WHERE TIGERS PROWL

by Karin Story

  "Fine, then stay here. I'm too tired to argue with you anymore, Jerry. Do what you want."

  "Fine. I will." He huffed over to the kitchen table and dropped into one of the ladderback chairs so hard it creaked.

  Jerry had tended to the man upstairs earlier in the day, checking all his injuries, tightening the splint on his hand. Then he'd fixed the front door. The rest of the time, he'd been hovering over her.

  It was nearly eight in the evening now. She'd needed to do something to stay distracted, so she'd dug out her camping stove and rigged it up on the kitchen counter. The electricity was still off, but the rain and wind had let up considerably.

  The man upstairs had been asleep for nearly nine hours.

  Jerry hadn't slept at all in thirty-six hours.

  There was no sound except the scrape of metal on metal as she continued to move cookies.

  "Damn it, Maris. Why do you always have to put yourself in these positions?"

  They'd been through this too many times to count today, so she chose to ignore his latest jab.

  That didn't stop Jerry from pushing anyway. "It's not your lot in life to save wounded souls. Not and get emotionally involved with them. When are you going to learn to stay detached, to keep it professional? Remember what happened with Eric? You saved him, too, and look where it got you—"

  A shrill beep broke off his tirade before she had a chance to get her ire up at what he was saying.

  Jerry plucked his pager off his belt and held it up to the candle on the table. "Damn, it's work. Are the batteries charged in your cell phone?"

  "Yeah, it's in my day pack on the chair in the front hall."

  A couple of minutes later he reentered the kitchen with a none-too-happy look on his face. "They're short-staffed tonight because of the storm. They need me to come in."

  "How're you going to work when you haven't had any sleep?"

  With his haggard face and bloodshot eyes, he looked on the verge of joining the man upstairs in bed.

  "I'll catch a nap in the doctor's lounge between patients." He shoved his glasses farther up his nose. "Damn it, I don't feel good about this. Leaving you here alone with him. He's been shot, Rhodes. God only knows where he's been or what kind of trouble he's in. And we still don't know who he is."

  She wrapped several of her lumpy cookies in a paper towel and pressed them into his hand. "You just have to trust me. Thanks for helping him today."

  "I don't want to 'just trust you.' I don't like this whole situation at all. And as far as helping him…it's my job to help people. Even strangers with a snarly attitude. At least I know how keep it in perspective. I can't believe you put him upstairs in your bed."

  She kept her voice even. "Are you going to be okay getting back to your car?"

  "I'll live," he grumbled as he pulled on his coat. He zipped it up, then focused a steady gaze on her. "Just stay alert, okay?"

  "Hey, it's me, remember?"

  "Yeah, I know. That's what scares the hell out of me."

  A few minutes later, with Jerry's final words still echoing in her mind, she leaned against the front door and smiled. She was exhausted. But in spite of Jerry's foreboding warning, she also hadn't felt this alive since…well, since she'd moved here from Colorado three years ago.

  * * *

  The longer he lay there, the more finely tuned his senses became.

  He heard the crackling pop of a fire. Felt the softness of flannel against his skin, and breathed in a delicate floral scent from the soft pillow under his head. It sent a warm pulse through his body. He'd smelled that scent before, but where?

  Frustrated at his mind's sluggish pace for remembering things, he pried open his gritty eyes. The orange glow of firelight flickered all around him, and even that dim light caused a dull throb in his head.

  Tough shit. Deal with it. All his instincts clamored for urgency. Urgency for what, he didn't know, but he couldn't afford the luxury of lying around.

  He sat up, his body protesting with every movement, and glanced around to get a lay of the land. He was in a sizeable bedroom that had a brick fireplace on one wall. The bed was large and brass. A white down comforter had been neatly tucked around him, and the sheets and pillowcases were white flannel bordered with an ivy design. The dresser and side table, obviously antique and well cared for, sat atop a highly polished hardwood floor covered by a multi-colored braided rug. A wing chair nestled next to the bed.

  Where was he?

  He was surprised to feel an odd sense of hominess from his surroundings. Then he remembered. The woman. Maris. She'd said he was at her house. But how the hell had he gotten to her house? Who was she to him?

  He spied a framed photograph on the bedside table. A picture of a younger Maris standing next to a dark-headed, bearded, bear of a man. They stood in front of what looked to be the sphinx in Egypt. She obviously got around. But who was the man?

  Then a void as great and empty as the vastness of space consumed him.

  Who was he?

  Sweat broke out on his forehead as he tried to concentrate. It had to be there…his name was…

  The muffled sound of voices floated into the room, one of them definitely the redheaded giant's demanding tone.

  His body surged with unexpected anger. Who was that bastard?

  Then he heard a thunk, like a door slamming.

  Had they gone?

  Run! his mind urged. Go, now!

  Without taking the time to analyze his thoughts, he lurched out of bed, and nearly fell when pain shot up his right leg. He looked down and saw a thick white bandage wrapped around his thigh. He didn't know what was under the bandage, but his leg hurt like bloody hell.

  Trying to slow the pounding in his head and steady his land legs, he glanced around and discovered a pair of jeans draped on a ladderback chair in front of the fire. Presumably they were his. They were stiff, and slightly damp at the waist, but he yanked them on, swearing under his breath at his ineptness. His left hand was in a splint and when he tried to use his fingertips, more pain seared all the way up into his arm. Son of a bitch! He knew it would be useless to attempt the snap and zipper.

  The soft creak of footsteps coming from below sent another bolt of anxiety through him.

  Hurry! Run!

  He slipped out into the hallway, which was dimly lit with the firelight from the bedroom. The cool air caused a rush of goose bumps over his chest and back. But he never took his eyes off the stairwell. Did he have time to get down there before he was caught?

  Bright light suddenly erupted up the stairs. A flashlight. And the footsteps grew louder.

  Someone was coming.

  He wedged himself into the shadowed corner next to an old-fashioned telephone stand and another wooden chair. He watched as the light bobbed and danced on the wall at the top of the steps. Then he saw a head come into view. He could just make out a loose knot of curls, and the firelight filtering into the hall brought out an occasional reddish highlight in them.

  Maris.

  He let out a deep, slow breath and felt his body relax just a bit. She didn't trigger any danger signals in him.

  But then he saw her pause near the top of the staircase. Saw her glance toward the bedroom where he'd been. And very purposefully tiptoe up the next step.

  His body snapped to attention again. Why was she sneaking around?

  As she put her foot on the next step, a long, slow creak escaped from the old wood. She glanced quickly up toward the bedroom again, and he could see her well enough now to recognize the guilty expression on her face.

  A knot of anger formed in his gut. What was she up to? Had she been playing him for a fool all along?

  She reached the top of the stairs and flipped off the flashlight. Her steps were still cautious, tentative.

  He was done playing games. Instinct took over. He stepped up behind her and grabbed her around the neck.

  Her body tensed, and he felt the pulse in her throat beating at a furious rate. But odd
ly enough, she didn't scream or cry out as he would have expected.

  "Where is he?" he demanded against her ear, wondering if the redhead would be following her upstairs. But even as he said the words, the haunting floral fragrance he'd smelled when he woke up teased at his senses. It was her smell.

  Suddenly, her body went limp and she dangled from his arm as if it were a noose. As if she'd just fainted.

  The action caught him off guard, but he sensed she was faking it and recognized the defensive move for what it was. Instead of letting her go as she probably hoped he would, he pulled her closer to him, until her back pressed against his chest, and her warm, soft rear-end rested tight against his thighs. He felt the subtle tension in her back that confirmed he was right. She was no wilting flower, and that was no faint. He had to give her credit for her acting skills, though.

  Before he had time to think further, a sharp object slammed into his stomach.

  He let out a startled "oomph." She'd elbowed him! He slackened his hold on her for just a second. That was obviously all the time she needed. She jerked free from his grip, and spun around to face him. He heard a soft click, and was suddenly blinded by the bright light of a Krypton bulb burning into his eyes.

  "Son of a bitch! Shut that thing off." He took a swipe at it. She simply stepped out of his way. "Shut it off! I wasn't going to hurt you."

  "Oh, really?" came the sarcastic reply. "Then why attack me in my own house?"

  "The light, please!" He put a hand up to shield his eyes and winced at the daggers stabbing mercilessly in his brain.

  She was silent. Then, finally, the light switched off.

  "Christ." He rubbed his eyes with his good hand and tried to get rid of the little black dots that danced in his vision. "Why's it so dark anyway? Didn't you pay your electric bill?"

  "The electricity's off because of the storm, you jerk."

  Her voice was far too calm. Shouldn't she be shrieking in hysterics after something like this? Who was this woman? "What were you doing sneaking around?" he ground out.

  "Sneaking around? You were the one hiding in the corner."

  "You hesitated on the steps. Tiptoed. Like you didn't want me to know you were coming."

  "I was trying to be quiet so I wouldn't wake you. I live here, remember? I knew the top step creaked and I was trying to avoid it. And what did you mean when you said, 'Is he here?' He who?"

  "The redheaded bastard."

  She took a step backward and everything about her radiated righteous indignation. He was struck again by the thought that this was no ordinary woman And he was surprised to realize that he liked that about her. Not to mention the fact that she still wore that same white T-shirt and he could see the curve of her breasts through the thin fabric. She wore baggy gray sweatpants, but his imagination filled in the details there.

  "That redheaded bastard happens to be my best friend," she snapped. Several curls had escaped the knot on her head and they danced against her cheeks.

  He narrowed his eyes at that information. "Some friend. Does he always break into your house?"

  "You know, before you quiz me anymore about my life…how 'bout you tell me a little about yourself? Like who you are exactly. And what you were doing in my backyard last night."

  As if she'd slapped him, he leaned unsteadily against the chair that sat next to the telephone table, and rubbed his scratchy cheeks. "Your backyard? What the hell are you talking about?"

  "I found you in my backyard and I brought you in the house to help you. Don't you remember that?" Her tone became less caustic as she spoke. "What are you doing out of bed? You shouldn't be out here."

  "I'm not an invalid."

  She shook her head. "You're going to be if you don't take care of yourself." Then her eyes widened and her gaze swept over his body, lingering on his unsnapped and unzipped jeans. She swallowed before her gaze moved back up to meet his. "You were trying to leave when I came up here, weren't you?"

  He didn't answer. Just tried to stay upright and keep at bay the surge of anger and fear that lurked in his mind.

  She sighed loudly. "I'm not holding you here against your will, for God's sake. I'm just trying to help."

  "So if I wanted to walk out of here right now, you wouldn't have a problem with that?" he asked in a stony voice as he stared down at her.

  She stared back. "It would be an asinine thing to do in your condition and considering the storm outside. But if that's what you want, I won't stop you." She gestured an arm toward the stairs.

  His muscles chose that moment to go AWOL, and his legs wobbled. Cursing his weakness, he sank into the chair he'd been leaning on and put his head in his hands.

  She was immediately at his side, kneeling next to him. She put one hand on his knee and pressed the other gently against his forehead. "Look, I want to help you, but I can't do anything else for you until I know who you are. You must have family who're worrying about you."

  Family? Everything was a dark swirling blob in his mind. He continued to rub his face.

  "Who are you? What happened to you?"

  Slowly, he raised his head until his gaze met hers. The compassion and strength in her eyes sucked at him like a whirlpool. "You tell me."

  A frown drew her eyebrows together as she stared at him. "You don't know what happened to you?"

  "No."

  "Well, isn't there someone we can call?"

  Every time she questioned him, it was like another kick to the gut. Who? What? Why? All questions he couldn't answer. "Let me say this again since you don't seem to get it. I don't know what happened to me. And there's no one to call because I can't even remember my own goddamned name. Get it?"

  She sat back on her heels. Her eyes flickered with surprise and hurt.

  Great, on top of everything else, now he had a sliver of guilt eating at him for acting like an asshole. He had to remind himself that it wasn't her fault his brain wasn't cooperating.

  "You don't remember anything at all?" she whispered.

  "Nada. Zilch." He sat up straight and tried to ignore the stinging sensation on his chest and back as he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

  "What about the thing you told me last night?"

  He opened his eyes again and his muscles tensed. "What thing I told you last night?"

  She brushed a stray curl off her cheek with the back of her hand. "Last night when I asked what your name was, you said, 'El Tigre.' That's Spanish for tig—"

  "I know what it means."

  "Well, I thought maybe I was just hearing things since I speak Spanish. But then I saw your tattoo."

  He lurched to his feet. "What tattoo?"

  She stood, too, with much more grace than he had. "The one on your back. On your left shoulder. It's a tiger."

  "Show me."

  She took his arm, switched on the flashlight again, and led him into the bathroom. She had him turn, then shone the light onto his back as he looked in the mirror.

  Roughly three inches in diameter, an intricately detailed tattoo of a tiger, poised to spring, was etched onto his shoulder. The colors were still bright. Red slashes that looked like knife wounds arced around the tiger, but none of them marred its artistry, as if someone had purposely avoided it.

  "El Tigre," he whispered, and the words sent a cold, dark spasm through him.

  "Hablas Español?" she said softly.

  "Sí." Yes, he did speak Spanish. Full sentences came effortlessly to mind.

  "Last night I thought maybe you were trying to tell me that El Tigre was your name. Does it mean anything to you?"

  "No." How did he describe the sensation of something rotting and dying inside when he heard those words?

  "You didn't have any identification on you. No wallet. No jewelry. But maybe El Tigre is a clue."

  "Don't—say those words anymore," he ground out, as another stab of something dark hit him.

  "Ok-ay."

  He turned so his eyes met hers in the mirror. For a spli
t second he had the odd feeling that he was floating in a dark abyss and she held the life-preserver.

  Then he heard a deep, throbbing hum that set his nerves on edge.

  Maris heard it, too, because she slipped quickly out of the bathroom. He limped behind her to a window in the bedroom.

  The noise grew louder, and he saw a spotlight shine down out of the sky in the midst of the rain. Cold spread through him, moving from his gut down into his legs and out into his arms.

  He stepped away from the window and tried to steady himself by leaning against the wall. But the throbbing noise beat into him. He had the sudden sensation that he was bobbing in the sea, water filling his mouth, his lungs burning for air.

  "It's a police helicopter," Maris said in surprise. "I can see the markings on it."

  He blinked his eyes open and willed the drowning sensation away. "Christ. They can't find me here."

  "What?" She turned to stare at him. "Why?"

  "You can't let them know I'm here."

  The noise outside died out. They'd landed.

  Her eyebrows scrunched together. "You have to tell me why. I can't lie to them unless you give me a good reason to do so."

  "I don't know why," he growled. "I just don't trust them."

  "You don't trust the police? Well…that could be a bit of a problem."

  The knot in his stomach suddenly became as heavy as a lead weight. "Why?"

  "They already know you're here. Last night, after I found you, I called 911."

  "You what?" His voice was cold steel.

  "You passed out. I saw the gunshot wound in your leg, and I didn't feel like I had any choice. But they couldn't come because of the storm."

  "Son of a bitch!" He turned toward the wall and banged his forehead against it.

  "Look, I didn't understand last night and I still don't understand why you didn't want me to call for help. Someone's done horrible things to you. Why don't you want the police to know you're here? They can help you. Unless…you've done something I should know about?"

  He glared at her. "I don't know my own damn name, remember? How am I supposed to answer that question?"

  She stared back, unfazed, and waited for an answer.