Gregg Hurwitz: You're Next

You will come back for me.

I will come back for you.

He set his hands on the wheel and pushed himself upright. He was shuddering; his flesh was shuddering. He willed his arm to move, to throw the car into reverse. The station wagon thumped its way up out of the roadside ditch and onto the road, and he gritted his teeth, blinked the sweat from his eyes, took a creaking breath, and-

– then she is five, jumping rope, smiling at him, missing eyeteeth, the lavender dress with the flaking Disney princess iron-on she sleeps in until it grows brittle, the first time she can read her own fortune at a Chinese restaurant, round red-framed spectacles, the spring break she wants to eat only licorice, orange slices at halftime, the Abominable Snowman on the Matterhorn, High School Fucking Musical. You swore it, now. You swore it -

– a horn blared, bringing him back to life, but by the time he lifted a sluggish arm, the driver had skidded angrily around him and kept on, leaving him behind, coasting down the wrong side of the road. A flash of awareness told him he was driving about five miles per hour, and he did his best to send a signal to his foot to tamp down on the gas pedal. Sometime in the past few minutes, the pain had shifted to numbness. His flesh felt as hard and cold as ice. Vaguely aware of the loose photocopies fluttering around the backseat, he cranked the wheel, righting the station wagon’s course. The road looked wider, a real road now. The sun had notched a few clicks higher in the sky. Pins and needles pricked his fingertips and his breaths were shallow, almost delicate, the breaths of a newborn.

He closed his eyes for a quick prayer, but then, like magic, he has flown forward in time. He sees the future, and it is present. It floats out of reach, as fragile and elusive as a butterfly, and-

– there she is at graduation, the free spirit with the peace sign stitched to her gown who busts a dance move on the dais before shaking the principal’s hand, the pale blue sky filled with graduation caps, and then her wedding night, a speech from a younger sister, or brother maybe, Annabel squeezing his hand beneath the table, and the first strain of the song for the father-daughter dance, him rising, cameras winking from the surrounding tables, and there she is, his daughter, in a shower of white, he takes her gloved hand and -

The collision hammered him into the dashboard, his eyes flying open. He rolled to the side, his forehead leaving a smudge on the driver’s window. He noted the clean little homes spaced on the landscaped slopes outside, the old folks in their yellow golf shirts and beige walking shoes, pointing at him.

Through the wobbling sheet of steam rising from the crumpled hood, he saw the barely dented stucco pillar of the activity-center building and realized he must have been going only about three miles per hour. The car had ended up on some shrubs a few yards through the rear gate, a sad little terminus to a slow-motion journey.

A photocopied ledger page drifted dreamily past his face and settled on the dashboard. His lips barely moved. ‘Help me,’ he said to the wall of steam.

He heard whistles and footsteps, the rattle of a gurney, and at once a medical team was there, guiding him out of the driver’s seat, pulling at his arms, questions raining down on him:

‘Flank wound there, see?’

‘Were you shot or stabbed? Shot or stabbed?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Any allergies?’

‘¿ Hablas español? ¿Te pegaron un tiro o te apuñalaron ?’

‘We need to roll him. Give yourself a hug now.’

‘… can’t…’ He forced the words out. ‘I can’t die. You don’t understand. My daughter… Katherine Wingate…’

‘Don’t move. Let us do the work.’

‘Pain here? Here? ¿Dolor aquí ?’

‘Tenth rib, midaxillary line. We’re gonna need the blood bank.’

He heard what was left of his shirt rip away, and then leads plopped onto his chest. The pressure beneath his chin, he realized, was a cervical collar. ‘… in a foster home. Have to fix me.’ His voice was so hoarse and weak that the sound barely reached his own ears.

‘Open your mouth.’

‘Deep breath. Again.’

Now he was being rolled down a walk, past puzzled elderly faces and manicured flower beds. He passed by the rear gate, a sign drifting by, cheerily announcing NEW BEGINNINGS ACTIVE LIVING CENTER. That painted smiley-face sun winked at him.

‘Push six of morphine.’

‘… so I can get to her. Tell her mother… Annabel. Jocelyn Wilder is the name.’

‘Little pinch, okay? Good.’

Air-conditioning on his face. Overhead lights flying past, one after another.

‘He’s tachycardic, hypotensive, blood in his belly. He needs to get to the OR now . Who’s on call?’

Mike’s words were fainter yet. ‘My daughter… she’s hidden. Tell my wife… Annabel Win… gate…’

‘Dr Nelson’s in already with the shattered hip.’

‘He’s lost a lotta blood. I don’t know.’

‘… can’t die… without…’

‘CT?’

‘No time – he’ll bleed out in the scanner.’

A sturdy male nurse leaned over him, sliding a finger into his numb left hand. ‘Squeeze my finger. Squeeze. That’s good, that’s good.’

Mike focused hard on forming words, shaping his lips. ‘… Jocelyn Wilder… Parker, Arizona. Tell… my wife…’

The nurse leaned closer. ‘What’s that, pal? Tell your wife what?’

Our daughter is with Jocelyn Wilder of Parker, Arizona .

Right before time stopped, Mike realized that the words had not left his head.

The voice was blurred, as if Mike were listening underwater. ‘Where’s Katherine?’

He mumbled, ‘I won’t fucking tell you ever.’

Another voice said, ‘Pleasant, ain’t he?’ And then he sank beneath another black swell.

This time he sensed the mattress beneath him.

‘-press is climbing all over everything,’ Shep’s voice was saying. ‘The state paid to medevac you in to Cedars-Sinai Med Center. And Annabel, too. Top care – bastards are scared of a lawsuit. They’re relieved you lived. I guess you had a cut in your kidney vein. What? Okay – renal vein. Bleeds fast, but not as fast as an artery. Lucky for you, huh?’

Mike tried to make his mouth move, but it wouldn’t obey.

Shep continued. ‘The feds raided the wrecking yard, found your parents’ remains in two of those crushed cars. McAvoy’s in custody. Looks like he’s fucked pretty good.’

‘He can’t hear you,’ someone said.

Shep said, ‘Yeah he can.’

Now his eyes were open, if barely, his vision blurry. His tongue was too thick to talk around. Metal pinched the skin of his stomach. A tan face was floating over him, saying, ‘Congratulations, Mr Wingate. You just inherited a Class III casino.’

Mike said, ‘Mmrm.’

‘You’ll be immediately commenced at a salary of three million.’

‘A month ,’ Shep’s voice added from somewhere. ‘And the annual dividend? It’s got more zeros than can fit on a check.’

Mike could discern the shape of Shep now, standing at the foot of the bed.

‘Guess who’s a leading expert in casino law?’ Shep flicked his nail against something that Mike finally registered as a familiar taupe business card. Shep’s face came into focus briefly, time enough for Mike to see the gleam of that crooked front tooth. ‘’Member that high-ticket lawyer Two-Hawks hooked me up with?’

Mike took in the man who’d spoken earlier as a collection of parts – sun-baked face, hammered sterling oval belt buckle with a turquoise inlay, Gerry Spence buckshin jacket with fringe sloping across the shoulders. The man nodded solemnly, a hint of wryness livening his eyes, and said, ‘Chief Two-Hawks looks forward to a long era of peace and prosperity between our tribes.’