She was sharp behind the wheel, the best Yancy had ever seen. He told the E.R. nurses he’d fallen on a rake. If he’d given the truth, the police would have been called, and a report would have landed on the desk of Sonny Summers, who didn’t want Yancy near the Conch Train case, the Buck Nance case, or any other case that was making news. The sheriff wanted Yancy offstage, counting cockroaches. Merry said, “What a whack job. I didn’t see the knife until too late.” “This is all on me.” Benny Krill had made one spazzy swing with the blade and sliced Yancy’s belly. “How are you feeling?” Merry asked. “Stupid and mortal.” No vital organs nicked, but nineteen stitches. The doctor wanted Yancy to remain in the hospital for a few days. He promptly bolted. Merry took him back to Big Pine and helped him into the house. Collapsing on the sofa he tore off the paper gown to examine his bandages. “Blood is seriously not my thing,” Merry said, losing color. “You’ve done more than enough for me.
