Too Far Gone

68

Leland Ticholet wasn’t thinking about what had happened at Doc’s little house. He was on cloud nine, now that he had finally earned the boat he was piloting through the familiar system of waterways, heading for his little home on the water. He hadn’t cut and run when that lady started shooting at Doc. He had actually helped Doc, who was shot up, get into the boat. If he’d had the ownership papers already, though, he wouldn’t have risked his ass waiting around for Doc. Anyway, the woman had just been trying to shoot Doc, who deserved it. Probably he’d promised the woman something he hadn’t given her too.

Leland’s attention shifted to the gas gauge and he frowned. The boat was useless without gas for the big outboard, so he headed to Moody’s dock to fill up the tanks so he could get an early start in the morning to run his traps and see if he’d caught any gators.

Thirty minutes later, Leland cut the motor and pulled into the dock near the gasoline pumps. He tied the boat up and looked at Doc, who was slumped in the rear seat, hugging his briefcase. Doc didn’t look good, and he was leaking his blood on the fiberglass deck. His skin was even whiter than usual. His gloves were smeared crimson and he was sort of shaking all over.

“What’re we doing here?” Doc asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Gassing up,” Leland answered.

“I need immediate medical attention,” Doc told him.

“They only got Band-Aids and alcohol here.”

“Please, Leland.”

“You want a soda, cheese nabs, something?”

“You have to bring a doctor to me. I can’t go to a hospital.”

“Where am I going to get one?”

Doc didn’t answer. His head fell forward, his chin coming to rest on his chest.

“Sit tight, I’ll be back directly,” Leland said. He stepped onto the dock, took out the pump, and, after opening the cap on the first tank, put the nozzle into the hole and locked it open. After both tanks were filled to capacity, Leland replaced the nozzle on the pump and loped inside to pay.