Drag Strip (24 page)

I was shaking and choking and crawling backward down the steps. I reached the bottom. I was only a few feet from the front door, I remembered that, but could I reach it? I could hear the flames now. I stood up as I reached the bottom step, ready to run. The hallway was filled with smoke and I felt lightheaded. Where was I? Where was that door? I sank down slowly, feeling for the bottom step. Maybe if I just rested for a moment, I could remember. Maybe if I closed my eyes just for a second …

Twenty-six

It was nice where I was, because he held me. Sweet cool air filled my lungs and warm arms held me.

“Sierra,” he whispered, “wake the hell up!”

What was wrong with him? Didn't he know Harrison Ford shouldn't speak like that to his beloved?

“Harrison!” I heard my voice whine. “That's not nice!”

“Open your eyes, Sierra!” Nailor's voice commanded. “This isn't Hollywood!”

I opened my eyes and found myself with John Nailor under the sheltering shade of a low-hanging magnolia tree. Outside, beyond our hiding spot, the sounds of men's voices and machines could be heard.

“What's going on?” I said, coughing and pushing myself up.

Nailor grabbed my arm and pulled me back against the tree trunk. “Don't get too close,” he warned. “I don't want us to be seen. We're in Lewis's backyard. The firemen are putting out what's left of the fire. The place is crawling with police and firemen. I don't want anyone to see me.”

I peered out again. From where I sat, it was hard to see. Pine trees and huge, ancient azaleas covered the backyard as they did the front.

“How'd I get here?” I asked, turning to look at Nailor for the first time. He was covered with black sooty streaks, but beneath that his skin was gray. The lines around his eyes were deep and etched with fatigue.

“Wait!” I called out. “Wannamaker's in there! We have to go back and get him.” I started to pull away, but he held on to me.

“Sierra, Wannamaker Lewis is dead. Someone shot him. His body was three feet from the steps where I found you. Didn't you see him?”

I slumped back against Nailor. Dead? Shot? It was as if my mind simply could not accept his words.

“I was coming to watch the house,” Nailor continued, “what I could see of it. When I got here, I saw your car parked a ways down the street and figured you must've been inside Lewis's house. When I realized it was on fire, I came looking for you.” He said it simply, as if he'd said, “I saw you were out of eggs, so I stopped at the store.”
I came looking for you.

“Hey,” I said, gazing back out at the flashes of color and motion surrounding Wannamaker Lewis's house, “you said my car was down the street? That's not where I left it. And what about Roy Dell?”

Nailor straightened a little and winced. “What about Roy Dell?”

“Are you hurt?”

“What about Roy Dell?” He ignored my question like I'd ignored his.

I was still staring outside and motioned Nailor to keep still. Three men, two firemen and a man in plainclothes, were walking deeper into the backyard, staring at the ground and then back toward us. As I watched, the plainclothesman stooped down and touched something on the ground.

“Looks like they're headed this way,” I whispered. “They're following something.” Nailor said nothing. I turned around to see if he'd heard me. He was gone. In the place where he'd leaned against the tree trunk, there was a wide splotch of blood.

I couldn't let them find the bloodstain, or they'd know I hadn't been alone. If John didn't want to be seen, then there was a reason. Maybe the gunshots I'd heard had been directed at him and not Lewis. I had to protect John. But I couldn't let him stay out there alone, without me.

I reached out and touched the blood, letting some run onto my finger. Then I rubbed my bloody finger around one nostril. “It's a good thing I went to Catholic school,” I said softly, on the off chance that somewhere nearby Nailor was listening. “'Cause stories like the one I'm about to tell ain't easy to come by.” Then I pushed the branches aside and wandered up to the men.

“Where am I?” I cried softly. “What happened? Where's Mr. Lewis?”

I figured it to play out exactly as it did. These three guys, intent on figuring where the blood drips were leading to, thinking they were hot on the trail of an arsonist, come up on me, Sierra Freakin' Lavotini, the Queen of the Blond Amazons. A maiden in distress with a bloody nose. Good thing it wasn't the Panama City P.D. on the job. With them, my reputation precedes me, and I would've been out of luck.

To further complicate their lives, I swooned, requiring their immediate attention. They didn't need to know that I worked men over like this for a living. No, for the next thirty minutes, they were heroes. Plying me with oxygen and water, listening to my story of stopping at the house to buy a Jesus whirligig, then the fire breaking out and Mr. Lewis vanishing. It was masterful, but I had to silently promise to do an Act of Contrition as soon as possible. The Sisters would've been pleased. After all, it was for a good cause.

I gave them my name, but not the real one. And my address, also bogus. And implied maybe I'd like to hear all about being big strong firemen sometime. Then I wandered off down the street, making for my Camaro, hoping I wasn't too late to double back and find Nailor. There was too much blood under that tree for it to have been a surface wound. I was pretty sure he was hurt, and hurt bad.

Nailor was right about the car having been moved. It sat a half a block away, the keys still in the ignition. Maybe Roy Dell had moved it when the fire started, but where was he?

I cranked the car and pulled slowly out into the street. Behind me, the firetrucks blocked the road. As I looked in my rearview mirror, an ambulance pulled up and EMTs went running for the house. They'd found Wannamaker Lewis.

I crawled down the street, edging around the block, trying to figure out where Wannamaker's lot edged up onto his back neighbor's. Nailor couldn't have gotten far without help. I parked when I judged I was near enough to approach Wannamaker's house from the rear. A ramshackle Victorian cottage stood on a lot that mirrored Lewis's yard. At least I wouldn't need to contend with neighbors or dogs. Only snakes and rodents lived on this estate.

I got out of the car and stomped off through the tall grass and bushes, hoping I was warning all wildlife to get out of my way.

“John?” I called, pitching my voice low. No answer, then in the distance, a moan.

I ran in the direction of the sound, listening and alternately calling his name. I found him lying on his back, twenty feet from the tree where we'd sat hiding.

“Hey, it's me, Sierra. Open up them big brown eyes.” I knelt by his side. He didn't answer me. “John?” I reached out to touch him, trying to support him into sitting upright, but instead finding his back soaked with blood.

“Oh God, oh God!” I moaned, rocking back on my heels. I was fighting back the urge to cry and trying to figure out what to do. “All right! All right! We're gonna get you some help,” I said, but I don't think he heard me. He didn't move. He didn't cry out when I slipped my arms under his shoulders and began dragging him slowly across the yard.

I don't know how I dragged him to the car. He was a dead weight, but I was suddenly powerful. It felt effortless. It seemed to take forever, but I wasn't tired. I was determined. When we reached the car, I knew I was done for. There was no way I could pull him into the backseat all by myself.

“Honey,” I said, resting him upright against the car, “I need you to listen to me. I need you to come back and help me. Help me help you, John.”

He moaned and his eyes fluttered. “That's it,” I said, “just one little move and I've got you in the car. Okay? On three. One, two, three!” I pulled, he pushed, a little. I pulled harder and he was in the car, lying on my backseat.

“All right! Good! Just rest, sweetie. We'll be at Bay County in no time.”

“No!” he said, his eyes flying open. “No! No hospital! I'm all right!”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I yelled. “You're fucking bleeding all over my car!”

“It's a surface wound,” he gasped. “Went clean through. It's just my arm. Sierra, don't take me to the hospital. Take me home!”

He was out again. Cold. I was sweatin' and he was out cold. What was I supposed to do? He said no hospital. Maybe those gunshots really had been meant for him. He was in trouble, I knew that much. And then I knew: Ma. She would know. I'd take him home all right. Home to Ma.

Twenty-seven

In my former life, as a little girl, I'd wanted to be a nurse. Now, seeing us both soaked in blood, I knew what a joke that had been. My heart was racing. The car was hot, and the air sticky sweet with the scent of blood. I wanted to throw up.

I didn't think he was outright bleeding to death. I think blood spurts out in spasms when you've cut an artery or some vital blood vessel, but I don't know, because I'd given up on my medical career when I learned about bedpans. All I could do now was drive. That was something I could do very fast and very well. It was twenty-some miles back to the Lively Oaks Trailer Park. I think I made it in just over fifteen minutes.

John hadn't said a word the whole trip back. He hadn't moved. He hadn't regained consciousness. I, on the other hand, said plenty.

“You know,” I said, “you shoulda been straight with me up front that you was hurt. We coulda wasted less time that way. But, no, you're too macho or whatever.” When that didn't work, I moved on to threats and intimidation. “If you wake up,” I said, “if you let me take you to the hospital, I'll dance naked on your bed every night for a year.” When that brought no response, I started a new conversation. “Okay, God,” I said, “it's me again. Only this time, listen, it ain't for me. It's for him. Honey, don't let this one die on me. Not so much on account of me, but on account of he's a good guy. He ain't never hurt nobody. And look, Ruby's gone. Isn't that enough dying? I don't know if you knew Ruby was gonna die, or nothin'. I'm not saying you did. Maybe you were busy and it slipped by. Maybe it shouldn't have happened. Whatever. I'm not blaming you. I'm just saying, ‘Hey! Listen up! Don't let him die.'”

Sometimes you gotta get people's attention.

I didn't need to get attention when I drove up. Maybe that was on account of me laying on the horn. At any rate, Al came running down the steps as I pulled up, the ugly gun back in his hand.

“Sierra, what the hell's with the horn? Hey, you got blood all over you!”

“I need Ma,” I said. “Look!” I jumped out of the car and flipped the driver's seat to reveal John Nailor passed out on the backseat.

Al stuck his gun in his waistband. “You shouldn't have done this!”

“I didn't do it, burgerhead!” I said, lapsing back into our childhood name-calling. “He's shot, we gotta get him inside.” I went on before he could start in with the cop-interrogation routine. “He said he can't go to the hospital.”

Al gave me a look and must've seen something in my face, because he didn't ask another question. By the time he'd reached into the backseat, Ma was on the stoop. When Al pulled out of the car and turned around, he had John cradled in his arms. Ma looked from me to Nailor and went into action.

“Put him in Sierra's room,” she barked. “Sierra, run out to the Lincoln and get Pa's first-aid kit out of the trunk. Al, move it! Don't jar him!”

By the time I was back with the kit, which was more the size of a small suitcase on account of Pa being an EMT, Ma was working. She had John on his side, with Al holding him, as she cut away his shirt with a pair of scissors.

“Oh, Jesus, Mother Mary, and all the Saints,” she breathed. “Sierra! Towels! I'll need warm water and a washcloth. Move it!”

I flew. I threw the towels on the bed and ran into my bathroom to run water. Al was supporting Nailor with part of his body and opening the first-aid kit with one hand.

“It looks like it went in the front,” Al was saying, “with the exit wound here in the back above his elbow.”

“Apply pressure there, honey,” Ma said. “We've gotta stop the bleeding.”

I brought a wet washcloth into Ma and stood there by her side, waiting for her to take it and feeling useless. Nailor moaned suddenly, and Ma and Al both stopped what they were doing, as if surprised to find that the gunshot wound was attached to a person.

“Hey,” I said. I made my way up to the bed and knelt down. “Tough guy,” I said softly, “it's me.”

His eyes fluttered and then opened.

“That's Ma,” I said when I saw his eyes connect with hers. “And Al's behind you, there. Welcome to Nurse Sierra's Home Health Care Center for the Physically Wounded and Terminally Stubborn, that, of course, being you.”

He licked his lips and winced.

“Don't go making any speeches,” I said. “We'll take donations when you're back on your feet.” My God, he looked pale.

Ma looked at Al. “Is it stopping?”

Al carefully lifted back the edge of the towel and peered at the exit wound. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Well, keep it elevated while I try and put a tourniquet on.” Then she looked at Nailor. “You're bleeding a lot,” she said, her voice an even, calm monotone. “We'll get that stopped and you'll be fine.” Her eyes seemed to soften, even as her hands worked to tighten the tourniquet around his upper arm. “It hurts, huh, sweetie?”

He nodded. “Not too bad.” But his eyes made him a liar.

“Sierra, get the boy a little of your Pa's tonic,” she said. “Thickens the blood.” She nodded to Al to tighten his hold, then looked back at Nailor. “If you ate more Italian food and drank red wine regular, this sort of thing would go a lot easier!”