In Wilde Country Read Free Page A

“Jesus, no. Not Alden!”
    Tears streaked down his face. The doctor turned to Amos. He stood at rigid attention,
     his face white, his expression cold.
    “Mr. Wilde,” she said, “sir, please. I know this is difficult, but your son needs
     you.”
    “I told you. My son is dead.”
    Amos strode from the room. Johnny fell back against the pillow, racked by sobs.
    “No,” he whispered, “No! No! Noo!”
    The doctor stabbed a needle into the IV line.
    Liquid heat shot through Johnny’s arm, his body, his brain, and he tumbled into merciful
     darkness.

CHAPTER THREE
    A lden’s funeral took place four days later.
    Johnny was still hospitalized, a cast on his leg.
    He knew that he could have gone home the day before; he’d heard the nurses whispering
     when they thought he was asleep.
    His father was the reason he had not been discharged. Amos didn’t want him home, and
     Johnny didn’t blame him one bit.
    He’d killed his brother.
    Nobody said so, but they didn’t have to put it into words. He’d been driving, he’d
     crashed his car, and Alden was dead.
    The ER doc sent a shrink to talk to him.
    He pointed out that the police report had cleared him of responsibility. There were
     no skid marks that would have indicated high speed. Blood tests for drugs and alcohol
     were negative. The three girls had given statements that said the tractor trailer
     was going fast; it veered over the yellow dividing line, jackknifed and came straight
     at them. They said that Johnny had done his best to avoid it.
    Still, Amos blamed him for what had happened.
    And Johnny did, too.
    He’d been behind the wheel. As far as he was concerned, that made him responsible
     for everything that had happened, starting with making the decision to go to Angie’s
     and talking Alden into going with him.
    Alden was dead.
    He was alive.
    That was fact.
    And of the two Wilde boys, only one had been worth anything and it sure as hell wasn’t
     him.
    That was fact, too.
    So, no. Johnny had no difficulty understanding why his father hated him.
    It was the first time in years they’d agreed on anything.
    He’d killed his brother. That was the simple truth.
    Amos surely wouldn’t want him at the funeral, but no way was Johnny going to let that
     stop him from being there. He wanted to see Alden one last time, tell him that the
     wrong brother was dead, and to hell with Amos.
    He phoned a friend. Told him what he’d need and when.
    The nurse on duty—his father had paid for private duty nurses and Johnny figured it
     was only because anything less would have looked bad—tried to stop him when TJ showed
     up carrying a dark suit, a white shirt and a tie, said “Hey, man, how you doin’?”
     and dumped the clothes on the foot of the bed.
    “What’s this?” the nurse said.
    “Clothes,” Johnny said flatly, swinging his feet to the floor.
    “You can’t check yourself out, John. You’re a minor.”
    Johnny began taking off his hospital gown.
    “My brother’s funeral is today. No way am I not going to be there.”
    “I’ll have to notify your father, John. And the doctor. And—”
    “Here’s the deal,” Johnny said. “You can walk away and pretend you didn’t see what
     was happening or you can notify everybody on the planet. One way or another, I’ll
     be at that funeral.” His voice cracked. “I need to be there, for Alden.”
    The nurse stared at him for what seemed a very long time. Then she picked up his chart
     and walked to the door.
    “I have some notes to make,” she said briskly. “I shouldn’t be gone more than a few
     minutes. If you need me—“
    “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for doing this.”
    She nodded. “What happened wasn’t your fault,” she said softly. “You must believe
     that.”
    “Sure,” Johnny said, but they both knew he was lying.
    He dressed quickly. There was no way to get his leg into the pants so he slit the
     trouser seam until he could get it over the cast.
    Standing up