by Brenda Novak
The second she realized it was there, she knew what it was. Blood.
* * *
The police had come and gone, and they hadn’t found a thing—no tall, dark stranger hiding on the premises. Not in the old tack shed. Not in the barn. And not in the cellar. They attempted to follow the blood that led down the steps of Callie’s porch, but the trail disappeared in the grass and dirt about ten feet away.
They poked around for over an hour, hoping to discover what had happened to her guest, but they didn’t have any search dogs with them and Rifle wasn’t trained to track. They tried using him for the first thirty minutes, but he was so distracted and excited by the two officers who’d come to help, she eventually had to shut him up in the mudroom, where she kept his food and water.
In the end, the police couldn’t figure out where the injured man had gone, which left Callie as unsettled after they drove off as before. She couldn’t help wondering if they hadn’t found the stranger because he didn’t want to be found. She didn’t think he’d had time to go far, not injured as he was. So how had he just...disappeared?
Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d reached a neighbor’s property. But if that was the case, why hadn’t anyone else called to report a bloody, hood-wearing stranger? And why hadn’t the cops been able to find his motorcycle? Was there a motorcycle? And was it really broken down?
Exhausted in a way she’d never been before she’d been diagnosed with non-alcoholic fatty liver disease, she finished cleaning up the blood—she didn’t want to see it when she woke up—and went into the house.
Rifle barked and scratched at the mudroom door, whining to be let out. But even now that everyone was gone, he was too excited. She didn’t want to deal with an agitated dog after what she’d already been through. She’d found her pellet gun in the barn, felt that would offer her some defense if the man came back. So she called out a good-night to Rifle, promising she’d take him for a long walk in the morning. Then she used the bathroom off the kitchen and checked all the doors.
Once she was satisfied that the house was as secure as she could make it, she took a final peek through the window, dragged the heavy pellet gun to her bedroom and peeled off her jeans. She was too rattled to sleep almost nude, like she’d been doing earlier, but she knew she’d never get comfortable in fabric as stiff and heavy as denim.
It wasn’t until she’d propped the gun against the wall next to her headboard and crawled beneath the blankets that she heard a noise. She wasn’t sure what it was; it had been too slight. But when it came again her fear returned.
She looked around—eyes wide, breath held—and realized her bathroom door was closed.
She rarely shut that door. It was in the master bedroom and she lived alone. There was never any reason to.
But that wasn’t the only thing that made her heart race. The light was on in there. She could see it through the crack near the floor.
2
Several thoughts went through Callie’s mind at the same time. She had the pellet gun and her cell phone, but her dog was shut in the mudroom. Should she slip out, free Rifle then call the police?
She had to have some way to defend herself until help could arrive. A pellet gun, even a high-powered one, wasn’t the best weapon with which to stop a man. Thanks to a deluge of adrenaline, her limbs felt like rubber. She doubted she’d have the strength to effectively use any weapon, especially a heavy one.
That said yes to the dog. But she wasn’t sure she could stomach what a struggle between Rifle and the intruder would entail. If she’d been told the truth, her visitor had already been attacked by two canines—and he’d beaten them off. She didn’t want to risk Rifle’s life, didn’t want anyone hurt if she could avoid it. Life had become too precious to her. Since her diagnosis, she considered every moment a gift, and she felt that way not just about her own life but everyone else’s.
At least now she understood why her dog had continued to strain at his leash and wouldn’t calm down when they were searching. She’d chalked his behavior up to youth and inexperience, but that wasn’t it at all. He was the only one who could smell, probably even hear, that they still had company.
Sneaking into the house while she and the police were searching the outbuildings was a bold move—so bold she’d never seen it coming. Why had the stranger taken such a risk? Was he so badly hurt he’d had no choice?
Could be.
Or he was determined to gain whatever he wanted from her.
The memory of his blood on the porch, on her bare foot when she stepped in it, weighed heavily on Callie’s mind. If he’d given her AIDS, there wouldn’t be much point in continuing to search for a liver donor....
Sweat poured down her body as she once again slid out of bed and pulled on her jeans. She’d simply vacate the room, take her phone and her gun and barricade herself in the mudroom with her dog while she called the police.
But then she heard a curse, a clatter and a crash that was so loud, her dog started jumping against the door clear on the other side of the house.
What had happened? If Callie had her guess, the man had fallen.
“Hello?” she called out, hesitating midway across the room. She was holding her phone as well as the gun, which made it difficult to use either one.
There was no answer. No sound or movement, either.
Had he hit his head and knocked himself out—or worse?
“Oh, no,” she murmured. In order to lift and aim the gun, she had to put down her phone. She hated to do that, but she was quickly growing more worried than scared, so she set it on her dresser close by. “I know you’re in there.”
“I pretty much...figured that...at this point.” He sounded tired. No, more than tired. Drained. That was hardly what she’d expect from someone who meant her harm. But she’d never encountered a psychopath before—not knowingly, anyway. She had no clue how one might act.
“I’ve got a gun!” she warned.
“Unless you plan...on shooting me for no reason...I don’t really care,” he said. “Just tell me the police are gone.”
Why would she admit she was alone? “They’re not. They’re right outside. I can call them in if necessary.”
There was another long silence.
“Did you hear me?”
“Let them go and I...I’ll leave. I just...needed some soap and water. That’s all. Some gauze would’ve been nice. But you don’t have that. What kind of woman doesn’t have a first-aid kit?”
“I have a first-aid kit. But I don’t keep it the medicine cabinet.”
“Too bad. It would sure...make a nice send-off present, if you...could...forgive my intrusion.”
What condition was he in? He was slurring his words. Talking at all seemed a struggle for him. “How’d you get inside my house?”
“Wasn’t hard. You and those...two officers...”
“Yes?”
He made an attempt to rally. “You were so intent on trying to use your dog to follow my trail I just...circled around behind you. I could tell where you were at all times. Until you brought him in.”
“How’d you keep from dripping blood all over?”
“I wrapped my sweatshirt around my arm...hoped that would help.”
It had done the trick. The trail of blood had disappeared completely. “Sneaking in here takes a lot of nerve,” she said.
“Lady, sometimes you...have to do...what you have to do. What else can I tell you.”
Lady? That made her sound old. She thought of her good friend Cheyenne marrying Dylan Amos just four months ago, right before the doctor had given her the bad news about her liver, and winced. She’d wanted a husband, a family. She’d never had a hint of health problems, no reason to believe she wouldn’t eventually have kids. Now chances were that she’d die before summer’s end.
There were more noises. These Callie couldn’t figure out. “What’s going on?” she asked, worried again.
“I’m trying to get...the hell out of...your bathtub.�
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She was beginning to believe this whole night really had been about his injury. “What’s wrong? You can’t?”
“It’d be easier...if I wasn’t so...damn dizzy.”
What was she going to do now? She wasn’t sure she had the heart to call the police on him again. It wasn’t as if he’d waited in her bedroom and attacked her. “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t let me get you some help,” she said. “I tried.”
“No, you called the police.”
“Same thing.”
“Not quite.”
She inched closer. She still held her gun at the ready but she was feeling more and more confident that she wouldn’t have to use it. “Why are you so afraid of the authorities?”
He didn’t respond for a few seconds. Judging by the noise, he was once again trying to get up. “Why do you think?”
“You’re wanted?”
“Not for anything serious.” He cursed as though he’d done something that hurt.
“Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reverted to the question she’d asked before. “I have a few...unpaid speeding tickets.”
That sounded far too innocuous to explain his reaction. Surely it couldn’t be the truth. “You’re lying,” she said. “Why would that make you afraid of the police?”
“We don’t get along.”
“Meaning...”
“I’ve had...a few run-ins with them. They don’t like vagrants. Besides, a warrant is a warrant. Whether it’s for a speeding ticket or...or whatever else, they’ll take you in. I can’t let that happen.”
He’d called himself a vagrant, but he didn’t sound like one. Although she could tell he was in considerable pain, he was mostly coherent. Articulate, too. “Where are you from?”
“Does it matter? Look, if you’ll...help me a minute, I’ll be...on my way.”
“Where?”
“Wherever the road takes me.”
She crept right up to the door. “I thought your motorcycle broke down.”
“I’ll fix it. Believe me...I want to leave as badly as you want me gone. I have to get to my...my ride before someone else comes across it.”
Including the police. No doubt they’d impound it.
She listened for movement but didn’t hear anything. “Are you coming out or not?”
“I think...you’re going to have to come in. Just...whatever you do...keep that dog of yours away.”
“He’s in another room. But I can get him in here pretty darn fast if I need to,” she added.
“I won’t hurt you. Give me some bandages. Then I’ll go.”
Lifting the barrel of the gun so she could reach the knob, Callie pushed the door wide.
Sure enough, the man she’d first spotted on the porch was in her tub. He must’ve stumbled and fallen while trying to clean himself up, because he’d broken the shower curtain rod on the way down. The curtain lay on the floor, stained with blood. Blood speckled the vanity, the floor and the bath mat, too. But that wasn’t what concerned Callie. He didn’t look good. He’d managed to get to his feet, but he was huddled, shivering in nothing but a pair of bloodstained jeans in the corner, where he could use the walls to hold himself up.
Callie felt her jaw drop. “Look at you.”
He seemed to summon what strength he had left. “About that first-aid kit...”
“You need more than a Band-Aid.” About her age, maybe a little younger, he had blood smeared all over him as if he’d swiped here and there to staunch the flow. The hooded sweatshirt he’d been wearing was tied around one arm; his bloody T-shirt lay on the floor not far from the shower curtain. She couldn’t ascertain the injuries on the arm that was covered, but she could see he’d been bitten several times on the arm that was bare.
“You need painkiller, maybe food, a good doctor—and a heck of a lot of sleep.”
He didn’t respond. There was a gray cast beneath his tanned skin. That was probably new. But Callie suspected his gaunt, ravaged look wasn’t. This man was accustomed to living a hard life. His cheekbones were pronounced, testament to the fact that he was too thin, especially since he had such wide shoulders and big hands. And yet...he wasn’t unhandsome. Somehow his rawboned features gave him a rebel air and enhanced the impact of his hazel eyes, which regarded her with the wariness of a wild animal cornered because of injury.
He didn’t trust her any more than she trusted him, she realized.
Lowering the gun, she set it aside. Maybe dropping her guard was the wrong thing to do. Maybe it put her own safety in jeopardy. But she no longer cared in the same, fearful way she had before. Without a functioning liver, she was going to die soon, anyway.
But maybe she could save him.
* * *
The woman was small, even for a woman, and curvy. With platinum-blond hair and big blue eyes, she had a certain...bombshell look about her. Thirty or so, she was wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with no bra. The no-bra part was unmistakable.
“Come here.” She stretched an arm toward him. “Let me help you out of the shower.”
Levi shrank against the tile. There wasn’t any reason for her to touch him. She’d only get blood on her clothes, and he’d caused her enough trouble for one night. “I just need—” he fought the dizziness that made it almost impossible to stay on his feet “—your first-aid kit.”
Somehow he had to stop the bleeding so he could see how bad his injuries were. He could tell that both arms were chewed up, especially his right, which he’d swaddled in his sweatshirt. He’d also been bitten on the back of the neck, his shoulder and his leg in two places. He didn’t know much about the dogs that’d attacked him, wasn’t sure of the breed—it’d been too dark and things happened too fast. The only thing he could say for sure was that he hadn’t been able to outrun them, even after he ditched his bike. When sharp teeth sank into his flesh, he’d been forced to fight. After that it had been a blur of snarling, lunging and gnashing teeth—on his part and that of the dogs.
Fortunately, he’d won. Or they’d all lost. One dog had finally taken a hard enough kick that he didn’t want any more and the other had followed him when he limped away, whining. Levi had done his share of limping, too. It hadn’t been a minor encounter for any of them.
The woman with the smooth complexion and soft, round features still had her hand out. “I’m afraid it can’t be that simple, Mr. McCloud. You need a doctor. Come on, I’ll take you to the hospital.”
“No.” He had no permanent address, no insurance and very little money. Everything he owned was stuffed into the backpack he’d left with his bike, except for the clothes on his back and the wadded-up bills in his pocket. Maybe twenty bucks at the most, it was just enough to buy food until he found his next odd job.
Worry tightened her voice. “How many times were you bitten?”
“Several.” Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the wall. “I’ve never seen animals so intent on tearing someone to pieces.” He winced at the memory. He’d been chased by a few dogs since returning from Afghanistan. Being out on the streets left him vulnerable. But he’d never been attacked. He’d made it through six years in the military, fighting in some of the worst hot spots in the Middle East without taking a bullet, only to be mangled by dogs in his own country.
“My arms took the brunt of it,” he explained. “They wanted the front of my...neck, my jugular, but I kept blocking them. I would’ve been...better off with my leather jacket on. But I’d worked up a sweat pushing my bike and...had taken it off. Bad luck.” He chuckled, but the thought of his bike, his jacket and his pack brought back the concern he’d been feeling earlier. He had to retrieve his belongings before someone stole them or the police came by. He’d had to leave his motorcycle right there on the side of the road, couldn’t continue to push it after the attack. It was too damn heavy.
“Okay, well, at least sit down. You’ll only hurt yourself more if you don’t.”
“I’ve gotta go.
” He tried to step out of the tub, nearly toppled over and had to let her help him down onto his ass. Muttering something he couldn’t quite make out, she rolled up a towel she got from a cupboard and put it behind his head. Then she brought in a heavy blanket and covered him, right there in the tub. “Stay put,” she ordered as she tucked it tightly around him. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
The decisiveness in her voice made him lift his head. “Where are you going?”
“To get the first-aid kit, since that’s all you’ll accept.”
Relieved, he let his head fall back. If she was going to call the police again, she wouldn’t have braved coming in. Surely that meant he’d soon be bandaged up and on his way. He’d walk his bike to the small gold-rush town a few miles back where he’d had dinner and find the necessary parts and tools to make the repairs. Maybe he could offer his services to an auto shop for a few days in trade for what he’d need. He’d done that before. He could fix any kind of engine, had been in charge of the heavy equipment for his platoon in Afghanistan.
Trying to keep his mind off the pain, Levi concentrated on the gas station with the repair bays he’d noticed in town before settling on a café. But he must’ve drifted off despite his efforts to remain lucid, because when he opened his eyes there was another man in the room. He was easily in his seventies, his hair completely gray, and he had a hook nose, full beard and paunch that hung over his belt. He’d removed the blanket that had kept Levi warm, which was what had disturbed him.
The woman who’d covered him was now wearing a bra under her shirt. She wrung her hands as she peered over the old man’s shoulder. “Is he going to be okay?”
Levi didn’t give him a chance to respond. “Where’s the first-aid kit?” he asked, calling her on the deception.
She had the grace to look abashed. “I’m sorry. I was afraid you were going into shock. You need a doctor.”
The other man glanced up at her. “I’m not a doctor.”
