Through the haze of pain he heard weeping. Through the haze of pain he saw Cybil step up to the dying dog and fire the coup de grace into its head.
“It wasn’t dead. It was suffering. Let me get you inside. God, you’re torn up.”
“I’ll heal.” But he put his arm around her shoulders, let her take his weight. He made it as far as the steps before his legs gave out. “Give me a minute. I need a minute.”
She left him slumped on the steps to dash inside. Minutes later, she rushed out again with a fresh bottle of water, a basin filled with more, and several cloths. “Should I call Cal and Fox? When Fox was hurt it helped him to have you both.”
“No. Not that bad.”
“Let me see. I need to see.” Quickly, efficiently, she drew off what was left of his shirt. Her breath might have shuddered at the tears and rips in his flesh, but she washed the wounds with a steady hand. “The shoulder’s bad.”
“Unnecessary information seeing as it’s my shoulder.” He hissed as she pressed the cool, wet cloth to the wound. “Anyway, nice shooting, Tex. ”
She used the bottled water to dampen a fresh cloth, then wiped it gently over his face. “I know it hurts. I know the healing hurts almost as much as the need for it.”
“It’s no spring picnic. Do me a favor? Get me a whiskey?”
“All right.”
Inside, she braced her hands on the counter a moment. She wanted to be sick, badly wanted to be sick. But she pushed down the need, shuddered her way past it. And pulling down the bottle of Jameson, poured him a generous three fingers.
When she came back out with it, she saw that most of his surface injuries had healed, and the more serious ones had begun to close. He downed two-thirds of the whiskey she handed him in one pull, then, studying her face, held out the glass. “Down the rest, sweetheart. You look like you could use it.”
She nodded, downed it. Then she did what she’d avoided doing. She turned and looked at what lay on the blood-stained grass. “I’ve never killed anything before. Clay pigeons, targets, shooting gallery bears. But I never put bullets into a living thing.”
“If you hadn’t, I might be dead. That dog weighs a good eighty pounds, mostly muscle, and it was shithouse crazy.”
“It has a collar, tags.” Steeling herself, she crossed the lawn, crouched. “An up-to-date rabies tag. It wasn’t rabid, Gage, not in the usual sense. But I guess we both knew that.”
She straightened when Gage limped over to join her. “What do we do now?” she asked him.
“We bury it.”
“But… Gage, this was someone’s dog. This wasn’t a stray, he belonged to someone. They must be looking for him.”
“Getting him back dead isn’t going to help. Trying to explain why you put four bullets in a household pet-one who won’t show rabies on any test-isn’t going to help.” Gage gripped her shoulders, fingers digging in for emphasis. “This is a goddamn war, do you understand? One we’ve been fighting a long time. More than dogs die, Cybil, so you’re going to have to man up. Telling some kid that Fido won’t be home for dinner because a demon infected him isn’t on the boards. We bury it, we move on.”
“It must help not to have any feelings, any guilt or remorse.”
“That’s right, it does. Go home. We’re done for the day.”
“Where are you going?” she demanded when he turned away.
“To get a damn shovel.”
Gritting her teeth, she marched to the garden shed ahead of him, wrenched open the door.
“I said go home.”
“I say go to hell; we’ll see who gets where first. I put that dog down, didn’t I? So I’ll help bury him.” She wrenched down a shovel, all but threw it at Gage before grabbing another. “And here’s something else, you son of a bitch, we’re not done for the day. What happened here needs to be shared with the others. Whether you like it or not you’re part of a team. This whole ugly business has to be reported, documented, charted. Burying it isn’t enough. It’s not enough. It’s not.”
She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, choked back a sob as the cracks in her composure widened. When she would have pushed by him, Gage grabbed her, pulled her against him.
“Get away from me.”
“Shut up. Just shut up.” He held firm, ignoring her struggles, and when she gave up, gave in and clung, he held her still. “You did what you had to do,” he murmured. “You did fine. You held up. Go on inside, let me finish this. You can call the others.”
She leaned against him another moment. “We’ll finish it. We’ll bury him together. Then we’ll go call the others.”
Seven
SHE’D ASKED QUINN TO BRING HER A CHANGE OF clothes. After the horrible business of burying the dog, Cybil was filthy, sweaty, and stained. Rather than think about what stained her pants and shirt, she simply shoved them into a plastic bag, and once she’d showered, intended to shove that into Cal ’s trash.
She’d gone to pieces, she admitted as she stepped under the spray. She’d done what needed to be done, true enough, but then her shaky wall of control had broken down into emotional rubble.
So much for cool, clearheaded Cybil Kinski.
Now, if she couldn’t manage cool, she could at least make a stab at the clearheaded.
Was it worse or better that she’d melted down in front of Gage? Two ways of thinking, she supposed. Worse-much-for her pride, but for the overall picture, it was best they knew what made each other tick. In order to handle their end of this successfully, knowing each other’s strengths, weaknesses, and breaking points was essential.
It was a pisser she’d broken first, but she’d accept that. Eventually.
It was a tough swallow, she supposed, when she’d always perceived herself as the strong one. As the one who made the choices-the tough choices when necessary-and followed them through. Other people fell apart-her mother, her sister-but she held it together. She’d made damn sure of it.
Second swallow, she admitted, was accepting that Gage was right. A dead dog wasn’t going to be the worst of it. If she couldn’t handle that, she’d be useless to the others. So she’d handle it.
Bury it, as he said, and move on.
When the door opened, she felt a flash of temper along with the chilly air. “Just turn around, hotshot, and go back the way you came.”
“It’s Q. You okay?”
The sound of her friend’s voice had tears flooding her throat again. Ruthlessly, she swallowed them down. “Better. You were quick.”
“We headed right over. Cal and I. Fox and Layla will be along as soon as they can. What can I do?”
Cybil turned off the spray. “Hand me a towel.” She shoved back the shower curtain and took the one Quinn held out.
“God, Cyb, you look exhausted.”
“It was my first day on the job as grave digger. I’m in damn good tune, but Jesus, Q, that’s awful work. On every possible level.”
As Cybil wrapped the first towel around herself, Quinn handed her a second for her hair. “Thank God you weren’t hurt. You saved Gage’s life.”
“I’d say it was a mutual lifesaving affair.” She glanced in the steamy mirror. Both emotional and physical weariness crumbled under the sheer weight of vanity. Who was that pale, drawn woman with the dull, bruised-looking eyes? “Oh my God. Please tell me you had the good sense to bring my makeup along with a change of clothes.”
Reassured by the reaction, Quinn leaned a hip against the door. “How long have we been friends?”
“I should never have doubted you.”
“Everything’s on the bed. I’m going down to pour you a glass of wine while you get changed. Do you want anything else?”
“I think you’ve just covered the essentials.”
Alone, Cybil brushed, dabbed, and blended away the signs of fatigue. She changed into the fresh clothes, did a final check, then gathered up the bag holding her soiled shirt and pants. Downstairs, she shoved the bag into the kitchen garbage, then backtracked to the front deck where Quinn sat with Cal and Gage.