“You go on in,” I said. “I’ll guard him until the cops get here.”
Dekker pointed to a black--and--white idling at the curb, exhaust fumes making clouds in the cold night. “They’re already here.” He got out of the car and knocked on the cruiser’s window.
Inside the ER, the lady at the admissions desk did a double take when she saw the three of us accompanied by the deputy.
“Car accident?” she asked, jumping to her feet and picking up the phone.
“No,” I said and pointed at Dekker. “He’s got a head injury.” I pointed at Mitch. “This guy tried to rape me and kill both of us.”
Orderlies appeared and put Dekker into a wheelchair and wheeled him right in.
The admissions nurse said, “Are you all right?”
“No,” I said. Then I collapsed to the floor.
Chapter 31
Saturday
I HOPED PETTY was okay.
“What did he hit you with?” the attending nurse asked me. She was about my grandma’s age, dressed in hot pink scrubs, her dyed--blond hair cut in a pixie. Her name tag said Sally.
“His car, for one thing,” I said. “And I think he might have pistol--whipped me.”
“Follow my finger with your eyes, please,” Sally said, shining a light into my eyes and moving her finger from left to right and then up and down.
Moving my eyes didn’t feel too good, but I didn’t have any problem tracking.
“We need to clean up those cuts on your scalp,” Sally said. “See if you need any sutures.”
My head seemed huge, twanging with a dull, heavy ache. My hands and feet felt sunburned, and four of my fingers were splinted.
“Can you help me make a phone call?” I asked her.
She picked up the receiver from the wall phone. I told her the number, which she punched in then gave me the handset. “I’m going to grab the antiseptic and some gauze.”
She left the room as Uncle Curt answered the phone.
“Dekker,” he said, his voice raw, sounding a lot older than he was. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did you get my fax?”
“We were already in Paiute by the time it came through. Randy King got it.”
A pause. Then Uncle Curt whispered, “What?”
I gave him the short version, which he repeated to Aunt Rita as I told it.
“We just landed in Denver,” Curt said. “We rented a car and we should be up there in a -couple of hours.”
“But wait,” I said. “How did you know to—-”
“When Rita got home she read the letters and put it all together—-she’s the brains in this outfit, as you well know—-she figured out Michael Rhones didn’t write them, and that you were headed straight for the place he never wanted Petty to go or even know about.”
“Mitch shot Randy,” I said. “He’s dead.” And just like that, I was crying hard. I was more tired than I realized.
“It’s not your fault, Dekker,” Curt said. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not Petty’s fault.”
I couldn’t speak, and I couldn’t stop crying for a good minute and a half. I blew my nose and averted my face when the nurse stopped in the doorway. She discreetly stepped away.
“I knew there was something weird about Mitch,” I said, sniffling. “And I think Petty knew it too. But she wanted him to be her dad so bad she couldn’t hear me, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“I kinda wish you could have seen her though,” I said, brightening a little. “This guy outweighed her by a hundred and fifty pounds and she kicked his ass. It was sick.”
“I wish I’d been there.”
I knew he meant he wished he’d been there from the time we left his house.
“Hey, listen,” Uncle Curt said. “I need you to write down a number for Petty to call.”
“Hang on,” I said. I hollered toward the door, “Sally? Can you help me with something?”
She walked into the room.
“Can you write down a number for me?”
She found a pen and a pad of paper and wrote the number down as I repeated it.
“It’s my lawyer buddy’s private cell number,” Uncle Curt said. “George Engle, remember? Can you have her call him? He said it doesn’t matter what time it is.”
“Hang on,” I said. Then to Sally: “Can you take this to Petty for me and have her call this number? Tell her it’s her lawyer.”
“Sure,” Sally said, and left the room again.
“We’re on our way,” Uncle Curt said. “Then we’re going to bring you and Petty home. Love you, punk.”
I choked up again. “Love you too, hippie.”
“See you soon.”
I WOKE UP under blankets in a hospital room with an IV in my arm and my hands wrapped up like a mummy’s. My face felt huge, and I remembered head--butting Mitch. When I opened my eyes, a police officer rose from a nearby chair and walked toward me holding the backpack we’d left at Mitch’s cabin.
“I’m Officer Pearson,” he said. “I wondered if I could—-”
“Where’s Mitch?” I said. “He shot Randy and hit Dekker with his car. You’ve got to—-”
“He’s in surgery right now and under guard,” the cop said.
“Where’s Dekker?”