Frank Zafiro - Blood on Blood

Gar

The last light bled out of the sky like a violent smear onto the distant skyscrapers. At least, that was what Gar Sawyer thought he was seeing when he looked through the tiny rectangular strip of a window in the prison hospital. He stared at the red wisps and shook his head.

“Ain’t that some shit,” he muttered.

He hated that view, almost as much as he’d hated having no view at all in his old cell. He hated the people out there in the world who could stop whatever they were doing and stare up at the sky and see the complete expanse of the sunset. He hated that it was beautiful. He hated that he knew it was beautiful, and that his life was such that he now had enough time to think and reflect and realize there was some beauty in the world. And then he hated that beauty.

“Fuck the world,” he started to whisper, but a dull slice of pain cut him off mid-way through the first word. He grimaced slightly. The medication dispenser hung from the rail next to his left hand. He almost reached for it. He knew he could turn that dull pain into nothing more than a twinge.

But that would be giving in. And he’d be goddamned if he was going to do that .

Light footsteps approached in the hospital bay. The privacy curtain rippled and Dr. Bradford stepped through. Gar tore his eyes from the hateful red stain in the sky to look at him. Dr. Bradford’s rumpled white medical coat and tousled hair always looked to Gar like the doc had just rolled out of bed. Hell, maybe he did. He only knew of three different doctors in the hospital ward at this prison. That probably meant twelve hour shifts if anyone was going to get any time off. So the doc probably grabbed some shuteye on shift from time to time.

“How’s the pain?” Bradford asked without preamble. He lifted Gar’s chart from the foot of the bed and examined it.

“It’s there,” Gar said. “The fuck you care?”

A hint of a smile crept onto Bradford’s lips. “I don’t, really. Just looking for the symptom as a clue to your medical condition.”

If that was true, Gar liked Bradford for his honesty. If it wasn’t, he liked the doc for his balls.

“My medical condition is that I’m fucked,” Gar said. “I’m dying.”

Bradford marked something on the chart. “We’re all dying,” he said, without looking up.

“Yeah, but the thing is,” Gar told him, “I’m on the express train. Wherever we go when we die, I’ll be unpacked and already have banged three waitresses before you even get off the platform.”

“Good,” Bradford said. He replaced the chart and crossed to the IV hanger. “Then you’ll be able to tell me where’s a good place to eat.”

Gar laughed in spite of himself. It came out as a short, rattling bark. “Fucking doc. You shoulda been a comedian. Put Bob Newhart out of work with that wit.”

Bradford broke into a small grin. He examined the IV hanging next to Gar’s bed. Then he glanced at his watch. Finally, he looked at Gar himself. “You’re way behind on your pain medication,” he said. His voice was matter of fact, without a hint of reproach.

“I’m saving it to auction off when I get back home,” Gar said. “The boys on Tier Two will trade smokes by the box load for this magic shit.”

Bradford’s smile remained, but some of the humor faded from his eyes. “Is there a reason why you’re scaling back?”

“Seeing as how you don’t give a fuck if I’m in pain or not, what does it matter how much of this I use?”

Bradford didn’t take the bait. “If there’s less pain, I’d like to know. If it’s something else…”

“There’s plenty of fucking pain, doc. But I’ve dealt with that weak ass shit my whole life, so I don’t need any pussy medication to help me through it.” Which wasn’t true. He did need it, but goddamned if he only needed it some . For the most part, he could take the pain.

Bradford waited patiently, saying nothing.

Gar stared at him. He hated to admit it, but the old doc was actually halfway all right, for a civilian. Straight-laced as hell, sure. He found that out right after he was transferred into the bay when he’d probed for the possibility of Bradford doing a little smuggling for him. Everyone trusts doctors. He doubted that the hacks even searched them coming and going.

But Bradford had merely given him that little curious smile and told him that he was a doctor, not Han Solo, whatever the fuck that meant. Except it did mean something. It meant that no, he wouldn’t be doing any of that kind of work for Gar. It also meant that he wouldn’t be reporting him to the prison cops for asking.

Since then, they’d been pretty honest with each other. Bradford didn’t bullshit him about his condition and Gar didn’t pretend not to be pissed about it.

Bradford was still looking at him, so Gar finally spoke. He lowered his voice slightly, hoping that the mope in the next bed was asleep. “To make the pain stop, I gotta take too much, doc. And I’m tired of having my head all fucked around, you know? I’d rather hurt.”

Bradford nodded slowly. “All right.”

Gar’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”

Bradford paused. It was brief, just a half second, but in that time, Gar knew.

“I’m getting close,” he said before Bradford could answer.

Bradford nodded. “I think so, yeah.”

“How close?”

“How close do you feel?”

“You’re the fucking doctor,” Gar said. “You fucking tell me.”

Bradford shook his head. “I’m a doctor, not Edgar Cayce.”

“Edgar the fuck who?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bradford said. “I’m just trying to point out that at this stage of the game, a fortune teller is likely to be just as accurate as a doctor.”

Gar tried to cock an eyebrow at Bradford, but he was suddenly tired and it seemed like too much effort. Instead, he said, “You’ve got a great bedside manner, doc. Real touchy-feely.”

“I leave the softer side of things to the priest,” Bradford said.

“For all the good that’ll do me.”

Bradford shrugged. “That’s something where you’re on your own. Medically, I can tell you that you probably don’t have long. Days. Maybe hours. But at this point, you’re the one who will have the best idea. As the pain dulls, as you get tired, maybe even peaceful, you’re getting closer.” He shrugged again. “At least that’s what most patients report.”

“Two outta three ain’t bad,” Gar said. “I ain’t ever going to see peaceful.”

Bradford said nothing.

Gar glanced back to the thin strip of window. In the time he’d spent talking to Bradford, the red streaks in the sky had faded to dark purple, almost black. He looked at the shadowy clouds for a moment longer, then turned back to Bradford.

“I need someone to make a couple of phone calls for me,” he said.

Bradford nodded. “I’ll send an orderly.”

“No,” Gar said. He started to tell Bradford that he wanted the doctor to make the calls for him, but another wave of pain struck him in the midsection. An involuntary grunt escaped him before he had the chance to set himself against the pain.

Bradford continued looking at him, unfazed.

Seen it all, haven’t you, doc?

“I need you,” Gar said, pointing a skeletal finger at Bradford, “to call my sons.”

Bradford nodded slowly. “All right.”