Morgan waved her quiet. To the nurse he said, “Never mind. I’ll be down as soon as I can.” He hung up.

Ginny asked, “What is it?”

“I have to pick up a friend from the hospital,” Morgan said. “Sorry, but I have to go.”

“Is he hurt bad?”

“I’m sure he’s okay,” Morgan said.

“I’ll wait here for you,” Ginny said.

Morgan sighed. “Sure.” He closed the door behind him.

Reams sat in the passenger seat of Morgan’s car with his left hand in the air and his head down between his knees. A thick white bandage was tightly wrapped around his middle finger. Reams breathlessly related the story.

He’d been sawing wood with a particularly wicked little saw which had neatly sliced off the top half inch of the finger. Blood had spurted, and Reams had run in circles for a bit before calling an ambulance.

Morgan said Reams could probably have wrapped the finger in a towel and driven himself to the hospital.

“Too light-headed,” Reams had explained. “I saw stars. I never believed that about seeing stars before, but I do now. I felt I was spiraling down into a long black hole, slipping right out of the daylight, swimming toward a long cottony sleep.”

It sounded like something Reams had read in a Raymond Chandler novel.

Morgan turned onto Reams’s road. “I’m taking you home. You need to stop anywhere first, get a prescription or anything?”

Reams shook a little bottle of pills in the other hand. “These will get me by for a day or two. Doctor had some samples. For pain.” Reams still had his head between his legs.

“Jesus, will you sit up?” Morgan said.

“I need to sit like this. Isn’t this what you’re supposed to do?”

“That’s for airline crashes. That’s crash position you’re in.”

Reams said, “I thought I was supposed to let the blood flow to my head, or out of my head, or something.”

“I’ll have you home in a few minutes and you can stick your head in a bucket if you want.”

“Dammit all, Morgan, have a heart why don’t you? I’ve been mortally wounded.”

“It’s just your finger.”

“I think I sliced an artery,” Reams said. “If I’d passed out before I made it to the phone, I most likely would have bled to death.”

Morgan doubted that.

“I’m feeling a little ill even now. I’ve had a shock to the system. That’s how these seemingly little injuries can sometimes be serious. They shock the system.”

“Don’t puke in my car,” Morgan said.

Morgan parked in Reams’s driveway. Sluggishly, Reams climbed out, still holding his hand over his head. It looked like he was flipping the bird to the whole neighborhood. He fished his keys out of his pocket with the other hand.

“Thanks, Morgan. I didn’t know who else to call, but I knew you said you’d be home all day.”

“Go take one of your pills,” Morgan said.

“Right.” Reams closed the car door, took two steps toward his house, and stopped. He swayed. A pause. Reams tumbled, wilted facefirst into the front lawn.

Morgan watched for a few seconds, but Reams didn’t get back up.

“Hell.” Morgan shut off the car, climbed out, and picked Reams up from the grass. “You okay?”

“Hmm? What?” Reams rubbed his head. “See, I told you. I asked the doctor for a transfusion, but he wouldn’t do it. Damn quack.”

“Uh-huh.” Morgan dragged Reams to the front door, took his keys, and unlocked it. They went in. Morgan draped Reams on the sofa.

“Thanks, Morgan. I really owe you even more now.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, really. First that craziness with Pritcher and now this. I think you ought to come down to Houston with me. I know I can put in a word with that guy I know, get you a job lined up for fall.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” Reams squirmed on the sofa, arranged it so his hand was elevated above his head. “What’s it like?”

Morgan sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair across from Reams. “What’s what like?”

“The gypsy prof gig, moving around all the time?”

Morgan thought about it. “I used to like it, or thought I did. Changing scenery all the time helped me not think about other things. But I think I’m getting tired of it. I think maybe I need some roots. It’s time to start putting my energies back into my work, you know? Hard to accomplish anything when you’re always worried about your next paycheck.”

But Reams didn’t hear. He snored lightly, middle finger over his head, blazing white to the world.

twenty-seven

While waiting for Morgan to return, Ginny Conrad went through all the professor’s cabinets, closets, and drawers. She realized, even as she was doing it, that her actions were the result of a minor, quirky character flaw. She hated to be left out of anything, hated the thought that something was going on and she wasn’t in on it.

Once, when she was eleven years old, she’d painted a Magic Marker moustache on herself and taken her father’s Dodge. She’d picked up two friends and went to see an R-rated movie in which there was rumored to be nudity. The policeman who brought her home warned her father he’d better keep an eye on her.

The incident had only strengthened her resolve to get away with things. She made up her own rules as she went along, and damn the consequences.

Screwing Professor Jay Morgan was a thrill. He was older (a teacher!) and a writer. He hung out with dangerous criminals! Helping Professor Morgan stash the body of the dead girl had been one of the most exciting things she’d ever done. She’d been so horny in the peach orchard, she’d been unable to keep her hands off him.

But Morgan had been a bit of a dud since. He seemed timid, almost frightened, that he was going to be caught or that something would go wrong. Oh, the sex was halfway good, but she could get sex anywhere. And rummaging Morgan’s closets was dullsville. Pale blue Hanes boxer shorts, a half-used tube of BENGAY, and a clip-on tie from Sears were the highlights.

She thought about putting her clothes on, leaving a note for Morgan.

No, she’d wait. One more roll in the hay before cutting him loose.

Deke Stubbs screeched into the parking space in front of the convenience store. He shut off the engine, went in, hands shaking as he pulled crumpled bills from his pants pocket. He bought another six-pack of beer and a pack of cigarettes.

The girl behind the counter looked scared of him. Stubbs caught his reflection in the fish-eye mirror behind the girl. He looked distorted and evil, eyes red, skin waxen and moist. I’m a villain, thought Stubbs, like in a creepy foreign film or a Stephen King novel. Stubbs didn’t watch foreign films or read much beyond the sports page, but he knew he’d crossed some line and couldn’t get back.

On his way out to the car he ripped a phone book out of a booth. He sat in the front seat, flipped through the residential listings until he found Jay Morgan’s address.

He popped a beer, gulped half, lit a cigarette, and sucked it slowly. He let out a long gray breath.

There was nothing to do now but see this through. He nodded to himself, pleased with the grim finality of his decision. Yeah, he’d have to go all the way. The Lancaster kid wasn’t coming back, and it wasn’t like Stubbs planned to turn himself in and say he was sorry. Rage and craziness had killed the kid. Stubbs would have to get his shit together from there on out. It was all or nothing.

Tracking down the cocaine was his first priority. He’d look for Annie Walsh still, and he’d send the parents a bill of course. But following Annie’s trail might lead him to the drugs. He was way too deep into this shit not to get some kind of payoff.

Stubbs finished the cigarette, started the engine, and pointed the car toward Morgan’s house. No more kid gloves. He’d find out what Morgan knew about this the hard way or the easy way. It didn’t matter.