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“On it!” Bobby Knowlton already had a phone pressed to his ear.
“Oh, holy shit, look at all that blood,” another man yelled. “Gus! You okay?”
James pushed through the crowd that had gathered around the injured man. “What happened?”
“For Christ’s sake, Cahill. Are you fuckin’ blind? What the fuck does it look like? I cut my fuckin’ hand,” Jardine said, panicked, black hair falling over his eyes. “Jesus.”
Somehow Betsy Idalgo, an electrician who’d been working on one of the houses, came up with a clean towel. “Let’s clean it up. See what we’ve got? Let me see.”
“Fuck off! I need an ambulance!” Gus was screaming, snapping the towel from her and wrapping it over his arm, but not letting her look at the wound.
“Hey, man, I was an EMT,” she said, her face earnest and firm. “I can help.”
James said to Gus, “Let her help.”
“Fuck off, Cahill. This is all your fault!”
Tires screeched through the open barn doors.
James looked up and spied an older-model Chevy Tahoe sliding to a stop. The driver, Leon Palleja, leaned across the passenger seat and threw open the door. “Get him in here!” he yelled. “I’ll drive.”
James said, “Bobby’s calling nine-one-one.”
“Shit, that’ll take forever.” Gus, cradling his bleeding arm, barreled through the crowd.
James was on his heels. “I’m coming with,” he said to Leon.
“I told you to fuck off!” Gus growled. “Oh, shit, this hurts like a mother!” and he nearly fell into the front seat of the SUV.
“He’s bleeding. Bad,” Leon said, working with James to strap Gus in.
Gus was sweating. Breathing hard. A wild look in his eyes. “Let’s fuckin’ go!”
James slammed the passenger door. Got into the back.
Bobby Knowlton ran out of the building. “Ambulance is on its way.”
“Call ’em off. Let ’em know we don’t need them,” James said. “Then you, Bobby, meet us at the hospital. I’ll need a ride back. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Fifteen.” Leon hit the gas as James yanked his door shut. “Hang on!” Leon shoved his truck into drive, cut a tight circle, and sped along the lane, wheels spinning gravel, the vehicle bouncing over potholes, Jardine moaning and cursing in the passenger seat. By the time James had buckled up, Leon had turned onto the county road and was speeding north toward town. Snow-covered fields flew by, fence posts a blur.
“This is your fault,” Gus accused, twisting his head around to peer at James with narrowed, pained eyes.
“So you said.”
“Your safety standards are for shit!”
“I comply with—”
“You don’t comply with crap!” Jardine spat at James, then turned to Palleja. “Jesus, Leon, can we get there already? I’m dying over here.” He sent the driver a hard stare even though Leon was ignoring the speed limit, his Chevy Tahoe skating over the road, sliding around corners, passing slower-moving vehicles where he could.
“You fucked me up, Cahill,” Jardine repeated. “And I’m going to sue your ass.”
Leon whispered something in Spanish under his breath that sounded like imbécil desagradecido, which, loosely translated, meant “ungrateful moron,” James thought, though either Gus hadn’t heard Leon or didn’t understand the phrase because he just moaned and leaned against the window, the white towel wrapped over his hand now red.
Jardine was in too much pain to be making any sense, too scared.
Let him rant and rave.
