The Last Death of Jack Harbin Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    â€œDoc Taggart is sometimes a little hard to take,” I say. “But he’s a good doctor. Smart. Keeps up on things.”
    There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight, so I have no trouble seeing one of those smirks that Curtis passes around so freely. I can’t keep my mouth shut. “He took care of my wife, Jeanne when she had cancer, and the doctors in Houston told us he did a good job.”
    â€œI know he’s a good doctor,” Jack says, unaware of the anger at Curtis that has flared up in me. “I’m just wishing for something that can’t be. Did he say anything else?”
    I look at my notes. “Just that if Bob had lived longer he might have had some prostate problems. And he mentioned alcohol in his system—you told me you two shared a bottle of tequila with Coach Eldridge Sunday night.”
    â€œDaddy didn’t drink that much, but he had a little to be sociable.”
    â€œAnd he must have been fighting off a cold, because Taggart said he had a fair amount of Benadryl in his system.”
    â€œNo, that can’t be right,” Jack says.
    â€œWhat do you mean that can’t be right? Nothing wrong with taking something for a cold.” Curtis is talking with his mouth full.
    â€œThere’s nothing wrong with it,” Jack says, “except he wouldn’t take something like that.”
    Curtis pops the last French fry and wipes his mouth. “What makes you think you know what daddy would and wouldn’t take?”
    â€œHe told me he wouldn’t ever use any drug that might make him sleep so sound that he wouldn’t hear me if I needed him in the night.”
    Curtis slurps the last of his soft drink. “Well, looks like this time he did.”
    I recognize the stubborn set of Jack’s jaw. “Still,” he says, “I’d like to double-check on that autopsy report. If they got it wrong about the Benadryl, they could have gotten other things wrong, too.”
    About then Dottie Gant comes in to relieve me. She’s a retired nurse as big as a linebacker. She won’t have any trouble helping Jack in and out of his chair.
    On the way home I think about the Benadryl and decide I’ll give Taggart a call to make sure I heard it right. Then I brood a little about Jack’s insistence that Woody Patterson not attend his dad’s visitation. Time was, the two boys were best friends. But that was a long time ago.

“What the hell have you boys gotten yourself up to? You two know how to handle guns! How could you have let this happen?” I’m driving like a bat out of hell toward the county hospital at Bobtail. Jack Harbin is lying in the backseat, groaning, while Woody Patterson leans over the backrest holding a blood-drenched towel onto Jack’s foot.
    â€œIt just . . . we just . . . ,” Woody stutters, sounding like he’s going to cry.
    Jack groans louder. I’ve seen men who are hurt a lot worse make not nearly so much noise. You can’t accuse the boy of being stoic. “Jack, you got hit every which way on the football field this year. Did you make that much racket every time?”
    â€œThis is different, it burns like the fires of hell.”
    Their story is that they went out to the woods to bag some squirrels and somehow Woody managed to shoot Jack in the foot. Woody drove Jack to the bait shop, but said he was too shook up to drive all the way to the emergency room in Bobtail, so he called me.
    There’s something fishy about their story. I’ve known both boys since they were in diapers, and they started learning to shoot as soon as they could hold a gun. How did an accident like this happen? Jeanne told me a while back that these boys both think they are in love with Taylor Brenner. I hope the boys didn’t think their rivalry could be solved with rifles. It’s a done deal anyway. Woody and Taylor are getting married in a week.
    Jack has just