by Amy Gamet
“Keep moving, Doctor.”
She turned to him, her stare colliding with his just as comprehension hit. Her eyes went wide. “A police officer. On the ground.”
“Damn it, go,” he snapped.
She was shaking now, her shoulders and her hands and her chest, everything. She turned forward and hit the gas.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he said.
“That’s where you got the bullet wound.”
“It was self-defense.”
“Stop talking. I don’t want to know.”
“How much farther to your house?”
“Apartment. A half a mile. Not even.”
“Tell me you live on the first floor.”
“Third.”
He cursed under his breath.
Her mind was racing. The trip from the car to her condo would give her and Brady a chance to escape. This man was badly injured. They should be able to outrun him without much effort.
But what about the gun?
She was still trying to make a sensible plan when she pulled into the parking garage beneath her building. His voice stilled her. “Brady will help me up the stairs, won’t you, sport?”
“Sure!” said the boy, clearly eager to be of assistance.
“No,” she said, too quickly. “I’ll help you if you need it.”
His stare was pointed and direct. “I wouldn’t want you guys to get too far ahead of me, Doctor.”
He was on to her and was going to use her son as collateral. Nausea bubbled uneasily in her stomach. She was powerless, at his mercy, and she wasn’t sure he had any.
4
Noah was dizzy from the stairs, fighting for consciousness.
He sat on a kitchen chair in his briefs and a shirt, the lovely Dr. Fielding kneeling beside him and the weather on the living room TV. The hurricane was nearly upon them, winds of almost eighty miles an hour already pummeling the area.
As soon as he’d heard the clerk in the bodega address her by name, his interest was piqued. Not only could she help him, but Dr. Fielding was the same name from the obituary on his sister’s fridge. While it was a small world for sure, Hilton Head Island was a hell of a lot smaller than that, and he suspected this woman was the widow he’d read about.
“What’s your name?” he asked, struggling to remember from the obituary. Brady was definitely the son’s name. Was it Sarah? Anna?
“Dr. Fielding.”
“I meant your first name.”
“Doctor.”
“Her name’s Hannah.” Brady crossed the room, his eyes fixed on Noah’s wound. “Whoa. Does it hurt?”
“A little bit. Not too bad.”
“There’s scotch,” she offered.
“I wouldn’t think you’d be inclined to lessen my pain.”
“I’m not in the habit of hurting people, no matter what you do for a living.” She stood and opened a cabinet, handing him the bottle of liquor.
He opened it and took a long sip. “And what exactly do you think that is?”
“Something illegal and morally reprehensible, I’m sure.” She knelt back by his side, opening a small brown bottle. “This is going to hurt.”
“Maybe I’m the good guy, fallen on bad circumstances.”
“I doubt it.” She poured the liquid onto his wound, a pain like the hottest fire searing his nerve endings. He inhaled sharply.
The boy ran away.
“Cute kid,” he said.
She glared at him, the exact opposite reaction he’d been hoping to get.
“How old is he?”
“Too young to know he shouldn’t let psychopaths with bullet wounds into our car in exchange for a chocolate bar.”
Brady returned carrying a worn, stuffed bear. He held it out to Noah. “This is Mr. Bojangles. You can squeeze him when it hurts.”
He grinned. “Thanks, man.”
Her eyes went from her son to the bear and back again. Brady ran away.
Clearly she didn’t like her son fraternizing with the enemy, but God, was she beautiful. Long blonde hair and smart green eyes that held his attention like it was their job. There was a weariness, though, a fatigue he suspected had been there before he climbed into her car.
“You seem tired,” he said.
“I’m fine. Thanks for your concern.”
“I’m not a bad person, Hannah.”
She dug in her medical bag. “Well, you’re doing a fairly good impression of one.”
“I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”
Her arms dropped. “You appreciate what I’m doing for you?” she mocked. “You held me at gunpoint and forced me to bring you back here, so don’t pretend I’m being nice to you out of the goodness of my heart. I have a limited tolerance for bullshit.”
He couldn’t help the grin that slid over half his mouth. “I’ll try to remember that.”
She lifted her chin. “You won’t need to. I stitch you up and you go on your merry way. You can even take the car, as long as you drive away in it. Do we have a deal?”
He held out his hand. “Deal.”
She nodded curtly instead of shaking it, and he missed the contact he’d been expecting. She was a spitfire, Dr. Fielding, and he found himself wishing they’d met under different circumstances.
The crash of breaking glass made them both jump. “Brady!” She shot to her feet as a cool breeze carrying the scent of the storm made its way to where Noah was sitting.
“The window broke,” said the boy, crying as he came into the room.
“Oh my God! Are you hurt?” she asked.
He shook his head. She took his hand and led him away from the outermost wall of the condo. “Come sit by the door.”
“Do you have any plywood?” asked Noah. “I can put it up on your windows when you’re through.”
“I don’t need your help.” She donned rubber gloves and picked up the suturing needle. “Let’s get this over with.”
Noah squeezed the bear and took another sip of scotch. He needed a plan. He’d have to take the woman’s car—Hannah—no matter that he didn’t want to leave her stranded. Chances were good she’d be stuck here for days or weeks anyway, given the flooding that was expected. He ignored the burst of pain shooting up his leg, concentrating instead on the brush of her hair against his knee.
She was a beautiful woman, the kind he’d normally give his number, not threaten at gunpoint and force back to her place. In his quest for a distraction from the physical sensation of the needle threading his skin, he imagined she was bent over his lap for another reason entirely, those green eyes smoldering before she opened her mouth…
Stop it.
He’d already wronged this lady. She’d be really pissed off if she knew he was thinking about blow jobs.
As if she could hear his thoughts, she looked up at him, her eyes narrowing.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She went back to work.
His eyes went to Brady. The boy didn’t seem to understand the situation, which was good. As far as he knew, Noah was a kindly stranger with a boo-boo.
“I can’t guarantee this will stop the bleeding,” she said. “Sewing up the outside can’t fix anything that’s torn on the inside, and surgery in my living room isn’t an option. But the bleeding isn’t bad at the moment. That’s a good sign.”
“I’ll take the best you can do.” He clenched his jaw, focusing his mind on what he needed to do now. The sooner he could contact the authorities the better off he’d be, given the circumstances. God only knew what would happen then.
He forced himself not to think about it. “Brady, is your phone working?”
Hannah glared at him. “I told you not to talk to him.”
“I was trying not to bother you while you work.”
She turned to her son. “Go and see if we have a dial tone. If not, bring me my cell phone from my purse.” She went back to work and he closed his eyes. He had to contact Cowboy, too. Would his boss have his back now that t
he shit hit the fan, or would their earlier argument preclude that?
He was to blame. He could see that now. Hell, he could see it then, but it hadn’t made a damn bit of difference.
“No dial tone,” said Brady.
The weatherman on TV was on location in Hilton Head Island showing storm surge already reaching ocean-side properties. “How far are we from the beach?” asked Noah.
“Two blocks,” she said. Another window broke somewhere in the condo, the needle digging deep into his muscle as she jumped. “Sorry,” she said.
He grunted and took another sip of scotch. “Do you have plywood?” he asked again.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Answer the question.”
She set her mouth. “No.”
He shook his head, amazed at her lack of preparedness. “You can’t stay here. The storm surge alone is going to swamp this place. It’s dangerous.”
“The building has solid steel and concrete construction. We’ll be all right.”
She was kidding herself if she thought that was true. “Maybe if you’d boarded the windows instead of buying mustard. You’re not prepared to weather a storm of this magnitude. Do you remember Katrina?”
“I have everything we need.”
Now he was getting angry. She had to think about her long-term well-being, and the boy’s. “You’re exposed to the elements. That’s hundred-and-sixty-mile-per-hour winds headed your way, up close and personal. Debris flying through the air. You ever experience anything like that?”
“Don’t yell at me.”
“I’m not yelling. I’m demonstrating reason and foresight. In addition to the wind, rain, and hail, the building will be flooded and you’ll be effectively stranded here. Your car will float away. There will be no electricity and likely no potable water. You have an electric stove and nowhere to make a fire, so no way to purify whatever the hell will be coming out of your tap. How long do you think Brady will be able to make it without clean water?”
“Stop trying to scare me.”
“You should be scared. You have a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, and I’m guessing canned vegetables and beans. Maybe some ramen. Everything in your refrigerator and freezer will rot, and you won’t be able to cook any of it anyway. Is that about right?”
Brady brought her cell phone and held it between them, warily. She opened it. “No service. Guess you’ll have to wait and call your cronies another time.”
“I was going to call the police.”
“Why?”
“To turn myself in. I told you it was self-defense. I’m not running away, but don’t change the subject. You and your son should go while you still have the chance.”
She stood up. “I’m not stupid, you know. I’ve thought of everything you said long before you said it. But one, I don’t have anywhere to go. I’d have to drive hundreds of miles—at least—to find somewhere safe to stay and I’m almost out of gas. You saw the sign at the store. They’re sold out, and according to the news so is everybody else. But I have a closet full of bottled water and I don’t need to eat. Brady can have it all.”
The whites of her eyes were red, as if she was trying not to cry.
“I should have let my in-laws take him but I wanted him with me.” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth for a moment before continuing. “It was a mistake. The windows are supposed to be hurricane glass. They aren’t supposed to break…”
She was definitely crying now, silent tears that fell down her cheeks.
“I wanted to leave the hospital sooner,” she said. “But I had to get the patients to safety.”
“Are we going to be okay?” asked Brady from his corner.
“Of course you are, sport,” said Noah. “I’m going to help.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t want—”
“You need my help,” he said. “Just like I needed yours.”
“You don’t even have a car.”
“I have a pickup truck next to that police officer with fifty gallons of gas in cans in the truck bed. The cop shot out my tires, which is why I was on foot. We can drive your car over there and use the gas.”
“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “We had a deal. I stitched you up, now you need to leave.”
“You can’t stay here.”
She blew out air. “It’s a better option than going with you.”
“I know how this looks, and I know you’re trying to protect yourself and your son from me.” He pulled out his wallet and his military ID. “Noah Ryker, US Navy SEAL Team Four. Now I work for a company out of Atlanta called HERO Force, which stands for Hands-on Engagement and Recognizance Operations.” She held the ID in her hands. He could tell from her face she didn’t know what to believe. “It’s true, Hannah. I’m one of the good guys.”
She put her medical supplies away. “Good guys don’t shoot policemen.”
“I stopped because I thought they needed help. The radio said the cops were already off-duty, but he was there, along with a medical supply truck that was being unloaded. But they must have been doing something illegal because the cop came after me.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“Damn it, come with me.”
“No.”
He stood and took her by the elbow, her eyes taking in his hand on her before meeting his frustrated stare. “If you stay here, you’re putting yourself and the boy in great danger.”
“That’s my prerogative.”
She was fighting with him just for the sake of fighting with him, refusing his help because she believed he was dangerous when really it was her own actions that were threatening her well-being. “Don’t make me force you.”
“You’re threatening me again?” She gestured to his leg. “You wanted me to help you. I’ve done that. My obligation to you is over.”
“Yes, but you saved my life, and my obligation to you has just begun. You’re coming with me.”
5
Noah stood in Hannah’s living room, still in his briefs. He’d given Hannah a few minutes to pack a bag and find him some pants, then they’d head out to his truck to get gas and leave Oscar in their wake.
His plans to mourn Lizzie’s death would just have to wait for another time. It was more important these two get to safety and he turn himself in to the authorities.
He wouldn’t think too much about the latter right now.
He wandered around the apartment, taking in the photographs and artwork that had clearly been done by Brady. It was a warm space, but he imagined it had been difficult for her since her husband died. One picture in particular caught his eye—Hannah and what could only be her husband with the baby.
Death sucks.
People didn’t pass peacefully from one realm into another. They were torn away from those who loved them as surely as if they’d shared the same flesh, leaving terrible wounds in their wake.
He didn’t know how he would come to grips with his sister’s death, and he found himself wondering how Hannah had dealt with her husband’s.
A plaque on the wall caught his attention.
To Dr. Joseph Fielding, Director of the Hospital Accreditation Team, with our grateful thanks for a job well done.
It was dated a month before he died. He must have been some kind of administrator. Accreditation of any institution was a lengthy process that required every department meet certain standards.
A paper-pushing nightmare.
He continued to walk around the room, arriving at a desk with a corkboard on the wall next to it, the papers on it noticeably yellowed and worn. It didn’t take a genius to figure out this was Joseph Fielding’s desk and Hannah hadn’t touched it since he died.
Noah pulled out the chair and sat down, wondering again who this man was to his sister. Lizzie was an accountant. As the accreditation manager, Fielding would need lots of information from her department. Or hell, maybe he was her direct supervisor.
There was no w
ay to tell for sure.
He wanted to know what their connection was, wanted to understand why Fielding’s death had affected his sister enough to keep his obituary on her refrigerator for months on end. If it was an affair, he wanted to know that, too—anything to get some answers why his sweet sister might have ended her life.
If that’s what she did.
It didn’t sit right with him. It never had.
He pulled open drawer after drawer, riffling unashamedly through the other man’s things. He found a wallet-sized picture of Hannah that had clearly been cut out of a larger one, and immediately knew why. She sat by a campfire and looked to be laughing, her beauty leaping from the page, and Noah ran his finger over it before flipping it over.
Love you.
Joe Fielding was a lucky man.
Noah dropped the picture onto the desk and moved to the side drawers, finding one full of files, and he flipped through them, one tab catching his attention.
Accounting Problems.
He scanned page after page of documents, including several memos between Lizzie and Fielding as they tried to reconcile the medication inventory with the corresponding paper trail, each time coming up short by thousands of units, the equivalent of hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of drugs.
The last page in the file was a letter from Fielding to the head hospital administrators making pointed allegations of fraud by someone within the organization. Noah’s eyes went to the date. It was less than a week before Fielding died. Handwritten across the top was a note.
BCC: Lizzie Ryker.
Blind carbon copy. Lizzie had been copied on the letter, but the others didn’t know she had been.
“Holy shit.”
His mind worked to catch up with what he was learning. Fielding was on the trail of a missing drugs and Lizzie knew about it. Noah didn’t know how Fielding died, but if there was the slightest possibility Fielding had been killed for this letter…
Then maybe my sister was, too.
He needed to talk to Hannah and find out exactly how her husband died, and what, if anything, she knew about the alleged fraud at the hospital. But she didn’t trust him and he had a limited amount of time with her before he’d be arrested or would have to turn himself in. If he waited too long, there was sure to be a manhunt and his own chances of living would decrease considerably.
