“Why?”
“I wanted to meet you face-to-face.”
“What for?”
Dawson didn’t respond.
“You fucking my wife?”
“She’s not your wife. But, no.”
Whether or not he believed that, Dawson couldn’t tell.
“Did you come here to kill me?”
“No.”
“Because if you did—”
“I didn’t.”
“—you’re too late.” He pulled his hand away from a bloody, festering mess on the side of his lower abdomen. “I’m already a dead man.”
Chapter 24
Dawson was kneeling beside the ratty sofa before he even realized he’d moved. He pushed Jeremy’s hand aside and raised the hem of his dirty shirt. Under it was a putrefying wound. The tissue was puckered, pussy, and red around the dark bullet hole, which was clotted with dried blood. “Jesus. This looks bad, but it’s stopped bleeding.”
Jeremy gave an ironic grin. “I’ve run dry.”
Dawson feared he was right. Most of the bleeding must have been internal and considerable. Beneath his bushy mustache, his lips were gray. He let go of the pistol. It landed on the floor inches from Dawson’s knee.
“I lied about shooting you through the door. It’s not loaded.”
Dawson yanked his cell phone from his belt.
“Don’t bother.”
Ignoring Jeremy’s weak protest, he punched in 911. When the operator answered, he said, “Listen carefully.” He told her his general location, then the geographical coordinates of the tract. “I need medical care for a seriously wounded man.”
“What’s the nature—”
“He’s been shot in the gut.”
“Is he—”
“We’re in a cabin, but there’s no road to it. Send a search-and-rescue chopper. They won’t be able to set down. Tell them to come prepared for that and to look for smoke.”
“Smoke?”
“That’ll help them find us. And my phone will be on.”
“What’s your name?”
“Dawson Scott.”
“The Dawson Scott everyone’s looking for?”
“They’re looking for me?”