Hank was surprised when I pulled up instead of Wyatt, but he didn’t question me, simply urged the nurse to help get him up into the truck.
It took the two of us, but we got him in and belted up, and then we were on our way.
“Before we head out of town,” Hank said, “how about stopping at Popeyes and getting me some fried chicken and a biscuit?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you supposed to be eating that when you’re diabetic?”
“So?” he said. “I’d rather be dead than give up my fried chicken and biscuits. You still got my wallet?”
“No,” I said. “I thought you were supposed to check your insulin before you ate.”
“And we did, remember? I gave myself a damn injection. I’m good to go.”
I wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do, but he wasn’t a child and my job was to help him with his amputation not manage his diabetes. “Biscuits sound good to me, but I doubt Popeyes is open. It’s barely ten o’clock, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea to hang around waiting.” I shot him an apologetic look. “How about McDonald’s? They have biscuits. We can go through the drive-thru. My treat.”
“It’s not the same, but I guess it’ll work,” he said dejectedly. He gave me directions as I struggled to shift the gears.
“Turn right there!” he shouted at the last moment, pointing out the window.
I hit the brakes and nearly stalled the truck as I downshifted and took the turn. A black pickup truck almost slammed into me, but I made it around the corner without getting hit. I glanced over in panic to make sure Hank hadn’t been jostled too badly. “You okay?”
He scowled. “I’m fine, just hungry for biscuits.”
“Promise me you won’t tell Wyatt I almost got rear-ended,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“If you get me McDonald’s, I’ll take your secrets to my grave,” he said.
Considering the reason I was with him, it seemed like an alarming analogy. We went through the drive-thru in record time and were soon on our way, me with my sausage biscuit and coffee, and Hank with his breakfast burritos, sausage and cheese biscuit, hash browns, Egg McMuffin, and an orange juice.
I had serious doubts that he could eat it all, but bearing in mind that there weren’t any fast food restaurants in Drum, I got him everything he requested without comment.
Before I pulled out of the parking lot, I got out my paper with the directions to Drum. When Hank figured out what I was looking at, he snorted. “You don’t need damn directions. I know where to go.”
He gave me instructions—often too close to the actual turn—but it didn’t take me long to realize we weren’t following Ruth’s route. “Where are you taking me, Hank?”
“Don’t you worry. It’s only a couple minutes longer than the way you likely came, but it’ll bring us through Ewing.”
I shot him a frown. “Why do you want to go to Ewing?”
He glanced out the window, refusing to look at me, and his voice trembled when he spoke. “I want to see my grandson.”
Why hadn’t I thought of that? Hank had been stuck in the hospital and hadn’t had a chance to identify his body or possibly even make arrangements.
“Do you need to identify him?” I asked quietly.
“Nah,” he said. “Wyatt already gave the official ID. The sheriff’s deputy said Max did it unofficially. But I want to see him anyway.”
Wyatt had officially IDed him? That fit with Ruth’s story about him taking Seth under his wing. “Do you know where they took his body?”
He was silent for a second. “He’s at the funeral home. I need to talk to them about the funeral too.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll be more than happy to take you.”
Once I got on to Highway 107, the lull of the truck and Hank’s medication had him dozing. He’d told me that 107 ran right into Ewing, and sure enough, forty-five minutes later, Ewing came into view.
“Hank,” I said softly. When he roused, I said, “We’re here. Now what?”
He sat up, his eyes sleepy and his gray hair smooshed on one side, and glanced around to get his bearings. “Go a couple of miles and we’ll turn left.”
After a moment of silence, I asked, “How are you doing? Are you in any pain?”
“Nah, they jacked me up on aspirin before they let me go. I’ll be okay until this afternoon.”
Aspirin? That’s all they were giving him? But the nurse had said he had a prescription for pain medication…
When I pulled into the parking lot, I began to worry about getting him out of the truck and inside on his crutches.
I said as much, and he waved a hand at the doors. “Just park in front. Then go inside and tell Mobley I need a wheelchair.”
“Okay…” I did as he said and walked through the front doors, glancing down the hall for someone to help. I heard a faint doorbell chime in the back.
“Can I help you?” a middle-aged man asked, walking out a door down the hall. He wore a dark gray suit and a pale blue tie. His dress shoes were shiny black. His hair was black too, for the most part, with a sprinkling of gray. His eyes were warm and kind.
“Hi,” I said, taking a step closer. “I’m with Hank Chalmers. He’s here to see his grandson.”
“I’ve been expecting him,” the man stated, holding out his hand as he approached. “I’m Pete Mobley, the director.”
I shook his hand. “Carly Bla—” I cut myself off and said, “I’m Carly and I’ll be taking care of Hank for a few days.”
“Nice to meet you, Carly,” he said as he released my hand. “Hank said you’d be comin’ by too.”
He sure hadn’t let any grass grow under him.
“Mr. Chalmers is in the truck. He’s going to need assistance to get out and see his grandson. He said you’d have a wheelchair?”
“One of my employees has one ready for him. I’ll send him out to collect Hank. I’d stay with you, but I’m dealin’ with a difficult situation that needs my attention. I’ll meet you both when you’re inside.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Mobley. Thank you.”
“No need for the mister,” he said with a friendly smile. “Everyone just calls me Mobley.”
“Well, thank you, Mobley.”
“Anything I can do to help you and Hank through this difficult time. Death is tragic, but it’s even more so when a boy is gunned down in cold blooded murder.” He stood there quietly for a moment, as if giving that thought the consideration it deserved, then smiled at me one last time before heading back down the hall. “Dwight,” he called out, “can you bring the wheelchair up to meet Mr. Chalmers?”
“Sure thing,” a man called out as Mobley walked back through the door he’d come through.
I heard the squeaky wheels of the chair before I saw it appear in the hall, being pushed by a man with shaggy blond hair and a scruffy beard. He slowly ambled toward me, wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt that looked like hand-me-downs. A leering grin spread across his face the moment he saw me.