Paul doesn’t move. I pull up short, heart pounding. But then I see his chest rise and fall. I catch the faint wheeze of his breathing. I set my lantern on his nightstand and pinch out the candle. As I do, I spot the bottle. It’s a glass pill bottle with a mailing label neatly affixed. On that label is Beth Lowry’s careful script.
I lift the bottle. It’s a prescription for a midlevel sleep aid. The date is two years ago, around the time Paul arrived. He must have had trouble sleeping then—not surprising given that he came at this time of year, when the sun only naps. He must have saved the pills to use as needed. That explains his deep slumber. I sigh. There’s no point waking him. If he’s this deeply asleep, he’ll be in no shape to work.
I’m taking my lantern as I set down the pill bottle. As I do, I realize nothing jangles inside. The bottle is empty. The hairs on my neck rise, but I tell myself I’m overreacting. He used up his last ones. That’s all. Still, I glance at Paul’s sleeping form, and when I do, I spot two pills on the sheets … and a bubble of foam in one corner of his mouth.
TWENTY
I’m in the clinic. We’ve brought Paul there, which means we had to put Garcia’s body on the floor so we’d have a bed for Paul. Dalton can’t even fit in the damn examination room with us—there’s no space with a corpse on the floor. In the supply room, Kenny’s awake and asking what’s going on, and I want to throw up my hands and walk out and clear my head. I haven’t had more than a few hours’ sleep in three days, and my brain is about to shut down from overload.
It doesn’t, of course. We have a man who just attempted suicide. That’s a problem that cannot wait until I get my shit together.
We pump Paul’s stomach, and even that makes me feel like I’ve slid into some twilight zone nightmare. A few months ago, we had to pump Diana’s stomach when she’d been drugged. We also did it with Brady, who poisoned himself. And before that, Anders had never even assisted in a stomach pumping in Rockton. It seems impossible that we’d be doing it for the third time in six months. The truth is that situations like this are contagious. Someone drugs Diana with sleeping pills … and then Val remembers that when she needs to get Brady out of the jail cell. And then, I suspect, Paul recalls both those cases when he decides to take his own life.
I remember standing at his bedside, ready to walk away. If I hadn’t realized the bottle was empty? If I hadn’t spotted the foam on his lips? I don’t want to think about that. I’m just glad that I did.
I’m by Paul’s bedside when he wakes. Dalton tried to get me to go home and sleep. I refused. That’s not just guilt. It’s the very real possibility—likelihood even—that guilt is what drove Paul to take those pills. Guilt over what he’d done. There’s no other reason for him to decide this is the time to commit suicide. He tried to kill Garcia, and when he failed, instead of making a second attempt, he tried to take his own life before Garcia woke and named him.
I’m dozing there, in a chair. Dalton’s asleep in the one beside me. We’ve moved Garcia’s body into the front room. I know how callous that sounds, stashing his corpse here and there, but we’ve had no time to do anything else.
“C-Casey?”
Paul’s groggy voice wakes me. I get to my feet and move to his bed. He’s trying to prop himself up. He accidentally tugs against the IV line and follows it, blinking at the drip bag in confusion.
“Wh—where—what—?”
“Paul, I need to ask you a question.”
I don’t ask whether he feels up to answering. Down south, I’d have to do that. I’d need to read him his rights. I’d need to give him the option of not speaking without a lawyer present. None of that counts here. He’s still dopey from the drugs, and he could very well say something that incriminates himself, and I am okay with t
hat.
“Do you remember what happened?” I ask. “Do you remember taking the sleeping pills?”
His eyes half shut, shame darkening his face, telling me there’s no chance someone force-fed those pills to him.
“You were attempting to take your own life, yes?” I say.
He nods.
“Because of something you’d done.”
Another nod.
“Do you want to tell me about that?”
“He—the marshal. He’s here for me. For what I did. It was a federal offense, and he’s a federal agent.”
“So you shot him.”
Paul’s eyes round. “What?”
“You’re the one who answered the radio. You knew we were bringing him in, and he’d tell us it was you, so you shot him.”
“N-no. No.” He pushes up onto his elbows. “At that time, I figured he’d already told you it was me. There was no point doing anything. Not that I would have anyway. When you called, I ran and got Will. Then I heard the marshal got shot and…” Paul swallows. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad. But when you said he’d pull through, that gave me time to think about it. Really think about it. I realized I couldn’t go back. I committed a federal offense, and then I fled the country. I was going to jail for a very long time. I … I couldn’t do that. So I took the pills.”
He goes quiet. I’m ready to ask something else when he blurts, “Can I speak to him?”
“Hmm?” I say, my mind elsewhere.