It would be a good opening for one of his books, actually, but he was too tired and dazed to do much plotting right now.
The deputy shrugged. “It looks worse than it is.”
Easy for him to say. It wasn’t his head.
“I had a doctor check you out,” the deputy went on.
“And he left me with an open wound?”
“He didn’t exactly have any sutures on him. Did you, doc?”
“No,” said a raspy, Southern-accented voice to Case’s left. It belonged to an older man with a trim white goatee, who smelled like he’d fallen headfirst into a brewery vat. “No, I did not. But you’ll be fine. Head wounds always bleed like hell.” He turned his bloodshot eyes to the deputy. “How about some breakfast, Jeremy?”
“You got it, doc,” Jeremy said amiably. “You want something too, new guy?”
“Case,” Case said automatically. “Casey Jackson. And should I eat with a concussion?”
The definitely-hungover, possibly-still-drunk doctor who was his only source of medical advice here said, “Eh, it’ll probably be fine.”
It wasn’t the most reassuring answer, but Case gave a thumbs up to breakfast and watched Jeremy amble out.
He turned back to the doctor. “You’re not the one who hit me over the head, are you?”
The doctor drew himself up as proudly as he could when he was still listing a little to the left. “I, sir, am a pacifist.” He stretched out his hand. “Dr. Ambrose Reynolds. Or just doc, if you want to imitate our young friend here.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Deanis the one who hit you with the beer bottle,” Doc said, jerking his head in the direction of the third man in the drunk tank, who was still snoring away. “No idea why, but he’s a world-class jackass, so I’m assuming you aren’t to blame.”
Good to know. From what Case was starting to piece together about his Friday night, he didn’t think he was to blame either. Not by his standards, anyway. He wasn’t sure whose side the law would come down on. Small towns weren’t always too enthusiastic about outsiders, especially ones they could tar as troublemaking drifters.
“Troublemaker” wasn’t a fair assessment, but “drifter” was, even if Case preferred “rambler.” He’d spent most of his adult life on the road, going from place to place with no particular direction in mind. He was a jack-of-all-trades when it came to manual labor—a certified welder and licensed electrician with plenty of construction experience—so it wasn’t usually too hard to find work. And he always had his writing to fall back on. He liked fresh air and quiet, wide open spaces. He liked new faces and chance encounters. It was a good life, but it wasn’t always one people smiled upon.
Well, he would have to see how it shook out in the end. Worrying about it wasn’t going to do him any good.
Plus, he really could use this experience in a book. Maybe every mystery author should wake up in a cell at least once, just so they could write that kind of thing with more verisimilitude.
“You didn’t get caught up in the fight, did you?” Case said. “You’re okay?”
Doc waved him off. “Oh, I’m fine. I fetch up here about one Saturday a month. I’m retired, and I was straitlaced most of my life, so I feel like I’m entitled to drink myself stupid every so often these days. Besides, it gets me breakfast from Mabel’s Diner on the county’s dime. Important to economize in your golden years, you know.”
“I’ve heard that.”
Case lay back—wincing as he tried to find a position that didn’t make his head throb even more—closed his eyes, and tried to get his muddled thoughts clear again.
He’d gone to an outdoor concert last night. Case liked a lot of the small, scrappy bands who toured around in out-of-the-way towns like this one, and he tried never to pass up the chance to see a live show.
He was supposed to listen to some music, drink a couple of beers, and maybe buy a T-shirt to remember the night by. Simple pleasures.
Well, that could have gone better .....
He’d pieced almost all of the night together by the time Deputy Jeremy returned with two steaming takeout containers full of pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs.
Case didn’t think he would ever get blackout drunk just to get it all for free, but itdidlook like a pretty good breakfast.
“Eat fast,” Jeremy said, passing Case’s helping to him through the bars. “We’re kicking you out. Your boss pulls a lot of strings in this town.”
It took Case’s still-aching head a moment to remember who his boss at the moment even was, and then it took him another moment to realize who Jeremy actually meant. He wasn’t talking about the on-site foreman overseeing construction of a second branch of a local bank. He meant, Case was pretty sure, the owner of the bank itself, Guthrie, who liked to show up and throw his weight around. He was the real town powerhouse.
