The Falling Away (8 page)

On the night he'd met Webb, though, the painkillers had ironically brought him out of his house. Somewhere, somehow, he'd lost the scrip pad he'd nicked from his doctor, and the prescriptions he had going at several different pharmacies had expired. Major painkillers such as Percocet and Vicodin and OxyContin rarely had more than one refill, which hadn't really been a problem since Dylan had lifted the prescription pad from Doctor Stewart's office. With a whole pad of more than one hundred prescriptions, he could hop from pharmacy to pharmacy; by the time he'd worked his way through all the pharmacies in the area—easily a couple dozen—he could move back to the top of the list without attracting any attention.

But the wheels had fallen off that particular plan when the scrip pad went missing. Maybe he'd dropped it on the way to the post office. Maybe he'd accidentally mixed it in with one of the trash piles. Maybe he, ironically enough, had cribbed it away in the middle of a Percocet-fueled stupor. It was harder than ever to get to that stage now, the stage that made everything unimportant, but he could still hit it now and then.

Whatever the cause, the scrip pad was gone. And shortly after that, so was his stash of painkillers. No matter, he told himself. Hadn't Scott, that eminent sage appointed to his case by the VA, told him a couple months ago that his doctor wanted to wean him off the painkillers? This was a good excuse to do that. He could do this without the Perks or the Vikes or the Oxies.

Such had been the lies he'd told himself three short days ago. He'd been fine the first twenty-four hours, something south of fine the second twenty-four, and now, sweaty and shaky. Cold. Sick. On top of it all, fuzzy and itchy.

In the midst of it, even though he didn't really care for alcohol, it became the panacea that filled his mind. Okay, so he was addicted to the painkillers, but he knew a few shots could kill the pain. Hadn't he watched more than a few folks on the rez kill their pain with liquor and beer?

He'd staggered to The Rainbow and tried to drink away the pain with middling success.

“You look like I feel,” a voice said to him.

Dylan looked up, saw a guy with a full beard who looked like a lumberjack sliding onto the stool next to him. Dylan hadn't even known it was unoccupied; last time he'd looked, some drunk woman had been sitting there, working on whiskey sours. She'd held her liquor pretty well, but she kept lighting and then putting out the same cigarette as she tried to focus on her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. After the third or fourth time she'd stamped out the cigarette, it had bent and had begun to lose the tobacco inside; at roughly the same time, Dylan had lost any limited interest in continuing to watch her.

But now, lumberjack Joe was sitting next to him, waiting for some snappy comeback to his
You look like I feel
line. Fine. He could play that game.

“So how do you feel?” he asked.

The lumberjack smiled. “Like I just been run over.”

Dylan returned the smile. “Then I look like I feel too.”

Lumberjack Joe held out a hand. “Name's Webb.”

Dylan took his hand and shook it, wishing he hadn't engaged in this conversation in the first place.

Yeah, starting a conversation was your first mistake
, Joni said.
Getting hooked on painkillers, then going off them cold turkey, then trying to drown the withdrawals with liquor were all great moves
.

Shut up, Joni. I'll send you to the kill box
.

Shutting up
.

“I'm Dylan.”

“Dylan? As in—”

“Yeah. As in Bob Dylan. My parents were big into sixties folk rock. Had a sister named Joni, named after Joni Mitchell.”

Webb nodded, ordered a tap beer from the bartender.

Dylan smiled. He'd left a door wide open for this guy, that whole line about
had
a sister, and he hadn't walked through it. The natural follow-up to that statement would be to ask what had happened to the sister. But if you were the kind of person who knew it was best to keep old skeletons in the closet, you didn't peek inside other people's closets. Even when they opened them a crack for you.

“I'll buy your beer,” Dylan said, pushing a fiver toward the bartender when he came back with a tall glass.

“You, sir, are a scholar and a gentlemen,” Webb said, tilting his glass in Dylan's direction.

“Which is why I'm sitting in The Rainbow Bar at one o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, surrounded by all these other scholars and gentlepeople.”

“Including yours truly,” Webb agreed, taking another long drag on the beer. “How long you been here?”

Dylan shrugged. “Couple hours.”

“How much you had?”

Dylan shrugged again. “Couple beers.”

“Probably more than a couple,” Webb said. “But I'm guessing beer's the least of your problems.”

“And what would be the greatest?”

Webb shrugged. “You're coming down off something.”

Dylan paused, decided it was time to take another sip himself.

“No worries about it, man,” Webb said. “Me, I prefer to drown my sorrows. I could tell you this is my first stop of the afternoon, and that would be true.” Another long drink. “But I made four stops at other places this morning. Can't say I don't worship at my favorite church on Sunday.”

“Painkillers,” Dylan said without really meaning to. Without really knowing why. Something in this guy made him drop his guard a bit. Maybe because he was the first person, outside of Scott the VA Swammie and Whatsherface the VA Therapist, who'd said more than two words to him in the last several months. And this guy, this Webb, wasn't getting paid to do it.

Webb turned and looked. “What kind?”

Dylan shrugged. “Whatever I can get. Percocets, Vicodins, OxyContins.”

“And your prescription just ran out a few days ago.”

“That's a good way to put it.”

Webb drained his glass, slapped his hand on the counter. “Come on,” he said, rising from the seat.

“Come on where?”

“To refill your prescription.”

In spite of all he'd drunk in the last few hours, Dylan felt his mouth go dry almost instantly. “You have some?”

“No,” Webb said, “but I know where to get 'em.” He turned and started making his way toward the front door.

Dazed, Dylan stared at his back for a few moments before standing and following.

It was bright and sunny outside, so sunny Dylan's eyes hurt. Of course, that could also be explained by the withdrawals. Or the beer.

“You got a car?” Webb asked.

“Pickup.”

“You okay to drive?”

“Only a couple beers, like I said. Don't really have the stomach for it, I guess.”

Webb smiled. “Yeah, I could tell. You lead.”

Dylan paused. Should he be afraid of this guy? Yeah, probably. Most likely he was going to be rolled for some money. Maybe even his truck. He thought about it for a few moments and realized he didn't really care.

“This way,” he said, leading Webb across Montana Avenue to his beat-up old Ford Ranger. The doors squeaked open, they both slid into the front seat, and Dylan keyed the ignition.

“Where to?” Dylan asked.

“Go west, young man,” Webb said. “Maybe up on Poly or Rimrock.”

Dylan circled back around to 27th, then went north and finally turned west on Poly.

“Figure out where we're headed yet?” he asked finally as they drove in front of the green, manicured lawns of MSU-Billings, followed a few blocks later by the green, manicured lawns of Rocky Mountain College.

“Luckily, you happen to be jonesing on Sunday afternoon, and you know what Sunday afternoon means.”

“Football?”

“Not this time of year,” Webb said. “I'm talking about open houses,” he said, pointing to a realtor's sign.

“We're going to an open house,” Dylan said. “What, you know the guy listing this house? He can get some . . .” He paused, uncomfortable feeling himself say the word
drugs
. “He can get some stuff?”

“Just shut up and park.”

A few minutes later they were walking up the steps.

“Okay, here's the plan,” Webb said. “You're gonna quiz the agent, okay?”

“Quiz how?”

“However you want. The kind of stuff you'd ask if you were looking for a house. Ask about the school, ask about the taxes, ask about the colors in the dining room. I don't care.”

“And what are you going to do?”

Webb turned to him just before opening the front door of the home. “I told you. I'm gonna refill your prescription.”

Webb pushed the door open and charged inside. Dylan stood dumbfounded for a few moments, then followed him in.

“Hey, looks great,” he heard Webb say ahead of him. “Bet your wife and kids would love it, Dylan.”

“How many kids?” The realtor listing the open house was standing in front of Dylan, fake smile painted on his face. Webb had already disappeared into one of the other rooms.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “Looking to move the family.”

“Great neighborhood school here,” the realtor said, “Highland Elementary. You're close to downtown. Lots of renovations in this home, including the original hardwood floors.” The realtor tapped his foot on the floor, as if to demonstrate the wood was, in fact, quite hard.

“You should put this on your list, Dylan,” he heard Webb call from somewhere else in the house. “Tell Linda and the kids about it. I'm checking out the bathroom.”

“Linda?” the realtor asked. “That's your wife?”

“Um, yeah.”

“How many kids do you have?”

“Three?” he said. He winced, realizing the word had come out as more of a question than a statement.

Webb rejoined them in the front living room. “Yeah, this is a definite one to show Linda,” Webb said. “Why don't you take a card from him, Dylan?”

“Sure, sure,” the real estate agent said, reaching inside his jacket for a card and handing it to Dylan.

“Dylan and his family will be moving here in the next month or two,” Webb said, slapping a hand on the agent's back. “We're checking out some homes for her to look at when she comes next week.”

“Well, if you want to take a look at the rest of the house—”

“Don't really think we need to,” Webb cut him off. “I mean, what does it matter what we think, you know what I mean? Wife's gotta like it, or it ain't gonna fly. Ain't that right, Dylan?”

“Yeah.”

“But Dylan's got your card now, and he'll be calling to set up an appointment for Linda.”

“Well, if I could get your name and contact information—”

“Gotta run,” Webb said, cutting him off once more. “Getting him to the airport so he can fly back and meet the family. He'll be in touch.”

Webb was out the door and halfway down the steps now.

“Sorry,” Dylan said, following Webb out and closing the door behind him.

When they were back in the pickup, Dylan turned the crank and started the engine once more. “Wow, that was fun,” he deadpanned.

Webb, a big grin on his face, held up a brown prescription bottle with a white label on it. “Hydrocodone work for you?” he said.

Dylan grabbed it, looked at the pills inside, then back at Webb.

Webb's grin was wider than ever. “Told you I was checking out the bathroom,” he said. “Especially the medicine cabinet.” He nodded toward the road in front of them, swept magnanimously with his arm. “So what do you say? You ready to do some house shopping? We should find plenty of open houses to hit before three this afternoon.”

12

Couture sat in silence after Dylan left, and that silence made Andrew uncomfortable. Any kind of silence made him uncomfortable; he was a man who lived amid activity. That's what juiced him.

“Thanks for the help,” he said, rising.

Couture shrugged, slid the five bills off the table, and pocketed them.

Andrew took a long swig of coffee. “That's what I love about you, Couture. You're a great conversationalist.”

Couture shrugged once again, seemed unable or unwilling to talk. His eyes had a watery, misty look, as if he were about to cry.

The thought of Couture crying made Andrew even more uncomfortable. He drained the last of his coffee, ignoring the grounds in the last swig, snuffed out his cigarette in the black ashtray, and stood. For the first time he noticed how cold it was in Couture's trailer. “You better start paying your heat bills, cuz. I think they turned off your gas.”

Couture said nothing.

“Well. I gotta get going.”

Couture nodded simply, let out a deep sigh.

Andrew left him sitting there in his melancholy, shrugging on his jacket as he made his way to his Dodge Ram. He'd washed it just this morning, and now it looked like a new snowstorm was close. Typical. Still, when he got back to the Falls, he'd spin it through the wash. He liked to have a new rig, a clean rig, especially when he was on the rez. People took notice, and Andrew was a man who knew that notice equated with power.

It was good for business.

Before heading back to Great Falls, though, he had to make a few phone calls. Mobile reception out here was spotty at best, so he'd just zip back to Kwik Trip, make his calls at the pay phone there.

He started the truck, hit the gas hard so he could admire the throaty rumble of the dual exhaust, shifted into reverse, and backed away before spinning around.

A few minutes later he rolled into the parking lot at the Kwik Trip, a ghost of a smile on his face. This was a very nice surprise Dylan had dropped in his lap. A birthday gift and a Christmas gift all wrapped up in one nice package.

Dylan, calling in a favor. And he'd responded. Aside from that odd reaction, the babble from Couture, he had a new lever he could call in on Dylan Runs Ahead. That lever would come in handy sometime.