Give It All (19 page)

If pressed to guess the activity he’d be the least competent at, Duncan would’ve put motorcycle riding on the top of a very short list of candidates. But to his great surprise, he seemed to be rather a natural. His instructor agreed.

“You sure you’ve never done this before?” Casey asked.

“Not even in my daydreams.”

“Well, I hereby grant you your diploma. I don’t think you need much more help—not unless you feel like building some ramps or something.”

“No, this should do.” There was nowhere in Fortuity he couldn’t get to, Duncan imagined. Precisely his goal.

Now if only he had the first clue where he
needed
to get to.

“Ready to head back downtown?” Casey asked.

“Yes, I’d say so.”

Duncan guessed it was about five thirty by the time they reached the main road, the sun edging low toward the
mountains. They neared asphalt not too far from Three C’s headquarters, its gate just visible down the quiet two-lane highway.

It was odd, but Duncan wasn’t especially looking forward to hitting pavement, jarring though the dirt was. And he wasn’t looking forward to the silence and peace that’d follow once he dismounted back at—

A few yards ahead, Casey’s body seemed to sway, the bike following.

“All right?” Duncan called.

The man’s posture righted, then went slack again just as quickly, the motions of someone jerking awake and falling asleep in turns. Duncan gave his bike more gas, trying to catch up, but not before Casey slumped a third time, motor guttering and his bike tipping over in seeming slow motion. The noise of it was horrible—metal scrabbling on gravel—but worse than that was the silence that came from its rider. No shouts, no swearing. No nothing, before or after Casey hit the ground.

Duncan squeezed his brake levers and got off too quickly—he missed the kickstand but was already tipping sideways, so he let the bike fall, hopping to keep his foot from getting crushed. He hurried to where Casey lay, relieved to see motion—the man’s hand twitched and clutched, and his eyes were open and moving. The bike was pinning his leg, though, and helmet or not, he was sure to have rattled his head.

“You okay?” Duncan grabbed the Harley’s bars and pulled hard, trying to shift it. It was far heavier than the BMW, and he shoved Casey in the ribs with his foot until he rolled out of the way. Duncan prayed his leg wasn’t broken. He eased the bike back down, then knelt at Casey’s side. He shook him by the shoulders. “Hey. Hey.”

Casey’s eyes were wide, bright blue, his lips moving but no sound coming out. He’d looked limp as he’d gone down, but now his muscles were rigid, fingers still twitching, gaze at once sharp and vacant.

“Are you having a seizure?” A stroke, a bad drug trip, who knew what?

Faint words answered him. “Fire. Miah. Star. Night.”

Duncan gave Casey’s cheek a soft slap—that always seemed to work in the movies. “What’s wrong with you? Tell me this instant or I’m calling nine-one-one.” Selfishly he prayed Casey would come around. The last thing Duncan needed was to be
found wrapped up with a drifter in a strange accident, while riding an undeeded motorcycle without the license to do so. He was flirting with detention or house arrest, he realized in a flash. And if that came to pass, this foolish, impulsive quest to find those fucking bones was done.

“Say something,” he demanded. “Are you on drugs? Are you epileptic?”

“Miah,” Casey said, strength coming to his voice. “Fire. On a starless night.”

“Shit.” The man wasn’t getting lucid anytime soon. Seeing no choice, Duncan removed his helmet and dialed his phone, but no luck—not a single signal bar out here. “Fucking Fortuity.”

No way could he prop Casey on the back of either bike and get him back to town. He was about to urge the man to stand, to pray he could walk so maybe Duncan could help him hobble toward the ranch, when a vehicle appeared from the west. Duncan waved his arms, and the black pickup slowed along the shoulder. Jeremiah Church hopped out, not even bothering to slam the door. There was a dog in the truck’s bed, medium-size, with pricked ears and a reddish, short coat, looking like a Rottweiler’s less bloodthirsty cousin. It didn’t move a muscle as Miah ran to Duncan and Casey.

“He okay?” Miah asked, dropping to his knees.

“I’m not sure. He must have hit his head—he’s babbling like a drunk.”

Miah tried the old cheek-slap routine as well. “Case? Casey. You awake?”

“It’s you,” Casey said, smiling dreamily. “Fucking shame, what’s going to happen to you.”

Miah shot Duncan a look.

“He’s not right,” Duncan said. “He’s not spoken a word of sense since he went down.”

“He hit a rock or something?”

“Not a rock,” Casey interjected, spacey. “A fire. On a starless night.”

“No,” Duncan said to Miah. “He swayed, right before he went down. Like he fainted, almost. Though a head injury could explain the nonsense he’s talking.”

“Weird. And he hasn’t been drinking?”

“Not as far as I know. And the sun’s rough, but the temperature’s already dropped. Drugs, maybe?”

Miah shook his head. “I doubt it. Never Casey’s style, not aside from weed.”

“I tried calling nine-one-one, but there’s no signal.”

“Let’s get him to the house. We can call from there if it comes to that, though he seems more dazed than anything.”

Miah backed his truck closer and lowered the tailgate, then unfurled a couple of thick, woven blankets Duncan suspected were meant for horses.

“You grab his feet,” Miah said, stooping to get a hand under each of Casey’s armpits. The man kept mumbling about
fire
and
starless night
as they fumbled with his limp body, carrying him over and sliding him into the bed. The dog looked on stoically.

“Fuck me, you got heavy,” Miah said to Casey. “Sorry about the smell, kid. Watch your feet.” He curled Casey’s legs in and flipped up the tailgate.

Duncan collected the keys from both bikes, then joined Miah. The man’s black Stetson sat on the passenger seat and Duncan moved it to the console between them.

Once they were moving, he said, “Good timing, Mr. Church.”

“Miah’s fine.” His expression was cold, but his tone casual. “You’re the last man I’d have expected to find out there. That the BMW Vince’s been resuscitating?”

“It is. This was my inaugural lesson. I rather expected if anyone was going to wreck, it’d be me.”

Miah shook his head. “Fucking weird.”

They turned into Three C’s big lot, passing beneath the tall timber archway. Miah backed them right up to the front porch’s steps, and as the tailgate dropped, a screen door swung out.

“Good God,” said a tall, slender woman—surely Miah’s mother, to judge from her age and coloring. Duncan had wondered if Miah was half Hispanic, like Raina, but his mother amended the theory—she looked strikingly Native American. “What’s happened?”

“He took a spill,” Miah said. “Get the doors open and clear the table.”

“Is he bleeding? Anything broken?” Mrs. Church asked, propping the screen door wide.

“Don’t think so, but he’s talking like he must’ve got conked on the head.” To his dog, Miah said, “That’ll do,” and it jumped out of the bed and trotted off.

“I’ll call the clinic,” his mother offered.

“Not yet,” Miah said as he and Duncan hauled Casey to the truck bed’s edge by the ankles. “Casey’s funny about doctors.”

Funny about paper trails, more like,
Duncan thought, and grabbed Casey’s feet. Miah handled the other end. They weaved him through the two open doors and around a short hall into a large, rustic kitchen. They laid him out along the oversize trestle table and Duncan got his helmet off. Miah’s mother slid a couple of folded dish towels under his head.

Casey resumed his muttering. His voice was more peaceful than manic now, though he still shook with the odd, tiny tremor. To Mrs. Church he said earnestly, “I’m so, so sorry for your loss.”

She smiled at him, confused. “That’s sweet of you, Casey. How many fingers am I holding up?” She showed him two.

“If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know,” Casey went on.

She shook her head. “He must be concussed. I’m calling the clinic.”

Duncan and Miah exchanged a glance, nodding in unison, and she grabbed a phone from its dock on the hutch, disappearing into the next room.

Miah pulled an outmoded cell phone from his back pocket. “And I’ll call Vince.”

“So much for his beauty sleep,” Duncan murmured, circling the table, wishing he knew how to check vitals—how to do
anything
useful just now.

“Hey. Listen, it’s about Casey,” Miah told his phone. “He wrecked while he was riding around with Welch . . . No, he seems solid, except he definitely thumped his head—he’s talking complete nonsense.” A pause. “I dunno, weird bull. He just apologized to my mom for her ‘loss.’ She’s calling the clinic, but you wanna get over here, if Kim or Nita’s around to watch your mom? I can drive him back to yours later, but somebody’ll need to get his bike home, or at least ride it up here. It’s ditched half a mile down the road—you’ll see it on the way in. Okay, great. See you.”

Miah’s mother returned, replacing the phone. “Ronnie Biscane’s on duty. Says he’ll come straightaway.”

“Vince is coming, too,” Miah said.

His mother looked to Duncan. “I’m Christine, by the way. You must be a friend of Casey’s.”

Duncan looked to Miah for a split second, realizing he was basically asking the man’s permission to claim such a thing. “Sort of,” he said to Christine, and shook her slender hand. “I’m Duncan Welch.”

She frowned, looking thoughtful. “Your name sounds so familiar.”

I’m sure you’re overheard your son wishing bodily harm upon me. Or the local news calling me a conspiracy suspect.
“I know Vince better than I do his brother,” Duncan said. “I got wrapped up in the events that led to the late sheriff’s arrest.”

“Oh dear—are you the one who . . .” She touched her mouth fretfully, and Duncan’s tongue reflexively sought his fake tooth.

“I am, yes. Small price to pay to help.”

Behind her, Miah rolled his eyes.

“You work for the developers?” she asked.

“I did. Things are at a bit of a standstill at the moment, of course.” Because of the VRC investigation, he let her infer. He was pleased her ignorance must mean that Miah wasn’t petty enough to gossip gleefully with his family about how someone from Sunnyside had been accused of taking bribes and lost his job. The Churches had every right to distrust Sunnyside, of course. The casino was going to cause the ranch no end of headaches by the time it was completed.
If
it ever got completed.

“Everyone in this town owes you a debt of gratitude,” Christine said to Duncan. “Vince said he doesn’t know if he’d have been able to expose Tremblay without your help.”

“I don’t know about that.” And there’d been many times when Duncan wished he’d never gotten involved at all, justice be damned. He was a capitalist, and they rarely made good humanitarians. The praise didn’t fit him any better than the stiff, heavy boots on his feet.

Christine looked to each of the coherent men. “Coffee?”

Miah shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

“No, thank you,” Duncan said.

She studied Casey, who’d gone quiet, his chest rising and falling deeply. He could have been napping, if not for his half-open eyes.

“We better get him sitting up,” Miah said. “Can’t have him falling asleep concussed.”

Duncan helped shift Casey onto the long bench seat.

“I sure hope he doesn’t need to go all the way to Elko,” Christine said, watching as the men balanced Casey upright, the table’s edge at his back. He blinked dozily, supported by a hand on each of his shoulders.

“Okay there, Case?” Miah asked.

“Where the fuck am I?”

“At Three C. You took a spill on your bike.”

“She okay?”

Miah looked to Duncan.

“I think it’ll be fine.” Scratched up like its owner, surely, maybe short a mirror, but the bike seemed tough to maim. And unlike Duncan’s poor Merc, the Harley looked better with a bit of abuse. He supposed there were advantages to fetishizing a vehicle whose cachet was rooted in performance, not perfection.

“Welch,” Casey said, seeming surprised to look up and find him standing there. “The fuck you doing here? You find that coyote yet?”

“Excuse me?”

“You gotta find the coyote, man. Step one.”

Duncan glanced nervously at Miah. “I’m not looking for a coyote,” he said to Casey.

“Why you here, then? You and Miah having a duel for Raina’s love or some shit?”

Christine’s eyebrows rose at that, and she turned to dig through drawers in the hutch.

Miah told Casey, “You were giving Welch a riding lesson. I drove by right after you went down. Ronnie’s coming out, to make sure you’re okay. You were talking some serious nonsense, Case. We think you concussed yourself.”

Casey frowned, his gaze more focused now. “Nonsense?”

“Yeah. Vince is on his way, too.”

“What exactly did I—”

“Hold still,” Christine told Casey, and she set a first-aid kit on the table. Duncan stepped aside to give her room. She dabbed at the scrapes on Casey’s cheek and temple, ignoring the stream of multisyllabic oaths that came pouring out of him.

Miah jerked his head to tell Duncan to follow him, and headed back out to the front porch.

Once the door swung closed, Miah sighed into the open air. “What the
fuck
?”

Duncan nodded. “Indeed. It has to be a concussion.”

“You sound confident.”

“I was a defense lawyer for three years before I went corporate. I specialized in fighting personal injury claims. I never saw a plaintiff present hallucinations as one of the symptoms of suffering a blow to the head, but it does happen. In very severe concussions, and traumatic brain injuries.”

Miah smirked. “You were an ambulance chaser?”

“I was an ambulance deflector. I saved a lot of construction companies a lot of money over fraudulent claims.”

“What a saint you are. How many legitimately injured workers did you fuck over in the process?”