Part 11 (1/2)

”What? Who? Miss Julia? What's going on?” Mr. Pickens, still spraddled out on his stomach, had risen to his elbows to stare at me.

”Sh-h-h,” I cautioned. ”Not so loud. They'll throw me out if they find me here.” Then hurriedly speaking to give him as much information as I could, I went on. ”Now listen, we want to know what's wrong with you. Coleman heard you got shot, so are you all right? What can we do? I've got Etta Mae Wiggins with me-she's out in the car-and we'll do whatever we can to get you some help. That sheriff here is bound and determined to keep you isolated, but you're not under arrest, except you soon might be if he decides you have anything to do with whatever they're raiding. Which they're doing as we speak, so he's out of commission for the moment as far as you're concerned. So if you want out of here, now's the time.”

”Huh? Hold on ...” Mr. Pickens rested his face in his hands, like he needed a minute to think, which I completely understood because who would expect to be awakened by someone you thought was almost four hundred miles away?

He rubbed his face in his hands-I could see the movement, but little else except the uncombed mess his hair was in.

”Etta Mae's here?” he asked.

”She's waiting in the parking lot. But listen, Mr. Pickens, are you still wounded? Can you get up? We'll take you home if you want to go.”

”Okay, let's go.” His head dropped back down on the pillow. ”Real sleepy,” he mumbled. ”Gimme a minute. Kinda messed up here.”

”Oh, I understand. I've had dealings with Sheriff McAfee myself. But he's out of reach-Etta Mae saw them going on a raid, so they're all out in the hills somewhere. Now's your chance, if you want it.”

”Oh, yeah. Jus' maybe... . Too tired.”

”We'll help. Can you walk? Where were you shot? The sheriff said it wasn't life threatening and that you were getting better. We'll do whatever we can, but I don't want to cause any more damage. The first thing we have to decide is how to get you out of this room. Those nurses watch you like a hawk, but they have their hands full with Mr. Purvis. So if we hurry, we might be able to slip out the fire door, which is right next to yours. As quick as you are, Mr. Pickens, we could be outside in two seconds and n.o.body the wiser.”

He gave a half laugh. ”Not so quick. Can't get off the bed.”

”How bad is it? Your wound, I mean. Is it in your leg? You can lean on me and hop. We don't have far to go. Or I can call Etta Mae and between us we'll get you out.”

”Oh, Lord,” he said in a despairing way as he rubbed his face again. ”Head's buzzin'. Can't think. Had something for pain.”

”Yes, I figured that,” I said, getting a little exasperated with his slowness to be up and running. ”We need to get a move on.”

”Etta Mae's here? With a car?”

”Yes, and she's waiting for us. Now listen, it's good that you've had something for pain. Don't worry about thinking-just do what I tell you and jump out of this bed. We need to go.”

”Miss Julia,” he said, his words coming out m.u.f.fled as if his tongue were thick. ”I got shot in a place that connects to every muscle I have. Can't jump. Can't hop. Uh-uh, jus' can't.”

”Well, my goodness, what place is that?”

He lifted his head and turned toward me. I could almost feel those black eyes boring into mine as his words came out clear as a bell. ”My rear end-both sides, through and through.”

”Oh,” I said as an image of Mr. Purvis's shriveled backside flashed in my mind. A bullet fired at him would hit bone or nothing, but there was a good deal more to Mr. Pickens, which I'm ashamed to admit I had occasionally admired, and I a.s.sumed he had two entrance wounds and two exit wounds on a bullet's way in and out. ”My goodness. That would be painful.”

”Yeah,” he said, dropping his forehead to the pillow, ”I can't sit and can't turn over. Can't lie on my back and can't walk. Can't make it to the car.”

”I've always said that where there's a will, there's a way. So you just put your mind to it, Mr. Pickens, and endure about five minutes of discomfort, which that pain pill should take care of, and we'll have you out of here. I'm calling Etta Mae.”

So I did, whispering so that she could barely hear me. ”He was shot in the rear, Etta Mae, and with all those big muscles running down his legs, he's not walking too well. He wouldn't be fast enough to get out of the fire door. So it's the window or nothing.”

”Oh, wow,” she said, ”bottom shot, huh? Well, you're right, it'll have to be the window. I'll come around and meet you outside if you can get him to it. If you need help, open the window and I'll crawl in. Just watch for the security guy.”

We clicked off, and I felt my way around the bed to the window to unlock it, hoping that it wasn't hermetically sealed. It wasn't, but it wouldn't slide up, either. I finally found a crank near the sill, turned it while fighting the blinds and was relieved to see that the entire lower pane opened out for about a foot or so. Enough, I hoped, to slip Mr. Pickens and then myself out onto the ground.

Leaving the window open and hoping the security man was still busy with Mr. Purvis, I went back to the bed.

”Okay, Mr. Pickens, we're going out the window. Come on now, we have to go.”

He didn't move. I put my hand on his shoulder and shook him. ”Are you asleep? Come on, Mr. Pickens, wake up.”

”Okay,” he mumbled. ”I'm comin'.”

But he wasn't. I threw the covers off him, grabbed his ankles and swiveled his body around until his legs hung off the bed. That woke him up.

”My pants!” he yelped. ”Get my pants.”

”Oh, good grief,” I said, then realized that I was dealing with another short hospital gown that opened in the back, revealing a good bit of Mr. Pickens's posterior, although most of it was covered by a wide, thick bandage. ”Well, just hang there while I look for your clothes.”

Leaving him half on and half off the bed, I felt my way to what I thought was a closet, but found a bathroom instead. Finally I found the closet and pulled a s.h.i.+rt and a pair of jeans off a hanger. s.n.a.t.c.hing up his boots, I stumbled back to the bed.

”I've got them, Mr. Pickens, but if these jeans are the kind you usually wear, they won't go on over that bandage.” He didn't respond. ”Mr. Pickens? You hear me, Mr. Pickens? Wake up. I've got your clothes. See? I'm putting them out the window.”

As I threw them out, Etta Mae stuck her head through the window, rattling the blinds. ”Miss Julia? What you want me to do with this stuff?”

”I don't care. We'll take them if we can, but right now I can't get him to stay awake.” I shook Mr. Pickens again. ”Etta Mae's here. We're ready to get you out of here. Move, Mr. Pickens, move.”

He lifted his head, mumbling, ”Can't. Need to sleep.”

”Can't never did anything. Now you just raise yourself up and get to that window.”

I pulled and tugged at him, got his feet firmly on the floor and pushed myself under him enough to lift his top half off the bed. He moaned as I tried to stand him upright.

”Not so loud,” I hissed in his ear as he leaned on me. My knees were about to give way, but I slid and twisted and turned and edged him toward the window. ”On your knees, Mr. Pickens,” I ordered. ”Get down on your knees and stick your head out the window.”

I don't know how I got him down because he didn't like any of it, but I got his head and shoulders over the sill, then poked first one arm, then the other through the window.

”Pull him, Etta Mae,” I whispered. ”Pull him on out.”

I lifted his feet, straightening out his legs-another move he didn't like-while I pushed with all my might.

Unfortunately, the window pane wasn't high enough to slide him through without his backside rubbing against the metal frame. Mr. Pickens treated us to some of that ugly talk that had so offended Sheriff McAfee.

”Put a sock in his mouth, Etta Mae,” I hissed, fearing that he would bring the entire roster of hospital personnel down on us. ”He's as drunk as a lord.”

Finally, as she pulled and I pushed, he went through the window, sc.r.a.ping knees and rump on his way, until he fell on Etta Mae and just ruined some foundation plantings.

Relieved, I hurriedly put a pillow under the covers, found a black sock I'd dropped and put it where a nurse might think it was his hair. Then I grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed and threw it out the window. Then slipping under rattling blinds, I crawled through the window, a feat I will not recount, consisting as it did of some unladylike contortions and a little ugly talk of my own.

Chapter 22.

Mr. Pickens lay sprawled out over a couple of bushes, which would never again be the same, groaning and carrying on, and making no effort to get up. That white bandage of his glowed in the dark, so I s.n.a.t.c.hed the two sides of his gown and pulled them together.