“Pack in my truck,” Randy said.
“Hold on, Randy,” Dekker said. “Mitch is going to take you to the hospital. Just hold on.”
Randy worked his mouth like a goldfish out of its bowl. Blood appeared on his mustache, and I knew this was a very bad sign.
He gasped for air, his eyes gazing at the sky, unfocused, unblinking.
I looked at Dekker and he shook his head, his lips set in a grim line. He pulled one hand away from Randy’s side and swiped at his own forehead, leaving a red slash there in the sweat.
“Give me your keys,” Mitch said.
Dekker pulled them out of his pocket and tossed them to Mitch, who ran down the embankment and reappeared driving the Buick. He hopped out, the motor still running, and opened the vehicle’s back door.
“You take his feet,” Dekker said to me.
Dekker took Randy’s hands and placed them on the gunshot wound, but his strength was gone and they fell away. I looked into Randy’s eyes, but it was as if his spirit was receding deep inside and would soon dissipate altogether.
We lifted Randy, and Dekker crouched low, backing into the car. He laid Randy’s head on the seat and I bent Randy’s knees.
I saw he’d voided his bladder when he was shot, and for some crazy reason I felt embarrassed for him. I wanted to say something to him, but I couldn’t find my voice. So I backed out of the door and Mitch closed it.
“How far is the hospital?” Dekker asked.
“About eighteen miles. Stay at the house. I’ll send the police,” Mitch said. Then he lunged at me and pinned my arms to my sides in a big bear hug. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”
He nuzzled my ear and his wet lips slid over my cheek. I broke his grip and stepped back, disconcerted. He got in the Buick and drove down to the road.
THE FIRST FLAKES of snow fell. I watched Petty hold out a bloody hand to catch them.
“That was a little . . . weird,” I said. “I know we’re all freaked out, but he’s your . . . dad.”
Before I could look away, her eyes met mine. To my surprise, she charged at me and clung on, her arms around my waist, her face buried in my chest.
“I’m sorry, Petty,” I said. “I shouldn’t have left. I never should have left. I’m sorry.”
We held onto each other as the snow floated down around us in large fat clusters.
I let go and wiped my eyes and nose on my sleeve.
Where Randy had lain, no snow accumulated thanks to the lingering warmth of him, like a chalk outline.
Randy. He’d said . . .
“Petty,” I said, as we went back into the cabin, “Randy said something weird when we were fighting out front. He said, ‘You didn’t read all the letters.’ ”
Petty sat on the sofa and stared quizzically at me. “How would he know about . . . wait. Did you read them all? All the ones in your stack?”
“I read most of them,” I said. “I guess I stopped reading when I realized Charlie Moshen wasn’t your dad.”
“So there were some letters you didn’t read.” No longer rattled by the shooting, she was alert and focused.
I prickled. “I guess I’m just the guy who always lets you down, so—-”
“No, that’s not it,” Petty said. “Why would it matter that you didn’t read all the letters? And how would Randy know that?”
My puzzlement over this deflated my indignation. “Before Mitch took him away, Randy said, ‘Pack in my truck.’ ”
“What does that mean?” Petty said.
“Maybe I ought to go down and see.”
I ran out of the house and down the hill. When I reached the Ram, the door was unlocked and I got in the driver’s seat. A fancy spit container was in one of the cup holders next to a bottle of Mountain Dew. He’ll never see the inside of the truck again, I thought, and then chided myself. Randy needed to live if for no other reason than to go to jail.
Sure enough, on the passenger seat sat a rust--colored backpack. I nabbed it and carried it up to the cabin.
By the time I returned, Randy’s outline in the yard was filled with snow, as if he’d never been there at all.
DEKKER RETURNED WITH a rust--colored backpack, breathless and flushed. He unzipped the pack and pulled out several sheets of copy paper.
I watched his eyes track back and forth as he read.
Then his face turned as white as the thick snow falling outside the window. He looked up and the stack spilled from his hands, a cascade of paper littering the floor. His mouth moved but nothing came out.
“What is it, Dekker?”
A thin high sound came from his throat. Syllables poured out but I couldn’t understand them because his lips weren’t moving. Sound but no meaning. His pupils were pinpricks.
“What?” I said.
Finally, the noises resolved into words. “Michael Rhones didn’t write those letters.”
The blood seemed to evaporate from my veins.
“Who did, then?”
But I already knew.
Chapter 28
I PITCHED FORWARD onto my knees and scrabbled like a crab toward the papers on the floor. I read the first one I saw, dated that day.
09:27 A.M.
FAX transmission
To: Motel guest Dekker Sachs, Room 5, Motel 9