The victorious gleam darting through Cecil’s eyes as I walk up the front stairs of the cabin disappear when I mutter, “Don’t look so smug. From what you told me the last time I had a fever, you only have rectal thermometers, and since you refuse to go to the doctor, the doctor will have to come to you.”
“You’re not a trained professional!” Cecil spits out, his fast words whistling through his teeth.
With a husky chuckle, I reply, “You don’t need to be to take someone’s temperature.”
ChapterTwenty-Seven
JR
When I bang my fist on the glass separating Jae and me, the wobble my blow causes the bulletproof material is so perverse, Cedric’s hand slips from her arm.
It’s two seconds too late for him, though. Not only have I seen the mark his grab left on Jae’s arm, but Isaac has as well, and just like he stood up for Ophelia the day she died, he does for Jae this time around too.
He takes down her bully with three meticulously executed strikes to his face before he lowers his fists to Cedric’s midsection. I lose count of the number of punches he inflicts before agents swarm the corridor.
They pull Isaac off Cedric, and the blood that drips from Cedric’s nose when an agent props him against the wall across from me thrusts me into my hundredth memory this week…
I wiggle my good ear with my thumb when the annoying whistle that’s doubled since the blast picks up as I exit the cabin. Cecil has always been a snorer, but his bear-like grunt seems worse since the fire.
His lungs are full of the murky black soot covering every inch of his livelihood.
There’s nothing left to salvage in the greenhouse.
Even the tomato stakes melted in the blaze.
After dragging a hand down my tired face, I pull off my socks, then gallop down the front stairs of the cabin. I can’t save any of the produce Cecil was planning to can for next winter, but the quicker I get started repairing the crops, the faster we’ll have more than deer meat to consume.
I can survive on deer meat. I’d just rather not.
It isn’t a delicacy I’d choose to eat forever.
My steps into the charred remains of a once-thriving greenhouse slow when I notice a boot imprint at the side of the water tank that’s empty since I forgot to switch off the sprinkler system once the fire was contained. I usually get around barefoot. Cecil’s stomps are less impacting to the soil than mine, so he wears boots, but the ones I’m stalking are far larger than Cecil’s boot size. The owner must wear at least a size eleven shoe, and the deepness of the tread makes it appear as if his footwear was recently purchased.
Upon noticing the prints lead away from the greenhouse, I alter the direction of my route. They trek past Cecil’s truck and down the driveway, ending at a gate hidden by overgrown shrubbery.
When I spin around in preparation to ask Cecil if he’s had any visitors the past week I didn’t know about, something in the bush captures my attention. It’s the Dodger’s bat usually hanging above the cabin’s front door. Cecil often joked it would take someone down quicker than a bullet.
“What the fuck?” I stammer out under my breath when my dip to pick up the bat has my hand slipping on a gooey substance. A vibrant red stain marks one end of the bat. It looks like fresh blood.
It takes me longer than I care to admit to unearth how Cecil’s bat got blood on it, but when it finally clicks, I race back to the cabin like I’m outrunning a bullet.
Cecil said something hit him over the head. I assumed it was one of the steel panels holding the shade cloth up in the greenhouse. I didn’t consider the prospect he was struck by something. Roderick wants to be a gangster, but he doesn’t have the gall to pull it off.
Well, he didn’t. Now I’m not so sure.
The floorboards of the cabin shriek as loudly as the front door when I race inside. “Whatever hit you over the head wasn’t an accident. You were struck by a bat.” I tug on a pair of boots before spinning to face Cecil’s bed. “There are footprints in the mud, and I found this under the shrubs out front.”
My words clog in my throat when my eyes lock with Cecil. His chest is rising and falling, but his freight-train snore is nonexistent even with his eyes closed.
That isn’t a good sign.
“Cecil.” I race to his bedside before placing two fingers on his neck to feel for a pulse. There is one, but it’s faint, and the reason for its dullness could be attributed to the amount of blood that coats my fingers when I remove them from his neck.
He’s bleeding—profusely.
“Jesus Christ, Cecil,” I push out with a groan when I roll him over to inspect where the blood is coming from. His hair is parted by a large split. It’s seeping out enough blood to ruin his deer skin bedding.
Although Cecil has said numerous times the day he leaves his cabin will be the day he takes his final breath, his injuries don’t give me any other option. If I don’t seek urgent medical treatment, he will die. There’s no uncertainty to this.
