Stranger Danger

by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  “I love you, too,” she said. She touched the back of her curled fingers against his cheek. “I always did, Santiago.”

  He cradled her against his chest, so close she could hear his heartbeat and sense the vibration. Their breath came and went in the same rhythm. Sara savored the moment, so tender and delicious. He lifted his head and bent his mouth down to kiss hers again, this time with a sweet gentleness, a slow burn that moved through her body like honey. She enjoyed it as much as she needed it, like water in a drought-parched desert. The outside world ceased to be as they shared one small space, an oasis from everything else. It no longer mattered why he’d come or if they were in Arkansas or East LA, in the Ozarks or beside the Pacific. Contentment cocooned them and wove around them with the closest thing to fairy tale magic she had ever experienced.

  Sara basked in it until a sharp crack filtered through her haze of peace. The window to the right of the bed shattered inward with a clatter of glass. Before she could shriek, Santiago grabbed her and rolled them both off the bed onto the floor. Another round exploded and he covered her with his body. “Santiago, what the hell is happening?”

  A minute ago, his face had been slack, relaxed, and happy. Now he wore a tense mask, features taut. “Chingao! We have to get out of here. Is there a way?”

  Her complacency evaporated in a rush of fear. Outside, a raised babble of voices was audible. Doors opened and slammed shut, feet hurried down the hallway and stairs. Sara couldn’t manage rational thought as she clung to him, naked and shaking. He held her tight against his right side, his left angled away from her. “I don’t know. Who is it? Are they after you?”

  “Si,” he said without hesitation. “And since they’re here, they’re after you, too.”

  A chorus of sirens echoed in the distance, the wail drawing nearer. “Someone called the police,” she said. “Won’t it be okay when they arrive?”

  Santiago’s eyes meet hers and he shook his head. “Mierda. No, it won’t. Tell me where there’s another way out of the building.”

  Sara tried to unscramble her disjointed thoughts. “Uh, there’s a rear exit at the foot of the back stairs. They’re at the other end of the hallway and a flight down.”

  “Get dressed, grab some stuff,” he said in a low growl. “Hurry, we’ve got about two minutes. Bring anything you need.”

  “You’re scaring the hell out of me,” she said as she reached into the dresser for clothing. “Where are we going?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out on the way. Let’s go.”

  She moved in a daze and hadn’t quite processed the swift turn of events. Sara pulled on jeans, put on a shirt, added shoes and socks. She grabbed a canvas carry all bag and tossed garments into it with abandon. Then she picked up her cell phone charger, her phone, her pistol, some toiletries, and a few other things. Santiago stood at the living room window, fully dressed and wearing a faded denim jacket despite the heat. His position was posed so he could peer through the drapes without opening them. Sara joined him.

  Two police cruisers sat in front of the building, lights revolving. A crowd gathered around it, and as she watched, a pair of officers made their way toward the building. “We go now,” Santiago said. He snatched his duffel and took her hand. With his Glock in the other, he led her out into the hallway. Together they moved with speed toward the rear stairs and started their descent just as the front door opened. She heard the brisk steps of the LEOS as they came up and the sharp raps as they knocked on her door. One of them barked an order to open up. She paused, but Santiago jerked her forward. “Andale,” he hissed.

  They emerged into the late evening sunshine and ran across the grass toward the tree line. He dashed at a speed faster than she could easily keep up, and by the time they reached the fence bordering the trees, she gasped for breath. If we have to climb the fence, I’m done.

  Santiago pushed a section and it opened. As they passed through, she realized it’d been cut earlier and that he must’ve done it, in case he needed an escape route. He slowed once they walked ten feet of a narrow path through the small wooded area. He stopped, cocking his head to listen. “So far, so good,” he said. “It’s not much further.”

  Sara glanced around. The apartment complex sat on the south eastern edge of town. Although it fronted a busy thoroughfare, it backed up against an old property that had once been a farm. Fields grown up with weeds and straggling trees included the remains of a one-time apple orchard. For the moment, they were out of the view of anyone from the apartments, although she could still hear the squawk of the police band radio. “Where are we headed?”

  “I’ve got a vehicle stashed over here,” he said and struck out with her in tow through waist high weeds. An old battered Ford pickup rested beneath the branches of a walnut tree, the dirty brown color blending with the surroundings well enough to be almost invisible. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “Is it yours?” Somehow she doubted it.

  “I borrowed it,” he said and grinned. Borrowed meant boosted, stolen, taken without permission. “For a cop, you’re sloppy about the finer points of law,” she said, amused despite their obvious dire straits. “Are you still one?”

  He shrugged. “I am and I’m not. It’s a long story.”

  Sara opened her mouth to protest. “Hey, you have to tell me what’s going on now,” she said. “My bedroom window was shot out and I’m on the run.”

  “Si, Sara,” he said. “You’re right. I do and I will – once we’re someplace safe. Get in the truck.”

  Lacking any other options, she obeyed. The cab smelled musty and stale, but it provided momentary safety. Sara scooted across the seat next to Santiago as he donned a Razorbacks ball cap and turned the key. He drove with slow precision although dusk brought shadows and by the time they bumped onto a paved street, it was almost dark. “I don’t suppose you know anyplace we could go to hole up for a few days,” he said. “It needs to be off the beaten path and somewhere remote, a place most people don’t know exists.”

  She hesitated as he added, “If you don’t, it’s cool. I’ll find a budget motel or we’ll head for Tulsa or Little Rock.”

  There was a place, though, although she seldom visited it. It had belonged to Erik and his brother Eli. Erik had used it as an art studio and getaway, Eli as a hunting shack. Eli died the year before Erik, and it became Sara’s by default. “I’ve got a place not far from here in Missouri,” she said. “It’s way out in the middle of nowhere. It’s basic, but it might work.”

  He cut his eyes from the road to her. “How many people know you own it or where it’s at?”

  “Very few,” she said. “The girls at my shop don’t know and outside of Erik’s mom, who lives in Florida now, I can’t think of anyone who would remember.”

  “How long since you’ve been there?”

  Sara thought. “Last year. I went in the fall because it’s in the woods and pretty when the autumn colors are out.”

  Santiago turned his head to brush a swift kiss across her mouth. “Tell me how to get there, the least traveled way you know and tell me where I can get a few groceries before we head out into the sticks.”

  * * * *

  They stopped at the first supermarket they passed. Santiago sent her to shop with a mental list of basics while he remained in the truck. Sara glanced back and noticed he slumped over the wheel, head down. She wondered why but lacked the luxury to figure it out as she rushed through the store, hoping she wouldn’t see anyone she knew. At his insistence, she bought a foam ice chest for the few perishables. At the late hour, however, there weren’t many customers and she bought the necessities and a little more in short order.

  “Which road do I take?”

  Sara told him.

  Five minutes later, they headed west out of Bentonville through the upscale bedroom communities and into the countryside. A few miles out, after passing through the small community of Centerton, the road wound and twisted through t
he hills. Neither had spoken much since leaving the supermarket lot. Santiago peered through the darkness at the winding road, finally speaking up. “Are you sure this is the way?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “We turn north on 59 once we get to Decatur but trust me, we’ll get there. How much danger are we in?”

  “If they find us, they’ll kill us. Or take us someplace, then kill us.” He’d told her the same earlier, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it then. Now that her bedroom window had been shattered by bullets and they were on the run in a stolen pickup, Sara did.

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “M13,” he said. “La muñequita, I’ll tell you everything when we get there. You’re in it, now, as much as I am but por favor, let me get us to this cabin or whatever it is.”

  “Trailer,” she said. “It’s an old travel trailer set up to be permanent.”

  His shoulders shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Something in his voice sounded off. Sara turned to study his profile. His tense posture made perfect sense, but he appeared pale, too. “Are you okay?”

  Santiago sounded weary when he replied, after a brief hesitation. “Si, estoy bien, querida. How much farther is it?”

  “Half an hour or so after we’re through Gravette,” Sara replied, peering ahead. “I think we’re at Decatur now.”

  They rolled through the small town and headed north on Highway 59. Although she had a thousand questions, she said little. Worry crawled through her like invisible ants in a relentless march. Their situation concerned her and so did Santiago. She knew him too well to believe he was fine. When they passed through Gravette, he sighed. “Estoy muy consado. See if the radio works, would you, please?”

  Sara turned on the ancient AM radio and got static. She moved up and down the dial. She found nothing but a faraway news station, a talk show, and someone preaching the Gospel with fervent force. “Anything catch your fancy?”

  He snorted. “I hoped for some music.”

  She rolled through the frequencies again without success. “I can’t find anything and there’s no CD player. Sorry.”

  “Caramba!” He balled a fist and whacked the steering wheel.

  Maybe he’d changed more than she’d thought. “Is no music such a big deal?” she asked.

  “Si.” He ran one hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m too tired to see straight, and I thought it’d keep me focused.”

  She reached out and put her hand over his on the steering wheel. “Would you like me to drive?”

  Santiago shook his head. “No. Would you sing, though?”

  Sara thought she’d misheard. “Sing? You want me to sing?”

  “Yes, if you would.”

  Anxiety gnawed at her, ferocious and fierce. He’s a lot more tired than I thought or he’s sick. Or something. “What would you like to me to sing?”

  He named songs they’d once loved, old songs, and new. Sara gathered breath and launched into an old Jim Croce song, Time In A Bottle. As she sang the familiar lyrics, she wished she could spend every day through eternity with Santiago. With any luck and maybe a miracle, it could happen.

  Her voice blended with the steady sound of the steel-belted tires against the pavement as they drove into the night, headed away from danger and into the unknown. The sole comfort she had was that they were together, for now.

  Chapter Five

  Somewhere along the old highway that wound tightly around the base of rugged bluffs and blind corners, they lost their way. Sara figured out where they’d made a wrong turn and they backtracked. It was after midnight before they bumped down the narrow dirt track, branches and tall weeds pressing against the truck, and parked in front of what she’d always called ‘the shack’. The one time travel trailer dated to the 1960’s and had been mobile, once. Now it rested in a permanent spot beneath tall hickory trees, without wheels and with an added porch. The slide-out room, intended to be folded back in place for travel, stuck out from the side.

  “We’re here,” Sara said. Her voice emerged from a very dry throat and fatigue surrounded her like fog. She dug into her purse for the key and climbed out, expecting Santiago to follow. Halfway across the knee-high expanse of grass, she realized he remained in the truck. She headed back as he climbed out of the cab with slow, stiff movements. Sara dashed to him and caught his hand. “C’mon, I’ll show you the place.”

  “Go ahead,” he said after a quick squeeze of her hand. “I’ll catch up. Turn on a light, too. It’s dark.”

  He sounded so weary, she thought, almost weak if she didn’t know different. “All right, then. Do you need help carrying the groceries and stuff?”

  Santiago shook his head and released her. Sara’s eyes adjusted to the night by the time she stepped onto the covered porch. She walked the narrow length to the front door and unlocked it. Once inside, she groped blindly for a table lamp on top of the entertainment center and switched it on. Electric light banished the gloom and she breathed a sigh of relief. Because of the remote location, sometimes the power went out when a limb fell on the line. The stale, overheated air wrapped around her as she turned on more lights and did a quick walkthrough to make sure everything remained in order.

  A fine coating of dust layered the living room’s basic furnishings, an old six foot long crushed gold velvet couch, a matching arm chair, a lone wooden kitchen chair, an entertainment center with an ancient television that picked up nothing, a bookcase, and a glass-fronted gun case. The dinky kitchen with its’ original carnation pink appliances and sink appeared to be in good order. She listened and heard the old fridge humming. Then she flicked a burner on the aged gas stove and a flame flared to life. Good. There’s propane in the tank for cooking and hot water for showers.

  She didn’t bother to glance into the very small bedroom Erik had used as a studio but peeked into the bathroom with its’ light yellow fixtures. The bedroom at the end of the hall held a queen sized bed which took up most of the floor space, and she made a mental note to change the sheets before they put one toe into the bed. After switching on the window air conditioner, she walked back to the living room, expecting to find Santiago delivering the bags of groceries, but he hadn’t come inside yet.

  When she peered through the door, she saw him on the porch, moving with cautious steps and the gait of an old man. Sara met him and took several bags. He carried the disposable cooler in one hand and had the other bags looped through his fingers on the other.

  “There you are!” She placed the groceries on the kitchen counters and started putting thing away. He delivered the cooler and put down the other bags on the floor.

  “Sarita,” he said in an odd voice. She glanced up. He leaned against the doorway and rubbed his upper left arm, just below the shoulder. His frown became a grimace.

  “What’s wrong?” she said. In the bright electric glow he looked very pale and drawn. “Santiago?”

  “Estoy mal,” he told her, white to the lips. “Me voy a desmayer.”He swayed for a moment and then collapsed. Her Spanish was more than a little rusty and by the time she realized he’d said he was going to faint, he had. She’d understood the first phrase – he felt bad and she wondered, as she dropped to the floor beside him, why. I knew he didn’t look well, I knew it.

  She put a finger under his nose and when his breath blew against it, she relaxed a little. Sara touched his forehead and cheeks, checking for fever but found his skin cool. “Santiago,” she cried. She poked his belly, but he didn’t react. Then she grasped his shoulder to shake him awake and he moaned. Although she hadn’t noticed it in their mad rush to exit her apartment, his left shoulder seemed padded. When she reached beneath his jacket, she found a folded towel. Sara removed it and gasped. It was soaked crimson with blood. She shrieked his name, terrified, and his eyes fluttered open. He stared up at her. “La muñequita,” he said in a quiet voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re hurt,” she said as a sob caught tighter than a fish bone in her throat.

&n
bsp; “Si, I got shot,” he said. “It’s not so bad, I don’t think.”

  “Not bad?” Her voice shrilled up an octave. “You should’ve said something. I would have taken you to the hospital.” She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and prepared to punch in 911.

  “No.” Despite his pallor, he said the word with firm clarity. “No phone unless you want them to track you. No hospital unless you want me dead.”

  She didn’t. “Then who’s going to take care of it?” she asked.

  He managed a weak grin. “You are.”

  Sara glanced down at the wound and winced. “I can’t. I run a flower shop and have a teaching degree. I’m not a doctor. I’m not even a nurse.”

  “You must, Sarita. All you have to do is clean it. The bullet went through.”

  Her stomach rolled as she peered at the bloody, ragged wound. “How do you know?”

  He tried to sit up and she pushed him back. “I know,” he said. “I’ve got a hole in front and back. Besides, I’ve been shot before. I’d know if the bullet was still in me.”

  He’d been shot? No one told me. “Lie still. You fainted.”

  Santiago shook his head. “That’s only because I’m tired and lost some blood. Look in my duffel. There’s a first aid kit and other medical supplies in the bottom. Help me to a chair.”

  After dragging the straight backed wooden chair to the kitchen, she wrapped her arm around his waist, and Santiago pulled himself into a sitting position. He managed the few steps to the seat but sat down hard. He muffled a groan and when she hovered, he waved one hand.

  “Get the stuff out of the bag, por favor. Get the tequila, too. Get it first.”

  Sara brought the duffle to the kitchen counter and unzipped it. She groped for the bottle and once she found it, handed it to him. He managed to open it one-handed and took a deep swig. She shuddered, remembering the potent taste of the powerful alcohol. When he downed another longer swallow, she took the bottle. “That’s enough for now. You don’t want to get drunk.”