Sweet Danger

by Cheryl Pierson

  "Nah, not much." But he holstered it anyway, his face relaxing.

  Lindy took a couple of towels from the dresser top and carried them to where Jesse sat. She laid them on the bed, meeting Jesse's eyes. "Ready?"

  He nodded. Tommy reached a hand out to steady him as he lay down. The movement was just as bad as he'd known it would be, leaving him wet with sweat and panting for breath. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out as he felt the bullet grind deep into the bone of his arm, just below his shoulder.

  Swallowing back the agonized cry that threatened, he closed his eyes. The pain ripped through him with a moment of unbearable intensity as he fought the nausea down that accompanied it. In the next moment, he was looking into Tommy's wide-eyed stare and couldn't help giving him a faint smile. The boy looked about as close to puking as Jesse felt.

  Lindy busied herself with laying out the bandages, putting a bowl of water close by on the nightstand, and then left to check on the tweezers, scissors, and knives she'd put in a pan of water to boil on the stove.

  Macklin slid to the floor beside the door, bracing his back against the wall. He took a toothpick from his plaid shirt pocket and began to chew on it. "Y'know, Jesse, ol' Leon's just been beggin' Tay to turn him a-loose on you with that dang knife of his." He gnawed at a piece of the toothpick and spat it out.

  "And?" Jesse asked after a moment.

  Macklin shrugged. "Well, so far, so good. Tay's all about keepin' you pretty and in one piece right now. But…we both know that cain't last forever, don't we?"

  "Ever the optimist, aren't you, Macklin?"

  Macklin gave a short laugh. "I gotta hand it to you, Jesse. You're in a pretty god-awful bad way right now, but it don't seem to bother you none. Reckon it's cause you're a Injun?"

  This last was said with a hint of caution, and Jesse noted it. He paused a few seconds before he responded. "Yeah. I know I don't need to worry."

  Macklin scowled. "Why's that? Got some kinda hex you put on white people or somethin'?"

  Jesse's lips curved briefly at the anxious note in Macklin's voice. "Or somethin'."

  Macklin stopped chewing on the toothpick, eyeing Jesse, then shifted his stare to Tommy. "Get ready, boy. It's about time to see some more blood." His lips parted in what passed for a grin. Tommy blanched at the memory of Jennifer's death.

  Lindy came through the door carrying a bundled white towel wrapped around the sterilized medical implements. In her left hand, she held a pitcher of crushed ice. Tommy took the pitcher from her and set it on the dresser as Lindy crossed the room to the bed. She opened the cloth across the nightstand, carefully arranging the knives, tweezers, and scissors so they wouldn't fall.

  Reaching for the towels she'd placed on the bed earlier, she sat down beside Jesse. "Can you turn that way a little? Let me put these towels under your shoulder?"

  He didn't answer, shifting to do as she asked. He felt her hands slip under the pillow, furtive and quick, feeling for the gun Abe Silverman had described. He lay flat once she put the towels in place. By the disappointment on her face, Jesse could tell she'd been unsuccessful in locating it.

  "Let's get on with it," he murmured, his eyes holding hers. He could do very little with the bullet in his arm. At least, removing it would improve his chances.

  * * * * *

  She unbuttoned the tattered remains of his shirt, drawing the blood-stiffened material apart carefully. The once-white undershirt was saturated, and Lindy bit her lip at the sight of the hole in the skin beneath. She reached for the scissors and cut the chambray shirt away first, then the undershirt, from bottom to top. Gently, she cut the shirts down the arms, then removed the top portions.

  She shook her head, thinking of what was to come. Moistening her lips nervously, she said, "Jesse, I…truly, I've never done anything like this before—"

  "Shh." He lifted his right hand and cupped her cheek, heedless of who else might be watching. "You're gonna do fine, Lindy. Just…make it quick as you can."

  Still unsure, she asked, "Then…cauterize it?"

  He sighed. "Yeah. Quick as you can on that, too."

  She nodded. "I'll do my best."

  "Do they have a gas stove out there?"

  "Uh-huh. Want me to put a knife across one of the burners?"

  "That would work."

  Lindy stood up, determined to show him a confidence she did not feel. "I'll take care of it." And of you, she wanted to say, but looking into his eyes, she realized there was no need. He understood.

  "I'll owe you one, Lindy."

  She smiled and kissed her fingers, then touched them to his cheek. "No. You're in this place because of me. Because of what you did to protect me."

  He shook his head. "Don't…think like that."

  She squeezed his hand gently. "I'll be back in a minute." She glanced at where Tommy stood at the foot of the bed, watching.

  "Tommy?" She worried at the boy's pallor, his quiet demeanor so opposite the swagger he'd evidenced from the very beginning of this ordeal.

  He looked up at her and nodded, as if coming back to himself from someplace far away. "I…uh, yeah. I'm…" His Adam's apple bobbed nervously. "I'm fine."

  He looked down at Jesse, and Lindy could practically feel the protective look the boy gave him, washing over Jesse and touching her as well. Tommy took in a deep breath and blew it back out.

  "I'm fine." When he met her eyes this time, she could see he truly was fine. It went a long way toward comforting her. She could hold it together, doing what she must do for Jesse, as long as she didn't have to deal with Tommy falling apart. And he would, at some point, she knew. But, if he could just hold out a little longer, do what he could to help her with Jesse—

  "Really. I'm okay. Just go do what you need to do. I'll be here if he needs anything." Tommy watched her with somber brown eyes, his voice steady.

  Lindy turned to go. She needed to find a flat stainless steel knife that would suit her purpose. And then, she thought grimly, there would be nothing left to do but get on with it.

  As she passed Rod Macklin, he tilted back his head to look up at her. "Purty thing like you, wastin' yourself on a breed. Makes me sick."

  "I wish you were the one with a bullet in you," she hissed.

  Macklin grinned. "Would you take care of me, darlin'?" he drawled. "That'd be sweet…real sweet."

  "You wouldn't want me that close to you with a knife, Mr. Macklin. Trust me."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Outside, Ryan Lucas paced and cussed, which he didn't find to be doing him any good. It wasn't even helping him think of a viable solution. His mind was occupied with what might be happening inside that hellhole—the place that had once been his favorite eatery—Abe Silverman's pride and joy.

  Now, the crusty old man would be lucky to ever walk without aid, and Mary was gone somewhere far away in her mind. Officer Amy Tanner had ridden with her to the hospital, phoning him once they'd settled the elderly woman in her room. The baby was doing well, Amy had reported, but Mrs. Silverman was still glassy-eyed and unresponsive, for the most part.

  Then, there were the two kids, Jeremy Tate and Amanda Delaney. Alive and unhurt, their parents effusive in praise of the department and how things had been handled so far. Even though he'd managed to get two of the children out, six remained. In his heart, he couldn't count it a victory, not until the balance of the children were safe.

  He also could not forget the loss of Jennifer Riley. Though she had died due to hemorrhaging, he felt somehow responsible for her, as well. No, it would never be a total victory. Not even a partial one, at this point. Not until Jesse and the others were safe. He was beginning to believe that might not happen, except for one possibility.

  Abe Silverman had been spouting some crazy talk about tunnels that ran beneath a good part of Oklahoma City. He would've chalked it up to the incoherent ravings of an old man in incessant pain, but, ironically, for something that Tabor Hardin had mentioned.

  He's been a
t this location for at least forty years, Ryan. Knows the place inside and out.

  Ryan stopped pacing and stood quietly, staring at nothing. What if it were true? What if? How would it matter if it was true? Could the SWAT team find their way through the unfamiliar, unused maze? Were the tunnels even negotiable? How could it be done? What if it is true?

  His mind twisted through its own labyrinth of questions, unanswerable if he didn't at least try to find out if what Abe Silverman had said had merit. If these tunnels existed, as Abe had insisted, there should be a plat somewhere in the archives. He brushed the idea away, but it returned, niggling at his mind. How else were they to know where to go and how to even get into them? Through the sewer? Would the city workers know about the tunnels?

  He gave a snort of self-disgust.

  Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren't you, Ryan?

  First, he had to find out if the tunnels even existed. If they did—what was in them now? They could be filled with water, or collapsed.

  Or they could provide the means to save every hostage inside the deli. He couldn't take a chance on phoning Jack Rawlins since Hardin's gang could have a monitor. Damn it, he needed some answers, and he couldn't wait around for them.

  He turned, scanning the group of peace officers nearby. Jim Rogers wouldn't be far away. When their eyes met, Ryan motioned him over. "Jim, Abe was talking about tunnels—a maze of them under the city. You ever hear anything about that?"

  Jim waved a dismissive hand. "That's a rumor. He was hurting so bad he probably couldn't tell the difference between reality and fantasy. He'll wake up in the hospital tomorrow thinkin' this was all a bad dream."

  "I don't think so." Ryan's gaze was intent upon his second-in-command. He and Jim seldom saw things differently. "I believe," he added slowly, "we need to check it out."

  Jim shrugged. "Yes, sir."

  Ryan smiled at the doubt in his expression. "If I could go, I would. But I have to be here in case Hardin calls. Maybe I can hold him off long enough for you to discover the truth of the matter and for us to come up with a plan. Calling Jack is too risky." He paused a moment and shook his head, trying to clear the buzzing in his ears. Hell of a time to be sick.

  Jim's big hand clamped down on his arm, and Ryan looked toward him.

  "I'll take care of it." The lieutenant peered closely at him, then shook his head. "You really are sick. You need to go home."

  Ryan stifled a tremor of the returning fever. "Can't," he muttered. "I'm the one who has to deal with the situation here—for Jesse's sake."

  "You sure you're gonna be okay?"

  "No." He sighed. "I don't really have any choice, though." He angled his head toward the car. "Better get going."

  Jim nodded reluctantly. "I'll be back soon's I can."

  * * * * *

  Tabor Hardin stood beside the booth where Brindle McAdoo studied the monitor, the police scanner squawking beside him on the padded bench. Hardin's eyes narrowed as he let his gaze wander around the room. He watched the old biddy leading the children in a game of "I Spy." His lips curved. One of the best things he'd ever done—putting her in charge of the little shits. Oh, no. Not shits. Dollar signs. The kids were worth a fortune. Especially those two blonde, blue-eyed crybabies. He shook his head, wishing every kid in the group could be like Jesse's boy.

  Nash Nightwalker. Hardin watched him for a few seconds. Kid looked just like his father. Proud. Stubborn. Injun. He certainly wasn't a bawl bag like the rest of these brats were. It was almost a little frightening. He'd only cried once. And what kid wouldn't? They were all plenty scared, and Hardin felt a pang of remorse at that. He couldn't feel sorry for them, though, without dredging up his own past, something he refused to do. But that little Nash—he was something else again.

  Then, there was his father, Jesse. Hardin shook his head, a grin touching his lips. Of all places for Jesse Nightwalker to be, and at the right time—like God dropped Jesse into his lap; like now, God was giving him a chance for his own sweet revenge. He licked his lips. How would he take it? What would he do to Jesse to make him pay for the last five years he'd spent behind bars? Jesse stole those years from him and was going to pay.

  Well, hell, he'd even offered, hadn't he? Hardin chuckled softly, remembering how Jesse had looked when he'd made that sweet bargain, giving himself willingly over to Hardin in order to save the others. He sure wanted it bad, saving the rest of them. Sure did want to die…yet, he hadn't seemed afraid, which somehow took part of the joy out of it. Like it was just another deal to be made, Hardin thought, his mouth twisting bitterly. Jesse went about it as he did everything else; it was pure business. Police business.

  Lindy came out of the bedroom door, closing it behind her. She walked to the stove and turned on a burner, then began to search through the silverware drawers and the butcher-block knife holder. Understanding passed over Hardin's thin features as he watched her select a knife and carefully lay it across the open flame of the burner.

  He wondered about her briefly, about what had brought her here this fateful morning. Then, his thoughts turned to the look she had given him, the one that had made him let old Abe Silverman go, along with those two brats. As if she'd been telling him she knew there was a shred of decency somewhere inside him. Though he knew that was not the case, he hadn't wanted to disappoint her. He sighed. Lindy Oliver had something about her, a liquid-dark gaze that demanded the best of everyone—even him, and it was unsettling. He had never questioned himself about anything before, but with one look, Lindy Oliver filled him with self-doubt.

  Lindy turned back toward the bedroom door and opened it, slipping inside. He'd give her a few minutes before he'd go in and see how Jesse was faring. He didn't want his prize captive dying from shock, and he'd seen that happen before. No, he wanted Nightwalker alive and aware. There were all sorts of things he could do in the slow, painful sequence of exacting his revenge for the past five years. He had all the time in the world.

  But now, it was time for him to call Ryan Lucas and remind him of what he expected. He thought it might be good to turn Leon loose with the box cutter on one or both of the cops for a little background noise—just so Lucas knew he meant business.

  Hardin stood up straight, looking around the room with new determination. Up to him, now, to bring this all around as it should be. To get the money and get his men out of here, and keep them all alive to enjoy what they'd worked so hard to come by. After five years in the slammer, he was going to spend the rest of his life on easy street, if he could just manage to bring this to a close.

  To hell with a bunch of brats and their damaged souls. To hell with old Mrs. Montgomery and her sarcastic questions about him having a mother. To hell with dead teenage mothers and unthankful teenage fathers and babies they made between them.

  He walked toward the phone, motioning Leon Jackson over. He would do what needed to be done here, and then he'd go see how Jesse Nightwalker had made it through amateur surgery.

  After that, no telling what might happen. He smiled at the thought.

  * * * * *

  When Lindy came back through the bedroom door, she noticed Macklin was leaning against the wall, just where he'd been when she'd left. Only this time, he made no comment. He regarded her from heavy-lidded eyes, and she glanced quickly away.

  Tommy stood up from where he'd been sitting on the edge of the bed close to Jesse's feet. Lindy picked up the knife she’d sterilized earlier, and as Tommy stepped toward her, she wasn't sure if he was going to be sick, or run out of the room. But he took a deep gulp of air, and when he spoke, his voice sounded steadier than Lindy had expected.

  "What can I do to help, Lin?"

  Lindy turned to reach for a cloth. She'd need it to sponge Jesse's blood once she began to cut. "Hold him," she replied. "Sit across him and"—she looked at Jesse—"hold his wrists for me."

  Jesse's eyes were slitted, still puffy from his earlier beating, the bruising on his face clearly evident as the patches of deep
purple darkened. Silently, he grasped the brass headboard with his right hand, wrapping his fingers around the railing.

  As Tommy cautiously pinned Jesse to the bed, Jesse's lips curved slightly. "Wrestler, huh?"

  Tommy nodded, his voice filling with pride. "I took first in my division at the state championship last year."

  "I can see why." Jesse met Lindy's eyes as he spoke, and she grinned.

  "Hey, our M.A.S.H. offers the best services all around, Officer," she teased softly.

  "I'm anxious to see what kind of medical…services…you provide here, Miss Oliver," he retorted.

  Lindy held out a small roll of gauze. "Open wide."

  "I don't need it."

  "Jesse…please."

  * * * * *

  He had only to look into her face to be reminded of Tabor Hardin's warning, but it wasn't Hardin's words that would keep him quiet. It was the thought of the kids, the six children—including his own—who sat just a few yards from him, barred by nothing but a hollow interior door between the rooms. Nash had been through hell. If Jesse didn't keep a tight rein on himself…

  Yeah, he admitted reluctantly, he would do whatever it took. Because failing to maintain—breaking, just once—could give Hardin cause to carry out his crazy threat. He opened his mouth, unwilling to risk any more than he was already being held accountable for in this capricious game of Tabor Hardin's design.

  Lindy seated the thin role of gauze and he bit down on it, then closed his eyes against everything. If he could block it out, maybe he'd be able to deal with it better. He tried to detach his spirit-mind from his body, but he was having trouble. He'd denied The Way of the People—both tribes—for too long. It was going to be a rough path back, even to regain part of his ability from so long ago.

  He felt Tommy shift minutely as Lindy sat down on the bed. She leaned close to him, careful of his wounded shoulder. He could tell by the faint aroma of her perfume mingling with the shower gel she'd used this morning. He tried to focus on her scent just as she laid the blade to his skin and scored it.