Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“What the fuck?” I stammer out under my breath when my dip to pick up the bat has my hand slipping on a gooey substance. A vibrant red stain marks one end of the bat. It looks like fresh blood.
It takes me longer than I care to admit to unearth how Cecil’s bat got blood on it, but when it finally clicks, I race back to the cabin like I’m outrunning a bullet.
Cecil said something hit him over the head. I assumed it was one of the steel panels holding the shade cloth up in the greenhouse. I didn’t consider the prospect he was struck by something. Roderick wants to be a gangster, but he doesn’t have the gall to pull it off.
Well, he didn’t. Now I’m not so sure.
The floorboards of the cabin shriek as loudly as the front door when I race inside. “Whatever hit you over the head wasn’t an accident. You were struck by a bat.” I tug on a pair of boots before spinning to face Cecil’s bed. “There are footprints in the mud, and I found this under the shrubs out front.”
My words clog in my throat when my eyes lock with Cecil. His chest is rising and falling, but his freight-train snore is nonexistent even with his eyes closed.
That isn’t a good sign.
“Cecil.” I race to his bedside before placing two fingers on his neck to feel for a pulse. There is one, but it’s faint, and the reason for its dullness could be attributed to the amount of blood that coats my fingers when I remove them from his neck.
He’s bleeding—profusely.
“Jesus Christ, Cecil,” I push out with a groan when I roll him over to inspect where the blood is coming from. His hair is parted by a large split. It’s seeping out enough blood to ruin his deer skin bedding.
Although Cecil has said numerous times the day he leaves his cabin will be the day he takes his final breath, his injuries don’t give me any other option. If I don’t seek urgent medical treatment, he will die. There’s no uncertainty to this.
After gathering Cecil in my arms and ignoring the fact he doesn’t badger me about carrying him like a child, I snatch up his keys, then race outside. The slosh of a water-soaked ground makes a mess of my boots when I bolt for his truck. Instincts naturally have me veering for the passenger side door.
Even when he was under the weather, Cecil never let me drive when we took his old truck down the dirt tracks weaved throughout his property. He said he knew every road so well he could drive them with his eyes closed. Since they were the only trips he ever took, I never discredited his claims.
After buckling Cecil in, I use an old shirt to prop his head against the rusty doorframe, remove the solar charging ports from the battery, then dive into the driver’s seat. With his truck not being used very often the past six months, it takes a couple of turns of the key for the dirty fuel to pass through the engine. When it does, I reverse away from the cabin like I’ve driven every day for the past three years, throw the gearstick into first, then head for the entrance.
As the bells Cecil rigged to the front gate jingle when I yank it open, I consider my options. There’s a doctor’s office smack bang in the middle of a town not too far from here, but with the practitioner being a blood relative of Roderick’s, I don’t see him being overly obliging to an impromptu visit, so instead of turning right when I exit the driveway, I pull the steering wheel to the left.
We barely make it five miles from the base of the mountain before flashing lights reflect in the rearview mirror of Cecil’s truck. I’m hesitant to pull over. Trust has always been an issue of mine, but it worsened after I learned how many Ravenshoe PD were on my father’s payroll. They netted Roberto along with my father.
When the patrol car glides up next to me, I’m given no choice but to yield. The barrel of the shotgun he’s pointing at my head is extremely convincing.
After signaling my intention to pull into an upcoming side street, I do precisely that. The sheriff parks behind me a mere nanosecond before he demands that I place my hands behind my head over the loudspeaker.
“I was just r-reaching for the registration p-papers,” I mumble through gritted teeth before doing as asked.
Curse words spill from my mouth without pause when I recognize the condescending smirk of the man behind the steering wheel of the patrol car. He is Roderick’s second cousin and long-time friend, Sheriff Dumont.
“What’s your excuse for driving ten miles over the speed limit?” he asks after moseying up to my window like the rights for the town are in the breast pocket of his uniform.