7. Garrison
SEVEN
GARRISON
“ I know you fuckin’ have her,” Liam sputters, blood swirling around on his teeth, dribbling out, down his face, to the floor.
With my boot pressed to his sternum and my gun pointed at him, I’m in no mood for this. “I’ll kill us both before I turn her over to you.”
Our eyes hold. Liam Davis and I have been on the same team for a while, according to the crime circuit of Buffalo Trails. Though in reality, we’ve never been on the same team. Not ever. Because he is not the only person who is lying about who they say they are.
“Get up and let me get your other weapons off you before you do something stupid and?—”
Stupidness ensues.
Liam reaches quickly for his knife on his belt, one I hadn’t seen until now. He connects with my calf, and I let out a roar in reaction, whipping him across the face with my gun before wrestling to get the knife from his hand. At some point we’re both on the floor, and then we’re both on our feet, pictures falling off the wall, chairs being knocked over as we fight our way through the house. His hands come to my throat, and with my gun pointed at his heart, I groan, “let go or I’ll shoot.”
Liam may not be aware of my orders and who I’m with, but he knows sure as hell that a man intending to shoot doesn’t give warnings.
He smiles, exposing a mouthful of bloody teeth. Looking past me, he sees his knife on the floor. Rearing back, he slams his head into mine and breaks free, bolting for the weapon. I catch him by his collar and drive my knee straight into his eyes, the harsh snap of his nose breaking cutting through the rest of the noise around us.
“Goddamn it, mother fucker, fuck!” he shouts, groaning as he topples then rolls on the floor, holding his face. There’s blood everywhere, a lot, maybe too much. It takes me a second to realize it’s not just from him and his deconstructed face but also me. That fucker stabbed me, and below my knee, my jeans are soaked. Reaching for the cuffs, I tug them free from the back of my belt and slap them on one of his wrists, aggressively pulling his arms back behind him to cuff his other hand.
He hollers and rolls around, shouting at first, then whimpering some. But I ain’t worried about Liam Davis. I did what I planned to do, which is catch that fucker while he was trying to take Carsyn.
Snagging the first aid kit from my bedroom, I flop down on the couch, Liam near my boots. I kick him again in the back of the neck just because, and he rolls until he’s far enough away that I can’t reach him.
He watches as I untie my boot and work my finger beneath the laces, loosening it till I can kick it off. Slowly I roll up my jeans and assess the knife wound. Needs stitches, but I’m not bleeding out anytime soon. It’s just not deep enough.
“You stab like a bitch,” I tell him, removing the antiseptic and gauze from the spread open kit next to me. Nah, this won’t do. I need the iodine so I don’t get an infection like when Kinleigh stabbed me with a piece of glass from a mason jar that one time. She’s someone I’d love to have a conversation with, or at least get the chance. Snagging the iodine from the kit, I smother the cut, leaving my leg burnt orange, tossing the used gauze aside. Pouring on the peroxide, it explodes in throngs of white fizz as I clean off the blood around the wound.
“Where is she?” Liam hisses, still rolling around as if it’s going to make some sort of difference. He rolls nearer and with my good leg, I kick him again. “Where?” he groans, his voice rising with audacity I’m not sure he’s earned. After all, I know who he is.
I pull the suture kit out, setting it on my lap while I force my hands into blue, powder-coated gloves. There’s a small vial of lidocaine, and a new syringe. But my daddy always told me what doesn’t kill you puts hair on your chest. With that in mind, and because I don’t want to waste good lidocaine for a few stitches, I get to work.
“That’s fucking disgusting,” Liam moans, attempting to sit up as he rolls around, hooking his boots on the hearth.
“Pussy.” In and out, I suture quickly, my hand aching from how firmly the forceps are pressed between my fingers. After tying off the thread and clipping the end, I return the tools to the kit and dispose of all the blood and iodine-soaked gauze, making sure to wipe the floor after. “And aren’t you a sheriff? Don’t you bandage people up in fender benders?”
He doesn’t answer, and I pull my pant leg down and come to stand a foot in front of Liam, now upright, back against my hearth, hands still cuffed behind his back. Cracked streaks of crimson trace his face, his lips pale, eyes hooded. He’s exhausted from our tussle, and I’m just getting started.
“Move,” I command, pointing to the wall adjacent.
He shakes his head. “I’m not doing a damn thing for you, Garrison.”
I want to roll my eyes, but it’s just not worth it. Instead, I drive my knee into his cheek and fish my hands through his hair, yanking him up to face me. “Your nose is broken. Want me to knock your teeth out, too?”
Liam spits blood at my feet, so I do what I have to do, and move him myself. By the hair.
He screams and hollers like he’s never been tortured before. Maybe he hasn’t. Smoothing my hand over the wall I find the spot I’m looking for and give it a push. A spring-loaded hinge sends a square of drywall aside, exposing a thick gold loop. From behind the stack of newspapers near the hearth, I grab the chain I’d stashed, and work one end through the cuffs, the other through the hook. After a padlock goes on, I move back to the kitchen to wash my hands so I can check on Carsyn.
There is no way, paralytic or not, she didn’t hear all this. Plus, Liam keeps fucking whining.
“I’m losing blood from my head like crazy, Conway,” he starts, using my surname I suppose to intimidate me. It doesn’t work.
“Shut the fuck up and sit there. And if you can’t shut up, I’ll cut your tongue out you fuckhead.”
“I’m gonna get free and I’m gonna find her and get her,” Liam says, his head bobbing from side to side like he’s about to go unconscious. It’s too bad he didn’t pass out first, because I already laid down the law. I told him if he doesn’t shut up I’ll cut his tongue out.
Moving a slotted spoon to the side, and pushing past a pancake-flipping spatula, I grab my kitchen shears. Walking toward him, his eyes find and catch on the scissors and within a second, he pales and loses consciousness.
Scaredy cat.
I put the scissors back, and head toward the guest room, but catch a glimpse of myself in a hallway mirror. Might’ve been a minor stab, but it yielded quite the mess. I duck into my bedroom, and change my clothes, bagging up the jeans and flannel I wore while tussling with Liam. Though I’m still actively bleeding, it’s better than before.
Time to check on Carsyn.