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“When you got crosswise with the ATF, weren’t you investigating a guy named Wilcox?”
Trapper went absolutely still.
“Thomas Wilcox?” Carson said.
“It was covert,” Trapper said. “How’d you know about it?”
“You got drunk one night. Mumbled on and on about this big shot over in Big D.”
He didn’t recall venting his spleen to Carson, but he didn’t doubt that he had. The mere mention of Wilcox’s name aroused feral impulses. “What about him?”
“When Kerra Bailey signed on with the Dallas TV station, he was one of her first interviews.”
After a sustained silence, Carson said, “Trapper? You still there, buddy? Did you get that?”
Trapper cleared his throat. “I’m here. I got it.”
“Don’t know if it means anything. But, six degrees of separation. All that.”
“Right. Thanks, Carson. I’ll be in touch.”
“Before you go. About that slick SUV—”
“Did you tell the guy I’ll pay him a daily rate? I couldn’t get it back to him now anyway on account of the weather.”
“But—”
“I gotta go. Somebody’s beeping in, and it could be the hospital.” It wasn’t. The readout said Glenn. Trapper didn’t want to talk to him, he wanted to ponder what Carson had just told him about Thomas Wilcox and Kerra. But Glenn might have news about The Major, so he answered.
“I was about to give up on reaching you,” the sheriff said.
“I had to click over.”
“Want to have breakfast?”
“No.”
“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
“I’m going to the hospital.”
“After you’ve seen him, call me. I’ll pick you up outside.” The phone went dead.
“Ssssshit,” Trapper hissed as he slung back the covers. The start of the day didn’t bode well for the rest of it.
Trapper and the trauma doctor who’d been overseeing The Major’s care stood across the ICU bed from each other. Between them lay The Major.
The physician said, “We’re a little more optimistic this morning.”
Trapper had to take his word for that. He compared the helpless patient in the bed to his father as he’d last seen him. Even though Kerra and he had shown up at The Major’s house unannounced, he’d looked company-ready, dressed in starched khakis with a knife-edge crease. His flannel shirt was softly worn, but neatly tucked in behind a wide tooled leather belt with a large silver buckle. His boots had their usual shine. His shave was so close his skin was shiny, too. Not a hair out of place. Fit as a fiddle for a man his age. For a man half his age.
He didn’t look like that now. There was an IV port between his shoulder and neck with multiple lines attached. The hospital gown lay loose on his chest. His chin was bristly with white whiskers. A clear hose was emptying his piss into a bag hooked to the bed rail.
The Major was human after all.
“The swelling has gone down considerably from what it was this time yesterday,” the doctor was saying.
“So no hole required?”
