Mystic Cowboy(62)

She lurched away from that touch. No touching, none. Period, end of sentence. “I don’t believe you. I want to see him for myself.”

“Done.” And they were off again, barreling down roads she could barely see.

When they got to Albert’s house, Madeline was surprised by the number of cars there. Not as many as had been at the party the other night, but still, there were maybe ten. Rebel sped past all of them and nearly parked on the front step.

“Should I even bother to ask you to carry the duffel?”

“If it will make you feel better,” was the only answer she got before he hauled it out.

In they went. The first thing she saw was that Jesse wasn’t occupying the couch any more. Instead, he was leaning against the door. “Doc, I’m glad you’re here,” he said, the strain in his voice more notable than it had been in Rebel’s. He appeared almost upset.

“What’s going on, Jesse?” Not that she particularly trusted Jesse—he seemed like the textbook definition of irresponsible—but she needed a viewpoint different from Rebel’s, and Jesse lived here.

“He’s been holding on for you, I think, but he’s fading.” He sort of pivoted to Rebel. “I was afraid you wouldn’t get back in time.”

Rebel set the duffel down and then pulled a small bundle out of his shirt. “I’m ready,” he said, cutting through the crowd and kneeling down next to Albert.

Madeline recognized most everyone here. Walter White Mouse was sitting with two older men in a far corner, chanting and lightly beating a drum. Tara was here, holding a sleeping Nelly on her shoulder. “Doctor, I mean, Madeline.” She was somber, but she didn’t sound upset. “It’s his time.”

God, what if Rebel had been telling the truth? What if Albert hadn’t let him come get her? What if he didn’t want to be saved?

What if he died?

Suddenly, the lump in the back of her throat was huge and oppressive. Rebel was on his knees, holding Albert’s good hand in his and speaking in a low, soothing tone. Irma was behind Albert, wiping his head with a damp cloth. No one was acting like a crime—a murder—was occurring before them. And no one in the room was upset or mad or even confused about what was going on. Just her.

Rebel looked to her, his eyes wide and knowing. “Come,” he said, still speaking in a low tone. “He’s been waiting for you.”

She dug out the nitroglycerin pills. “Albert, take one of these. Please,” she added when she got down to his level.

He let go of Rebel’s hand just long enough to wave the vial off. “Don’t worry,” he said in English, which just about knocked her on her butt. But between the accent and the slurring that indicated he might also be having a stroke, he was almost impossible to understand. “It’s okay.”

Then he switched to Lakota, which seemed less difficult. Rebel began translating. “It is a good day to die,” and every head in the room nodded in agreement. “We will meet again on the other side.” Then he looked at Rebel, and patted his face. “I am...” Rebel’s voice faltered a little. Albert repeated it, so Rebel kept translating. “I am proud of you, my son. You will be happy when you find your own way. No one else’s.”

The lump in her throat got bigger, and no amount of swallowing was budging the damn thing. Why wasn’t Rebel more upset by this? He’d said it himself—Albert made him everything he was. Why wasn’t he fighting for his grandfather? Why was he just letting him go?

Then Albert looked at Madeline. “Don’t worry,” he said in English again. “It’s okay.”

God, she didn’t want to let Albert go. He was just a kind old man, a rock of goodness in this strange place, who seemed a hell of a lot more worried about her than he was about himself. She didn’t know if it was proper to touch him or not, but she didn’t care. She ran her hand down his face. “Thank you, Albert.” She wasn’t exactly sure what she was thanking him for, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was Albert. And he’d wanted her here, like she was a part of the family.

The room was silent except for the steady sound of the drumbeat from the corner. The three men there kept chanting, the sound growing louder and louder as Albert’s breath got shallower and shallower.

No! No, she prayed. It wasn’t too late. She lurched forward to begin chest compressions. She could save him. She knew she could.

Rebel latched onto her arm. “Let him go, Madeline.” He was doing it again, using that calm voice. “It’s his time.”

She tried to shake him off, but he wasn’t having any of it. “This is ridiculous!” she hissed. “He’s dying!”