Indigo Man

by M. J. Carlson

  Brown’s mouth fell open. Before he could recover enough to grab the link, Stiles went on.

  “Track the sonofabitch and whoever is helping him down and kill them. Do you understand? Good. Disconnect.”

  CHAPTER 13

  A groan worked its way up from Zach’s guts as he tried to curl around this fresh insult added to previous injury. Waves of pain throbbed from his side in its wake. Little flashing lights danced around the edges of his vision. With a whimpering cough, he dropped over on top of Sara.

  The car rolled through the night, toward the beach, still on autopilot.

  Zach lay curled over her, unable to move as the minutes dragged on. He struggled to catch his breath as he let this new pain pass. Each gasp brought a fresh, sharp jab to his ribs and tears to his eyes. With effort, he worked his way up in the seat and checked Sara.

  She lay across the narrow gap between the seats, unconscious, her head still on his lap. His leg under her head was damp. He touched the spot with his fingertips. The blood on them was black in the passing street lights when he lifted them. Her forehead was sticky. The cloth she’d been pressing on her wound was gone.

  Ignoring the waves of nausea his movements brought, he unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off. He folded one of the sleeves over on itself several times, carefully pushed the edges of her cut closed, and applied pressure. He gradually increased it until a faint moan escaped her. He reclined his seat back, and gently repositioned her head while the Mitsu took them to the address she’d programmed in.

  “I just hope there’s nobody using that safe house, or things are going to get really exciting.” Laying his head against the seat back, Zach tried to breathe around the pain and stay conscious to keep pressure on her wound.

  ***

  “Destination reached.” The on-board computer broke the silence in the passenger compartment.

  The car’s voice brought Zach around. The Mitsu pulled into the empty driveway of a dark house and stopped. Its headlights revealed doors built into the back wall of an empty carport. A five foot tall, square, green, recycling bin stood nestled in the corner closest to the house. One side of the carport was open to the shoulder-high hedges separating the house from the neighbor. The other held a wooden door with panes of frosted glass leading into the side of the house. They were alone.

  “Lights off, system off,” Zach said. They dropped into darkness. “Sara,” he whispered. No answer. “Sara?” he repeated, a little louder. Concern added tension to his tone. A mumble came from where her head still lay on his lap. “Special Agent Goode,” he said, in a sharper tone. This brought a jerk from her. “Shh.” Zach grabbed her shoulder to keep her from sitting up too quickly. He worked his other arm from under her head where he’d been cradling it. He clenched and unclenched his fist to get sensation back.

  A mumbled, “where am I?” drifted up from Sara.

  “We’re here. Don’t sit up yet.”

  “What happened?” Sara’s voice sounded groggy, sluggish. Her arm moved to the seat under him. He could feel tension flow into her hand as it found his leg. She tried to push herself up, but he tightened his grip on her shoulder. His free hand gently stroked her hair.

  “Take it slow.”

  “Why is my head on your leg?”

  “You passed out. We both did.”

  “God,” she groaned. “I feel like crap. Why are your pants wet?”

  “Pretty sure that’s your blood on my leg. You started bleeding again.”

  “Where did you say we are?” She shifted under his arm, but made no move to get up.

  “We’re at the safe house you programmed into the car’s Auto-drive,” he said. When she started to move to sit up again, he added, “No. You’ve been bleeding. You’ve been unconscious. Please, don’t move yet. I’ll help you up, but you’ll have to tell me how to get the door to the house open. Is there a card reader or something?”

  She shifted again under his arm, and then relaxed. “No. There’s a key. It’s in my pocket. I feel sick to my stomach, like I’m going to throw up, again.”

  “You have a concussion. Lie still ’til I come around to get you out. What kind of a safe house doesn’t even have a card reader, anyway?”

  “Zach, I lied. It’s not exactly an official safe house.”

  “Then, where are we, exactly?”

  “It’s my parents’ house. Please, tell me they’re not home.”

  “There’s no lights. No car in the driveway. What does that mean?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Probably…?” Zach’s head dropped against the seat back. A mirthless chuckle worked its way out. “Hello, Mr. Goode, Ms. Goode? Hi, I’m Zach. That? Oh, your daughter’s been bleeding all over my lap from a head wound. She has a concussion and I’m pretty sure I have a broken rib. Could you give us a hand? Thank you. The car with your daughter’s blood all over it? That’s mine. Yes, it is nice, thank you. We’re on the run from stealing another one and blowing it up to cover up breaking into my own lab earlier tonight. Oh, yeah,” he concluded. “That’ll go over big.”

  “Yeah, but the good news is they only have the one car and they almost never go anywhere separately. We’re most likely cool. I think I can sit up. I should try, at least.”

  “Okay,” Zach said. “We’re going to do this. You’re going to put pressure here,” he moved his thumb on her hair. “I’m going to slide out of the car. Then—”

  “Zach?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sorry.”

  He stared down at her. “What for?”

  “For passing out. Very unprofessional.”

  He stroked her blood-matted hair. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  “It’s a deal,” she said.

  Using the hand he’d been stroking her hair with, Zach reached for the door handle. As he did, he shifted his crotch gently under her head and realized everything wasn’t as numb as he’d first thought. He forced himself to think of something beside her head on his lap. “Ready?”

  Sara nodded her head. He squirmed, wishing she hadn’t picked that particular movement. She patted his leg, and gave it a quick squeeze. “It’ll be all right.”

  The passenger door of the Mitsu lifted forward easily to Zach’s push. Night air spilled in, covering them with the ocean breeze. Zach slid a leg out of the Mitsu, but he stopped when Sara’s grip tightened on the leg still under her head.

  “What?”

  She swallowed hard. Her nails dug into him hard enough to penetrate the numbness. “Slow, please. I’m still a little woozy.”

  “Gotcha.”

  She took a slow, deep breath. “Wouldn’t do to puke on your lap after you’ve been such a gentleman.”

  This pulled a laugh from him, followed immediately by a whimper at the pain jabbing into his ribs. “No, but it’d sure be a funny story in about five years, when the emotional trauma wears off.”

  A chuckle filtered up from Sara. “Maybe. I’m having a little trouble following the humor right now, though, what with facing state and federal prison and this damn headache.”

  “I bet,” Zach offered. “Ready to try again?”

  She nodded her head again. He rolled his eyes, wishing she’d find another way to express herself.

  “Zach?” Her grip on his leg tightened.

  “Sara,” he took a breath, past the pain, concentrating on fighting the urge to move against the pressure of her head. “I really need to get out soon, or you may have to reconsider your gentleman comment.”

  She slid her hand off his leg and onto the seat. Her head lifted off him. “Go. Quick. Please.”

  He grabbed the paper bag on the floor, slid out the door, and turned away in one, too-quick movement. He made it two full steps toward the back of the car before pain in his chest pulled him to his knees. Flashes of light danced around the edges of his vision again. Zach braced himself against the Mitsu’s side and forced himself to his feet. While he worked his way around to the driver’s door, he t
ried to coax air back into his lungs.

  He stood at the door and turned, leaning his back against the composite and glass. Sweat soaked his shirt, creating a rivulet down his back. A sour taste burned into the back of his throat. He screwed his eyes shut and panted, willing his stomach not to turn on him while he caught his breath.

  Zach gripped the driver’s side door handle and grunted the door open. Inside, Sara had worked herself to a sitting position. Her head lay propped against the headrest. A tear trapped in the corner of her closed left eye glistened in the dim light, refusing to run down her cheek.

  Leaning in the opening, he put his head next to hers on the headrest. He worked his hand across her lap to where the belt was clipped. Pushing the button, he whispered in her ear, “Come on, slide your legs toward me.”

  She turned slowly to face him until they were almost nose to nose. “I don’t think I can. Leave me behind, I’ll just slow you down.”

  “You’re not as funny as you think you are,” he said, as he worked one hand around her legs and the other behind her neck.

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

  “Good, because it isn’t working,” he said, recalling her earlier comment.

  “I don’t think I can stand up. I’m so goddamn dizzy.”

  “What?” He asked in mock surprise. “Because of a little head wound and loss of blood? For shame, Special Agent. I’ve been wondering what was keeping you upright all evening. Now get your ass out of that seat. I’ll hold you.”

  She rolled her eyes at him and closed them again. “Yeah? What’s going to hold you up?”

  “Don’t make me beg.”

  “Later.”

  He could’ve sworn her whisper had taken on a new, deeper tone. Shrugging it off as imagination, he slowly worked her legs around to the outside edge of the seat, and held her close as she stood. She pulled the Mitsu’s door closed as they stepped past it. With one arm around her shoulders and his other hand holding his shirt against her forehead, they stumbled into the carport and toward the side door of the house.

  Sara pulled the key from her pocket as they walked. In the dark, she had trouble inserting the key and turning it, but finally the door to the house opened. Inside, the dark space felt small. Sara turned to the left where a tiny, red LED blinked, and pressed a code into the small keypad on the wall. The LED changed to a steady green. She turned toward what Zach’s now dark-adjusted vision identified as another, inner door. Next to the door stood a washer and drier. The wall on his left held a square, composite sink. He stepped toward the door, but Sara stopped him as he reached for the knob.

  “No,” she said, her whisper hoarse. “No blood in the house. It’s a rule.”

  Afraid to ask how such a rule came into being at her parents’ house, he merely nodded. “Okay.” He dropped the bag on the washer, kicked off his shoes, and undid his belt as Sara shrugged out of her jacket and shoulder holster. She leaned against a wall and worked on her blouse’s buttons as he let his trousers drop to the floor and stepped out of them. Her blouse joined his shirt on top of his slacks and they stood in the small, dark laundry room, Sara in her bra and black suit slacks, he in his stretch boxers.

  “Where to now?” he asked, working at keeping his attention above her shoulders.

  “I need to put my head down before I fall down.”

  “We need to clean your cut so I can close it.”

  “Bathroom, then. I can sit and you can work.”

  “Lead on.”

  “This way.” She stepped past him, opened the door into the house, and immediately lost her balance, bumping a hip against the washing machine.

  “Careful.” He returned his arm to its place around her shoulders. She guided him past the combination kitchen and dining area on the left, the living room to the right, and through a short hall to a tidy bathroom. “Sit down, and put your head on the counter.” He laid the paper bag on the polished composite surface.

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” Sara said as she piled her shoulder holster on the floor in front of her. She sat down sideways on the toilet lid and laid her head on her folded forearms with a sigh.

  He hooked the light switch and opened the cabinet under the sink. He examined first one, then another bottle, until he found the peroxide. After pouting some on the corner of a washcloth, he dabbed at the blood on Sara’s forehead. The cut was about two inches long and deeper than he first thought. He finished cleaning it. “Crap. What did you hit your head on?”

  “Happened a little quick to pay attention to all the details,” she mumbled from her crossed forearms.

  “I’m going to try to close this,” he said, “I can’t see bone, but I don’t know if it’ll work with something this deep.”

  “That’s what the duct tape was for.”

  “If this works,” he said. “It’ll be better.”

  “Better than duct tape? This I have to see. Shouldn’t we put some antibacterial goop on it or something?”

  “Not necessary with this,” he said, gently dabbing the cut dry with another corner of the cloth. The laceration had almost stopped oozing. “Okay, here we go.” Zach reached into the paper bag from the auto parts store and pulled out a three-pack of Magic Glue. He opened the package and removed a small tube. “Now lie still, this shouldn’t hurt.”

  She stiffened. “Shouldn’t? Have you ever done this before?”

  “Actually, no, but I learned about it in college. Laz…” He gulped. “Laz swore by it.” He popped the seal, gently pushed the edges of Sara’s wound together as she hissed in response, and applied the glue to the surface of her skin. After a couple of minutes, he tugged at the edge of the transparent, shiny, hard covering protecting the laceration. “Hey, it worked. Cool.”

  “I’m impressed. Can I stay right here?”

  “How about if you let me put another layer on and then you lie down?”

  She nodded. “Can you please get me a towel for my hair? I don’t want to get blood on anything.”

  “Towels?”

  “Linen closet, hallway. There should be something for pain in the medicine cabinet.”

  “Thanks.” He touched her bare shoulder with his fingertips and went in search of the linen closet.

  A few minutes later, he returned with a couple of dark colored bath towels over an arm. Another towel was wrapped around his waist. “Come on, we need to get you horizontal.”

  “Men. You’re all the same.”

  He dropped a couple of ice cubes on the washcloth. “Here,” he said, handing her the ice. “Keep the swelling down.”

  She stood, her shoulder holster in one hand, and led him to a small, dark bedroom off the main hall. “Promise not to laugh.”

  “I promise,” he said, and flicked the light switch. A pink bedspread covered the double sized mattress. Slick, white, shelves hung on the pink-colored walls. On them sat an assortment of pastel stuffed animals and a child’s tea service. White, filmy curtains framed the window. In the corner, a child’s white unicorn rocking horse wore a pink saddle.

  Facing one wall stood the plainest, tan-colored desk, as out of place in the pastel wonderland as if it had been dropped into the room by accident. Above the desk, a Cheetah Girls girl-band poster was tacked to the wall. He blinked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much pink.”

  “It’s my dad,” Sara offered, a bit sheepishly. “He labors under the delusion that I’m still nine. I’m sorry, but I really need to lie down, I’m getting nauseated again.”

  “Yeah.” He pulled the dusky rose spread back. “In.”

  When she was under the cover, she stared up at Zach and smiled. “Lying flat helps. Can I have a glass of water, please?” She batted her eyes. His eye roll brought a laugh and a groan from her.

  “Let me put the clothes in water to soak, first. I’ll get you something for pain.” His chest throbbed, each breath sending waves of dull pain through him.

  “Try the master bathroom. Don’t expect much. They ten
d to be on the stoic side.”

  “At least you come by it honestly.” He turned and hit the light switch as he walked out. Back in the laundry room, he dropped their clothes into the washing machine, let it fill and interrupted the cycle to let them soak. On the way back to Sara’s bedroom, he stopped and checked the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom. Stoic was right, he thought. Grabbing the only bottle of ibuprofen, he downed a few, spilled three or four more onto his palm, filled a glass, and reentered Sara’s room. He placed the glass on the nightstand and handed her the pills, surprised when her hand wrapped around his in the dark.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Lie down.”

  “I’ll hit the couch.”

  “I can’t protect you in there.”

  “Sara, I… you…” his stomach tightened.

  “Don’t make me shoot you, I have a killer headache.”

  “What if your colleagues show up?”

  “This place is under the radar. My parents moved here after I applied to the bureau. It’s in my mom’s maiden name. She inherited it from her parents. The IRS couldn’t find us here. This is the safest place within a hundred miles.”

  “I should…” Zach started.

  “You should lie down before I have to hurt you. Is it this hard for every woman to get you into bed, or is it something about me personally you don’t like?” She pulled the spread back, her skin silver in the moonlight filtering through the window. The smooth surface of her bra shone white in the pale light. Zach closed his eyes and bit his lower lip.

  He turned and closed the sheer curtains, and wincing with pain, groaned his way onto the bed. When he’d worked his way onto his back, she tossed the sheet and spread over him and shifted onto her side, her breath warm on his shoulder.

  “That’s the problem,” he said. “There’s nothing about you personally I don’t like.”

  She laid her hand on his chest where she’d punched him. “You weren’t very happy about my report style earlier.”

  He snorted. “That’s about as much you as the shoulder holster you wear.” A stray beam of light snuck through the curtains, slicing into the room and exposing the unicorn.