wait, please. Just wait a minute.”
“Sorry, you’re on your own.” Nails nudged her even further back. Once she was completely out of the way, he backed up to the car’s open back door.
“My bag, damn,” the girl yelled. “Can I at least get my bag? It’s still in there.”
Nails didn’t drop his aim but leaned over and fished an oversized handbag out of the backseat. He tossed it over the trunk of the car. Some of the contents spilled out into the dirt at the girl’s feet, some makeup, a leather wallet, a disposable camera. “Oh, c’mon, man.” She bent down and clawed around to put her things back in the bag before hooking it over her shoulder and clutching it tight to her chest. It looked big enough for her to crawl inside it. “You can’t just leave me out here like this.”
Nails stood at the open car door and stuck the gun back in his pocket as he tuned her out.
“Please, mister. How long do you think I’ll last out here like this?”
“Somebody will stop and give you a ride.”
“Oh I bet someone will. And what are the chances of that someone not being a drunk redneck? Look at me. Look where we are.” She swiveled her head in the red glow of the LTD’s taillights. “I don’t even know where we are.”
Nails gave her a once-over. “Not my problem.”
“So, it’s okay to save me when I ask you not to, but you have no problem leaving me out here to get raped or killed or whatever when I’m actually begging for your help?”
Nails glared at her. “You,” he said. “You were in trouble. I was … It’s not…”
“I’m in trouble now. Please. I’m begging you. Don’t leave me out here. Please.”
Nails tried to shake away the confusion in his head. It felt like a swarm of houseflies had entered the inside of his skull. “No,” he said, not even sure why or to what. He got into the car and closed the door. The girl banged on the trunk like a toddler. He could see her in the rearview mirror, clutching her bag, bathed in the red light. For a moment she didn’t look frail and scared. The red light and the dust floating around her made her look like she did in that smoky bar—when she danced. But that only lasted a moment before he saw her for who she was right now. Alone and half dressed on the side of the road. She was right and he knew it. The only people out traveling at this hour would be bad news. He laid his forehead on the steering wheel. “Fuck.”
He rolled the window down and waved her to come on. She wiped at the fresh tears on her face after she climbed into the passenger side and closed the door.
“Thank you,” she said. Nails said nothing. He just reached over into the backseat and grabbed one of the heavy canvas coats from the pile of clothes. He tossed it over her, and she immediately covered herself up. He’d give this girl a ride to the closest town and that was it. Whatever happened to her after that was her problem.
Chapter Thirteen
Clayton Burroughs put down the axe, hit the pause button on the small boom box he had balancing on the woodpile, and picked up his thermos. He unscrewed the top and the coffee puffed a swirl of steam into the morning air. He breathed in deep, and he drank even deeper. The mountain was chilly this morning, but he’d worked up enough of a sweat on the woodpile to keep the frigid air at bay. He liked getting out to the property first thing, cutting wood, drinking coffee from a thermos. He felt like a man out here on his own land. He loved the idea of building a house on this land. Building a home to start a family in. Family, he thought. It was a complicated word for a member of the Burroughs Clan. The idea of him being a father someday, a figurehead of something brand-new yet timeless and ancient. It was scary as hell. But he welcomed the idea. He’d been treated like the runt of his father’s tribe for so long that the thought of sitting at the head of the table—his own table—filled his chest with something he wasn’t used to—pride, maybe? No matter, he liked it. He also liked the idea of what this house represented. He wasn’t surprised when his father offered to fund it. Money meant nothing to Gareth. But when he offered to physically help Clayton build it—now that was something he didn’t see coming. His father had never offered to help Clayton with anything, ever, but whatever his reasons for choosing this landmark to bond over, Clayton didn’t question it. These past few months, working on this house, had been the most time he’d spent with his father since he was a kid in single digits. Sure, the old man just growled at him half the time and criticized damn near everything he did, but he showed up—every day—ready to work—on Clayton’s first home. And the showing up was the part that mattered most. He could be as critical as he wanted. Clayton was just happy he was there.
