Adrien English Mysteries: Fatal Shadows & A Dangerous Thing

by Josh Lanyon

  For 119 minutes we lost ourselves in the black and white swashbuckling romance of 1935’s Captain Blood, starring Flynn and Olivia de Havilland who early on proclaims herself familiar with pirates and their “wicked ways: cruelle and eville ...” At which point Jake, his carcass arranged so as not to touch mine at any potentially interlocking body part, snorted and offered his popcorn.

  * * * * *

  It was a long drive home for a man who hadn’t slept in two nights. Luckily Jake wasn’t someone who required bright conversation to stay sharp. I woke with a crick in my neck as we were bouncing over the cattle guard on the road to the ranch.

  “Sorry. Was I snoring?” Gingerly I swiveled my neck.

  “It’s more of a droning.”

  At least I wasn’t drooling. I straightened up in the cramped seat.

  We pulled into the front yard. Jake parked and we got out into the frigid night air. The wind blowing off the distant mountains tasted of snow. The clouds had cleared and the sky was brilliant with stars. Porch light spilled out over the steps and front yard.

  When it happened we were walking toward the house; I was slightly ahead of Jake who was jingling the car keys in his hand. Something zipped past my ear followed by a crack that echoed through the mountains.

  Behind me Jake uttered an oath, and the next I knew I was hitting the ground. Hard. There’s nothing like being tackled when you’re not prepared. And so much for all those Tai Chi exercises and instructions about sliding your palms and bending your elbows. I slammed down, the wind knocked out of me, with Jake on top. A second rifle shot split the night. The sound seemed to ricochet around the deserted ranch yard, rolling on forever.

  I was trying to work out what was happening when Jake raised himself off me and fired his 9mm over my head. This took out the cheerful welcoming porch light.

  “Move,” Jake yelled in my ear. I could only hear him muffledly, due to the fact that I was half-deaf from the blast of the automatic a couple of inches from my eardrum.

  Jake rolled off me and I got to my feet, sort of, and did a four-limbed running scramble for the porch steps. Not more than several yards but it felt like the LA marathon -- or a gauntlet.

  Every second I expected to feel bullets thud into my body, tearing muscle, bone, vital organs. There’s nothing more frightening than being shot at -- except maybe having a knife held at your throat. The fact that I had now experienced both was not a good thing.

  As I reached the porch there was another shot. Jake, right on my heels, made an inarticulate sound and then yelled, “Stay low.”

  Yeah, no kidding. I had my keys out, though I didn’t remember fumbling for them. I knelt in front of the door, jamming one key after another in the damn lock until I found the right one.

  More shots. One hit the porch post behind us. The other rang off one of the cowbells hanging from the homemade chimes in the pine.

  “Any time,” Jake remarked a little breathlessly.

  I pushed the door open and he shoved me into the room and slammed the door behind us.

  No more shots. Just the sound of our panting filling the long room, tree branches scratching against the outside walls, the house creaking.

  “Why didn’t you fire back?” I gasped between breaths.

  “He’s got a rifle, probably with a scope. I’ve got a handgun. He could be half a mile away.” Jake scooted over toward the window, a bulky shadow in the unlit room.

  “Can you see anything?”

  “No.”

  We waited while the wind moaned down the chimney. Jake muttered, “If he’s got any brains he’s halfway back to town.”

  “Or back to camp.”

  “Good point.”

  He rose, keeping clear of the window and yanked shut the heavy drapes, cutting off any outside view of the room. I did the same on my side. When the room was secured Jake said, “Okay, turn on a lamp. But -- Adrien?”

  “Yeah?” I paused, my hand on the switch.

  “Don’t freak. I’ve been hit.”

  “What?” I snapped on the light.

  Jake was on his feet, and sure enough, his left sleeve was soaked with something darker than the black knit material. Something that glistened in the gentle lamplight. The blood trickled down his hand, which he was wiping on his jeans.

  “It looks worse than it is.”

  “Sure, just a flesh wound,” I said stupidly.

  “It is just a flesh wound.” He gave me a sharp look. “You’re not going to pass out, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Because you’re sheet-white.”

  “Just my girlish complexion.” I got a grip on myself and said, “We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”

  “No. What kind of first aid kit do you have around here?”

  “You’re going to a hospital, Jake,” I said. “I’m not in the mood to play doctor.”

  “For this scratch?” He set his gun on the table and began struggling with his shirt.

  I tore my eyes away from the Beretta. “You’re damn right! You could get blood poisoning or lead poisoning or lose too much blood.”

  There was such a lot of blood. Blood smeared his breast and spilled out the ugly plowed flesh of his upper arm, in a slow but steady trickle. A fat drop hit the floor and splattered. The sight of it oxidized my brain.

  “You’re going to the hospital now.” I headed for the door, and Jake, half in and half out of his shirt, intercepted me.

  “Hold on. Maybe you’re right, but let’s do this by the book. We’ve got to make sure he’s gone.”

  “He’s gone! He’s not going to come after us. He knows you’ve got a gun. We’ve got a phone. He’ll think we’ve called the sheriffs.”

  Why the hell weren’t we calling the sheriffs?

  “Let’s do this by the book,” Jake repeated. “We’ll go for the Bronco, it’s closer. Got your keys?”

  I held my keys up. They were jingling. I lowered them.

  Jake returned to the window. He parted the drapes a crack and stood motionless, holding his injured arm.

  It felt like forever before he gave me a twisty smile and said, “Stand by for action.”

  I opened the door. Injured or not, Jake moved fast. He brushed by me, and was out the door first. If I had been on my own, nothing on Earth would have got me outside. I’d have stayed put and called for the cavalry. But no way was Jake going out there without me. I followed him out onto the porch.

  Nothing moved in the yard. The wind rippled through the waves of grass and wildflowers beyond.

  “Stay low, stick to cover,” Jake instructed. “Give me the keys.”

  “You can’t drive.”

  “I’m going first.” As I opened my mouth to argue he plucked the keys out of my unresisting fingers and slipped out into the windswept darkness.

  I followed Jake along the porch. He climbed over the rail and dropped down to the ground. I followed suit, hitting the hard-packed dirt with a thud that jarred my shins.

  I imitated Jake’s awkward running crouch to the old water trough. We were still a few feet from the Bronco. Jake motioned me to stay put.

  Waiting, I broke out in cold sweat while he sprinted across the open space and ducked behind the Bronco tire.

  Silence.

  The wind sighed through the cotton willow leaves.

  Unlocking the Bronco, Jake slipped inside. I heard the engine roar into life. I saw Jake’s bulk slide past the wheel.

  It was now or never. I’d have preferred never, but that wasn’t an option. Hauling ass across the lot, I jumped in and slammed shut the door. My hands were shaking as I threw the gears into reverse and we shot back in a wide arc, just missing the tree with its swing gently swaying in the breeze.

  “Easy, easy,” cautioned Jake.

  I cranked it into first and we tore out of the yard like the starting moments of NASCAR. The Bronco’s tires burned up the dirt road; we rattled across the cattle guard, bouncing down hard on every rut and rivulet in the road
as we raced for the main highway.

  “Shit, I’m getting blood all over your upholstery.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the upholstery!”

  “I know, baby. Keep it together.”

  Second Action Figure not included. When I thought I could match Jake’s neutral tone, I said, “Do we call the sheriff when we get to town?”

  “Not unless you want to spend the rest of the night answering questions. There’s nothing Billingsly can do tonight. Tomorrow I’ll have a look around. I think one of those bullets hit the porch.”

  He gasped in pain as we hit a pothole.

  “Sorry. Are you sure you’re not --”

  “The bullet nicked the fleshy part of my forearm.” He tried to examine himself in the darkness. “I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt like hell.”

  “I am so goddamn sorry, Jake.”

  “Knock it off,” he growled. “It’s not your fault.”

  “It is. If I hadn’t insisted --”

  “Shut up.”

  I shut up. Just as well. I had to concentrate on my driving since I was doing seventy on a winding mountain road.

  Thirty minutes before I had been so tired I didn’t think I could stay awake long enough to walk to the bedroom. Now I was on an adrenaline rush that felt like it would carry me into next week.

  The road snaked through the silent forest as I decelerated into each curve, accelerated out, the tires squealing now and then when I turned the wheel too tightly.

  Jake said nothing, his hand clamped over his arm.

  I slowed to a sedate sixty as we tore through town, stopping at the twenty-four hour “doctor in a box.”

  We were the only customers past midnight. Jake calmly explained to the nurse behind the counter what had happened while drops of his blood pooled slowly on the Formica. I hovered anxiously.

  “Gunshot!” the nurse exclaimed. “We have to report gunshot wounds.”

  “Not a problem,” Jake said. “We plan on reporting it.” He pulled out his wallet, but it was his insurance card he was after, not his LAPD ID.

  The nurse shepherded Jake off to room number nine, and I dropped down in an orange plastic chair in the empty waiting room, feeling like someone had yanked my plug. Like I couldn’t have moved if my life had depended on it.

  A few minutes later I saw a white-coated doctor go into the room and close the door.

  * * * * *

  How long did I sit there petrifying in the orange plastic chair? It began to seem like a very long time. Too long. Not only was I the only person in the waiting room, I seemed to be the only person in the clinic.

  At last a door opened at the far end of the corridor.

  A doctor I hadn’t seen before was walking toward me. He was dressed in surgical scrubs and his face looked weary and grim. It seemed like he was walking in slow motion. My heart began to slug against my breastbone.

  I stood up instinctively.

  “I’m sorry,” the surgeon said. “We did everything we could.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I stood there my heart banging like a battering ram against a drawbridge. My body seemed to turn hot and cold by turns.

  “That can’t be right,” I said stupidly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But it was just a flesh wound.”

  “Guys like Jake always say it’s a flesh wound.”

  “But --”

  “He went into shock and we lost him. It happens.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. I thought probably I was going into shock too. It all began to seem far away, the hospital corridor receding, the bright overhead lights dimming, swirling away ...

  Chapter Ten

  “Adrien.”

  Someone was shaking my shoulder.

  I opened my eyes. Jake loomed over me, frowning.

  My heart kicked into overdrive.

  I croaked out some sound and leaned forward, holding my sides to keep my heart from bursting through my rib cage like the parasite in Alien.

  Jake demanded, “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  He began feeling around my shirt pockets. Irritating. I sucked air into my lungs, pushed his hand away and sat up.

  “Hey,” Jake said. “Are you okay? Adrien?”

  The strange doctor, his bizarre comments -- of course it had been a dream.

  “I’m okay,” I managed. My heart was staggering along, punch drunk and swinging wildly, but still in the fight.

  “You don’t look okay.” He turned to the reception desk like he was going to summon help.

  Under other circumstances the concern in his eyes would have cheered me no end. Now I snapped, “Leave it! I’m fine.”

  Jake was alive. His arm was bandaged, a neat cuff of white around his muscular forearm. Otherwise he looked A-okay. I scrubbed my face with my hands, took another long cautious breath. Everything seemed fully operational, but the dream had been so real that I still felt shocked and disoriented. Grieved.

  “Here.”

  He reappeared at my side with a paper cup of water from the cooler.

  I got my pills out, popped the cap with my thumb and tossed two back for safety’s sake. I took the cup from Jake. The paper felt squishy, too flimsy to contain the weight of the water -- kind of how I felt. Like I could tear apart at the slightest pressure.

  If something happens to him because of me ...

  If something happens to him ...

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” The hazel eyes were keen.

  “Great,” I said impatiently. “How’s your arm?”

  “Kinda stiff. Funny thing. Usually bullets bounce off me.” He smiled a rare smile.

  I smiled weakly in response.

  In the end we checked into the Motel 6, neither of us up to fending off another firefight that night.

  There’s something safe and sane about the generic comforts of a budget motel chain, even when you wind up with the room by the ice machine. One room with one king-sized bed. The walls were decorated with insipid watercolors of villas in the south of France for travelers whose idea of a dream vacation spot was Branson, Missouri. All I cared about was the deadbolt and chain decorating the door.

  I slid the deadbolt, hooked the chain, and peered out the peephole. Nary a gunman lurked in the parking lot.

  “Cable,” Jake approved, switching on the TV.

  I headed for the john. I turned the sink taps on full and proceeded to lose what remained of my expensive dinner. When the dry heaves were over I splashed a couple of gallons of arctic water on my face and brushed my teeth with the toothbrush supplied at no extra charge by the front desk.

  Stepping out of the bathroom I found find Jake comfortably sprawled across the bed, propped by pillows, remote control in hand. He was watching The Hunted.

  “I’m not going to say I told you so,” he remarked, as I tottered toward the bed.

  “I appreciate that,” I said. I lifted my side of the blankets. He was wearing black briefs. His body looked as hard and sculpted as one of those underwear mannequins in department store displays.

  “If it’s any comfort to you, I’d say we’re on the right track. Tonight’s ambush proves it.”

  Flopping back on the bed, I moaned with relief. Clean sheets -- short sheets -- but clean. Jake shoved one of the flat, spongy pillows my way.

  “Next vacation I’m going to ... I don’t know ... Brittany,” I informed him. It sounded so removed from reality. White sandy beaches, castles, and tiny fishing villages. Crepes and cider and cathedrals. What could be safer than that? “I don’t think anyone speaks English. And I don’t think they have guns.”

  “That’s right,” approved Jake. “Why stop at pissing off local law enforcement when you can get the Justice Department involved?”

  I balled the pillow behind my head. It was weird lying next to him, feeling the sheets heated by his body. He took up a lot of space. If I stretched out my leg I could run my frigi
d foot down his hairy calf. I studied his profile.

  Considering how long I’d waited for such an opportunity, you’d have thought I’d jump the big man’s bones, but, sad truth, I couldn’t have got it up to save my life.

  “TV bother you?”

  I shook my head and closed my eyes lulled by the slashing of a thousand swords. One thing I didn’t fear was a ninja attack. Although the way things were going ....

  Dozing, I worked Jake’s dour commentary on the movie into my nap. I was vaguely aware when he snapped out the bedside light. I opened my eyes. The TV screen flickered in the darkness with images of gore and, more frighteningly, Christopher Lambert’s slightly crossed gaze.

  Jake reached out, patting my face as though he were clumsily brailling me. I mumbled drowsily, and felt him ruffle my hair.

  “You’re not going to die in your sleep or anything, are you?”

  I slurred, “You’ll be the first to know.”

  He laughed and tugged me his way. Extraordinary. And me too exhausted to do more than wonder at the extraordinariness of it. We lay against each other, chest to chest, cock to cock. Yep, it felt pretty comfortable even with my face smooshed in his armpit.

  “Now why the hell would he?” Jake commented, his voice rumbling in his chest. He was focused on the movie once more.

  Why the hell indeed? I put my arm around him. No objection from Jake. His skin felt smooth, the blonde hair crackled against my skin. He smelled of antiseptic and Jake.

  My eyelids felt weighted. Listening to the reassuring thud of his heart, I let my body go slack and fell asleep in the crook of Jake’s arm.

  * * * * *

  I woke with a boner the size of a small torpedo. For a while I lay there and watched Jake sleep in the early morning light.

  In sleep his face appeared younger, the line of his mouth soft. I studied the white gauze bandage around his muscular forearm. I remembered him telling me big arms and shoulders were a help to a cop; a deterrent to punks and drunks who thought twice about taking on someone who was obviously in great shape, who worked out regularly.

  Jake was in great shape, he worked out regularly, but one well-placed bullet last night would have ended his life. I guess until he was the one at risk I hadn’t taken the threat to us too seriously. Not that I thought I was invulnerable; just the opposite. When you live with a potentially life-threatening condition you get used to the thought of dying. You accept it, you push on. The thing that scared me was the picture of dying slowly and painfully, the loss of independence and identity to illness.