Collision

13

“Pain is nothing,” Pilgrim muttered in agony. “Pain is a friend. If you don’t feel pain you’re dead.” He repeated it like a mantra.

“Pain says you need a doctor.” Ben drove west on Sixth Street, heading out of downtown, watching his rearview, trying to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He made a sharp turn, headed north for a few blocks, then turned east again. Brackenridge Hospital was on East Fifteenth Street-he could be there in a few minutes.

“No doctor. No hospital.” Pilgrim gritted his teeth.

“Don’t be a dumb-ass. You’re hurt.”

“No. I’m lucky. Haven’t ever been shot before. Haven’t ever fallen from a building. What a fricking day.”

“I’m taking you to a hospital.”

“No. Can’t go. We’ll be right back where we started. You’ll be in custody and I’ll be…”

“Where?”

“Hurts too bad to talk. Keep driving.” Pilgrim pressed his fist hard against his shoulder. “A federal agent pulled a gun on you and a killer had your name in his pocket and another killer just tried to shoot your head off. You might want to stay under the radar.”

“I’m still taking you to a hospital.”

“If you want to stay alive, get us to Dallas. If I pass out, get me into a motel, cheap, get a first aid kit.”

“First aid. For a bullet wound.”

“And a tool to dig the bullet out. Don’t forget that.”

“I’m not digging a bullet out of you. Get real.” He turned into the Brackenridge Hospital parking lot, the emergency sign a beacon.

Pilgrim grabbed the wheel. “No. I am begging you. Please. If you bring me here, we’re both dead men.”

Ben hesitated as he started to pull into the overhang by the entrance.

“We’re guaranteed dead. We have to get to Dallas.”

“Why do we go to Dallas?”

“Because the matchbook I found on the gunman is from a Dallas restaurant; Barker betrayed me and his driver’s license address is in Dallas. Those are my only leads.” And then he added: “The guard I knocked out had a Hector Global ID in his pocket. The back of the ID badge gave an address near Dallas.”

Ben tightened his grip on the wheel. “The guards weren’t Homeland agents?”

“Nope. So I’m thinking this Hector company’s connected to this whole mess.”

Ben swallowed. “Sam Hector, he owns Hector Global, he’s a client of mine. He’s one of my closest friends. He wouldn’t be involved in anything illicit or illegal. I spoke with him not three hours ago.. ”

Pilgrim stared at him. “Awful big coincidence. Our friend Kidwell should have Homeland agents working as his guards-not hired guns.”

Two paramedics came out, began to walk toward the Volvo.

“We can’t stay here, Ben, please. Drive!”

“Hector Global must have a contract with Kidwell’s group… Sam can help us, can tell us what the hell’s going on…”

“Maybe.” Pilgrim leaned against the door, putting pressure on his shoulder wound. “If he’s really your friend, okay, let’s ask him for help. But not here. Get us to Dallas, Ben, please.”

A car behind them honked and Ben pulled back out into the lot, past the paramedics. He turned east onto Fifteenth Street, then headed north onto I-35, toward Dallas.

“That’s the first smart move I’ve seen you make.”

“I’m only doing this because… Kidwell implied…” Ben swallowed. “Two years ago my wife was killed. Murdered. On our honeymoon. Shot to death. It was a random thing.”

“Damn. That sucks. Sorry.”

In its odd, awkward way it was one of the most sincere expressions of sympathy he’d gotten. Most people said nothing more than I’m sorry. A few shared horrors like At least she didn’t suffer or You’re young, you’ll marry again. And some said nothing, which was somehow worse, as though Emily had never existed. “Kidwell suggested I’d had her killed. Like I had a history with hired killers like Nicky Lynch.”

Pilgrim watched the road spill past, breathing in rhythm to control the pain. Several minutes passed.

Ben broke the silence. “Let me call Sam. Hector Global’s a huge company. Sam might not even know he’s got people working for Kidwell. He could tell us who Kidwell is.”

Pilgrim twisted slightly in the seat. “I’ll make you a deal, Ben.”

“I’m listening.”

“I can help you clear your name, Ben. But only if you help me.”

Ben considered. “What’s to keep me from driving straight to a police officer, then? They’ll force you to talk.”

“If the police get ahold of me, I’ll get turned over to the government and you’ll never see me again… and then you’re trapped under suspicion of the worst sort. I don’t officially exist anymore, I can’t help you if we’re caught. You’re going to have a bitch of a time clearing your name. Might never do it.” He stared out the window as they went past the suburban spread of Round Rock, letting the weight of his words settle down on Ben.

The idea made Ben’s skin prickle. He’d already endured the rot of suspicion before, after Emily’s death, because the husband was always a prime suspect. “So what are you, a government agent or an undercover cop?”

“I’m a strange breed.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not telling you what I do. Not until you help me. I need your help, Ben, I’m asking for it.”

Ben swallowed. “Why me? Why is this happening?”

“I can hazard a guess. Your wife.”

“I don’t…”

“Ben. You were a suspect in her murder, weren’t you? It would only be natural.”

His throat closed and he coughed. “Briefly. But the police cleared me. I had no involvement.”

He’d had to fly home to Dallas from his honeymoon alone, the worst flight of his life. Her body lay in the plane’s cargo hold. He arrived alone at the house they had shared; her parents, shattered in their own grief and blaming him because the world had been cruel and capricious, did not meet him at the airport. Sam was on a trip and couldn’t get back in time. Within a few more days he realized that Dallas had gone dead for him, and he’d moved back to his hometown of Austin, where there were fewer whispers about him behind cupped hands.

“If you wanted to frame a person, a man who’s already been suspect once is a much easier sell. To the police. To the media.”

“But why me…”

“I’ll explain why you were framed. Just get me patched up and get me to Dallas.” His words slurred, his eyes fogged with pain. “It’s a fair trade. I’m trusting you, Ben. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes. I give you my word,” Ben said. “We have a deal.”

“I need some water.”

Ben took the next exit, stayed on the frontage road until he reached a gas station. He went inside. The cashier said hi and he said hi back. He bought two bottles of water. He hurried back to the Volvo. Ben opened the bottle for Pilgrim, watched him gulp the water down.

“I should have thought of getting you water sooner. Sorry. I’m not used to dealing with gunshot wounds.”

“I can’t make it to Dallas without getting patched up.”

Ben pulled back onto the highway. “I’m going to find a Wal-Mart, and then a motel, and get you cleaned up, stop the bleeding.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I use a credit card? Will the police or Homeland Security be looking for me? Kidwell said he’d freeze my accounts.”

Pilgrim said, “I got a credit card we can use.” He laughed. “Can you forge a signature?”

“Um, I’ve never tried.”

“Trust me. It’s not hard to learn. You look like a quick study.” Pilgrim sagged against the door, eyes at half-mast. “I’m not in good shape here, man…”

Ben floored the car down the highway.