Joe stood up, but it was too late—Randy's pickup rumbled to life, and he tore out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell, leaving nothing but a spray of dirt and a plume of reddish dust in his wake.
"What do we do now?" I asked Joe plaintively.
Joe shook his head, walking toward me along the wet, muddy bank of the pond. "I don't think he'll get very far on these dark back roads without headlights," he said.
And sure enough, there was a squeal of tires followed by a huge thud, then the tinkle of broken glass.
"Holy shit," I breathed. "I thought I played rough."
There was a hard light in Joe's eyes—one I'd never seen before. "The bastard put his hands on you," he said flatly. "And he murdered that poor girl. He's lucky I didn't kill him."
"You may have done exactly that." I was shocked; my gentle, playful lover had a dark side all his own.
Joe shrugged, pulling out his cellphone. "He deserved it," he said. "I hope he burns in hell."
Unfortunately, hell was going to have to wait. We could hear Randy's shouts and groans long before we made it to the pickup, which hadn't gone very far.
Joe called an ambulance on his cellphone, telling the police dispatcher there'd been an accident in front of the One-Stop Body Shop, then very reluctantly stopped to get his emergency medical kit out of the trunk of his car.
Then we went toward the truck, which, from all appearances, had kissed a tree pretty hard. Branches from the tree covered the crumpled hood and rested on the roof. The one front tire I could see looked pretty mangled—that truck wasn't going anywhere unless it was on the flatbed of a wrecker.
"Help!" Randy called, from inside the cab. His voice was weak, thready. "Somebody help me."
Joe took his time, putting his medical kit on the ground and opening it without saying a word. He pulled out a pair of surgical gloves and put them on, a sour expression on his face.
I hung back a little, not wanting Randy to see me. I was still wet and mud-covered, though I'd slipped my half-boots back on when we'd reached Joe's car.
"Is somebody there?" Randy asked weakly. "Anybody out there?"
I was tempted to stick my head in the broken window and give him another good scare, but I restrained myself. For the time being, I'd let Joe handle it.
"This is Dr. Joe Bascombe from Columbia Hospital in Atlanta ," Joe said, in a clipped tone. "An ambulance is on the way."
"Oh, thank Gawd," Randy moaned. "I think both my legs are broken."
"I sincerely hope so," Joe murmured. Then he went to the driver's side door and peered in the window, which was shattered. "Are you injured anywhere else?"
"My chest hurts," Randy moaned. "I think I hit it on the steering wheel."
Joe frowned. "Are you having any trouble breathing?"
"No. But it hurts like a motherfucker. Can you get me out of here?" he whined. It was obvious that Randy either couldn't see Joe very well in the dark, or just didn't recognize him as the man he'd been brawling with in the parking lot of the Long Branch Saloon.
"Unless you're bleeding heavily or having trouble breathing, it's best not to move around too much. You may have spinal or internal injuries and I don't have the equipment here to handle the level of care required. The ambulance will be here soon."
Another groan was Joe's answer.
"I'm going to open the door and check your vitals. Try and stay still."
I watched while Joe reached in and did something to Randy; I couldn't see the murdering asshole from my angle, and that was fine with me.
"Your pupils look good. How's your head?"
"It hurts, man…cain't you give me something for the pain?"
Joe shook his head. "Nothing until the paramedics get here." His expression was pure doctor, dispassionate and intent. "Pulse is steady, that's good. How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Two," Randy groaned. "My legs are killin' me."
It was like Randy had used the magic word. Joe stepped back, then looked at me. There was a gleam in his eyes that warned me he was up to something. "Yeah, I'll bet they are. Can't move, can you?"
"Hell, no. Where the fuck is that ambulance?"
Joe didn't answer. Instead, he raised his eyebrows at me in an unspoken question, and like a flash, I knew what he was up to.
My nod and my smile gave him the answer he needed. With the flick of a finger, he motioned me to stand behind him, then turned back to Randy.
I got into position, staying back while Joe distracted Randy with more doctor talk.
"That's a nasty cut on your cheek. Might need some stitches. I've got some bandages right here in my first aid kit." Joe moved away, leaving me with an unobstructed view of Randy, and him with a clear shot of me, framed in the open door of the truck.
"AAAAAHHHH," Randy shrieked, jerking backward on the front seat. He didn't get very far, though, his legs like two dead weights dragging him down. His face was pale and blood-streaked, and a bruise was beginning to darken his chin.
I gave him my best ghoulish grin, delighted to be able to terrify the murdering bastard without having to worry about him coming after me.
"Get her away from me," he hollered, sounding like a little girl frightened by a spider. "Get her away."
Joe stepped in front of me, his expression unconcerned. "Calm down, big fella. Get who away from you?"
Randy raised a shaking finger and pointed. "Her! She's right behind you! Get her away!"
Joe turned and looked, but didn't acknowledge me in any way. "I don't see anything. There's nobody here but you and me."
"I'm tellin' you, man, she's right behind you!" Randy's eyes were popping out of his head with fright.
I raised my hand and gave him a little wave, smiling all the while. "He can't see me, Randy," I rasped, "or hear me. Only you can see me. And you're going to see me every day for the rest of your life, unless you tell the nice man where to find my body." I moued him a kiss.
To my surprise, Randy's eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell over in a dead faint.
"Coward," Joe muttered. "Not so brave now, are you, Cornpone?"
I heard a girl's laughter, and it wasn't mine. Michelle was still with us, and given the circumstances, I was glad she was enjoying the show.
Joe sighed, and went back to his medical kit.
"Is he okay? When I said I wanted to scare him to death, I didn't mean literally." I couldn't help but be a little nervous—unlike Randy, I was no murderer. I didn't want anybody's death on my conscience.
"He's fine," Joe said. "His pulse is good, he's alert and talking, no dilation of the pupils. Unfortunately, I see this all the time in the E.R. When a person is drunk, like Jethro here, their reactions are slower, so the body doesn't have time to tense up before impact, which often results in fewer injuries." Joe shook his head, disgusted. "I'm willing to bet this jerk's got nothing wrong with him but a couple of bruised ribs, maybe a broken leg. But I think he needs a little more convincing to do the right thing." He ripped open a packet of something—ammonia, I guess—and held it under Randy's nose.
Randy's face twitched, eyes fluttering. When he opened them, his expression was dazed. "Wha…what happened?"
"You passed out, buddy," Joe said, faking a doctorly concern. "And right before that you were hallucinating. Must be a head injury—if that ambulance doesn't get here soon I can't be held responsible for what happens to you."
"What do you mean?" Randy's face showed fear of a different kind than I'd inspired earlier.