Page 58 of Scythe & Sparrow
Chad gives me a thumbs-up, his go-to move, I guess, then steps out into the clearing. With a deep breath of cool evening air, he raises his fists above his head. “Fuckin’ eh, clown town.”
“Fuckin’ eh,” Rose mutters beside me.
And then Chad takes off running at full speed.
“He’s pretty quick,” I say. We watch him sprint in a wide circle, then he shifts his trajectory toward the white picket fence that surrounds the fairgrounds.
“Give a man a shit ton of drugs and the promise of ass fucking, and he’ll do anything. Even knit doilies.” Rose pivots a slow turn on her heel to pin me with a sardonic grin, a devious gleam flickering in her eyes. “Oh wait, you started that hobby with neither of those two motivators.”
“I already told you, I thought the Suture Sisters was a fight club. And it’s calledcrochet, not knitting.”
“My bad.”
We turn our attention back to Chad as he picks up speed. His naked back glistens in the dim light. His legs and arms pumpat an almost inhuman pace. His strides lengthen as he nears the fence.
“Not sure hurdles are a great idea,” I say, scratching my stubble.
“He’s committed now.”
Chad lets out a whoop of determination as he barrels toward his target.
… And then one foot catches on a rock.
He pitches forward at the fence, his startled shout spooking a flock of starlings.
“That’s—”
He comes down hard on the pointed ends of the pickets. A visceral cry of pain is sliced short. The setting sun illuminates a pulsing mist of blood. His body jerks and twitches.
“—not good …”
A garbled, liquid breath sputters from his lungs. Chad’s body convulses, then goes limp, his head suspended from a picket and the rest of his body hanging against the bloodstained slats.
We stand unmoving in a long moment of shocked silence.
Rose reaches forward and starts to pull the door closed. “Well … maybe hurdles were a stretch.”
“Rose,” I hiss, pushing the door open. She doesn’t let go of the handle and pulls back with equal determination. “I am adoctor. I have to go help him.”
“Help him to what, exactly? Un-die? Good luck with that.”
“He could still be alive. Call 911.”
“Hard pass.”
“You do realize that someone is going to find him and they could very well notice that his tracks lead straight back to your RV, right?”
Rose heaves a lengthy sigh and relinquishes her hold on the door handle. Before I can slip past her, she blocks my path with her hand braced against the frame. “Just don’t trytoohard, Doc. He’s still a piece of shit.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I say with a roll of my eyes. I pull her hand from the doorway and lead the way down the steps. None of the circus performers or crew are out in the clearing. We jog toward the fence where Chad’s body is draped, slowing as we draw closer. And though I listen for any sounds of life, nothing comes. I guess it should come as no surprise when we finally take in the extent of the damage. The pointed end of the picket is lodged deep in his throat. I’m guessing he severed his spinal column. I check for a pulse anyway, even though I know I’m not going to find one next to the gaping wound and the wooden stake that obstructs his airway. Blood pours in a thick rivulet down the picket, shimmering in the dim light.
“Yeah. He’s definitely dead,” I say as I lift my hand from his neck.
“Is that your professional diagnosis?” Rose leans over the fence to take a closer look at his open, unseeing eyes and the crimson stream that drips from his slack mouth. She seems to quickly regret her efforts to overcome her squeamishness and clears her throat in a failed attempt to hide a gagging cough as she steps back. “I thought the blood-drool was a pretty good clue, personally.”
“Call 911, smartass.”
“You first.”
