Chapter 8- Swallowing a Little Pride
I hadn't meant to fall asleep. Joey had helped me into bed, handed me a book and more booze, and made me promise to stay there and not move. He said he'd be back later and left me alone while he fixed up Murphy. I almost felt bad for shooting him. Almost. I'd opened the book and carefully propped myself up. My insides still felt stretched and achy. Joey had told me the bullet hadn't hit anything vital other than muscles and fat, thanks Joey. I'd had worse. I tried to call Juan but he didn't sound convinced that the police had beat me to his house. After that my eyes kept drooping despite the dull throbbing from my head and my side. I tried to stay mad at the Saints for the boy but that failed too. Besides, they were right. For all I knew, the kid was the one running Juan's American operations. Hell, he could be poised to take over for Juan. I tried not to get involved with shit like that. I should have been madder that they'd screwed up my job.
The book slid out of my hands but I was already out. One minute I was thinking of how pissed I was at the Saints and the next I was sitting on the edge of the fountain I'd been dreaming about since the Saints arrived on my ship. My father was sitting about fifteen feet to my right. "You know, being angry at them won't solve anything," he said.
I rolled my eyes and in the split second I wasn't watching him, he'd moved and sat down next to me, dipping his feet in the water again. "Talking to a hallucination doesn't help either," I reminded him and looked around. Nothing had changed since my last dream, not that I expected it would. The tree branches still hung on their own and the stars still blazed over head yet I still wondered if I was really outdoors. The place had a closed off sort of feel to it.
He shrugged and stayed silent for a while. "I miss having shoes," he pointed to his bare feet.
"You lost yours." I nearly laughed at him. I was explaining why I hadn't buried my father with his shoes on to his form in a dream. This would probably seem odd to anyone who wasn't crazy like me already. "You ought to be grateful I found you a suit to wear." I pointed to the black suit and silver tie. It didn't look right on him, my mom's new husband donated it. The sleeves were too short.
"I would have been happy in jeans and a teeshirt," he said and then added, "and my sneakers."
"You shouldn't have steered into the storm," I countered. His sneakers had been swept off him in the storm that damn near sunk his boat. It had settled for dropping one of the masts on him instead. "Why am I here?"
"You know why," he gave me a contented smile.
"Right, help the Saints," I muttered. "I didn't tell Joey to lock them in the brig if that's what this is about." He was still looking at me. "They shot me!" I pointed to my bloodstained tanktop.
"Yeah," he turned away to look at the fountain. "You shouldn't be working for Juan anyways. The Saints helped you with that."
"He pays good," I defended my choices. "And now he really is going to shoot me." Or worse depending on if he believed my story about the police already being at his house. "How am I supposed to feed my crew let alone pay their wages?"
"You'll find something else," he gave me another grin and I was thankful he hadn't mentioned me shooting Murphy. "Besides, you did shoot one of them. You didn't have to be so hard on them." Damn it.
"Again, they shot me, gut reaction," I reminded.
"Lots of people shoot you. Why are they different?"
"Calling from god for one thing. If they're supposed to rid the world of evil, won't I be on that list?" I said stubbornly.
"Maybe you should be in a different line of work."
"Easy for the dead man to say," I scoffed. He didn't have to find a job with a resume that included a degree in literature and listed my former job, and only job by the way, as pirate. My references list would be colorful to say the least.
"Why don't you try using that book for a while," he suggested. Suddenly he was standing again. "You know, many have tried locating this fountain."
"What's so special about it?" I asked. Granted the trees had no trunks and the stars might very well be painted on, but still. It seemed pretty ordinary. I'd seen similar rocks in Hawaii near the volcanoes and waterfalls like these were a dime a dozen in some regions of the world.
"Just use your book," he laughed and pulled me to my feet. At least my side didn't hurt here. "And be nice to them," He warned and tipped my chin up to where I was looking at him. "This is the path you are supposed to be on. All you need to do is follow."
"I don't follow well," I frowned at him.
"You don't have a choice," he nearly whispered and kissed the top of my head.
I sat straight up in bed again. My side screamed as I did and I could feel every stitch Joey had put in. I was panting in fresh air. My skin was slick from sweat yet I was freezing. Joey had thrown a blanket over me but my teeth were still chattering. I put a hand to my forehead and felt it burn through. Sure, I wasn't bleeding anymore, but now I had a fever and likely infection. I'd like to go one week without some sort of catastrophe. I slowly stood up, leaning over the bed to let my side get used to the idea of moving. I was still wearing the tanktop and cut offs but I had no desire to raise my arm above my head to change into something less massacred so I wrapped a blanket around myself. It was dark outside and the moon was dark. Shivers rippled through me and I slid down the stairs as quickly as I could. Most of the crew was asleep in their newly installed bunks. Even Joey's light was out.
The walk through the galley and to the infirmary had never been so long. I leaned against the wall and eased myself along. I'd seen giant tortoises move quicker than me. I reached the door to the infirmary and flipped on the bare light bulb and nearly collapsed into the room. I sat down on the cot and pulled the storage box that Ellie used to maintain with perfection. Unfortunately she was too organized and color coded everything. I had two vials, one syringe and no idea which medicine I needed. "Red was for hotflashes and blue for the chills," I said to myself and picked up the blue vials. "On second thought, red for fever and blue for hypothermia?" I looked at the two before deciding, what the hell? It couldn't hurt me much worse and went for the red one. I stabbed the needled into my thigh and sat back in the cot wrapping the blanket around myself even more.
My dream was right, I thought after a few minutes. I hated to admit it. I wasn't supposed to interfere with their business. I'd set too many rules with them in hopes they would leave and then yelled at them for it. I sighed to myself and let the medicine filter through my blood. After what I estimated was a half hour, I started to feel better, less jittery and cold. That little vial couldn't fix that I'd yelled at the Saints for doing their job. I eased myself off the cot and stood, still shaky from blood loss and general soreness.
After another twenty minutes, I made it down the next flight of stairs. I'd picked up a bottle of whiskey as a peace offering. The lights were still on and the door to the brig wide open spilling a yellow-ish light out into the little storage area and the door to the engine room. I took a deep breath and slid along the wall wondering how long until I passed out again. I stopped when I heard voices.
"How are we supposed to work if we have her breathing down our necks?" Murphy asked. Agitation was clear in his voice.
"I know," Connor, softer, agreed. They were quiet for a bit before Connor said, "but she is cute though."
"If ya like psychos," Murphy pointed out. That hurt a little. True, but still stung. "Then again, you like the psycho ones."
"Better in the sack," Connor laughed and I rolled my eyes. "I bet she'd look good naked."
"One track mind you got there brother," Murphy told him and I was kind of glad he was defending my honor, well sort of defending my honor.
"Like you haven't thought about it. I caught you staring today," Connor laughed again, teasing his twin.
"Well, maybe, but she's still crazy," Murphy agreed.
"It's been a while since you've gone for a woman," Connor said. And now I was kind of wishing I'd stayed up in my room and minded my own business, but oh no. My dead father not so subtly said to apologize to them.
I waited another ten minutes and blocked out any and all discussions of my anatomy before I shuffled along and stood in the doorway. "Brought you something," I said. Connor was laying on his cot inside the open cell while Murphy leaned against the bars with his back to the door. They both stood in a flash, Murphy wielding a big hunting knife in my direction. "Calm down big fella, just me." I held the bottle up on my right side but kept my left down holding onto my blanket to cover my bloody clothes and to keep another wave of mind numbing pain at bay. "Were did you get that knife?"
"You said no guns," he muttered and returned the knife to its sheath.
I took a deep breath and tried not to start yelling about the knife. "Mind if I come in?"
"Your ship," Murphy shrugged and sat down in on his cot to face me. They were both wearing their wife beaters with jeans again. I glanced at the crosses on their forearms and the words on their hands. Truth and justice, didn't look so hot for me.
"Here," I held the whiskey out for Connor to take and then leaned against the frame of the door. "I owe you an apology." They both looked at me for a second before Murphy grinned and took a cigarette out of a pack next to him and lit one. "I was pissed and was hasty in making my decision."
"So," Connor opened the bottle and took a swig before leaning over and handing it to his twin. "Do we have to tell you where we're going?"
I grimace and watched Connor sit down. "No, I don't really want to know where you're going. I'll tell you an approximate area to where I'll be conducting my business in each port and you'll tell me if I'm in any immediate danger," I told them and then added, "at least from you."
They looked at each other for a moment before Murphy took a drag of the cigarette and said, "sounds about fair."
"Why don't you have a seat and share this bottle with us," Connor suggested.
"Can't," I pulled open the blanket and motioned to the blood soaked tank top. "Sitting is a process," I told them with the best grin I could muster up and not look sarcastic. "Which is part two of my apology. Sorry for shooting you Murphy." I looked at his bandaged arm.
"Flesh wound," he gave me a grin back.
He didn't stop looking at me, which given the conversation I'd overheard, was making me slightly uncomfortable. "Well, I'll be on my way."
"You know," Connor stopped me. "You could tell us your contacts, then we'd make sure you weren't in our line of fire."
"I'm not that stupid," I laughed and pushed off the doorframe determined to walk away with some dignity. A fresh pang shot up my side and into my brain as I turned to leave and I swear I started moving even slower.
After a few minutes Murphy called out, "Make it far yet Jack?"
"About five steps," I admitted. He was by my side shaking his head before I knew it.
"Here, let me help," He slid an arm around me under my arms but that didn't help my issue with pain any and I nearly cried out.
"I'm fine," I bit my lip.
"You're not," He pulled the arm away and leaned down a bit. "I'm going to pick you up so don't beat the shit out of me."
"I can make it," I argued. "Besides, your arm."
"Jack you're about five feet tall, I'll manage," He grumbled at me and pushed his arm against my knees. He easily hoisted me up, putting most of my weight on his good arm.
I didn't say anything until he carefully set me back down in my bed. "Thank you," I said stubbornly.
He looked over me, eyes resting on the blood stain. "Sorry about that," he wouldn't look up at me. Instead he pulled my comforter over me, up to my chin. "Sleep well Jack," and he was off leaving me to wonder if that kindness was just because he'd shot me or because of something Connor had said to him. I decided to take my chances with my dead dad's cryptic messages instead of deciphering the Irish killer in my brig, and gave in to sleep once again.
