I nodded, once. “He’s got problems.”
“Always did. Poor bastard.”
“Yeah.” I glanced over my shoulder, checking if Newt had moved.
He hadn’t.
Ransom fished a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it with a Zippo, the flame shuddering in the breeze. He took a drag and looked at me sideways. “You planning on playing savior or just observing?”
“Neither.” I lied as easily as breathing. “I got my own shit.”
He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Suit yourself. Just don’t bring drama back to the shop. I’m not bailing your ass out again.”
“Noted.”
He swung a leg over the Harley and fired it up, engine drowning out any last words. He rode off, leaving the smell of exhaust and burnt rubber behind. Luther and his crew were nowhere to be seen. The sidewalk was empty except for me and the silence.
I headed for the alley. I pretended it was just a shortcut back to the truck, but the truth was, I wanted to see if Newton Bridger had survived the encounter. Or maybe I just wanted to see what he looked like up close, without the glass wall of the sheriff’s office between us.
I found him behind the post office dumpster, huddled against the bricks. He didn’t see me coming or maybe he just didn’t care anymore. He was shaking, his face buried in his hands.
“Hey,” I said, voice softer than I meant it to be.
He startled, tried to get to his feet, then gave up and just sat there, knees drawn up to his chest. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’re gone.”
He nodded, slow. His knuckles were scraped raw, like he’d tried to punch something harder than himself.
“You okay?” I asked, knowing it was a stupid question.
He shrugged, a bird-shiver of shoulders. “I’m used to it.”
I didn’t have a response for that. Instead, I squatted down, keeping my hands in plain sight. “You want a ride somewhere?”
He hesitated, then, “No. I’m fine. I just—needed a place to catch my breath.”
I nodded, respecting the lie. I’d done the same, once upon a time.
“If you change your mind,” I said, “I’ll be at the shop, the one west of town, about twenty miles out. You know the place.”
He looked at me then, really looked, blue eyes bright and desperate in a face that was all bones and bruises. “Why?”
“Because you look like shit,” I said, “and you shouldn’t have to take it alone.”
He laughed, a sound that bordered on hysterical. “You don’t even know me.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I stood, feeling the ache in my knees. “We take care of our own out here.”
He watched me go. I felt his eyes on my back all the way to the truck.
When I got in and slammed the door, my hands were shaking. Not from fear, not from anger. From the old hunger, the old itch to fix things, to control the outcome, to set the world back on its rails.
It never worked, but I kept trying anyway.
In the rearview, Newt Bridger was just a shadow slumped against the bricks, but even at that distance, I knew he was still watching. And I knew I wasn’t done with him yet.
* * * *
