After paying the check, I thanked Cole for bringing my things and went out front to find a cab. There were a lot of ghosts in this part of town, but I was sore, exhausted, and still a little drugged, and somehow my obsidian had escaped all the excitement unscathed, so it wasn’t that hard to ignore them. I used my new phone to direct the driver to the closest big chain hotel, where I stumbled my way through check-in and getting to the room. As soon as I got in, I dropped the bag and collapsed on the bed.
For once, I didn’t have nightmares—probably a parting gift from the painkillers. When I woke at eight, though, it was because so many parts of me were aching and stiff with pain. My wrist in particular was throbbing, and I groaned and dragged myself out of bed and over to my bag to dig out Tylenol and Advil.
There was no hope of going back to sleep, so I checked my new phone. I’d missed a couple of texts from Maven and Maya—my backup would be arriving that evening around 6:00 p.m. Which left me with a lot of hours to kill.
Even I wasn’t reckless enough to work out with this many injuries, so I did a few cautious stretches to keep my circulation moving, wrapped a replacement bag from the ice bucket around my left hand, and climbed into the shower.
After I got dressed, I went out onto the room’s cramped balcony to review my options. It was another warm day, the temperature in the low seventies and humidity that amazed me, even in March. I wondered how anyone could stand to live in Georgia in July or August. I already felt like I was breathing in steam.
Maven had told me not to work the case until my backup arrived, but what was I supposed to do until then? If I just sat around the hotel room hurting, I was going to lose my mind.
I would go to Monticello, I decided. I needed to try out the firearms, especially now that I’d need to shoot right-handed. First, though, I needed to retrieve my rental car, and hope I would be able to drive it wearing my wrist brace.
Before I left, I retrieved my crystals and took them out to the balcony so I could cleanse them. I rinsed them with water in the bright sunshine and put the bloodstone back on right away, though I wrapped the obsidian carefully in a washcloth I’d borrowed from the hotel. I would put it in a jacket pocket until after dark.
I packed the rest of my weapons into my duffel bag, slung it carefully over my shoulder, and got a cab back to my old hotel.
In the parking lot I waited until the cab driver took off, then gave the car a cursory examination for tracking devices or explosives. When I was satisfied the car was fine, I got in and put my left hand experimentally on the wheel. As long as I used my fingers on that hand, not my palm, it was okay. Not ideal, but okay. I started it up and headed south.
The range Becca Rhodes had recommended turned out to be a small, mostly outdoor place in the country—just a few lanes separated by strings, with targets marked at ten, fifty, and a hundred yards. The operation was run by a gap-toothed, completely bald ex-marine improbably named Red. When we shook hands, he took a quick glance at my bruised face, and I could practically see him decide not to ask about it. I didn’t know the laws in Georgia, but I gave him fifty bucks and he didn’t ask to see a license or check my weapons.
I shot until my right hand ached and my back and cheekbone began to join in. Both sidearms fired just fine, but the Benelli was hard to handle without my left hand. I could kind of prop it on my left forearm and squeeze the trigger with my right, but it affected my aim, and I didn’t plan to use it unless I had to.
Not great.
When I finally said goodbye to Red and climbed into the car, I turned the ignition and just sat there for a minute, weighing the pros and cons.
Really? Like there’s any chance you’re not going to do it? came my sister’s amused voice in my head. You’re already more than halfway to