Tom’s eyes were peeled for the tall storage shed that stood beside Drew Elliott’s lake house. The former owner hadn’t built a boathouse, preferring to keep his ski boat (with its wakeboarding tower) in a prefab storage shed. Drew had complained about the shed when he acquired the property, but he hadn’t yet got rid of it. Tom was sure the Roadtrek would fit inside the tall building, so long as they could clear enough floor space.
“This whole damned lake is lined with houses,” Walt grumbled. “How are we going to sneak this thing into a garage?”
“The houses on either side of Drew’s are empty in the winter. And nobody’s moving around this late.”
Walt grunted.
Tom had hated to ask Drew to put himself at risk by offering help, but he’d had no alternative. To his credit, Tom’s young partner had not only offered his lake house as a sanctuary but also insisted on driving over immediately to treat Tom’s wound.
“There!” Tom cried, wincing as he raised his hand to point at a giant shed a couple of hundred yards up the road on the right-hand side.
“I see it.”
Walt eased the Roadtrek back to forty miles per hour, then thirty. The turn was forty yards ahead now. He braked steadily, then swung out to the left so that he could fit the van between the mailbox and a post on the other side of the asphalt drive.
Thirty yards ahead, a gravel offshoot led to the tall storage shed. Walt drove straight up to the overhead door and stopped with a squeal. Tom read the code off his hand, and Walt climbed out and entered it in the keypad on the wall.
The overhead door began to rise, and white light flooded the ground.
Walt scrambled back into the driver’s seat, then pulled into the garage as soon as he had sufficient clearance. Then he jumped out and hit a button on the interior wall. Thirty seconds later, the door rattled down to the ground and they were enveloped in darkness.
“Not bad,” Walt said in a grudging tone. “About the best we could have hoped for. How’s your shoulder?”
“Bad enough. I could use another Lorcet.”
“Should you take it, with your ticker weak as it is?”
“No. But if Drew has some Maker’s Mark in there, I’ll sure drink it.”
“Let’s find out.”
Tom felt dizzy as he sought the van’s running board with his foot.
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Walt leaned over Tom’s bloody shoulder and studied Drew Elliott’s handiwork by the light of the reading lamp Drew had used to see while suturing the wound.
“You sewed a drain into it,” Walt observed, “just like we used to do in Korea.”
Drew stripped off his gloves as Melba Price sponged the skin around the rubber hose protruding from Tom’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have used a drain if we were in a hospital. But if Tom insists on staying out here, I want it in there.”
Drew had brought Melba along because Tom’s nurse had demanded that if he heard anything from Tom—especially about needing help—he should call her. Knowing that he couldn’t stay there all night, Drew had done so. Two minutes after crossing the westbound bridge over the Mississippi River—driving in tandem—Melba had noticed a Louisiana State Police cruiser thirty yards behind him, so she’d texted a warning. To test for surveillance, Drew had gone to the Mercy Hospital first to check on Henry Sexton. After that visit, they’d seen no sign of the patrol car, and so had proceeded to the lake house.
“Thanks, Drew,” Tom said, forcing a smile. “It feels a lot better already.”
“That’s just the local, you know that. Once the lidocaine wears off, it’s going to hurt like a son of a bitch. And I don’t want you hitting that Lorcet too hard.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Walt. “I took his bottle.”
Drew smiled. “Good. Tom’s bad about self-prescribing.” He leaned over his senior partner. “You know, with your heart the way it is, you really should be in the ICU at St. Catherine’s.”
Tom shook his head. “They’d put me in the county jail.”
“Not if they don’t know you’ve skipped,” Walt said.
“And not with your pericardium filling with fluid,” Drew added.
“We’re talking about Shad Johnson and Billy Byrd,” Tom said. “Shad’s going to get my bail revoked as soon as he can.”
Drew looked troubled. “I think Penn is more than enough lawyer to arrange for you to be held in the ICU while he sorts this mess out.”
When Tom shook his head and protested that he’d brought plenty of diuretics with him, Drew raised his hands in surrender. “All right. But if you develop serious complications over here—or God forbid, have a fatal MI—Penn and Peggy will never forgive me. I didn’t save your life two months ago to have you die in my lake house.”
“You didn’t save my life.” Tom winked at his nurse. “Melba did. You just plugged up that defib unit and shocked me back into rhythm. It was Melba barging into my bathroom and finding me on the floor that saved me.”
Drew laughed, and Melba’s eyes shone with pride.
“I don’t guess you want to tell me why you skipped bail,” Drew said with sudden seriousness.
“You’re better off not knowing.”
“I don’t believe you murdered anybody, Tom. So I’m not worried about getting in trouble for helping you.”
“Don’t be na?ve.”
“Hell, I’m already aiding and abetting now, right?”
Walt nodded, and Melba looked worried.
“I wish I could tell you more,” Tom said.
“More? You haven’t told me anything yet.”
Tom tried to think of a way to make Drew understand the stakes. “Do you remember when you had your back against the wall a few years ago?” Tom asked. “Shad Johnson had locked your ass up, and nobody believed a word you said.”
At last his words had penetrated Drew’s good humor. The smile had vanished as though it never existed. “I’ll never forget it.”
“Did you tell anybody everything? Even Penn?”
Drew sighed heavily. “No. But I should have. And even though I held back on him, he’s the one who got me out of trouble.”
“Penn can’t get me out of this. You have to trust me on that.”
“I guess I have to. It’s your life, after all.”
“Doc?” Melba said gently. “Are you feeling all right? You look clammy.”
Tom forced a smile. “I don’t think Drew’s going to have a hissy fit if you call me Tom, Melba.”