by Terry Odell
A moan from Scumbag snapped him back. Blake grabbed the man under his shoulders. A knife clunked to the floor. He stuck it in his belt. Despite the pounding in his head, Blake dragged the man across the house and shoved him into his tiny bathroom. Too bad he didn’t have any duct tape here—and he wouldn’t leave Kelli long enough to get some from the cabin. He cut the cord from his bedside lamp and tied Scumbag’s wrists and ankles.
Dizzy, dripping sweat, he rushed back to find Kelli. Her eyes were open and she sat on the bed. Holding the effing thirty-eight. The knife dropped from his fingers.
Another wave of nausea swept through him. “Go ahead. Shoot me. Just let me pass out first, okay?”
Chapter Five
Kelli watched Windsor collapse to the floor as if someone had removed all the bones from his body. Her memory was full of holes, but an all-pervading fear clung like pond scum. Had she killed again? Knowing the memories would return, yet not sure she wanted them to, she stared at the body lying at her feet. And at the knife on the floor beside him. A bloody knife. In a moment of rage, she kicked it across the room.
Blake’s moan brought a mixture of fear and relief. He wasn’t dead.
She stood, left the room, and had gotten as far as the front porch before she turned around. If she had stabbed him, she couldn’t let him bleed to death. She wouldn’t have another death on her hands. Shaking, but determined, she returned to him and crouched beside the body.
Stop thinking that. Not body. Windsor.
When she tried to turn him over, her hand came away sticky with blood. She saw Robert, heard him laugh, remembered his blood. No, Robert hadn’t done this. Had she? Had Windsor tried to hurt her? Had she managed to protect herself? At what cost?
She struggled to get him onto his back. Her Maglite was on the floor beside him. She shone the beam over Windsor. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He’d faded beyond pale and his breathing was rapid and shallow.
She worked the bloody turtleneck out of his jeans. With a washcloth, she dabbed away the blood and assessed the damage. Not as serious as she feared. Knife wound, she figured, running along his rib cage, ending near his waistline. Not too deep. More slice than stab, except at the end where most of the blood was coming from. His ribs had most likely deflected the blade preventing serious internal damage. He’d be okay. She had to believe that.
A flash of a fight between Windsor and someone else surfaced through the clouds in her brain. A park ranger. He’d cut Windsor, she hadn’t. But why had Windsor been fighting with a park ranger? Peterson? Should she turn Windsor over to the rangers? No, something felt wrong there. She took a deep breath. The memories would come back in good time. She turned to her patient.
“Come on, Windsor. Stay with me. You’re not going to die on me. If you deserve it, I’ll see you rot in prison, but I’m not going to let you die, understand?” She shook his shoulders, rubbed his cheek. He groaned and his eyelids flickered.
“Tired. Cold.”
“Wake up, Windsor. Please. Help me out here and then you can sleep. I promise.” Kelli got her arms under his shoulders and pulled. “That’s right. Sit up.”
Windsor gave her a glassy-eyed stare but struggled to a sitting position.
“That’s it. Can you make it to the bed? Lean on me.”
Windsor sat on the edge of her bed, head between his knees.
“Relax.” Pass out again, she wanted to say. Unconscious is better. She handed him a towel. “Press this against your belly. I’ll get some bandages.”
He groaned, but obeyed. “Maybe you should have shot me. I’d feel a whole lot better.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere. Head. Shoulder. Ribs.” Each word was a whispered effort.
She backed into the bathroom and dampened a towel.
“Um … Kelli?”
“Yes?” She peeked out at Windsor. One hand clutched his belly, the other rubbed his forehead. He swallowed several times.
He raised his head but didn’t turn. “I’m sorry … I think … God … I’m going to be—”
She grabbed the wastebasket and set it between his feet. His hair hung in his face as he leaned forward, violently ill, his body racked with spasms. He gasped with each one. Compassion overtook her and she knelt behind him, holding his hair back with one hand, pressing against his forehead with the other until he’d emptied his stomach. When his spasms stopped, she brought him a glass of water.
“Rinse first. Don’t drink yet.”
His hands were covered in fresh blood. Apparently oblivious to it, he followed her instructions then sank back onto the bed. She pressed the towel to his belly. Put his hands on top of it.
“Apply pressure, Windsor. I’ll be right back.” She dumped the contents of the wastebasket into the toilet and flushed. When she returned he was out cold, the bloody towel on the floor. She turned on the bedside lamp and studied him.
Unconscious or not, he seemed to be in pain. She removed his work boots. His socks were soaked. She pulled them off, too. Shit, he was totally drenched. She had to get him patched up. She reached for his belt and hesitated.
For God’s sake, she’d been married. Had a son. The male body was nothing new to her. She unbuckled his belt and pulled off his jeans. Briefs, not boxers. Low rise, navy blue. Those she left alone. There was no way she could work his turtleneck over his head without his help. She retrieved the house’s first-aid kit and using its scissors, cut the shirt and wrestled it off his body.
She filled a bowl with warm water, soaped a washcloth and went to work cleaning him. Searching the kit, she found an assortment of butterfly strips, some larger gauze pads and tape, a few foil packets of alcohol swabs and a bottle of hand sanitizer. Using a gauze pad, she wiped his chest with the hand sanitizer. She sealed the edges of the cut with butterfly strips, covered it with a thick pad of gauze and taped it down. Nasty bruises had already surfaced around his shoulder. She wondered if she should check his back, but he was too heavy. There was no blood on the back of his turtleneck so she let it go.
His breathing had steadied. Since he’d collapsed on top of the bedcovers, she draped a fresh sheet and blanket over him. She pulled a chair from her office, placed it near the door and watched his chest rise and fall.
* * * * *
Blake opened his eyes. Good Lord, everything hurt. Slowly, he got his bearings. Camp Getaway, but not his lumpy mattress. He turned his head and immediately regretted it when a blinding pain shot through his head. He gasped, which shot fire through his rib cage. “Holy crap,” he muttered.
“You’re awake,” Kelli said.
Moving only his eyes, he noticed her watching, but from well out of reach. As if he could move enough to do anything. She held the gun in her lap. The knife was gone. “How long—?”
“Half an hour.” She stood, but didn’t move closer. “How do you feel? Can you travel? I need to get out of here.”
At the anxiety in her tone, he bit off the obvious, “Are you kidding?” in favor of a more neutral, “Give me a minute.” An inch at a time, he worked his way up to a sitting position, fighting the dizziness at every increment. Sweat trickled down his spine.
“What happened to Scumbag?” he asked.
She cocked her head. “Who?”
“The guy attacking you.”
Her face paled and she sank into the chair. She looked around, her gaze stopping on the uniform trousers in the corner and he saw her remembering. “Oh, God. It wasn’t you. It was Decker.”
“Decker?”
“Park ranger.”
So Scumbag had a name. “I don’t think he was a real ranger.”
“He’s gone. I guess.” An expression of panic crossed her face. “Did you—”
“I tied him up and locked him in my bathroom after you knocked him out.”
“I did?”
“With your flashlight. Do you remember?”
She shook her head. “Not really. I was afraid I’d stabbed you.”
“No, I think you saved both our skins. You have any idea who he is? Did you call the cops?”
She shook her head. “Phone lines are still down.” When she lifted the revolver, his mouth got dry. But quick as a rabbit, she was out of the room. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose to a standing position, grabbing the headboard for support. He seemed to be moving in slow motion. Naked except for his briefs and bandage, he spied his wet jeans beside the bed. He stared at them, knowing his head would explode if he bent down to pick them up.
Before he gathered the courage to try, Kelli was back, with dry clothes. “Here.” She tossed them on the bed. “I’m going to start loading the truck. You want me to pack your stuff, or can you handle it?”
Right now, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle getting his socks on. “If you don’t mind. And a couple of aspirin would be great.” She turned toward the door.
“Wait,” he called after her. “My truck. It’s gone. But Decker must have something nearby.”
“I moved your truck. It’s behind the cabin in the trees.” She took two steps toward him, eying him warily. “Are you sure you’re okay? If you pass out, I can’t carry you.”
“I’ll make it.”
“It’ll take me a while to get everything loaded. You should rest.”
“Can I help? We need to get out of here. Scumbag—Decker—will raise a ruckus.”
“It’s not likely anyone would be close enough to hear him, but I took care of it.”
What had she done? He’d have heard a gunshot. She must have seen his puzzled expression.
“I gave him some orange juice.” She smiled for the first time since last night. “My special recipe.”
“If it’s anything like your coffee, he’s going to have one hell of a headache when he wakes up. Not to mention an upset stomach.”
She shrugged. “Guess so. Is that how it affected you?”
“You don’t know the half of it.” He laughed, although it was little more than a wheeze, followed by a stabbing pain in his rib cage and another cacophony in his head.
Her smile faded. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t know who you are or why you’re here. When I saw Decker tied up in your bathroom, I remembered enough to know I owe you. This morning, all I wanted was to get away from you. The truth is, I still do, but I need some answers and until I get them I’m on you like white on rice.”
He watched her face grow more and more confident, a look he hadn’t seen before. He nodded. “I’ll get dressed.” He reached for his jeans. Something in his lower back tightened and he froze, waiting for the spasm to pass. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Back. Spasm. Aspirin?”
By the time she got back, he’d put his clothes on and walked the length of the bed a few times, trying to loosen stiffened muscles. She held a bottle of water and a pill bottle.
“Ibuprofen. Aspirin’s not good if you’re bleeding.”
“Anything.” He swallowed three pills and gulped the water down.
He sat on the bed and closed his eyes, hoping the medicine would take effect before it upset his stomach. “How’s the packing coming? I could help, I think.”
“You can help by getting yourself to the living room. Make sure you can walk.” She went through the bathroom into her office. He saw her pass, carrying a carton and dragging a suitcase.
He stood. The room tunneled around him, fading to gray at the edges. Pure masculine pride carried him to the couch. As he sank onto it, he was aware Kelli had been watching. He gave her a weak grin. “I’m okay.” She moved toward the kitchen. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
“Windsor.” He blinked awake. Kelli stood two feet from his chair, with another glass of water and a vial of pills. “Phones are still dead. I need you to trust me when I say I don’t want to involve the Park Service with Decker until we’re far enough away. If you think you need medical attention, I’ll risk it and drop you off at the ranger station. But I won’t stick around.”
He didn’t need any complications either. Once he felt well enough, he was on the first plane to Chicago. “I’ll be all right.”
She held out the pill vial. “I’ve got a muscle relaxant.”
“There is a God.” He squinted at the vial, but the words swam.
“I don’t know the dosage for someone your size. One wipes me out.”
“Give me two. Out would be nice. Was this what you put in the coffee?”
“No, that was an animal tranquilizer. I have it for bears in case one gets frisky.” She tapped out two tablets and he downed them even before she handed him the water.
* * * * *
Kelli lingered a moment, watching the tightened muscles in his face. Listened to his labored breathing. Afraid of shock, she got a blanket and covered him. She still had no clue who he was, or why he was here. She asked herself why the hell she was taking him with her, but didn’t want to consider the answer yet. She’d do the same thing for an injured dog. Besides, what was the saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
A few trips back and forth from her office and she had everything piled under the eaves of the front porch. Windsor barely stirred while she worked. The furrows in his brow had smoothed and his breathing was deeper.
In his room, she stuffed his dirty laundry into a plastic trash bag then put everything into his duffel. And almost laughed. A compulsive organizer, Charles had called her. Look at her—getting ready to run and she was sorting laundry.
She hesitated before going into the bathroom. Gun at the ready, she pushed open the door, but Decker was out. She’d put a hefty dose of the tranquilizer into the orange juice and her revolver had convinced him he was thirsty. He should sleep for hours.
With Windsor’s toiletries packed into his Dopp Kit, she had the last of his belongings. Shit. What about his tools? Too bad. Jack could deal with them. She slung his duffel over her shoulder and set it on the porch.
What about Decker’s clothes? She went into her room where his muddy trousers lay in a heap in the corner. When she picked them up, what she’d thought was mud looked more like blood. Probably Windsor’s. It might be better if the cops didn’t find them right away. She’d stash them in Windsor’s lockbox, along with the knife.
On the couch, Windsor’s legs stretched out in front of him and his head lolled back. Looked like the muscle relaxant had kicked in. In sleep, he seemed harmless enough.
Satisfied he wasn’t going anywhere, she grabbed her flashlight and jogged to his truck. The deluge had lessened to a fine mist. Once she replaced the truck’s coil wire, she drove toward the main road. Decker wouldn’t have hiked in. Maybe his truck would give some indication of who he was. She found the Park Service truck about twenty yards down the road in a shallow pull-out. Pulling the sleeve of her parka over her hand, she yanked the door open and shone the light in the cab.
Cardboard coffee cups, fast food bags, and gum wrappers cluttered the seat. She popped open the glove box and found a San Francisco Giants baseball cap crammed on top of maps. Doug Peterson was a Giants fan. Her pulse jumped. Decker was no ranger, she was sure of that. But the Park Service personnel shared the limited number of vehicles. All this meant was that Peterson probably had used this truck. Didn’t it? No time for those thoughts now. Once she was the hell out of here she’d call the authorities. Let them figure it out.
She climbed back into Windsor’s pickup and leaned over the steering wheel. Was she doing the right thing? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t leave Windsor behind. He’d saved her life.
* * * * *
“Let’s go, Windsor. You’ve had an hour’s nap. That’s plenty.”
Blake blinked at Kelli’s voice and sat up. He took a moment to take inventory. Groggy, a little dizzy, but with luck, he’d get into the truck on his own steam. Aware of Kelli watching from the porch, he hoisted himself up, gripping the back of the couch as he shuffled around it. The pill had dulled the pain enough for him to get out the door without seeing
stars. At the edge of the porch, he paused, telling himself it was because he didn’t want to fall down the steps. Not because he wanted to feel Kelli’s arms around him.
Kelli’s hand was at his elbow. Strong, but it might as well have been a wooden arm rail for all the compassion it exuded. He used it for balance more than support and made it to the truck without passing out.
She climbed into the driver’s seat and peered at him. “You tell me if you’re going to get sick. I’ll pull over.”
“Thanks.” Kelli hadn’t closed her door yet and the dome light illuminated the cab. He looked at her more closely. “What happened to your eyes?”
“Nothing.” She turned and stared straight ahead.
“Must be the bonk on the head, or the after-effects of the drugs. Didn’t they used to be brown? They look gray now.”
“And they could be green next week. Let’s go.”
He clicked his seat belt shut, leaned against the window and let the pills take over. When he opened his eyes, Kelli was standing beside him, the door to the truck open. It was dark outside and his head felt like it was filled with oatmeal. He groaned. “Time is it?”
“Two a.m. Can you walk?” she whispered. “I need you to get out of the truck and go to the door over there. Room nineteen. Put this on.” She handed him a knit watchman’s cap. “Stay low. I’ll be right in.”
He looked around. They were parked in the lot of a Fifties-style motel, in front of the open door of an end unit in a string of little bungalow rooms. He understood. The open truck door would block him from any prying eyes in the office. He tucked his hair under the cap, slid out of the seat, wavering a moment to get his balance, then made his way to the door in a half-crouch. Stay low, she’d said. No problem. Standing up—that would have been a problem.
The room smelled of must and mold with an overlay of pine cleanser. That was about all he noticed before the bed floated up to meet him.
