your viewpoint. Clo Butterfield, Mama’s home nurse, was willing to come over for a short spell. Considering that she’s well paid by Bob Don to help us with Mama and that she’s the best nurse in Bonaparte County, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course it left me no final exit, no avenue of escape.
Mark and I ran through the rain, jumping quickly into my car. Dwight Kinnard didn’t live terribly far away (there are no vast distances in Mirabeau), and as I drove I watched Mark out of the corner of my eye. He fidgeted, fixed his hair, straightened his clothes.
“Uncle Jordy, do you think I ought to take him a present—since he’s been sick and all?”
A present. For the father who’d abandoned him.
“No, Mark. Trey ought to get
you
a present for being such a great kid.”
“Like I’m so great,” Mark snorted.
Yes, you are.
I gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and he stared out at the raindrops sliding down the glass.
We pulled up Moller Street and stopped in front of theKinnard place. Moller’s one of the older streets in town, the pavement cracked and pitted. Cars on blocks didn’t decorate the front yards, but the grass was either overgrown or sparse from inattention. Backyards tumbled down to the overgrowth that surrounds the eastern bend of the Colorado. Mark stayed close to me as we ran through the downpour to the front door.
I rapped gently. No answer. Again. The rain began a sharper patter on the roof and the thunder cried out against the wind.
“Trey? It’s Jordan. And Mark.” I knocked harder. Mark looked like he was going to wet his britches.
“Maybe it takes him longer to get around in his wheelchair,” Mark ventured. From our phone conversation, I expected Trey in the front yard, rain-drenched and waiting for us.
I tried the doorknob. The door eased open. “Trey?” I called, sticking my head into the Kinnard living room. It was unkempt, newspapers in an untidy heap by the door, a pizza box and crushed beer cans tottering on the coffee table, a Winnie the Pooh cartoon playing mutely on the ancient TV set, the couch made up for sleeping with rumpled sheets.
“Daddy?” Mark called, the word sounding unfamiliar in his throat. It wasn’t much more than a whisper.
I’m not sure what impelled me forward; the slightest sound of a groan, or maybe the faintest smell of blood or gunpowder. Some atavistic sense kicked in and I hurried across the living room, into the kitchen.
Trey had dragged himself across the floor, smearing a dark red trail on the dirty tiles. He was pulling himself toward the open back door, and his eyes, dimming of life, looked up at me. Blood streaked his face and his beard. Breath faintly gurgled in his throat.
Mark collapsed by his father. “Dad! Dad!”
“My God, Trey, who did this?” My legs gave way and I knelt by him. I saw three terrible red splashes on his back. The stench of gunfire hung thick in the air. A coloredstain caught my eye on the faded striped wallpaper of the hallway. Written in blood were the words: 2 DOWN .
“He’s shot, he’s shot!” Mark moaned. I stood and grabbed the phone. I barked the address to the 911 dispatcher, telling them we had a man shot and needed an ambulance immediately. The operator asked me to stay on the line. I knew that the emergency headquarters was roughly fifteen feet away from Junebug’s office and I wished that my friend were here.
Cradling the phone against my shoulder, I hunched down by Trey. He rolled on his back, his thin chest moving in ragged dance as he tried to draw air. I swallowed when I saw the wounds; maybe a lung, maybe the stomach. Oh, God, where was the ambulance?
Mark sobbed, clutching one of his father’s bloodied hands in his. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” he mewled, like a small child would, rocking back and forth on his heels. I leaned in close over Trey; his eyes sought mine, pulling away from Mark’s for a moment.
“Trey! Who shot you? Who?” I yelled into his face. “Can
Mark and I ran through the rain, jumping quickly into my car. Dwight Kinnard didn’t live terribly far away (there are no vast distances in Mirabeau), and as I drove I watched Mark out of the corner of my eye. He fidgeted, fixed his hair, straightened his clothes.
“Uncle Jordy, do you think I ought to take him a present—since he’s been sick and all?”
A present. For the father who’d abandoned him.
“No, Mark. Trey ought to get
you
a present for being such a great kid.”
“Like I’m so great,” Mark snorted.
Yes, you are.
I gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and he stared out at the raindrops sliding down the glass.
We pulled up Moller Street and stopped in front of theKinnard place. Moller’s one of the older streets in town, the pavement cracked and pitted. Cars on blocks didn’t decorate the front yards, but the grass was either overgrown or sparse from inattention. Backyards tumbled down to the overgrowth that surrounds the eastern bend of the Colorado. Mark stayed close to me as we ran through the downpour to the front door.
I rapped gently. No answer. Again. The rain began a sharper patter on the roof and the thunder cried out against the wind.
“Trey? It’s Jordan. And Mark.” I knocked harder. Mark looked like he was going to wet his britches.
“Maybe it takes him longer to get around in his wheelchair,” Mark ventured. From our phone conversation, I expected Trey in the front yard, rain-drenched and waiting for us.
I tried the doorknob. The door eased open. “Trey?” I called, sticking my head into the Kinnard living room. It was unkempt, newspapers in an untidy heap by the door, a pizza box and crushed beer cans tottering on the coffee table, a Winnie the Pooh cartoon playing mutely on the ancient TV set, the couch made up for sleeping with rumpled sheets.
“Daddy?” Mark called, the word sounding unfamiliar in his throat. It wasn’t much more than a whisper.
I’m not sure what impelled me forward; the slightest sound of a groan, or maybe the faintest smell of blood or gunpowder. Some atavistic sense kicked in and I hurried across the living room, into the kitchen.
Trey had dragged himself across the floor, smearing a dark red trail on the dirty tiles. He was pulling himself toward the open back door, and his eyes, dimming of life, looked up at me. Blood streaked his face and his beard. Breath faintly gurgled in his throat.
Mark collapsed by his father. “Dad! Dad!”
“My God, Trey, who did this?” My legs gave way and I knelt by him. I saw three terrible red splashes on his back. The stench of gunfire hung thick in the air. A coloredstain caught my eye on the faded striped wallpaper of the hallway. Written in blood were the words: 2 DOWN .
“He’s shot, he’s shot!” Mark moaned. I stood and grabbed the phone. I barked the address to the 911 dispatcher, telling them we had a man shot and needed an ambulance immediately. The operator asked me to stay on the line. I knew that the emergency headquarters was roughly fifteen feet away from Junebug’s office and I wished that my friend were here.
Cradling the phone against my shoulder, I hunched down by Trey. He rolled on his back, his thin chest moving in ragged dance as he tried to draw air. I swallowed when I saw the wounds; maybe a lung, maybe the stomach. Oh, God, where was the ambulance?
Mark sobbed, clutching one of his father’s bloodied hands in his. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” he mewled, like a small child would, rocking back and forth on his heels. I leaned in close over Trey; his eyes sought mine, pulling away from Mark’s for a moment.
“Trey! Who shot you? Who?” I yelled into his face. “Can
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