Casey managed to wrestle Miah to the dirt, pinning him on his belly as he swore and bucked. Bean was whimpering now, maybe even crying, voice growing fainter by the second, words sounding wet from more than tears, as though he were choking on something.
“You kill him,” Casey told Miah, right in his ear, “and we never find out who hired him, you got that? You kill him and the person who wanted you fucking dead walks away from all this. Now this motherfucker’s fucking choking or some shit, so I’m gonna let you up, and I’m gonna call nine-one-one, and you’re not gonna touch him, you got that? We’re gonna let the authorities take him, and they’ll get you some answers. But you do not fucking touch him, you understand me? Your mom needs you too fucking bad right now for you to mess this shit up.”
Miah went still. His face was jammed to one side, flushed red from the rage and the dust, equally. He didn’t reply, but Casey had no choice but to take his body language as a truce. He stood, eyeing Miah as he pulled his phone out and dialed the digits. Miah sat up, facing away from Casey and the man on the ground, and hugged his knees.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“I need an ambulance, and the police. There’s a guy on the ground—he’s been shot and I think he’s on drugs. He tried to kill my friend,” Casey said, realizing with a chill that it wasn’t merely a fib to imply self-defense. It was true.
The operator demanded the location and Casey gave it, staying on the line, answering questions until he was told that the authorities were on the way. He checked on Bean and found him breathing, if faintly, sounding as though he had a reed in his throat.
“Don’t you dare fucking die, asshole. You’ve got too much shit to answer for.” Casey didn’t know a ton about first aid, but decided to leave him on his side, thinking it’d keep him from choking to death on all the shit leaking from his lips. There was more blood on the ground—a small pool of it, but not enough to equal a major artery, he imagined.
“Miah, gimme your knife.”
Miah didn’t respond, so Casey got up and forcibly took the thing, unclipping it from Miah’s belt. He ripped Bean’s pant leg open, wincing at the wound. It didn’t look deep, but it was bleeding pretty bad, soaking his jeans.
Casey got his own hoodie off and tied it twice around Bean’s thigh, tight. His pistol was probably evident through his shirt, but the thing was registered and he had a concealed-carry permit. He didn’t relish the cops finding it, but at least he wouldn’t get charged.
As the waiting commenced and his role as the coolheaded party ebbed, Casey felt his own rage rising inside.
Don Church was dead.
The man who’d taught Casey how to ride a horse and shoot a rifle. Who’d given him little tastes now and then of what a father was supposed to be like—calling him a dumb-ass and slapping him upside the head once when he’d been about twelve, penance for riling one of the stock horses. The animal could have kicked him, could’ve broken his skull, but you didn’t consider that shit at that age. Casey had been hit by his own dad a few times before the guy had taken off, but this had been different. More startling, coming from a friend’s father. Way more humbling, knowing he’d been called out for a stupid move, that he’d been traded a smack in place of a potentially fatal hoof to the head. More humiliating, too, because he’d always looked up to Don Church, thinking the guy was about as cool as dads came. As cool as a cowboy from a western. He’d grown up a little that day.
These past few months, Casey had been wanting to feel like someone important, like a man who mattered. He’d thought that his part in saving the bar was the way to achieve that, and it wasn’t off the mark . . . but there was no more significant thing a man could be than a father, was there? Whether you were Don Church or Tom Grossier, the choices you made as a father could change people profoundly, for better or worse. Don had done so much good, for so many people.