Chapter 29
Pain, he could feel it, a steady ta-tum, ta-tum, ta-tum, keeping pace with the beat of his heart. His eyes were squeezed shut as he tried to draw down on that pain. It meant something. It meant the laudanum was wearing off. But, would that be enough? Would aiming for the pain drive away the need, the craving? Dios, he hated this. He hated the chill that made his bones ache, hated the disgusting taste it left behind in his mouth and hated the way his skin felt, too God-damn tight.
"John."
The familiar voice was soft and gentle and close, too close.
"John."
It repeated, slogging its way through the mud that was his brain.
"John, are you alright?"
That time it was a bit more demanding. Why? What was he supposed to be doing? He was trying to concentrate on the pain, only the pain. Ta-tun, ta-tum-ta-tum. There was no room for distraction.
"Perhaps you'd like some help getting to your room?"
He felt a hand grab his arm, trying to pull him up. It would take a hell of a lot more than that to get him to budge, it felt like he'd been here forever, rooted like a tree, that big tree, on the edge of the south pasture. Maybe that's where he was; napping, under that tall oak.
The voice split his thought in two, this time it was not so soft or gentle, but still familiar and still close.
"Tom, I'm at a disadvantage, get over here and lend a hand."
Tom? What was Tom doing here? He's at the Painted Lady. Painted Lady, that's funny, it was the last place he'd go for a lady, painted or otherwise. All the ladies were used up and stretched out. Come to think of it, they were much more plain than painted. Sure can't go by a name. Name… Tom… Shit, he was at the Painted Lady.
"Tom, I asked you for assistance."
"Maybe you should just let him be, Mr. Gray. He looks comfortable and ain't no one here gonna give him grief."
"He wouldn't be pleased with that decision, Tom, and you know it; out here in the middle of the room for all to see. It's not safe."
Safe? Since when did this Mr. Gray care about his safety? With a jerk, he pushed away the hand on his arm and rolled his head to one side. Through half closed lids Grayson's face came into focus. He was sitting in a chair sidled up right next to him, studying him. That's not how he remembered things. Last he knew they were talking. The man had asked for a favor, a favor because he was dying. "Dying. That's funny." He snickered. "Sure can think of a few people that would be pleased to hear that news."
"You don't need to be one of them, John."
"Might enjoy watching." The words left his mouth in cracked and broken pieces, holding none of the edge he was going for. Staring at the man it was surprising how old he looked, older than his years. He looked as if they both felt about the same, like something that had been stomped on and left for dead.
"My, my, that is a change of heart. Before you drifted off on me, son, you said you couldn't hate me. Now you want to watch me die?"
Dios, where does shit like that come from? Couldn't hate him? Of course he hated him. Using his elbows, he pushed up straight in the chair; or what he hoped passed for straight. His arms and legs were acting like they belonged to a newborn calf. He only wished he could get them under control as fast.
Ta-tum. The pain was losing its upper hand. The damn cold was doing the talking now. One drop and he could be warm again. That's all he needed, a drop, maybe two. He had another bottle. Wouldn't take much of an effort. He looked around for his saddle bag, found it, left behind at the bar. Guess it would take a little more effort than he was up for at the moment. A notion flickered and he kicked away the chair his leg had been resting on, using enough force to topple it with a room awakening clatter. The action sent spikes of fiery pain clawing through him, forcing beads of sweat to form on his upper lip. The rapid fire warmed him and lit a thin smile.
Grayson barely moved. He only leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms. "Feel better now?"
"As a matter of fact I do. Pain has a way of focusing a man's thoughts. And just so we're clear on one point, I'd be pleased to watch you die."
With a shake of his head, Grayson leaned forward and pressed his lips to Johnny's ear, his words a whisper. "Be careful what you wish for, son." Settling back into his chair, he tugged his sleeves into place. "Wishes have a way of becoming reality." He added with a wink. "Your words do bring to mind a question." He placed a hand on Johnny's forearm and gave it a little squeeze. "Since I'm obviously undeserving of your sympathy, why didn't you let me die when you had the chance? Back in Nogales all you had to do was walk away; you could have spared yourself all this grief. If only you…" His voice splintered for a moment before he regained control. "You had your chance."
He pulled on one end of his black string tie to loosen it and undid a few buttons on his coat. "But you did more than save me, didn't you? You avenged me, gunned down two of the three men that did this to me." He tapped his cane against his shoe. "Why? If I am so vile, why did you seek retribution?"
Grayson's coal black eyes burned a hole straight through him, demanding an answer. The chair was all of a sudden too hard and he twitched then looked away. That look always made him feel like he'd marched through shit. Restless, his eyes wandered across the room, staring, one by one, into the faces of the few men left in the saloon. Turning back towards Grayson, he busied himself with a deep scratch in the arm of the chair, rubbing at it with his thumb. When he spoke, his voice was soft, ashamed of what he was about to say. "Didn't hate you then, thought I owed you. Figured, if not for you, I'd have been dead."
"How very touching." Grayson pressed his hand to his chest. "I believe this confession calls for a drink." He raised two fingers and Tom nodded in response. "I suppose it was Murdoch Lancer who enlightened you?"
He traced the groove in the wood two more times, once up - once down, and raised his head. "It was truth, nothing else." His head dipped as his focus returned to the scratch. "What is it Scott says? Truth will set you free?" He looked up and flashed a smile. "Maybe you should try it sometime."
"Truth is a foolish waste of time. Most people want nothing to do with it; living with lies is more comfortable."
Johnny watched Grayson's eyes follow Tom across the room. The bartender set two glasses on the table, filled them and turned to leave. "Leave the bottle," Grayson ordered.
Tom did as he was told then put a hand on Johnny's shoulder. "Gonna be lockin' up pretty soon. You need anything, Johnny? Some supper, maybe? Wouldn't mind scroungin' something up for ya."
"I'm good, Tom. Thanks."
"If'n you say so. Not sure I like the idea of leaving you two alone after the unfriendly start."
"Not to worry, Tom. We've seen past our differences, haven't we, son?"
Tipping his chair back, Johnny looked Tom in the eyes. "We're good, Tom."
With a nod Tom turned his attention to dimming the lamps and sending his last few customers on their way.
Johnny let his chair drop back down and drew a sharp breath at the stab of welcome pain. "You were ready to speak of truth."
"So I was. Though it is my belief you are one of those that prefer the comfort of lies."
"And what makes you think that?"
"The very fact you need to ask proves my point." Grayson continued. "Do you have any idea how many lies you've lived? Look at you." He waved a hand over Johnny. "Did you expect to go through the rest of your life without being overcome by the desire for laudanum? I'll tell you a truth you don't want to hear. Never; never will you be free of it. Your only escape will be death. And if you're lucky, very lucky, it will be swift." He picked up the glasses and pressed one into Johnny's hand. "Let us drink to death, the one truth."
"I'll drink to your death," Johnny said before swallowing the golden fire, willing the warmth into his bones.
"See what I mean, you only think you want to know my truths."
Setting his empty glass on the table Grayson almost purred. "Pure blue agave from Jalisco, aged to a light gold, there is none better in all of Mexico. A gift of such a bottle is special, is it not, son? When opened in the presence of the giver, good luck will follow. Pity you did not heed the tradition, maybe things would have turned out better for you." He paused to draw a breath. "And for Stu," he added. It was Stu who gave you such a bottle, was it not?"
Johnny thought for a moment, turning the empty glass between his palms. "You mean? I thought it was…"
Grayson let loose his hearty laugh. It did nothing to ease the pain, like before. This time it grabbed hold and squeezed. "The boy? You honestly thought I would send the boy in with laudanum? He's so clumsy he'd have broken it into a thousand pieces. The only injury I could have hoped for was a cut from broken glass." He continued to laugh, wiping the tears from his eyes. "No, that boy is good for only one thing, diversion."
Johnny felt the bile creep up into his throat. "Stu? I called him friend, I trusted him."
"Well, isn't that the point? Trust? Your mother trusted Socorro and you trusted Stu. There really is little chance of triumph without trust." Your friend, Stu," he shook his head and looked as if he'd just caught a whiff of something that smelled real bad, "despite the loathsome name, he proved to be most helpful. He came to me with an idea. Just place a few of the wrong sized logs into the wagon after something got you off kilter. I had no idea it would work so very well. And poor, foolish, Remy had no idea the effect his coffee would have on you."
"But why? Why have you done this to me again?"
"I wanted you to understand me, son. I wanted you to feel some of my pain. I wanted you to remember how it felt to need one more drop of laudanum, to feel it eating holes in your brain until every thought, every breath; every second is consumed by desire. Then and only then would you understand my request. Don't you see?"
"I see you're fucking crazy."
Grayson stretched, reached into the small pocket of his vest and removed his watch. He studied it for a moment and smiled his sick, sweet smile. "I believe we were talking about truth. Are you still interested or have you heard enough?"
"Good night, gentlemen." Tom stood with one foot on the bottom step. "Since you're both staying, you have the run of the place. I'm going to bed." He yawned loudly.
"Good night," Grayson replied. "Have no fear, we'll take fine care of your establishment."
"Ain't my establishment I'm worried 'bout, just take fine care of each other, okay?"
"Will do, Tom. Night." Johnny added with a wave of his hand.
"Think we can do that, son? Grayson asked softly, refilling his glass. "Think we can take fine care of each other?" Tipping the bottle he offered Johnny a refill.
"Nope, not a chance," Johnny answered. He watched the light from the one remaining lamp bounce off his glass as he flipped it and slammed it upside down on the table. "Quit calling me son." His words were still quiet, but they were delivered with an icy stare, a look that carried weight and caused most men to look away.
Grayson met the gaze with one of his own. "Correct me if I'm wrong. My wife gave birth to a boy. I do believe that makes him my son. Being present at the birth makes no difference. Look at Murdoch, for instance, his wife bore him a son, Scott. Pity, right about now, he is staring in disbelief at a burned body; a body, he believes is, or should I say was, his son."
"Why you fucking bastard!" In a split second the shortened barrel of his 45 was pressed to Grayson's temple. The bastard didn't even twitch.
"See what I mean? You want nothing to do with truth." He pushed the gun away. "May I?" he asked, lifting his glass to his lips. The smile on Grayson's face twisted a knot in Johnny's stomach. "It really is too good to waste. " He sipped slowly never pulling his eyes from Johnny's face. "The truth is, your brother is alive and well, but I would be lying if I didn't find some pleasure in the image of your father devastated at the loss of his golden child."
Pulling the gun back, Johnny slipped it back into his holster. "Why?" The word caught in his throat, the image of his father lost in the pain of a dead son weighed heavy on his heart. "Why make him believe Scott is dead?"
"My, you are addled aren't you? Why on earth would I want to kill Scott? He means nothing to me. There would be no satisfaction to be gained. No, my pleasure comes from Murdoch Lancer, bereft at the loss of his fair-haired boy then, when he returns to town defeated, and discovers his favorite son, his only son, is safe your little malady will be unimportant. In fact, I'm betting he'll look at you in disgust, disappointed once more by the bastard child as you wallow in a laudanum haze."
Johnny felt the air gush from him, the bastard might as well have gutted him with a knife; it would have hurt a hell of a lot less. He squirmed in his chair. Disappointment, he was good at that. How many times had he let his father down? But this, this was the worst of all. His hands shook as he reached for his glass, turned it end over end wishing it held what he wanted. No, not what he wanted. It was the last thing he wanted. He wrapped his fingers around the glass and squeezed his eyes closed. The attack was from all fronts. Ta-tum, ta-tum, the beat of the pain grew louder and louder in his ears, the cold in his bones caused his body to shake and a cold sweat dampened his skin.
"You're hurting, son." The voice drifted in over the roar in his ears. A warm touch pushed his hair from his face. "Let me help you." Fingers worked to pry the glass from his hand. "Let go. I know what you need."
The scrape of a chair, the strike of a cane, the flop of his saddlebags, each sound brought a flutter of desire to the pit of his stomach. He bit his lip, hard, tasting the saltiness of his blood. A few drops, that's all it would take. Just enough to beat back the pain and the cold and the need.
Grayson pressed the glass back into waiting fingers. "Drink."
Deep in his heart he knew better, knew he should refuse, knew he should toss the damn shit in Grayson's face but every muscle, every bone screamed drink. He tossed the bitter liquid down his throat and waited. Maybe it was all in his head, maybe he was God damn loco but the minute it hit his belly he felt the warmth spread over him, slow and smooth like a women's caress. A smile crept across his lips, and he opened his eyes in time to watch Grayson finish off the small bottle.
With a groan, Grayson dropped back into his chair. "I'll be glad when my time comes. My best days are far behind me."
Johnny snorted. "You've cheated death before, what makes you think you won't this time?"
He pulled his watch from his vest pocket. "It's very simple, son," he said studying its face for a moment before sliding it back into place. "I no longer wish to." He looked around the room peering into the darkened corners.
"You lookin' for someone?"
"I was just thinking perhaps we should get you comfortable in the other room. It is getting quite late, another hour or so and the sun will be making its appearance. I hope you don't mind, my things are still there. As usual, I have no idea where Remy is. He's never around when I need him. Nothing like you were. The boy likes to cook for God's sake.
"There something wrong with that?"
"Of course there is, he was supposed to be a man, a killer just like you were. Instead, well… thank God for his sister. She took me quite by surprise. Actually, you and she are quite a bit alike."
"You don't say."
"She is most anxious to meet you, having heard so many stories. I fear she may have a bit of a preoccupation."
Tbc
