Page 98 of Hurt

Grant brushed past Roland and slid behind the wheel of the sleek sedan. The keys were still in the ignition, and Grant didn’t bother to look behind him before reversing then gunning it out of the driveway.

He wasn’t there, and a thousand images flashed through his mind. The events of the massacre were nothing compared to the scenarios he imagined Kurt in.

The steering wheel creaked under his hands as he twisted them on the leather. He couldn’t even process the rage he was feeling—at the Vega Cabal, at the Becketts for not being better parents to their only son, at the cruelty of the world, but mostly at himself.

His whole life, people had remarked on how intelligent he was. How much more advanced and gifted. He got the best grades, solved the hardest puzzles, analyzed situations. Born with a silver tongue and a quick mind, there was nothing he couldn’t do.

But when it counted, where was any of that? Why did it matter if he couldn’t shelter those he cared about?

Wallace would have a fit if he knew Grant was leaving his post, abandoning his duties for something personal. But Grant had given his entire life to the Weavers. Without question, he had served with the thought that nothing was more important than the Weaver Syndicate. He never thought there would be a time when he would find something more important.

Until he heard Roland say Kurt’s name.

His priorities were very clear.

An old Chevy pickup truck was parked in front of his house by the time he got there. Parked might be too generous a term as the old vehicle looked more like it was squatting in the dirt drive. The paint had rusted away twenty years ago, and now it was a pinkish color that somehow seemed to fit with the old man who drove it.

Dr. Edil had been the Weavers’ personal doctor since before Grant could remember. He had also been old for as long as he had known him. It seemed entirely possible that the man sprung from the womb crooked backed and crotchety. With the imperious air of someone who knows they know more than you, he had a personality that filled a void and rubbed some people the wrong way.

Strangely, Roland genuinely liked the man. Grant supposed Roland always appreciated a straightforward kind of person.

After retiring a few years ago, the Weavers had switched to using Molly for the majority of their medical needs. Occasionally though, Dr. Edil would be pulled from his questionably serviceable mobile home to come and treat a patient. A couple of years ago, the doctor had scarred Jamie for life when he whacked Jamie in the back of the knees so he would bend over and he could stick a syringe in his rear end. Since then, Jamie had a habit of disappearing every time he heard an old truck trundling down the drive.

Jerking Roland’s car into park beside the truck, Grant unfolded himself out of the sedan and raced up the steps of his small house. Reaching for the doorknob, he suddenly froze.

What was he going to say? Would Kurt be happy to see him or angry that he had been dragged here against his will? Grant thought he could handle an angry Kurt, but what if he was despondent? That, he wasn’t sure he could handle.

He wasn’t even sure what he was going to do.

How could he begin to apologize for not being there?

The door opened on creaking hinges as Grant stepped inside. Muscles tensed, he looked around the open space hesitantly.

Dr. Edil’s cane was resting against the couch, but he was nowhere to be seen. Pausing, Grant calmed his heart rate enough to hear the sound of voices and running water. The bathroom door was open a couple inches, and he felt the tension in his chest relax.

Falling to the couch, Grant let his head drop into his hands. Straining, he could barely hear the gentle murmur of voices. Dr. Edil was being uncharacteristically quiet, his southern twang a gentle lull against the splashing of water.

Nodding, he felt the exhaustion creep back up on him. The shot of adrenalin he had from hearing Kurt was hurt had faded, and now he could barely keep his eyes open.

“You look like hell, boy.”

Grant inhaled sharply and sat up. Dr. Edil was staring at him with thick forearms crossed over a barrel chest. Two sharp rheumy eyes were judging him from under a heavy brow. The man’s gaze was sharp for someone who could be no taller than 5’3. His skin was so tanned it resembled leather, and there was a permanent hump in his spine from years of bending over. Thin gray hair was combed back from his face with an old rubber band holding it into a low ponytail.

Dr. Edil had reacquired the cane he didn’t actually need and used it now to poke Grant. “They didn’t tell me I had two patients.”

“I don’t require your services, Doctor,” Grant said tiredly, trying to give him a polite smile but falling flat.

“How is he?”

Dr. Edil raised a furry gray eyebrow at him. “They teach you to ask stupid questions in all those fancy lessons your grandfather insisted on?”

Grant thought that was bold talk coming from a man who resembled a bat.

Impatience reared its head, and Grant squared his shoulders to level a look at the doctor. The short man glared back at him balefully before huffing and taking a seat on the couch beside him. Knobby fingers wrapped around the head of his cane as he balanced it on his knees.

“I had a dog like him once. Pack of coyotes had gotten to it. Tore him all to pieces, but he still dragged himself back to the farm. Just about took my arm off when I tried to help him.”

Grant looked down at the wood floor between his feet. He wished Dr. Edil would be clinical. A detached summary of injuries so that Grant could make a logical plan to assist Kurt.