The Hum and the Shiver

27

Kell looked up from the gurney as Bronwyn pushed the plastic curtain aside. His black hair was tangled, and the fluorescent light gave his skin a deathly pallor. The sheet was pulled down to his waist, exposing a swath of bandages around his ribs. On one side, two tiny red spots soaked through the gauze. He sighed and closed his eyes guiltily. “Don’t say it,” he said.

“You moron,” she wanted to yell. Her whisper was somehow worse.

“Good to see you, too, sis.”

She stepped into the enclosed area and yanked the curtain shut behind her. A woman with one of the other patients hummed “Amazing Grace,” and a child coughed laboriously. She put her hands on her hips. “I don’t know where to even start on the list of things about this that piss me off.”

He pressed the button that raised the bed beneath his upper body. “You’ll pick one.”

“You picked a fight with Dwayne. Over me. Who are you and what did you do with my sensible, level-headed brother, the one who’s never been in a fight in his life?”

“That’s not true, I got in a fight with Hobart Tilling.”

“That was in grade school.”

He sighed helplessly. “I can’t explain it, Bronwyn. He just made me mad.”

“Mom’s going to kill you,” Bronwyn said.

“I know. Is she with you?”

“No, they don’t know yet. Terry-Joe came and got me first, and you better be glad he did because it gives us both time to think up something to tell Mom and Dad.”

“Look, I didn’t go there looking for Dwayne. I was there first, even. Things just…”

“What did he say that was so bad? That you haven’t heard people say about me before?”

He looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She stepped closed and grabbed the hair on the back of his head. “Well, I do. What was it?”

He slapped her hand away. “Stop it. It was bad enough.”

“What?” she insisted.

“You really want to know? Okay. He said the only reason the Iraqis didn’t kill you was because you… gave them all great oral sex. I’m paraphrasing.”

Bronwyn was silent. The woman now sang “Shall We Gather at the River.” The child continued to cough. “Well,” Bronwyn said at last.

“There were a lot of people around who heard him say it,” Kell added. “A lot of Rockhouse’s people. They started laughing. I just couldn’t let it go.”

She looked down at her feet for a moment, waiting for the blush to fade. It was no secret among Cloud County’s males that the old Bronwyn Hyatt, the Bronwynator, enjoyed giving oral sex as much as they enjoyed getting it. The sense of power, of reducing these posturing overgrown child-men to moaning helplessness, was better than any drug she’d found. Most of the time the men were appropriately grateful, and both parties were satisfied and discreet about it afterwards.

But Dwayne had never been able to climax that way, and became resentful of the stories of Bronwyn’s skill. Of course he would say something like that to get a rise out of her brother. Still…

“It was the grin, really,” Kell continued. “I could’ve ignored him saying it and everyone laughing about it. But his goddamned, shit-eating, smug-ass grin—”

“Mr. Hyatt?” a firm new voice said. They turned to see a sheriff’s deputy standing at the foot of the bed. He was tall, lean, and had the steady gaze of a man with a clear moral compass, the opposite in every way of Bob Pafford. He held his hat and nodded to Bronwyn. “Excuse me, ma’am, I need to speak to the gentleman.”

“This is my sister,” Kell said. “You can talk in front of her.”

The deputy looked at her as if he knew her, but couldn’t quite place it. Then with mild astonishment he said, “Aren’t you Bronwyn Hyatt?”

She nodded, too tired to be sarcastic.

“It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am. We said a prayer for you at church every Sunday while you were in the hospital.”

Bronwyn managed a smile. “That’s nice. It must’ve worked. Thank everyone there for me.”

“I will do. And thank you for serving our country.”

He turned his attention back to Kell. “Now, about your little altercation. I talked to folks at the Pair-A-Dice and they all pretty much agree Mr. Gitterman started it. Add to that use of a deadly weapon by a fellow on parole, and he’s in some pretty deep shit, pardon my language, ma’am. Do you want to press charges?”

“Yes,” Bronwyn said before Kell could answer.

Kell glared at her. “I was going to say yes.”

“No, you were going to be all tough-guy and noble and say, ‘It was all a misunderstanding.’” She deepened her voice in mocking imitation of his. To the deputy she said, “But he will press charges.”

“Yes,” Kell agreed, still scowling.

“All right, I reckon that’s all I need right now. We will need a statement from you as soon as you’re up and about. In the meantime, you don’t worry. We’ll find him. Fellows like that, they always mess up. Especially when they’re scared.” He nodded to Bronwyn again. “Ma’am.”

When he was gone, Kell mimicked, “Ma’am.”

“Shut up, rest, and let the police do their job,” Bronwyn said. “I’m going to go break the news to Mom and Dad.” She kissed him on the forehead. “I love you, you know. Jackass.”

“Bitch,” he replied with a smile.

In the waiting room, Terry-Joe sat wriggling uncomfortably in one of the ancient vinyl chairs. He stood as Bronwyn strode over and said, “You know where Dwayne is, don’t you?”

Terry-Joe tried to change the subject. “How’s Kell?”

Bronwyn stepped close and her voice was tight, soft, and vicious. “Don’t fuck with me, Terry-Joe. I know him better than you do. He’s wherever he’s got his pot patch now, isn’t he?”

Terry-Joe started to dissemble, then gave up with a sigh. “Probably.”

“Do you know where that is?”

He nodded.

“Then let’s go.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the door.

“Wait, wait,” he said, wrenching free. “I talked to that deputy. They’ll find him.”

“Did you tell them where he was?”

Terry-Joe shook his head; no matter what, Dwayne was his brother, and he wouldn’t rat him out to that degree. “But he has to come out eventually, and they’ll get him then.”

She spoke with a cold certainty he’d never heard her use before. “I’m not in the mood to wait.”

“He didn’t do this just to get back at you, you know,” Terry-Joe said defensively. “I was there, it just happened.”

“The hell it did. Picking a fight with my brother, with you right there? He knows damn well I’ll come after him, and he’ll be waiting for me.”

“Then why are you going to do it?”

“Because…” She suddenly found it hard to breathe, and realized she was sweating. The dream came back to her, the certainty that some things only she could do. Was this one of them? “Because…”

Suddenly the doors opened and Craig Chess walked in out of the night. He was unshaven, his hair matted from sleep, and he wore shoes with no socks. He stopped dead when he saw Bronwyn. He ran a quick, useless hand through his hair. “Well. Hello, Ms. Hyatt.”

She stared in surprise. “Hi.”

He took in her lack of cast, bandage, or crutches. “Wow. You’ve really mended.”

“Yeah, it’s…” She went blank. Her anger seemed somehow childish in Craig’s presence, which made her ashamed. And she hated that. “Clean mountain air,” she finished with a nervous little laugh.

He looked at Terry-Joe. “Hi, Craig Chess, pastor of the Triple Springs Methodist Church.” He offered his hand.

“Terry-Joe Gitterman,” he said as they shook. He jealously noted the way Bronwyn stared at this man. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Craig turned back to Bronwyn. “So are you all right?”

She frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re in the hospital emergency room in the middle of the night.”

“Oh. No, it’s… my brother had an accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Was it Aiden?”

“No, Kell. I don’t think you’ve met him. He’s my older brother.”

“How is he?”

“He should be fine. Nothing too serious.”

Their eyes met. Neither knew what held them there, but for a long moment they could not look away. Something passed between them, and a link that had been a mere thread grew more substantial and important.

Bronwyn blinked back to the present and said, “And what brings you here?”

“One of my elderly parishioners had a heart attack. Her family can’t be here until tomorrow, so I said I’d sit with her while they do their tests.”

“Is that part of your job?”

He smiled. “I always figured that is my job. The sermons are what I do to keep busy when no one has any immediate need.”

“Never thought of it that way.”

“Lots of people don’t. Lots of preachers don’t.”

She impulsively reached out and ran her fingers down his arm, brushing the fabric of his sleeve; she wanted more than anything to wrap her arms around him, but that would surely freak him out. Hell, it freaked her out, because she had no idea why she felt it so strongly. “I have to go,” she blurted.

“Okay. I’m glad you’re feeling better, and I hope your brother recovers.”

“He will. Hyatts are tough.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

She firmly took Terry-Joe’s arm. “Good seeing you again, Reverend Chess.”

“Likewise. And nice to meet you, Terry-Joe.”

Terry-Joe said nothing, but looked down sullenly as she pulled him toward the exit. He risked a she’s mine glare back at Craig, but the preacher’s confused expression made it pointless. It seemed none of them knew exactly what had just happened.

Hidden in the shadows at the far end of the empty hospital parking lot, Bob Pafford watched Bronwyn and Terry-Joe climb into Kell Hyatt’s car. The dispatcher had confirmed both the car’s ownership and that the elder Hyatt had, in fact, been stabbed by Dwayne Gitterman at the Pair-A-Dice outside Needsville.

Pafford’s fingers tapped nervously on his polyester-uniformed knee. When the night’s dashboard video was finally seen, he would have a hard time getting around what it showed. The truth was so outlandish that no one would believe it, and he had far too many enemies just waiting for a misstep like this one. He could come up with no other explanation, unless he could claim it was all part of his plan to get the younger Gitterman boy and Hyatt girl to lead him to Dwayne. It was a long shot, but it was all he had, and it hinged on him apprehending the fugitive. So he watched the car drive off, started his engine, and followed them out of Unicorn and into the Cloud County night.