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Chapter 9
As soon as they're out on the sidewalk, he says. "I'm so sorry, Vic."
She's got a wad of Kleenex Nighthorse's secretary gave her pressed against her nose, and her head is throbbing and humming.
"It's okay," she says, her voice a nasal gurgle.
It seems like she's been saying that to him a lot lately.
He puts his hands on her shoulders and turns her to face him. "How do you feel? Are you dizzy?"
"No," she says. "I'm fine."
He takes the hand holding the wad of bloody tissue and moves it to examine the injury. When blood starts flowing over her lip again, he replaces it.
"It's starting to swell," he says.
"I imagine it is. I just got punched in the face."
"Hard."
"It doesn't feel broken," she says.
"We need to get you checked out anyway."
"Oh, please. If everyone you punched ran crying to the hospital, they'd have to open a new wing."
He smiles.
"Back off, Walt."
Then, as if it's a completely normal and acceptable interaction between sheriff and deputy, he caresses her cheek with his thumb, right there on the sidewalk, in downtown Durant, on a sunny weekday afternoon.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he says.
Despite the pounding in her head and the overall brain-fuzz and the simmering annoyance at the reminder of this borderland they exist in together, she feels herself softening into him, responding.
"Come on," he says, guiding her with his hand, big and warm, on her lower back. "You'll have two black eyes pretty soon if we don't get some ice on that."
"I'd look like a badass."
"You don't need black eyes for that."
She looks up at him. He winks.
"You sure know how to flatter a woman."
/
On the drive over to the Red Pony he doesn't say much. He's thinking about Nighthorse. How could he not be?
They'd have to be both technologically impaired and stupid to boot for that recording to have convinced them Nighthorse wasn't involved in Ridges' shadiness. If anything, it makes Nighthorse seem more suspect. To her, there's a strong possibility the recording is bullshit, and she assumes Walt's on the same page. But she can't bring it up because as soon as it's out there, it becomes the latest in an endless string of obstacles.
And that's yet another symptom of her selfishness. It's along the lines of ratting Branch out instead of helping him when she already knew, at least on some level, that he was right. All because she wanted whatever remaining crumbs she could get from this guy who might want her at times, but in reality has no room for her in his life.
"Vic?"
His voice startles her.
He's got his right arm stretched out, right hand on the wheel, and the worried look on his face again.
"What?"
He's still a bloody mess himself. The scrape on the side of his face is wet and pulpy and flecked with dirt.
"I asked you how you're feeling," he says.
"Fine. I was just spacing out."
"You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure I wasn't slipping into a coma."
He reaches over and puts his hand on her thigh. "Don't say that," he says.
As good as it feels, she reminds herself it's coming from a place of guilt.
/
Inside, he has her sit down at a table. Henry isn't around and the place is empty, so Walt goes behind the bar himself then comes back with a couple of rags and a plastic bag filled with ice.
He scoots a chair next to her.
"Let me see," he says, moving her hand and taking the bloody Kleenexes from her.
He pokes at the bridge of her nose.
"Ow. Fuck."
A drop of blood splats on the table.
"Still dripping," he says, handing her small pile of clean napkins.
She holds them against her nose for a few seconds then looks at them.
"It's barely anything," she says.
He tears a napkin in half then in quarters and makes a couple of cylindrical wads, like mini tampons, then he moves her hand again.
"Here," he says.
"I'll do that."
She takes them from him and turns away to shove a stopper in each nostril, then she turns back to him and lets him hold the ice against the top of her nose as she mouth-breathes.
"Thanks," she says.
"You're welcome. Want a beer."
"Hell yes."
She holds the ice while he goes behind the bar again and comes back with two drafts. She puts the ice down to take a sip.
"I'm really sorry," he says again.
"Stop," she says. "Shit happens."
She picks up the other rag and dips it in her beer then dabs it gingerly against the side of his face. He flinches.
"That's a pretty nasty scrape."
"I don't know how it happened."
"You got in a tussle with a homicidal Dog Soldier."
Visibly he deflates, as though all the talk of wounds and regret had given him some reprieve from the real tragedy. Now she's dumped the burden back on him.
"I'm sorry, Walt."
"I still have to prove it," he says.
"Nighthorse hired Ridges to . . . ."
"Looks like."
People talk about "senseless" murders as though one that makes sense is easier to digest. This one makes sense. People kill for far worse reasons than millions of dollars and the promise of economic security for a community of historically downtrodden people. As far as she can tell, though, that does nothing to soften the blow in this case.
"Here," he says, picking up the rag-covered ice pack and placing it on her nose again so their arms are crossed.
For a while, he's off in his mind, his eyes fixed on some point across the room near the pool tables. He's so close she can feel him breathing, and over time, the breathing evens out until she's off in her own head.
When he looks at her again, the sadness has lifted, at least for the time being.
"Look at us," he says.
"I know. We're a mess."
"Yeah," he says. "But I mean look at us."
It's how it should be, she thinks, but she doesn't say it. She'd never say it.
From across the bar, she hears the office door open, hears voices, and senses eyes on them, but she doesn't look.
"In a different time," he says.
She drops the hand with the rag, and with the other she gently takes his wrist and moves his hand with the ice down to the table.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she says, in almost a whisper.
"You and me."
"It's over now," she says. "Isn't it?"
He nods. "Yeah."
"So?"
"It's over."
"Okay then," she says, but the way he's looking at her, she knows it's anything but.