by Alicia Scott
“What if he says something?”
The woman turned slightly, and Garret saw the face from the rain. He worked harder for his voice, but the flames wouldn’t relinquish their grasp.
“Have you understood a word he’s said? I don’t even recognize the language.”
“Mitch.”
There. Once more his older brother’s name slid out of the void, scrabbling over thick, water-parched lips. Both heads swiveled immediately, and he forced the roller coaster to hold steady.
“Garret?” Cage whispered. Immediately, he was over at the bedside, bending down. “Can you hear me, Garret?”
A water glass was held to his lips from the other side; dimly he recognized Suzanne had come over. But the fire was fierce again, licking tantalizingly close, curling his hair.
“Mitch…has…to go. They’ll try him next.”
Cage frowned and exchanged heavy glances with Suzanne.
“Who’s ‘they,’ Garret? Tell me who’s ‘they.’”
“He has to go. Him and Jessica. Everyone knows…brothers.”
The roller coaster lurched sickeningly, carrying him closer to the edge and the excited, lapping flames. The heat, the searing heat. Sweat rolled like tears down his cheeks.
“Are you sure?” Cage asked sharply. “For God’s sake, Jessica’s eight months pregnant.” And Mitch would never agree to run from some unidentified danger alluded to in a feverish haze.
Garret’s mind lurched once more, a sharp curve in the carnival ride suddenly thundering ahead. He was going to crash. He was going to burn.
With extreme effort born of desperation, his massive fist leaped up to clutch Cage’s shirt. “Get them out of D.C.,” he demanded fiercely, his black eyes burning bright. “Get them out of D.C.”
Then he hit the corner, his mind looping around and around through the blazing, tortured corridors of his shattered memories. The flames, the bodies, the rain. Over and over. His mind exploded and the darkness rushed in.
Cage swore, his gray eyes meeting Suzanne’s with stark worry as Garret’s hand slipped lifelessly from his brother’s shirt. “You’re right,” he said shortly. “We’d better call Dr. Jacobs.” He swore again, an uncharacteristic sound from his normally calm lips.
Mitch’s wife, Jessica, was eight months pregnant with twins, her former graceful model’s body swollen and ungainly with her burden. Last time Cagney had seen her and Mitch, they’d been reveling in the joys of their newfound love and finally tranquil life. Oldest brother Mitch had eased back from his position as an independent specialist for the witness protection program in the FBI, while Jessica was taking night courses to earn a master’s degree in education.
This new interruption would not be welcomed, but Cagney didn’t dare dismiss Garret’s warning. Cage sighed and massaged his left leg and the old bullet wound that still twinged. Cagney and Garret had always had their differences, and in particular Cagney had never liked how his brother had treated Suzanne Montgomery fifteen years before. But family was family. When push came to shove, if Garret needed a liver, Cagney would be the first in line, and he knew Garret would do the same.
The only problem was that Garret didn’t need a liver right now. He needed help with a problem Cage knew nothing about. All he had to go by were the contents of Garret’s wallet and a stashed money belt. The wallet held a driver’s license and credit cards for a Robert Fulchino, while the money belt revealed five thousand dollars in cash, another set of fake ID, a Swiss Army knife and, Garret being Garret, a pack of three condoms. Suzanne had blushed nicely when Cage had pulled those out.
“You’d better call Mitch,” Suzanne said now, interrupting Cage’s troubled thoughts with her own steady voice. “I’ll get Dr. Jacobs over here. It will attract less attention than Maddensfield’s sheriff doing it. Perhaps you should call Mitch from a pay phone.”
Cagney nodded, not surprised any more by Suzanne’s quick assessment of the situation. Assuming that Mitch’s phone line was tapped, a pay phone would be safest. Suzanne’s own background as a schoolteacher hadn’t prepared her for these things, but she’d spent plenty of time at the Guiness household as Cagney’s closest friend. Certainly in the past ten years, the Guiness brothers had had plenty of cause for secrecy.
Cagney realized he was scowling and forced his face into its normal calm expression. “Give me ten minutes,” he said, “and I’ll be back.” He jerked his head toward Garret’s redflushed, unconscious form. “Will you be all right with him?”
Suzanne raised a droll eyebrow. “Cagney Guiness, the man’s been shot. He’s unconscious and feverish. He’s hardly going to ask me to dance. Now get to Mitch and let me take care of things here.”
Cagney gave in by throwing up his hands in mock surrender. Suzanne took care of half this town anyway, either raising its children through her kindergarten classes, counseling its marriages through her church groups, or nursing its sick of her own pure volition. He was a fool even to doubt her abilities with Garret. Except, of course, Garret wasn’t just anyone. He was the man she’d followed around like a moon-eyed half-wit fifteen years ago and cried herself to sleep over when he’d boarded that bus and left Maddensfield for good.
Cage found himself frowning for the second time in five minutes and once more chastised himself. Suzanne was a big girl, and fifteen years was fifteen years. Certainly, more pressing issues needed his attention now.
He banged out of the house and limped down off the huge porch to find a pay phone.
Mitch answered on the third ring. “Mitch. It’s Cagney. Get to a pay phone and call me at this number.” Cagney rattled off the number, then hung up the phone without further explanation. Given Mitch’s involvement with the FBI, none was necessary. Sure enough, three minutes later, the pay phone rang.
“What’s wrong?” Mitch demanded abruptly. “I’ve been having that damn feeling again. Tell me no one’s dead.” Mitch had a history of premonitions before disasters. He’d already boarded a flight for North Carolina when Nick, the husband of their younger sister, Liz, had been shot years ago.
“Garret’s here,” Cage announced without preamble and heard Mitch’s startled silence. “He showed up on Suzanne’s porch early this morning, shot in the back and banged up. He’s burning with fever, Mitch, but he keeps muttering your name. He wants you and Jessica out of D.C. He says everyone knows you’re brothers.”
Mitch swore, a low, succinct word that got to the point. Mitch and Garret didn’t run with the same crowds, as the FBI and naval operations weren’t exactly the same brotherhood. But you could call the two outfits distant cousins, and most of the powers-that-be knew there were two Guiness brothers playing James Bond.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know, Mitch. He’s not lucid enough to say anything more. Hell, we don’t even understand what language he’s raving in most of the time. He’s got a lump the size of my badge on his forehead. He may be hallucinating, for all I know. But someone certainly shot him, and something drove him to come all the way back here to Suzanne’s porch.”
“We’ll go,” Mitch said tersely, then sighed. Behind the sigh, Cagney could hear the dull echoes of cars passing by. “Jess is going to kill me. Eight months pregnant and I’m going to stick her on a plane. What about Mom and Dad?”
Cage stiffened, then shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Like I said, Garret hasn’t said much.”
“If he’s worried about someone coming to look for him, after they finish with D.C., Maddensfield’s as good a place as any. There may be a reason he didn’t show up at home.”
Cage nodded, wishing to hell that he had something more to go on. Mitch was right, however. In the absence of hard information, they should assume the worst. They were not men who led nine-to-five lives, and experience had bred caution. “I’ll have Davey stake out Mom and Dad’s house,” he said at last. “Just in case.”
“And Liz?” Their younger sister now lived with her husband, Richard Keaton, in Connecticut. Wit
h the change in last name, she would be harder to track down; Mitch and Jessica had once hidden out at their place for just that reason. But Liz had just given birth to a baby girl a few months back, and again, it was better to be safe than sorry.
“I’ll tell her to keep an eye out,” Cage said. “Just in case.”
Mitch agreed, which left only their brother, Jake, unaccounted for. But Jake moved in the fast track of the entrepreneurial elite, so no one ever knew what country he was in until they read the social pages. Jake was more than capable of taking care of himself, though; Cagney often thought that beneath the dazzling grin, quick wit and brilliant charm, Jake was the most dangerous of them all. You didn’t earn millions by being passive.
“You’ll check in, then?” Cage said.
“In a few days. I know a place in eastern Oregon that ought to be far enough. Where should I call?”
Cagney digested the question, wondering if he should risk a call to his sheriff’s office. “Call Marina Walden,” he said at last. “She can get a message to me.”
“Marina, hey?” Mitch said, and Cagney found himself flushing dully. “Does she have long black hair with a gray streak and violet eyes, perhaps?”
“Yes.”
“So that’s who Mom’s been raving about.”
“We’re getting married in October.” Cagney said the words steadily enough, but each and every time, they made his chest tighten with the force of his emotions. He couldn’t imagine life before Marina anymore.
Mitch was startled into silence for a moment, then Cage could practically feel the force of his proud grin across the telephone lines. “Congratulations, Cage. I always knew it would happen sooner or later. I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Soon,” Cagney promised. “Maybe when this is all over. Mom and Dad’s anniversary is coming up.” It sounded so normal, he thought vaguely. So rational and sane, as if one of them wasn’t shot, and another forced to flee from a danger no one even knew.
“Will do. Keep your eyes open, Cage. I’ll tap a few sources of my own, but I’d hate to meet the person who managed to put a bullet in Garret’s back. And I’d hate to be that person once Garret heals.”
“Mitch?” Cagney was quiet for a moment, then forced the words out. “Mitch, he’s lost a lot of blood. We’ve called for Dr. Jacobs, but I don’t know how it will go.”
There was absolute silence on the other end, and in his mind, Cagney could see Mitch clench and unclench his fists at his side. Since the time they were born, Mitch had looked after them all, and he was the only one of them who had ever been able to keep Garret in line.
“He’ll get well,” Mitch said firmly, but Cagney could hear the tension in his voice. “He’s too damn stubborn to die. In the meantime, we’ll figure it all out. We take care of our own.”
Cagney nodded and, after a last exchange, hung up the phone. He understood the intensity of Mitch’s voice, and for just one moment, he felt that intensity in his own blood. The four brothers had all chosen risk-filled paths, but that didn’t mean they’d simply accept Garret’s injuries with a philosophical shrug.
Everyone in Maddensfield knew you just didn’t mess with a Guiness.
Garret didn’t know how much time had gone by when he next gripped lucidity. There was no sense of time in the burning embers of his mind. Once, he saw himself as a kid, yelling at Jake for making Liz cry. And then water was pouring down his face from the trap Jake had rigged over his door in retaliation. He was moving forward with his teenage fist ready for battle when all of a sudden Jake’s face changed. Suddenly, he was sixteen-year-old Tank who was big enough to shave. And they were all standing outside the school and Tank was yelling at some raggedly clothed, hunch-shouldered girl that her mother was nothing but a stinkin’ drunk. Her hair fell straight and shiny down her back as she tucked her younger sister’s hand in her own, trying to shield the little girl. Garret knew without thinking who she was.
He moved forward immediately and slammed his fist in Tank’s smirking, hair-stubbled face. The overgrown brute came up with a howl, meaty hands swinging, and Garret felt his blood begin to sing.
“Multiple lacerations, three bruised ribs, a bullet hole in the back, spiking fever, severe dehydration, onset of malnutrition and a raging concussion. Hell, I’ve seen crash-test dummies in better condition than this boy.”
Dr. Jacobs. Time zeroed suddenly in, like a zoom lens homing in on target. He struggled to open his eyes, struggled to move his fists. He had to tell him that no one must know. No one must…
“He needs to be hospitalized, Cagney. This boy needs serious medical attention.”
No, no hospitals. No one could know. He fought for the words, raged with the muscles in his throat.
“I don’t think that’s an option,” Cagney said quietly, his face stark and pale while Suzanne twisted cloth bandages into tiny knots beside him. “Surely there’s something we can do for him here.”
Dr. Jacobs sighed and searched through his bag for penicillin.
“You’re lucky he’s not paralyzed,” he muttered, “but then, I always suspected you boys had more lives than a cat.”
“What do we do?”
Suzanne’s voice, clear and steady. Garret wanted to turn toward it, but his mind still refused to connect with his muscles. The fire was back, licking closer. The heat, the unbearable heat, searing his skin.
“We gotta get the fever down for starters and get some fluids into the man. What he hasn’t bled away he seems determined to sweat out instead. I want an IV, and I’m worried about his head, as well. That looks like a hell of a concussion, even for his thick skull.”
“I can wake him every half hour.” Suzanne’s voice again, soft and steady. He could almost feel the rain against his cheek, cool and clean. “I’ll check for dilation of the pupils.”
“I can do that,” Cagney interrupted curtly. “You shouldn’t have to be bothered with such things.”
“You’ll do no such thing, Cagney,” she retorted promptly. “This man is lying in my guest bedroom and I know perfectly well how to take care of him. You’ve got yourself a new fiancée to go home to, so don’t you bother me with your presence, as well.”
Her hands came down to rest on Garret’s forehead, and he fought bitterly to arch up against her cool palms. Soft and gentle against the crackling flames. He wanted so badly to speak. He had to tell them…The thought skittered away again, and the fire roared forward.
“I really don’t like the looks of that,” Dr. Jacobs said, and Garret felt his hands replace Suzanne’s on his forehead. The old, callused fingers pressed slightly, and the pain exploded like skyrockets in his head.
He jerked up, his eyes popping open with feverish clarity. He had to say, he had to say…
Suzanne was in front of him, her hazel eyes round with shock as her hands pressed him gently back to the mattress. He locked his gaze on hers, fighting the flames, fighting the darkness, fighting anything to get the words out. He knew he must say, he must warn…
“Vatra. Svagdje. Vatra!”
“Shhh,” she whispered, soothing him with her hands. He could smell the faint scent of roses, and in his confusion he couldn’t understand how roses had ever grown amid all the rocks. The blood, he thought, but then he lost that idea, as well.
“Mrtavi…”
“It’s okay, honey,” she told him quietly, her palms cool on his burning cheeks. “Close your eyes again, Garret. Rest, darling. Cagney and I will take care of everything.”
But they couldn’t because they didn’t know. Because he didn’t know. Oh, God, what was it he had to know? He had to…
“Will he be all right?” Cagney’s voice, tight with the strain.
“I don’t know. The next twelve hours will be critical. We gotta get this fever down before he cooks the few gray cells he has left. Someone had better take me back to my office for supplies.”
“Fine. Anything, Doctor. Just tell me he’s going to pull out of it.”
“I k
now, son. I know.”
“What’s wrong with his forearm?” Suzanne asked. He could feel her fingers trace down his arm and in his feverravaged state, the motion pained him.
Dr. Jacobs peered closer at the long, shiny scar running as a denuded zone along his black-haired arm. “Scarring, probably from a burn injury, by the look of it.” He shook his head. “You boys always did get into too much trouble.”
Garret felt cool air as the sheet was pulled back to expose his leg and hip.
“More burning on the legs,” Dr. Jacobs reported. “Not that old, either. Where the hell has this boy been?” Cage’s face gave nothing away, and Dr. Jacobs sighed with a shake of his head. He peered down at Garret’s gums, noticing the pale color and receding line. Then he felt out the distinct outline of the unconscious man’s ribs. Dr. Jacobs face grew grimmer. “Definite beginnings of malnutrition. You’d think he thought a body was easy to replace by the looks of all this damage. Crazy fool.”
Crazy fool. The words penetrated the fire, echoing inside his thick, tortured head. With a primal groan, he forced his eyes open and beat back the flames.
“Don’t tell,” he whispered fiercely. “Don’t tell. That I’m here.”
Dr. Jacobs’s white eyebrows shot up over clear blue eyes, then he nodded at Garret sagely. “Sure thing, son. I’m here to save your life.”
Garret tried to nod, but the momentum was lost already. He fell back, feeling the fire flare again. Slowly, he searched for her eyes, her hands cool upon his face. Suzanne from the rain. Fifteen years…
He found her hazel eyes, and they met his squarely, the depths level and clear with guarded concern. The fire took him again. From a long ways away, he felt her hand on his shoulder once more. He turned his cheek against her wrist and let the last of his consciousness slip away.
