Clear Cut Page 5

  More nervous glances at each other, and then they reluctantly dispersed, getting into the two cars and starting back down the road as the crummy came up and parked.

  "More bleedin' heart liberals?" Don asked as he got off the bus.

  "Probably. Said they were lost."

  Jared grinned. "In more ways than one, right, Nate?"

  "That's right, J." Jared wasn't the brightest bulb on the tree, but he was a good guy. Had a wife at home, expecting their first kid in a few weeks. When the time came J'd have to hightail it back if he wanted to be there to see the baby when it was born -- he lived more than three hours away.

  One of the reasons Nate had insisted that Jackson do up the bunkhouse in the first place; he wasn't content to put men on his crew just because they lived close by, he wanted men he could trust, ones who knew what they were doing. That meant looking farther, and it meant that when they were working a contract no one wanted to drive two or three hours back and forth every day. This way they could stay at the bunk during the week, drive home on weekends if they had anything or anyone to go home to.

  He'd had to fight Jackson tooth and nail about the bunkhouse, but he was nothing if not a stubborn fuck and there was no way he was gonna back down when he knew he was right. They'd gotten some equipment into the kitchen, done up the bathroom, and gotten the beds. Originally they'd just had some boxes to keep their clothes in, but after the third contract the guys had started dragging up some old furniture with them, and now the place was okay. Not great, no "comforts of home," but okay. They were smack in the middle of the forest here, and the bunkhouse was gonna come in handy for a long time, assuming the work kept coming in. Nate figured Jackson'd gotten off cheap, despite the cost of fixing up the house; he had men at the job on time, working long hours because they didn't have to deal with the normal commute.

  Nate went back to the SUV to get the forms he needed to fill out for the weekly YUM report, and by the time he got up to the landing Flash was cursing the yarder under his breath.

  "S'matter?"

  "Won't start," Flash said tersely.

  Well, shit. If Flash couldn't get a piece of mechanical equipment to start, that meant there was something really wrong with it. "It was okay yesterday."

  "Yeah." Flash swore under his breath again and fiddled with the machine, then stuck his head underneath the overhang part of it and fiddled some more. "Need my tools," he said, and headed for the crummy.

  Nate tried to get the yarder to start, not expecting much and getting just what he expected. Damn.

  Flash worked on the machine for a few minutes and then discovered that one of the belts was shredded. "Pretty sure I got one in the storage shed," he said. "I'll go down and get it."

  "Another belt?" Nate thought about the protesters and tightened his fist. "Think it's just a coincidence?"

  "Hard to say." Flash looked at him levelly, and Nate knew that Flash understood exactly what he was thinking. "No," Flash said slowly. "Not this one. The skidder, that could have happened by itself. The thing ran part of the morning before the belt went, anyhow. But this one... no, it wouldn't surprise me. Like you said, it was okay yesterday."

  "Yeah." The temptation to kick the yarder was strong, but it wouldn't help the machine and he'd probably break a toe, even with his boots on. He'd done it once before. Okay, maybe twice. Nate sighed. "All right. Go down and get the belt and get back up here. Take my car, it's quicker." He dug his keys out of his pocket and handed them over.

  Flash nodded and was gone.

  Nate looked the yarder over for any obvious signs of tampering, which he couldn't see. But then he wasn't sure he'd know it if he saw it, unless it was damned obvious. He checked out the shovel and it started right up without a hitch. Why the hell would those people bother to come up and then only sabotage one machine? It would set them back, time-wise, sure, but in the end it wouldn't make that much of a difference.

  Stupid hippies. He went through the pile of logs that was already on the landing and marked the ones he wanted loaded first, assuming they ever managed to get the yarder going again.

  Within half an hour Flash was back, with Carter riding shotgun in the SUV. He followed Flash up to the landing and hung back with a sheepish expression on his face.

  Nate watched Flash dismantle the mechanism and take off the shredded belt, and then replace it with the new one. He waited until the yarder had been successfully started up, took a few steps backward in Carter's direction, and said, casually, "Thought you were gonna stay down at the bunkhouse today."

  "I changed my mind. I'd rather be up here watching you guys work, if that's okay with you. I'll -- just tell me where to stand." Carter sounded like he thought Nate might send him back.

  Nate shrugged. "Do what you want, just fucking be careful, okay?" He turned and gestured toward the crummy. "If you're gonna walk around, go get a hat, maybe some goggles. Ask before you start wandering into the brush." Nate figured Carter'd probably had the shit scared out of him the day before, if his attitude was any indication, and that he'd have better sense now. Either that, or he'd get himself killed. At this point Nate thought an investigation would be easier than continually having to deal with someone who didn't have the intelligence God gave a rock. Carter'd prove himself, one way or the other.

  An hour or so later Nate looked up from the yarder and saw Carter down in the brush with Jeff, who was bucking up some logs. Every once in a while Carter would bend over and help drag smaller branches out of the way. Nate noticed that Carter'd picked up a pair of work gloves somewhere.

  The next thing that caught his attention was some audible swearing from Jeff, who seemed to be having trouble with the gas-powered chainsaw he was using. The thing was sputtering and putting off even more smoke than usual. He could see Carter ask Jeff a question, but couldn't hear the words.

  Nate glanced down at the logs he was marking, and then back up as the whine of the chainsaw increased and then went choppy. Just in time to see the chainsaw jerk itself violently in Jeff's hands, causing him to lose his grip. Nate couldn't see exactly what happened then because he was already running in that direction, some instinct created over the past years' work screaming at him that something very bad was going to happen.

  By the time he got there it was too late to prevent it -- Jeff was sitting on the ground with Carter crouched next to him, both of them fucking covered with blood. Carter ripped off his outer flannel shirt and tried to wrap it around Jeff's arm, and when he shifted the cloth to get a better grip a fountain of blood pumped out.

  "Christ on a crutch," Nate muttered, and knelt in the dirt next to them. Even the soil was bloody. Fuck, Jeff was white.

  "It's okay," Carter was saying as he tightened the fabric around Jeff's arm. "You're going to be fine." Carter looked over at Nate and met his eyes. "Hospital," Carter said. "Now."

  Between the two of them they got Jeff to his feet, and then Keith appeared and supported Jeff on the other side so that Nate could run ahead to the car, get it started and turned around. Keith opened the back door and he and Carter managed to slide Jeff in, Carter climbing in after Jeff, both hands still locked around the shirt and Jeff's arm, applying pressure.

  "Go," said Keith, and slammed the door shut.

  Nate went.

  It occurred to him that he hadn't heard Jeff say a word. "Jeff? How you doin'?"

  "Okay," he heard from the back seat.

  "Yeah, you're doing fine," Carter said reassuringly. "Get you to the hospital, a few stitches, you're going to be as good as new."

  Nate thought that Carter was a damned good liar. That wasn't the kind of injury that needed a few stitches -- it was probably the kind that required a hundred stitches, if the way the blood had been pumping from the wound was any indication. Not that he'd gotten a good look at the injury himself, although he'd seen the kind of damage a chainsaw could do to human flesh. And not that he knew if Carter had had a good look at it. Heck, for all he knew Carter didn't know anything about
first aid and really did think that this wasn't a serious injury. Then he caught Carter's eye in the rear-view mirror, and he knew Carter was totally aware of how bad it was.

  "Hold it up a little higher, here," he heard Carter say, and saw him supporting Jeff's arm up above his chest. "That'll slow down the blood loss. How far's the nearest hospital, Nate?"

  "Half an hour," he answered grimly, and listened.

  "Okay, Jeff, I want you to just lie down here on the seat. No, it's fine, I'll sit on the floor. Here you go. Close your eyes, try to think of something nice. The last really big fancy meal you had. Yeah, I'm just gonna keep your arm elevated here. That's right. Yeah, you're gonna be fine."

  Nate drove faster.

  5.

  Carter was doing his best to be reassuring, telling Jeff that all he'd need was a few stitches. It very well could have been one of the biggest lies he'd ever told -- the chainsaw had cut into Jeff's arm so deeply that Carter was pretty sure the bone was broken, although he'd been doing his best to hold it straight. With the kind of bleeding Jeff was experiencing they'd be lucky if he didn't bleed out before they made it to the hospital. When he and Nate had exchanged glances in the rear-view mirror, he'd known Nate could tell just how serious it was, too.

  About five minutes after Carter shifted down to the floor, Jeff's eyes closed. Carter wasn't sure if he should try to rouse Jeff -- would that actually do any good, or would it just tire him more, and be bad for him -- or let him rest? "Jeff? You still with us?"

  "Mm-hm."

  Another five minutes and he couldn't get Jeff to respond regardless.

  "He's out," he said to Nate in the front seat, probably needlessly.

  "Figured."

  Carter couldn't believe the amount of blood. It was soaking into everything -- through Jeff's clothes, through his own, into the seat and onto the floor and... he wasn't sure how much blood, exactly, was in a human body, but he was starting to think that Jeff might not have a lot left. He pressed more firmly on Jeff's arm and raised it a little bit higher, praying that one thing or the other, if not both, would help.

  The rest of the ride seemed to take forever, even though Carter thought that Nate was breaking the speed limit by a hefty amount. As they drove under the roof of the emergency room entrance, Nate leaned on the horn and kept on it until he could put the car into park and jump out.

  "We need some help out here!" Nate shouted as the automatic doors slid open, and then ran around to open the back door. "How's he doing?" He sounded hoarse and worried.

  "I don't know," Carter answered, looking up at Nate. "He's breathing. That's something, right?"

  "Yeah." Nate didn't have time to say anything else, if he'd been planning on it, because a bunch of hospital personnel descended upon them with a gurney and, in what seemed like seconds, had Jeff out of the back seat of the SUV and on his way into the building.

  Carter unfolded himself from the back seat and followed Nate, flexing hands that were stiff and sore from holding onto Jeff's arm for so long. Almost as soon as he got in the door a woman in hospital scrubs came up to him and took hold of his shoulder.

  "Are you hurt?" she asked with concern.

  Carter shook his head. "No. It's my friend's blood. I'm fine."

  "Why don't you sit down? I'll come find you as soon as I know anything." Her brown hair was pulled back from her face with a clip and her expression was kind.

  "Okay. Thanks."

  Nate had already disappeared. Carter assumed that Nate'd gone with Jeff, although he couldn't know for sure. He found a seat nearest to the last place he'd seen them and sat.

  After a minute or so Nate came out into the hallway, backwards, being gently propelled by another woman in scrubs. "Sir, we really need you to wait in the hall. We can't help your friend with you in the room. Please..."

  "I don't want to leave him," Nate said in a low voice.

  "I understand, but we're going to take very good care of him, and -- "

  Carter was already getting up and joining them. He took Nate's upper arm in his hand and pulled gently. "Come on, Nate. Come on. Let them do their job."

  Nate resisted for a few more seconds and then Carter felt his tensed muscles relax. He slumped and stepped backward away from the nurse, bumping into Carter like he'd lost control of his body. "Sorry," he muttered. "Yeah, you're right."

  "Come sit down."

  * * * * *

  Carter led Nate over to some chairs and pushed him into one. Nate let himself be pushed, grateful on some level that someone else was moving him around. He felt numb.

  "They'll come find us when they know anything. He's going to be okay." Carter sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

  "My car's still outside," Nate said dully, just realizing it then. He'd left it right in the way without even thinking about it.

  "I'll go move it. Give me the keys."

  Nate handed them over without a word, not even looking in Carter's direction as he went down the hallway. He stared at the floor for a little while, tracing the lines between the tiles with his eyes and not really thinking about anything.

  He looked up just in time to see Carter coming back in through the automatic doors, and the numbness fled as he really saw Carter. The man had been wearing a white cotton T-shirt underneath the flannel one he'd wrapped around Jeff's arm, but it wasn't white anymore; it was totally soaked through with blood, and there was blood all down the front of Carter's jeans, and his arms were covered with it. It was everywhere.

  Carter's eyes met his, and then he looked down at himself, and, as he saw what Nate was seeing, he faltered. Sat down heavily in the chair closest him, which was still fifteen feet away from Nate, looking down at his shirt. Nate got up and moved closer, sat with one chair between them.

  Carter held his keys out in offering, and Nate took them.

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah. I just didn't realize..." Carter gestured at his front, then plucked his shirt away from his body with two fingers an expression of disgust on his face. "God. How could he have any left?"

  Nate shook his head wordlessly.

  "Maybe I can see if they've got anything I can... I can't keep wearing this." Carter got up and pulled his shirt off over his head. In the middle of the hallway. His upper body was pale but well-muscled, and... Nate had to look away.

  "I'll be back," Carter said. "Don't go anywhere." Nate wondered if Carter even realized he was imitating Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  Anyway, it didn't matter. There wasn't anywhere for Nate to go. He figured at this point at least one of the guys, if not more, were waiting at the bunkhouse for him to call and tell them what was happening, but he wouldn't. Not until he had something more useful to say than 'I don't know' or 'Well, he fucking bled all over the place, but as far as I know he's still alive.'

  He started thinking about what had happened and realized that his hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists and then relaxed them again, several times, until it stopped. Could those protesters have done something to the chainsaw? He didn't think so, but he wouldn't be sure until he talked to Jeff and found out exactly what had gone wrong. He wondered if Carter would know, or if he just didn't know enough about chainsaws to be any help.

  Nate closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

  He didn't sleep -- it was more like his mind clicked off for a little while. Next thing he knew, something nudged his knee, and he opened his eyes to find Carter standing over him.

  "Coffee," Carter said. "It's black. You didn't seem like the cream and sugar type, but I could go back for some if you..."

  "Black's fine," said Nate, and took the cup. "Thanks."

  Carter sat down next to him. It was then that Nate realized he was wearing a different shirt -- he still had the bloodstained jeans on, but at least his arms were clean. "Does stuff like this happen often?" Carter asked quietly.

  "More often than we'd like," admitted Nate. "Dangerous job, people get hurt. Seen a guy lose a hand, acc
ident like this one. He died of blood loss just after he got to the hospital. They brought him back, but he'd been gone too long -- not enough oxygen to the brain, or something. Vegetable."

  Carter let his breath out in a quick rush. "I stopped and asked at the desk," he said. "They took him up to surgery. They said he... lost a lot of blood, but that he should be okay."

  "Not sure about the arm though, huh?"

  "No."

  "You see how it happened?" Nate sipped at the hot coffee, letting its warmth soak into him.

  "I don't -- it was so fast," Carter said, his eyes losing focus as he thought back. "He said something about it being clogged? Like maybe the gas line, or something? I don't know."