by Lou Paduano
She groaned, pulling her hair back and tying it off. Mysteries were one thing, but this was something else, something she wanted no part of. This was bigger than them, bigger than she could understand, or wanted to understand.
Turning away from Clevinger, she focused on Lincoln instead. He refused to say anything, but his pained glances made his condition clear. Morgan opened her pack and called him over with a fresh bandage dangling between her fingers.
“Still can’t believe he shot me,” Lincoln said. She tore the bandage away, and his jaw clenched tight at the act. He shook his head. “A damn nutjob in a labcoat.”
“Never an apologetic cheerleader with a nursing degree.”
They shared the laugh. Quietly, Morgan pulled his shirt away from the wound. A deep scar ran along the skin. Lincoln refused to catch her sadness, locked on the good doctor, locked on anything but her reaction. He snatched the bandage away and tore the adhesive from the backside before slapping it in place.
“How long has it been?” Morgan asked, adjusting his shoddy work.
Lincoln’s fingers grazed the scar as his shirt settled into position. “Not long enough.”
“Afghanistan?”
“No.”
His answers were curt and all she’d expected. They had both served. Her role as a medic had brought too many mistakes, ones she refused to admit let alone mention to any of the others.
Lincoln remained a soldier through and through. He served a mission—much like the one given by the DSA—not people. People betrayed each other. People came with agendas. They served themselves over all others. No platitudes. No sacrifice. None interested Lincoln. He swore to something greater: a flag, an ideal.
He served something that couldn’t die—something that would never fall to irrelevancy.
Lincoln’s eyes wavered, softening slightly. “Sorry, it’s just…”
“Never apologize to me, Linc. We both saw our share of horrors.”
“Yeah. Yeah we did.” He laid his pistol across his lap. “You know, when the Taliban shot at you, you understood it. Here? Away from war, away from desperation and fear of death every second of every day? Nothing makes any damn sense.”
“War is hell.”
Lincoln shook his head. “Surviving is hell. And that’s all we’ve ever done. Ruth doesn’t understand. After what happened with Grissom though…”
His words trailed off and he let them fall away. The moment faded, but she held on for a second chance. “Want to talk about it?” Morgan shifted closer, her voice low. “About Ruth? You two seem—”
Lincoln stood, pain wracking his face. “We good here?”
The wall closed between them. The same one she held for others. It was better in the long run—safer. For the sake of the mission, if nothing else. Every tragedy was held under their tongues, swallowed hard with each gulp of air. The distance allowed them to function in society, allowed them to laugh and love with everyone else.
Surviving was hell. But it was all they knew how to do.
“We’re good,” Morgan replied. She stood beside him, hand reaching then falling away. She let the moment slip away as easily as Ruth’s flimsy excuse.
Lincoln pointed to their company. “I can handle him if you’d like.” Her eyebrow cocked and he rolled his eyes. “Without the gun, if necessary.”
She started for the waiting doctor. “I’ve got it.”
They needed answers. More than recrimination, and more than remembrance, they needed to know the secrets surrounding Bellbrook. Only one man held them. There was no getting around it. It was time for Howard Clevinger to start sharing with the class.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The SUV swerved to the left. Rain blotted out the dim light offered by the flashes of lightning splitting the clouds overhead. Ruth cursed, swinging the rental back to the right side of the road. Her pace never slowed. Her thick boot pressed harder on the accelerator to maintain their momentum.
Before them, the forest loomed.
Ben couldn’t look. Staring at his loafers, he wondered if he would ever have the opportunity to buy a pair that fit. His curiosity took him from the simple black pair two sizes too small to the idea of his new apartment. He knew nothing of the place, and the others were not forthcoming on much, let alone their own residence in Bethesda. Was it furnished? How was the view? Simple questions served as easy distractions keeping the weary agent focused on anything but the road ahead.
And Ruth’s driving.
Music helped, or would have if the radio was functional and he had been allowed to utilize it. Instead, The Power of Love blasted in his head, and visions of Marty McFly skateboarding across town drowned out the reality of their journey. Playing with his tie also helped matters, but the approaching trees played havoc with any notion of calm.
“I don’t mind driving,” Ben announced. Ruth stared straight, teeth grinding at the sound of his voice.
Sweat pooled at the base of her hair, down her neck and cheeks. Her skin, not exactly smooth and elegant to start, grew more pale the closer they came to the forest. Sharp eyes of brown flickered to gray, glazed over and lost. She was fading and said nothing, betrayed nothing in the quiet pain that slipped out with every breath.
Ben tried to help, tried to find a way in. He recognized the anguish. She was in more pain than she cared to admit, the same as his father had been at the end. Always pushing away from help, always willing to grin and bear it even when everything begged for a reprieve. He had failed with his father. He didn’t want to do the same with Ruth. Yet every attempt was rebuked. Every kind word was assailed. Every joke lost to silence.
There was no winning her over.
It was the same with the others. Lincoln hated him at first sight, possibly over his concern for Ruth, which stood in Ben’s thoughts as simply ludicrous. Morgan wasn’t much better, if indifference could be called an improvement. Ben’s presence brought up issues and memories yet to be dealt with.
He’d taken the job, promised Metcalf to give it a try, but if he was the only one willing to show up how much of a chance could he take? He wanted to make a difference—to see the world changed for the better. How could he though, blocked by stubbornness and a team unwilling to offer anything of themselves? He didn’t have an answer of any kind to the questions plaguing him. So, Ben did the only he could when he ran out of answers.
He kept talking.
“Really,” he said, smile plastered and voice growing to match the rain outside. “I drove every day on the job. Working the beat, just like you said. Okay, maybe not every day. Emily, my partner, preferred to be behind the wheel, but every once in a while she let me take a stab at it. Okay, every once in a while might be a stretch. Really it was only once, and only for a block before she—”
The SUV screeched to a halt. The rain battered the exterior of the vehicle, a troubled beat in the background. Ben sat back, the trees surrounding them behind the storm.
“Let me stop you there,” Ruth snapped. “Check your gun, say a prayer, I don’t give a crap. I’m not, I repeat, I am not bonding with you right now.”
“I see,” Ben replied.
Ruth let out a low breath and hit the gas once more. They weaved around curves in the road. Large bends dominated the path through the extensive forest. Ben held his tongue for a long moment, hands clasped against his knees. Then he turned to face her once more. “I can still ask why not, right?”
Ruth refused to stop, eyes ever forward. “I’m busy trying to keep us alive.”
Ben settled against the headrest. “Ah.”
“What?” Ruth yelled. The car skirted to the left-hand side of the road. She jerked the wheel to bring the swerving vehicle back before it left the pavement completely. “Just what, Riley?”
“Nothing,” he shot back. “No, I get it. This is about the shoes I’m filling. That’s what this crap on the new guy attitude has been, hasn’t it?”
“I don’t know
what you’re talking about.”
“What was his name?” Ben recalled the plaque in the basement of the DSA warehouse. He followed each and every member of the team, including those stuck in Bethesda pushing paperwork. It hung over them all, from the empty seat around the briefing room table to the dusty coffee mug in the break room. He had mattered to them and continued to do so, to the point where all newcomers caught nothing but distaste and anger. Rather than meet their feelings and tackle their grief, they had laid it at his feet. “Say it, Ruth. Just say the man’s name if he meant so much to you.”
“Grissom, all right?” Her hand slammed against the steering wheel. A lone tear mixed with the sweat down her cheek. “His name was Grissom and you’d be lucky to fill one of his shoes let alone the pair.”
Ben pointed to the loafers scrunching his toes. “Probably a better fit than mine, that’s for sure.” A thin glare shot his way. “Hey, I get it.”
Grissom’s shadow covered everything related to the DSA—from Operations to Logistics to Research. Ben was nothing more than a stranger. That had to change. If they ever made it out of Bellbrook, that is.
“So what happened?” Ben asked.
“We should almost be there, Riley. Why don’t you—?” Ruth’s hands slipped from the wheel, rising to meet her temples. She screamed. Nails cracked pale skin and drops of blood flowed along her thin fingers.
“RUTH!” Ben grabbed the wheel to keep them in the lane. Ruth’s foot pressed down harder on the accelerator. The momentum shot them forward into the darkness. They left the road during the first curve, mud from the storm spraying across the side. “Ruth, come on. Keep it together.”
Her hands fell away. Gray eyes faded to white and then sparked to a dim brown. “What the hell—?”
“Thank God.”
She knocked his hand away and took the wheel, guiding them back to the center of the winding strip of interstate. “Dammit, Riley. What were you—?”
He came out of nowhere. A man stood in the middle of the road, short and thin, with round lenses covering his eyes.
The rain made it almost impossible to see, the wipers flapping back and forth vigorously in their efforts to help. Ben reached for the wheel and spun hard right. Ruth, attention trapped on the figure before them, joined his efforts.
The SUV swerved. Tires left the safety of the rain-soaked pavement. The vehicle toppled to its side, then continued rolling along the road. Sparks flew, windows shattered within. Ignoring the screams of the pair inside, the Suburban careened forward, upended completely in the effort, and crashed headlong into a thick oak at the edge of the forest.
There were no more screams.
Only silence.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Darkness surrounded Ben. Arms dangled below him, hands caught in the shattered glass coating the ground. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. They’d crashed. He remembered that much. The SUV had tumbled over, sending him reeling across the passenger side. There was a deep-rooted fear in Ruth’s face. It was more than just the sparks flying around them and the windows shattering along their laps and cutting into their flesh.
It was a fear of an uncontrollable end.
Ben stirred. He fought against the safety harness strapping him in place. He slapped at the release, the smallest amount of pressure causing great waves of pain to rise from his palms. Droplets of crimson pooled along his fingertips. They spread around the cab with his flailing movements.
Suddenly, the buckle dislodged and Ben fell to the roof of the upended car. He cried out, shards of glass slicing along his arms. His scraped hands protected his face to the best of their ability. Shuffling along the glass, Ben worked his way to his knees. Rain flooded into the cab, cooling the sting from the myriad cuts decorating his skin.
Ruth didn’t move. Her eyes remained locked shut in the driver’s seat as her weary frame dangled over him. A moan escaped her lips, agony deeper than any crash. Ben tried to reach for her, crying out with each inch while glass crunched beneath his shifting.
The smell of gas had yet to present itself, though the rain may have muddled the effect. Ben refused to take the chance.
“Come on, Ruth,” Ben muttered. He reached for her belt release. Ruth’s hand jutted out and snatched his wrist, squeezing tight. Her eyes snapped open. Her pupils had faded to white.
“Don’t you hear that sound?” she screamed. Then she collapsed, her head lolling around limply.
Ben let out a deep breath. “Let’s not do that again please. This day has been enough of a nightmare.”
The release clicked and the pale woman’s body dropped into his waiting arms. Ben bit his lip hard to swallow the pain. He kicked out at the frame of the door, which buckled easily thanks to the crash. It smashed out, allowing flickers of moonlight into the glass-ridden cab.
“Come on, Ruth,” he whispered. Her moans carried through the swirling wind, muffling his struggles to pry her loose from the SUV. Her leg caught on the mangled car door. She cried out as a sharp plastic protrusion dug into her skin. A stream of blood smeared along the ground behind their escape.
“Dammit,” Ben cursed. Quickly and without as much care as he would have liked, he placed Ruth on the other side of the tree that served as the final resting place of their vehicle. He propped her against the thick trunk of the tall oak. The remaining headlight gave him something to work with, a stream of white to survey her injuries.
The cut on her right leg was at least four inches long. Thick streaks of dark blood spread through her pants. Ben applied pressure to the open wound. His hand immediately sent a shockwave through Ruth’s body that caused her to slam her head against the trunk of the tree.
Her scream tormented him, but he refused to relent. Her eyes sparked, dusty brown filling the center.
“How?” she tried to shout, but it came out as a whisper lost to the storm.
“I’ve got you,” Ben said. He pulled his tie loose with his free hand.
She rubbed the back of her head, wincing at the touch. When she caught sight of his hand on her leg and the blood running down the sides despite his efforts, she stopped.
“How bad?”
“No dancing for awhile. Sorry.”
Ruth let out a short chuckle, the effort turning to a cough. Her stubbornness made Ben feel worse. The cold, gruff exterior she wore like a badge of armor soothed him more than the fear that sparked from that simple laugh.
He lifted her leg carefully and slid his tie beneath. Her jaw tightened and she sucked in short, shallow breaths in preparation. “I heard you like that tie.”
“It’ll grow on you.”
Her hand fell on his, scared eyes wide. “Tell me.”
“It’s bad, Ruth.”
She nodded. “Tell me when you—”
“Now.” Ben pulled the makeshift tourniquet tight along the wound. A sharp cry rose over the clapping thunder, leaves shaking overhead from the sound. The stream slowed to a trickle, at least for the moment.
Time hadn’t been on their side since their arrival in Bellbrook. Now it made a play to be their worst enemy, one Ben couldn’t beat. Not so far away from town, and certainly not alone.
Ruth trailed his gaze, concern growing. “What is it? Riley, what—?”
“Keep pressure on the wound,” he said. He guided her hand to the gash. She squeezed, stifling terror and pain.
“Where are you going?”
“There was someone on the road,” Ben said, picturing the figure that had caused their accident. His black suit and hat. The rounded spectacles were opaque, rather than clear, and covered his eyes. “Are you—?”
“Go,” she answered.
“I’ll be—”
“Just go, Riley.” She closed her eyes and pressed down on the wound.
Ben broke out in a full run. He circled the wreck of their car, slipping through the mud for the slick pavement of the road. It curved in both directions. The path through the for
est continued for a mile in either direction.
His staggered steps carried him to the center, and his eyes squinted through the downpour. Lightning cracked the night sky, shining a light on the street. There had been a man standing there—almost waiting for their arrival.
He smiled at us.
Now he was gone. They were alone, without a means to call for backup or a way to inform their colleagues of their situation. The signal, locked deep within the forest, blocked everything.
What was the right choice? What was the correct path? Either option put Ruth at risk. Her wound needed attention from a medical professional—if Morgan could be called that. She was, however, the best qualified to try and stitch up the broken woman. Even if she received treatment, there was no way to know if it would truly help Ruth. Her agony stemmed from more than the crash.
The signal ended one threat. Medical care took care of the other. Neither path aided both.
Ben raced back to his patient, hands in agony as they swiped at the rain coating his skin. Ruth’s grimace faded at his approach.
“Anything?” she asked, a ray of hope shattered at his gaze.
“Nothing,” he said. “I could have sworn—”
“I saw him too.”
He rolled up his sleeves, letting the rain wash out his cuts. His arms wrapped around her to lift her from the mud-soaked earth, then he stopped.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Besides my leg being split open like a hot dog bun?”
He grinned at her irritation. That was the Ruth he had come to understand over the course of the past day. The sound that she had yet to completely throw in the towel. The one that offered him a chance to make things right.
His fingers ran lightly along the back of her head and down her neck. “Are you sure? Nothing with your head? Your shoulder?”
“No,” she snapped. “Nothing. What the hell are you—?”
