Chapter Text
They walk through the night, walk until Bill can get a sliver of cell service and call for help.
Hair tangled against his chest, Veronica sways limp in the saddle. He holds her upright as she grows heavier, as her skin grows colder. Every step is a year.
“You with me?” He whispers.
She grunts a response.
“Not long now,” he says for the fifth time this hour, but this time he means it.
They stop at the meeting point they’d arranged, the first flat field suitable for landing. He lifts her off Banjo. Eyes closed, she lies on the grass under Logan’s jacket, sleeping.
In the backpack, he finds two torches and digs them into the ground, facing the sky as a marker. It’s almost dawn, the faintest of glows peek from the mountains to the east.
Bill secures the horses safely in another field before strolling back, Marlboro packet in hand, lit smoke dangling from his lips. He extends the packet to Logan, who takes one but doesn’t light it. He just slips it between his exhausted fingers and rests the Zippo's cool metal in his palm.
“What the hell are you doin’ out here?” Bill says on the exhale.
Logan brings the filter to his mouth, resting it on his bottom lip. “What does it look like?”
“Since the day I met you, I knew you were a strange one. You got secrets, you want them kept that way, I get it. Logan, you spend years protecting all that, years building up this business, this life. And one woman walks into your life and you’re willin’ to risk it all. I don’t understand it.”
Logan shrugs, voice low, “Maybe I don’t understand it either.”
“This could go real bad, you know that, right?”
“I know.”
“One day you’re gonna ask yourself if all this is worth it, for her.” Bill’s just a glowing cigarette in the dark, but Logan can read his expression clearly.
“What could I do? She’d have come out here alone.”
“You say no. You do it all the time. Got no trouble tellin’ anyone else out there that word. You use it with me, hell, you use it with Piper. Veronica comes runnin’ in from California and you let her fuck up your life in a couple of days.”
“We’re going to get out of this. We are.” Logan’s voice struggles to convey the surety those words possess.
“You better hope she’s okay. Hope he stays up that mountain, hidin’ in those woods until those cops go up there lookin’ for him. And when they do, I’m gonna pray he comes down easy.”
Logan flicks the lighter, igniting the end. He breathes in the sweet tobacco and nicotine. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”
“It never is. But you've been out here long enough to know that this place, this land, these people - don’t owe you nothing. Not those horses, not the weather, not the trees. You go out lookin’ for trouble, you're gonna find it.”
Logan takes one more drag before extinguishing it under the heel of his boot.
He sits on the wet grass beside Veronica and watches the stars, counting them one by one until he can hear the thudding of the helicopter’s blades coming toward them. Lights and noise and chaos whip as the giant bird descends toward them. Logan stays with her, fingers stroking her flailing hair, speaking in reassuring tones. Paramedics run out with bags and torches, a quickness born of experience. They return to the helicopter cabin with Veronica on a stretcher. Bill stays with the horses, Logan climbs onboard. They’re talking about a rapid heart rate. They’re asking questions. Her blood pressure is critically low. Veronica doesn’t open her eyes as they cut Logan’s shirt from her body and cover her with leads attached to monitors. All her energy exhausted, the pain became a monster, it became the dark woods, consuming her in its branches.
In the nurses’ station, Logan swivels on the chair. A nurse with a yellow headband pretends to type while stealing glances at him. He searches for Mars Investigations’ number online, calling twice with no response. On the third ring, Keith Mars answers, labored and out of breath.
“Veronica?”
“It’s Logan, Keith. Logan Echolls.”
“Veronica, is she okay? I should have heard from her days ago,” Keith asks, laden with worry.
“Veronica’s in a hospital in Billings. She was thrown from her horse.”
“Oh god. How bad is it?” Keith’s breathing increases, a strange wheezing accompanies his words.
“She’s just come out from X-Ray. The doctors are saying she has four broken ribs. One pierced and collapsed her lung, another ruptured her spleen. They’re about to take her into surgery to repair the internal bleeding.”
Logan hears a whispered profanity down the line.
“If you can, I think you should be here for her.”
“I can’t travel.” Keith’s burden is heavy.
“I’ll organize everything. I can get a professional carer to come with you. A private jet means you don't have to deal with TSA or security. It'll be much quicker, and easier with your wheelchair." The casual wealth feels disgusting leaving Logan’s mouth. But it’s worth it to make him come.
The line is quiet for a moment before Keith speaks. “She’s going to be alright, isn’t she?”
“They’re going to stop the bleeding in surgery and fix her spleen. She’ll be okay, but it’ll take some time.” He doesn’t share the concerned tone of their words, the talk of septic shock, the rapid way they whisked her through doors and away from him.
“I’ll come,” says Keith. “I’ll talk to Cindy MacKenzie, I think she’ll want to be there, too."
“Let me know what you need, and I’ll make it happen.”
Keith asks, “Did you find him?”
“Yeah, we found him.”
“Good. Now she won’t have to go back. Try it all over again.”
Logan nods. “She’s determined.”
“Too determined.”
“I’ll call you after surgery, or if anything at all changes.”
He goes back to the waiting room, sits on the uncomfortable chair, and waits.
It’s an assault. Fluorescent lights and antiseptic after days of earth and dirt and pine. Nurses in a hurry. Blue scrubs and peppermint green walls.
Hospitals remind him of Lilly’s first overdose, or maybe her second? They remind him of being seventeen and sitting for hours beside his mother in the ward after she hacked at her wrists with a Lady Bic during Aaron’s trial. Hospitals remind him that he has no control.
He wishes he was back. Back to the Beartooth mountains, back home. Even in the worst of the chaos and the fear, it was better than here.
Billings sits beside the Yellowstone River, overlooked by seven different mountain ranges, battered by a relentless prairie wind. It’s not a large city, but it’s bigger than anything Logan has seen in some time. The hospital is just south of the airport. He calls and reserves rooms at the Hilton a few blocks away, but he hasn't been there yet. He should. He smells like horses and sweat and smoke. Veronica’s blood is dried black under his fingernails.
The surgery takes four hours. Five cups of vending machine coffee. One call to Piper. Three bathroom breaks. Logan stares at the muddy tips of his boots until a nurse collects him, tells him the surgery went well.
He sits with her in another uncomfortable chair in the ICU. Veronica’s still pale, but there is more movement behind her eyelids and the monitors attached to her chest tell him that her blood pressure has stabilized. Her heart rate is steady.
He knows his time with her here alone is limited. Keith and Mac are on their way. Piper, despite Logan’s advice to stay at Sienna’s house, has convinced Bill to drive her to Billings.
He wants Veronica to wake up, to give him more than just an eye flutter. He wants her lucid so he can apologize, so he can see she’s going to be okay. But she just lies on the pillow, IVs connected, a tube emerging from her chest, oxygen in her nose.
Hours he spends waiting, to no avail.
Suddenly the hum of the monitors is overtaken by voices. Everyone is there all at once. Keith and Mac arrive in a cab and take up a bedside vigil. Piper and Bill aren’t far behind. And Logan is moved out into the hallway, awaiting news from behind closed doors.
“Am I dead?” Veronica asks through dry lips.
“Your hair suggests yes, but your heartbeat suggests no.” Mac points to the screen so Veronica can confirm that her heartbeat is, in fact, active.
Her voice is hoarse, Mac helps her to a drink and Veronica winces at the pain of swallowing.
“I figured you were my afterlife angel," she croaks. "It’s the only thing that makes sense as to why you are here, in Montana.”
“I’m here because I love you, and because your high school crush-slash-nemesis flew us out on a private jet.”
“So you’re my recovery angel, then?”
“Something like that. I’m probably less sparkly than you expected.”
“How is Dad?”
“Dad is here,” says Keith, just out of Veronica’s eyesight. She shifts her head to find him in his chair, slowly moving towards her.
Veronica smiles. Smiling hurts. Everything hurts. Keith takes her hand, squeezes his worries into her bones.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Fucking awful,” she smiles. “How are you feeling?”
He chuckles, “Fucking awful… But a little better, now you’re awake.”
Mac collects Veronica's medical file from the plastic box at the end of her bed, flicking through the pages. “You really committed to the whole cowboy thing I see? Maybe take some lessons first next time? Four broken ribs. And not just regular broken ribs either, the kind that cause chaos and slice through everything in their path.”
“I didn’t expect a side of internal bleeding when I came to Montana.”
“Well, you got it all, and some. At least you got to keep your spleen, so that’s a bonus.”
“Lucky me.”
Keith clears his throat. “You are lucky, Veronica. The doctor said that much longer without surgery and….” He doesn’t finish.
She looks down, feeling all the tubes coming from her, the IV lines in the back of her hand. The hospital gown is checkered white and blue, thick and rough against her skin.
“Where’s the cowboy?” she asks.
“I sent him back to his hotel. He was overdue a shower.”
“We did bathe in the river. Once.”
Mac raises her eyebrows, a whisper of a smirk on her lips.
“Shut up,” Veronica grumbles.
Keith squeezes her hand harder, face grim. “Is that all that happened? You fell from a horse?” His words are serious, laced with concern. He doesn’t trust Logan. It’s not surprising, the world doesn’t trust Logan Echolls.
“Dad, he was nothing but helpful. He carried me. He bandaged my wounds. And if he wasn’t there to help get back to civilization, I’d be dead. What happened was an accident, nothing more.”
A nurse comes in, proclaiming her happiness to see Veronica awake.
With a thunk, Mac drops the patient forms back into the case.
“I’m going to need to do some checks and page the doctor. Can you give me a moment with Veronica? You can come back in when I’m done.”
Keith and Mac are ushered into the hallway. Logan and Piper are there, waiting. Logan is freshly showered, his hair still wet.
“Is she awake?” Piper asks.
“Yeah. She looks pretty good, considering,” answers Mac.
Piper goes behind Keith’s wheelchair and rolls him beside Logan, the only place with enough room to park his chair without blocking the thoroughfare.
“I’ve booked you each a room at the Hilton,” says Logan. “That’s where we’re staying. Whenever you want to go, just ask for the key at the front desk. There is an accessible van downstairs, too.” Logan hands Keith a business card. “Just give him a call anytime you want to go anywhere. He’s all yours while you’re here.”
Keith nods. He doesn’t offer thanks.
Logan struggles to look at him directly. The sight of him is worse than he imagined. He’s hunched in the wheelchair, listing to one side, cheekbones protrude beneath sunken eyes.
Everyone is quiet, except for Piper, who begins a barrage of questions directed at Logan. What did they eat? Were they scared? What did Moyer look like?
“Did he have weapons?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know,” Logan shrugs. “I saw a rifle and a shotgun. He had a pistol, too.” He doesn’t share that it was pointed directly at Bill.
“Why didn’t you just carry her back?”
“Do you realize how far it is? You know what the terrain is like up there.”
“She isn’t exactly heavy.”
“Sometimes, Pipes. We make decisions in the moment that we think are for the best. I was using my judgment to keep her safe.” He adds, “To keep us both safe. Banjo carried her back safely.”
With a surreptitious smile, Mac enjoys the interrogation. Keith just looks tired.
Piper considers her father’s answers, strolling to the vending machine. She hits C4. Cheez-Its.
“Want anything?” she asks.
Logan shakes his head. Keith asks for a Pepsi. Mac sips at cold, terrible coffee.
“I’m not saying you made the wrong decisions,” Piper clarifies. “I’m just trying to get into your headspace.”
He rubs at his stubble. “Trust me, Pipes, you don’t want to go into my headspace.”
“Where did you sleep in the cabin?”
Logan pauses, raising a brow at Piper. He doesn’t look at Keith. “Veronica slept in the bed.”
“In his bed? In Moyer's bed?” Piper is horrified.
“There weren’t exactly spare rooms aplenty. The entire cabin was one room. It was tiny. She was injured, she needed to lie down. It was either that or outside in the rain and the dirt.”
“So he was helpful? He offered you his bed. That doesn’t sound like a murderer to me.”
“What do you know about murderers?” Logan scoffs.
“Enough. Where did you sleep?” Piper’s eyebrow is peaked in Logan's direction.
He stares back at her challenge. “I didn’t.”
Pulling open the Cheez-Its, she catches an orange square between two fingers and pops it into her mouth.
Keith speaks then, silencing them all. “Why did you let her go out there?”
“She would have gone, with or without me," answers Logan, voice level.
“You could have stopped her. Let her know the dangers if you know the terrain so well.”
“I tried. Trust me, I tried.”
“I don’t put a lot of trust in an Echolls word if I’m being completely honest,” says Keith. Gripping his wheels, he begins down the hallway, linoleum squeaking beneath his tires. Mac throws an apologetic look at them and follows Keith.
When they round a corner, Piper nudges her father. “What’s all that about?”
“Keith’s a dad who is worried about his daughter. I’d be asking the same questions if it were you.”
“He just needs to get to know you,” she grins at him. "Sure, you're a bit grumpy and rough around the edges, but first and foremost you're Mr. Responsible. He'll see it soon, I'm sure. You'd never do anything to put anyone in danger."
Logan laughs at her summation. "Mr. Responsible, hey?"
Together, they stare at the door. No one has come in or out for at least twenty minutes, but voices are murmuring within.
“How was school this week?” He tries to change the subject.
Piper doesn't abide his direction change. “Have you called to report his whereabouts yet?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because this is Veronica’s venture, not mine. And she just woke up from surgery. Give her some time.”
“But what if you’ve spooked him? What if he leaves the cabin and disappears?”
Logan thinks of the guns pointed at their human targets. It’s a possibility. “That’s something I can’t control. Again, it’s Veronica’s call to report him, not mine. I was simply her guide.”
Piper nods, at least partially satisfied with his response. Finishing the Cheez-Its, she throws the wrapper in the trash, and puts her ear against the door.
“Piper,” Logan whisper-growls.
She ignores him.
“Get away from that door right-”
“Relax,” she pulls back. “I can’t hear anything, anyway.”
The next two days they live out of suitcases and trek in steady streams back and forth to the hospital during the limited hours allowed for visiting.
Veronica is recovering. She’s regained her color. Brief talk of a possible second operation has ceased as it appears her lung is healing. The bleeding has stopped. Her wound has been carefully sewn. To celebrate her recovery, she is moved to the general ward.
Keith sits vigil by her bedside, making his way through a library of historical non-fiction. Friday it was The Life of Winston Churchill , today it’s the Siege of Leningrad. Spine cracked, his eyes scan the words. Before he turns every page, he glances up, checks on his daughter, and begins the next.
There are more X-rays and ultrasounds, doctors and nurses in and out on a never ending rotation. Logan and Piper come by during visiting hours, stand awkwardly in the corner and listen to the day's medical updates. Then, they leave, seeking take out, or trips to the cinema to fill their day.
Late one evening, when Logan wanders the hotel hallway in search of ice, Keith rolls toward his room. He ignores Logan, swipes the key tag to his room and mutters, "asshole," loud and clear. The door beeps and he disappears, leaving Logan standing with his empty bucket.
“What are we even doing here, Dad?” Piper asks as they ride the elevator down to breakfast.
“What do you mean?”
“You got Veronica here. She’s healing. She seems okay. Mac and Keith have it under control now. They’re with her all the time. You’re superfluous to the situation.”
“Superfluous. Is that this week’s literature Go-Word?”
She glares at him. “Dad. They don’t want you here.”
“I am well aware of that fact.”
“So why don’t you leave?”
The elevator doors chime to announce their arrival and they find a table in the busy dining area. Piper patiently awaits his response. He orders a coffee from the server. She orders a freshly squeezed orange juice.
“Well?” She puts her elbows on the table, chin in a nest of her hands.
“I guess I was waiting until she was better.”
“Veronica is going to take a while to heal. And she’s going to do that with or without your presence in Billings.”
“I know.”
“So let’s go home, Dad. I want to be in my own bed. I want to see Opie. I should be at school.”
“You can go back, you know. That was my original recommendation, which you ignored. I’m sure Sienna’s Mom wouldn’t mind having you back for a few more days.”
She shakes her head. “If you’re here, I’m here.”
He smiles, unfolds and refolds his napkin. In the madness of the last few days, it was easy to forget that Piper was just a kid, worried, waiting for her dad to return. He was two days late home. Those two days would have felt like a lifetime.
“Okay. You’re right. We’ll leave tomorrow. How does that sound?”
“Perfect,” says Piper.
He waits for her to jump up and wait in the omelet line like she did on previous mornings. But she watches him instead.
“Has she called in yet? To report Moyer?”
Logan shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean?”
“Veronica was so determined to find him she was willing to trek into the wilderness all by herself. Right?”
Logan squints at his daughter, waiting to see where she is going with this.
She continues. “She wants the reward money. Urgently, it seems. And yet when she’s found him, she doesn’t call it in. Why?”
He shakes his head. “She had major surgery, Pipes. Do you know what it does to you to be injured, sewn up, and then put on a swath of painkillers that fog your brain? I suspect that even with medication, she hardly feels like herself. I don’t know what kind of detail she would need to provide to be eligible for the reward, but I’m going to bet it will be a lot.”
The server delivers their drinks and Piper immediately takes a sip, gnawing at the straw. “She’s delaying it,” she says, matter of fact.
“Go get your eggs,” Logan wants this conversation to be over. He’s hungry and irritable.
Piper ignores him. “Is it possible that, in meeting Moyer, and him helping you, instead of acting like the monster you imagined, it made her question the whole thing?”
Logan laughs. “You read too many murder mystery books. You’re overthinking things.”
Piper isn’t bothered by his brush-off. “Did you question it? Did you wonder if maybe it wasn’t even him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Just because Moyer killed someone doesn’t mean that he wasn’t willing to help us out when we needed it. People can be two things at once. They can be monsters and be your family. They can be violent, and hate violence. They can love you to the marrow of your bones and still lie to you. Not everything is black and white.”
A dimple pinches her cheek as she bites the inside of her mouth. She looks away from him then, eyes on the omelet station.
“Want me to get you one?” She stands.
“Why are you so invested in this? Why do I get a cross-examination every day about what happened?” Logan asks.
She sits back down. “Since we moved here, we’ve done nothing. Sure, we’ve built up this ranch and we’ve trained the horses, and made the business a success. But all of these things were little steps. They were predictable, responsible moves. I go to school and you work and we have a dinner rotation of the same ten meals. You don’t have friends, you don’t date. You drink two whiskeys and you read two chapters of your book each night and then go to bed.”
“You make it sound like a monotonous prison,” he sighs.
“It’s not. I love our life and I love you, Dad. But the last few weeks have been crazy. I’m asking questions because I’m trying to process all of this. A murderer on the next property, a returned friend with a mysterious past, my father going on a trek into the woods and not returning for days. ”
He reaches across and puts his hand on hers.
“I thought you were dead, ” she fights back tears. “So I’m invested now.”
He stands, wrapping his arms around her. People in the breakfast room stare. Logan doesn’t care.
She’s running, but going nowhere. Barefoot, her feet are covered in mud sucking her in, making each step an impossibility. Black trees reach skeletal fingers at her, catching at her clothes, dragging her deeper into the woods. Her chest hurts, tubes exit her skin and connect to the trees like branches themselves. Someone’s calling, but she can’t make out the voice or the words. A grumbling comes from behind, getting closer. It’s a spitting snarl, hungry and approaching at warp speed.
It grips her waist, hungry hands spin her around to face the monster.
Veronica opens her eyes and adjusts to the hospital room. Her heart racing, she tries to blink it away.
Keith is beside the curtain, reading today's history dissection - The Battle of Midway .
“You were calling out in your sleep,” he says.
“Was I?”
“You used to do that when you were little. You’d call out for me, or your Mom. But now, you call out for Logan.” His gaze is direct and unforgiving.
Veronica hides from it, poking at the back of her hand, at the IV line bruises and tiny red marks where the needle pierced her skin “It’s the painkillers. I keep having crazy dreams.”
He clears his throat. “I don’t know what happened out there, but -” he starts.
“Dad…” she says, too tired for this conversation.
“Don’t make me reiterate what he accused you of in high school. Or what happened outside a school where he almost beat a photographer to death. I don’t even want to entertain what they say he did to his wife. He’s not a good guy, Veronica. He’s trouble. And just because he’s out here trying to hide from it, doesn’t make him a different person.”
“You’re wrong,” her voice is clear.
“Am I?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? And it’s because of him. It’s not due to luck, or tenacity, or surgery. None of those things would have happened if he didn’t do everything he could to make sure I was okay.”
Keith remains unconvinced. “Maybe he was just covering his ass?”
“Maybe you’ve got it all wrong,” says Veronica, defiant.
Wheeling closer to her, Keith puts his hands on her bed.
“I’m like you, Veronica. I need evidence. So if you know something that’s going to make me change my mind about him, let me hear it.”
She reaches out, covering his hands with hers and she tells him everything. Moments on the hood of an X-Terra, moments shared in trees at the Echolls mansion. Things she’d minimized, hidden or glossed over as a teenager she shares in full. Becoming a teen dad with Piper, Lilly’s drug addiction, Celeste’s blackmail, his time in prison. She shares Logan’s secrets for Keith’s absolution, for his respect.
He sits with the information quietly considering, and kisses Veronica goodnight.
With each tiny bottle of whiskey from the minibar, Logan slips further into a comforting haze, until the world around him blurs into a soft, welcoming oblivion. Piper is having a sleepover in Mac’s room, a movie marathon of Keanu Reeves classics that spurred from a realization they shared a mutual infatuation. Logan welcomes the quiet, a chance to be alone for the first time since they arrived.
There’s a knock at his door at 9pm. He opens it, expecting Piper.
It's Keith Mars.
“Is everything okay?” he asks. Keith has just returned from visiting Veronica. His telltale book rests on his lap.
“She’s fine. Surprisingly lucid. If ranting about hospital bills is any indication.”
“That’s promising.”
Keith reaches beside him on the chair and pulls out a bottle of Glenfiddich. “Want to share a little sleep aid? I’m always too wired after the fluorescence of the wards to sleep.”
“Sure." Logan opens the door wide, collecting a clean glass by the minibar. His glass already has remnants of amber liquid inside.
Pouring it over ice, he sits on his bed, rumpled and unmade. Keith glances around the room. It’s functional and unremarkable, except for the faux cowhide rug and garish wall print of a cowboy high on the ranges.
“It seems you have the Wild West room. The accessibility room doesn’t boast quite this much excitement. It’s more a penal colony for the mobility impaired, a place where one’s only option is to stare blankly at the beige walls and wonder where it all went wrong.”
“I suppose all inspiration is exhausted once they design an accessible shower stall and screw a handrail beside the toilet.”
Keith laughs. Logan smiles but remains wary.
“Guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here?”
Logan shrugs. “You brought the whiskey. That's a good enough reason for me.”
“Veronica told me what you did, properly told me. So while I’m not explicitly saying sorry for calling you an asshole, because the way you treated her and accused her in high school was the mark of an asshole, I’m saying sorry for referring to it around this particular incident.”
“I’ll take that.”
“And, thank you. For doing this, for looking after her, bringing me here. I bet ten days ago you never imagined Veronica would steamroll into your life and send you on a quest for a fugitive. So I appreciate that what happened is a lot . None of which you asked for.”
He sips the liquid, the burn of it melting down his throat.
“There’s something to be said for the closure of it,” says Logan. “Seeing someone you never thought you’d see again. Getting a chance to speak. To tell your truth and hear theirs, and realize that, like most things in life, it was a misunderstanding. That if I just listened then, if I wasn’t so hurt by everything that happened, that maybe I could have stopped a chain reaction of events that led her here.”
“No one can stop Veronica Mars, Logan, not even you.”
They chuckle in sync.
Keith stares into his drink. “I feel helpless. I am helpless. And I know Veronica is a grown woman and she’s going to do exactly what she pleases, but most days I barely have the energy to eat breakfast. Years ago, I could go into battle with her, for her. Now, I can’t protect her. And I was mad at you, because I need other people to stand up and protect her when I can’t. I thought that because she was injured, you failed in some way, and that meant I failed, too.”
“I’m sorry,” says Logan.
Keith shakes his head. “No. Don’t be. I know now that you tried your hardest.”
“You know why she did this, right? You know why she came here?” Logan asks.
“Besides the bounty money?”
“Yeah, she wanted the bounty. But she wanted it for you .”
Keith's mouth opens, the moment of realization hits. “Let me guess, that ridiculous treatment program?”
Logan nods.
“It’s my fault. Veronica and I don’t talk anymore. We’re all business. We’ve been working together too long. She couldn’t find it in herself to ask if I even wanted to do the treatment. She’s so busy trying to slap a Band-Aid on a missing limb that she can’t see that it doesn’t really matter at this point. The limb is gone, there’s no saving it.”
They both finish their glass. Logan pours another, Keith nods for a double.
“Have there been any proven outcomes where the treatment prolongs patients' lives?”
“No. That’s why it’s a trial. They want human guinea pigs, and not only that, they want us to pay for it. A fucking joke is what it is.”
“But you applied for the program, right?”
“I did. Veronica wanted me to.”
“So if you got in, you would do it?”
He shrugs. “I guess I would have.”
Logan runs a finger around the rim of his glass. “If I paid, would you do it?”
“You’re not going to pay for this, Logan.”
“But what if I did? Who knows if Veronica’s ever going to see that bounty money? There are so many variables. And how long will the payment for it take? We both know how the bureaucracy in California works, or doesn’t. Do you have that kind of time?”
Logan can see from the yellowing of Keith’s skin, from his bloodshot eyeballs that they’re talking in weeks and months, not years.
“Your daughter was willing to risk her life for you to get this treatment. She is willing to do anything it takes to have more time with you. And she won’t stop. You know that, right?”
“Veronica never stops.”
“I know you’re tired. I can’t pretend to understand it. But I know that if Piper was willing to go to these lengths for me, if there was just the slightest chance that I’d get one more week with her, hell, even one more day. I’d take it.”
“I can’t take your money, Logan.”
“Yes, you can. It’s the least I owe you, after what my Dad did, after you quit because of him. All because I asked Veronica to watch him. None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for that. You’d have your job. You’d have insurance.”
“You were a kid. It’s not your debt to pay.”
“But it is,” says Logan. “Tell you what. I'll make a direct transfer to the clinic. You get a miraculous phone call inviting you into the trial. Veronica is never the wiser. You never have to tell a soul. You just have to say yes and it’s done.”
Kieth sips the whiskey, each time he swallows veins in his neck protrude. He can’t say the words out loud, but he nods finally.
“Good. And this part is non-negotiable. As her next of kin, I’d like you to speak to the billing department at the hospital. The bill needs to be sent to me.” Logan finds a pad of paper watermarked Hilton, and a complimentary pen. On it, he scratches his address.
“Logan…” Keith starts.
“No. This happened on my land. I am responsible. Any lawyer will tell you the same. Call it payment for damages. Hell, call it whatever you want. Just have it sent to me.”
He stands, not waiting for Keith to take the note, instead placing it on his lap.
“You were right about the asshole thing,” says Logan. “I was an asshole. I’m still one sometimes. But I try not to be. I can flee across three states to outrun it, to outrun my past. It’s not easy. I’m still a work in progress. Some days are harder than others. Some days I want to run away from it all. Burn it to the ground and start again. Some days I want to drink until I never wake up. But I don’t, because I know now that Piper’s needs surpass my own. She makes me swallow my pride every damn day and try just that bit harder, for her. And I think you understand that. You know that you need to let me pay - for Veronica.”
Folding the note, Keith presses it into his top pocket and finishes his drink. “I better go to bed before the alcohol fully hits my system and I can’t find my room. One of the many perils of weighing a hundred and twenty pounds - my alcohol tolerance has diminished.”
“I’ll be sure to call reception for help if I hear you rolling up and down the halls drunk and disorderly.”
Keith laughs. Logan isn’t sure he’s seen him so much as smile in three days.
“Night, Logan.”
“But seriously, do you need a hand?”
Keith shakes his head. “I’m all good.”
Keith leaves, and Logan remains at the end of his bed, staring at a black television. The room is silent. His body sways. The Glenfiddich still sits open on the bar.
Everyone is in the hotel and accounted for. He calls a cab.
He waits where the nurses have their break, feet amongst their cigarette graveyard, trying to get the security guards’ attention. The gangly guard is watching a Knicks game on his phone and only when Logan holds a crisp hundred against the window pane does his attention stray.
“Hey, I was told I need to take these clothes up to a patient in room 57.”
“Visiting hours are over at eight,” says the guard, but his eyes are on Ben Franklin.
“I know,” Logan says. “I just need to run this up and I’ll be right back.”
“No guests past eight,” he tries to close the door.
Logan’s shoe stops it from closing. He delves into his pocket. Between his index and middle finger now sit two hundred dollar notes.
“I’ll only be a moment.”
The guard’s eyes consider the money. “I can make exceptions only for immediate family. Are you an immediate family member?”
“Yes, of course. It’s my wife up there. You know what it’s like. If I don’t get these to her like I promised, there will be hell to pay.”
The guard opens the door, collects a clipboard from the desk. “Fill in all your details. I’m going to need some ID. And if I don’t see you back here in ten minutes, I’m callin’ security.”
Scribbling his name on the list, Logan passes him another hundred. “Make it twenty?”
The guard shakes his head.
Logan produces his last hundred and pleading eyes.
This time, he gets a nod and a lanyard with a guest pass.
“Don’t be surprised if those nurses up there kick you out the second they lay eyes on you. No refunds.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
The guard looks at his wristwatch. “11:15 is your cut-off time, moneybags. If you ain’t back, no amount of cash is gonna help you.”
Logan doesn’t hesitate, taking the elevator. The halls are quiet, the lights dimmed in the rooms, but still bright as daylight in the ward. On Veronica’s floor, he jogs past the empty nurses’ station. He can hear them in the break room, chatting.
He doesn’t knock when entering her room. The other bed is occupied, a woman snoring, the shopping channel on her mini TV on high volume.
Curtains are drawn around Veronica’s bed, pastel blue hospital issue. He doesn’t pull them open, instead ducking in, between the opening.
She’s asleep, looking more restful than he’d seen in days. He sits in the chair, leaving the bag on the ground beside him. The monitors are gone. She looks normal, injuries hidden beneath waffled sheets. Her hair is tangled, there is still leaf matter against her scalp.
He glances at his watch, then reaches out his hand and places it on hers.
Veronica opens her eyes. It takes her the obligatory few moments to place her location, the darkness in the room, Logan by her side.
“Hey,” she says.
He smiles.
“How did you swindle your way up here?” She considers the time on the clock.
“Charm.”
“Bullshit. Did you promise them a new wing or something? The Echolls Plastic Surgery Center?”
“You must be feeling better? You’re back to your old dry self.”
“You’d be feeling better too with a nurse that provides painkillers at precise intervals.”
“How are you actually feeling?”
“Better than a few days ago. Worse than a week ago.”
He raises his eyebrows and waits for a better answer.
“Sore, but nothing compared to the pain on the mountain,” she wiggles the IV in her hand. “Another day or two and I can get rid of these pesky attachments. Then I think I’ll be outta here.”
Logan shakes his head. “You say that like you haven’t officially got four broken ribs, a collapsed lung and a patched up spleen.”
“Well, I may have all that, but what I don’t have is an infection, so that’s a bonus. Thanks to your diligent wound care at the cabin.”
He thinks of her in the lamplight, five days and a million years ago. “Don’t mention it.”
“Your eyes are glassy,” she inspects him. “You look drunk.”
Logan shrugs, screwing up his nose, which only serves to make him look more drunk. “Your Dad came by. We had a drink or two.”
“Glad you're playing nicely,” she smiles.
“I think he still hates me, but maybe just a little less.” He pinches his thumb and index finger for emphasis.
He breathes deeply in the chair then pulls her wheeled tray table towards himself, pouring a glass of water and drinking it in four swift gulps.
“Help yourself to my Jell-O,” she points by only lifting her finger off the blanket. “I wouldn’t let them take it and I wasn’t in the mood for dessert. It’s included in my daily bed rate, which I think is sitting around $2,760 per day if memory serves me correctly. That’s without the meds, the surgery, the X-rays, the MRI, and, let’s not forget the little helicopter jaunt. That Jell-O better taste like a million bucks, because that’s what it’s going to cost.”
Logan doesn’t engage with her hospital bill anxiety. “Have you called in Moyer’s location?”
She shakes her head. “I was planning to make the call tomorrow.”
He thinks about Piper’s questioning. “Do you think he’ll still be there?”
“You mean after I pulled a gun on him?” Veronica sighs. “Where’s he going to go? You saw that cabin. He likes it there, he likes his life there, so much so that he patrols it every night. I don’t think he’ll leave unless he’s forced to.”
He opens the Jell-O, the spoon piercing the red gelatinous mound. “All I can think about is that cabin,” he says, mostly to himself.
“Me too.”
Spoon in his mouth, the Jell-O tastes like plastic. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you out earlier. We should have left straight away.”
“No, Logan. That’s not what I mean,” she says.
He waits, leaving the container uneaten on the table. “What do you mean?”
The presenter on the shopping channel has moved onto custom jewelry and promotes a 9-carat bracelet. The woman’s snoring raises a decibel.
“Is it weird that I’d prefer to be there, in his cabin, than here?” she says.
Logan blinks. He understands. Through the fear and the unknown of that night, the strongest memories are of them together, alone by the firelight.
He looks at the clock again. His time is up. “I have to go.”
There is a disappointment in her eyes that she cannot hide, even in the darkened room. She tries to maneuver her pillow, a deflection from his eyes on hers. It’s a struggle, with her bandaged chest and her stitches pulling.
“Here, let me,” he waits until she leans forward, plumping the pillow, adjusting it on the hard bed. Guiding her back, he checks her position.
“Is that okay?”
She nods.
He’s still leaning over her, fingers on the pillow. Whiskey breath.
He reaches out, touching her cheek, and she takes his hand, her lips graze his knuckles. The clock keeps ticking.
“If I don’t go now, or they will call security on me.”
She holds his hand tighter, the gentlest tug pulling him closer.
“What are you doing here, Logan? Why are you here at 11pm?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. I just haven’t had a chance to be with you - to talk to you alone in two days. And now Piper wants to go home tomorrow. She needs to go back to school.”
“What is it you need to say, Logan?” Veronica asks.
He chuckles. He’s too drunk and she’s too lucid for this conversation.
“Fine. If you don’t talk, I will,” she grins. “Thank you, Logan. For everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.”
Her hand reaches toward his face.
“You have ten seconds to get out of here before I call the cops.” His pliable security guard is glancing between Veronica and Logan. He focuses on Veronica, “Or, do I need to call the cops now?”
She shakes her head vehemently. “No. No cops. Please, he’s going now.”
The guard points to the door, Logan walks towards it. Turning, he offers a salute before walking out.
Back down the halls, Logan follows the man. In the elevator, he’s delivered a brief lecture on the rules and his obligation to call the police. Logan nods and smiles. He was never going to report him, their monetary exchange would prevent him from self incrimination.
He’s escorted outside, and the guard goes back to his phone, back to the game. Logan sits on a bench, not ready to return to the hotel.
A cab pulls up, and a man exits in scrubs. He takes a keyfob from his pocket, swipes the door Logan just exited, and enters. The doors remain open while the man exchanges pleasantries with the guard. Then, the man leaves towards the South Wing. The doors stay open.
Logan counts to ten, anticipating their closure. It doesn’t come. The guard yells, startling Logan, but he isn’t yelling at him, just at the game.
Logan crouches down and takes his chance. Past the guards’ station, he hears the rolling sound of the automatic doors closing behind him. He keeps moving. Back down the peppermint halls, up the elevator, past the nurses’ station. He’s faster now. It was wrong before, now it’s just stupid. He doesn’t care.
Room 57. Right-hand side. He slips inside, bobs through the curtains. Veronica glances up from her glowing cell phone.
“You look like you’ve robbed a bank,” she says with a smile, as though she expected him to return all along.
He sits on the bed and kisses her on the corner of her mouth and she catches it in full lips. She deepens it, all without moving her body, without lifting her hands from the blanket. It must be his imagination, alcohol making him hallucinate her mouth, all the memories of them in the woods.
His hands move to her face, engulfing her entire cheek in one palm. Her tongue sweeps his lips, tasting him. The kiss escalates, breaths colliding, chests rising, all while the shopping channel is discounting opal rings to $29.99.
His cock strains against his jeans, his heart pounds. She groans into his mouth, beautiful and broken under the covers.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers between kisses.
“You won’t,” she breathes against his lips.
Bill was right. He is willing to risk it all, for her.