Her Scream in the Silence: Carly Moore #2

by Denise Grover Swank

  “Just wait for me.” I jumped out and got his crutches from the back, then met him at the open passenger door.

  “Do you have any idea how embarrassin’ this is?” he asked, his cheeks flushed as I helped him slide off the seat and onto the ground.

  I handed him one crutch and wrapped his left arm around my shoulders, taking his weight. “Marco, you were shot a little over three weeks ago. You had major surgery. It takes time to recover from that. I’m pushing you too much.”

  He grunted and took a labored step. It took longer than it should have to get him up the three steps and into the house. Once we were inside, I helped lower him to the sofa, then ran outside for our lunch and his shoes.

  When I got back, he was dozing sitting up. I was about to tell him to lie down, but the cuffs of his jeans were caked in mud, and I wanted to examine his wounds.

  “Marco, we need to take off your jeans.”

  A grin spread across his face, but his eyes remained closed. “As many times as I’ve dreamed of you saying those exact words, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Very funny,” I said sarcastically. “I want to look at your leg.”

  He started to fumble with the button of his jeans, so I sat next to him and pushed his hands away.

  “If you tell anyone I undressed you, I’ll call you a bald-faced liar,” I said.

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  I got the button undone and the zipper pulled down, careful not to accidentally touch something sensitive underneath. Then I grabbed the fabric at his hips and tugged down as he lifted his butt off the sofa. It took some finagling, but I finally got his jeans past his hips and started to tug them down his legs. I tried not to look at his snug navy boxer briefs.

  “God, you suck at undressing a man,” he said through gritted teeth. “I guess Wyatt doesn’t care about your lack of finesse.”

  I wasn’t about to tell him Wyatt and I hadn’t gotten to that point in our relationship.

  “Most men are more able and willing,” I said, carefully pulling the material over his bandaged leg.

  “Who said I wasn’t willing?” he asked, cracking an eye to look at me.

  “You. Just a few seconds ago.”

  Once the jeans were at his ankles, I carefully pulled them free, then turned my attention to his left thigh. An elastic band that reminded me of Hank’s compression bandages was completely wrapped around his leg. It was stained with blood.

  “When was the last time you changed your bandage?” I asked.

  “This morning.”

  “Does it still drain?”

  “No.”

  Pushing out a breath, I got to my feet. “I’m going to unwrap it and look it over. Then put a fresh bandage on. Where are the clean ones?”

  For a second, I thought he was going to protest, but he slumped deeper into the cushions. “The bathroom.”

  “And your pain pills?”

  “Same.”

  I headed into the bathroom and found the bandages, pills, and a thermometer so I could check his temp. I set them on his coffee table, then got him a glass of water from the kitchen—the design purposefully rustic compared to Max’s, which simply looked old.

  He was dozing again when I went back, so I woke him up to take a pill. Since he wasn’t in any shape to go anywhere, even back to his bedroom, I grabbed a couple of pillows from his bed and brought them to the sofa, putting them at one end. I helped him lie down, making sure his left leg was closest to the edge.

  “Here, put this in your mouth.” He started to make a comment, but I took advantage of his parted lips and stuck the thermometer under his tongue. Then I got to work unwrapping his leg.

  A jagged scar marked his thigh—a hole the doctors had apparently sutured closed. His stitches had been removed, but a small section of the wound appeared to have parted and was oozing blood. I checked the back of his leg for the exit wound and found it to be okay. I put antibiotic ointment on a square, then placed it over the open wound before rewrapping his leg with a clean ace bandage.

  The thermometer beeped, and he took it out of his mouth. “98.4. No fever.” He tossed it onto the table next to him. “You sure you’re not a nurse?”

  “Nope, but I do have some nursing care experience.” I glanced up to his face. “I’m going to look at the wound on your abdomen.” When he didn’t protest, I lifted his shirt, stopping for a fraction of a second when I noticed the ripple of his abdominal muscles. I pushed on quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice my reaction.

  A dressing was taped to his side.

  “I only have that bandage to cover the incision,” he said with his eyes closed. “My shirt irritates it if it’s not covered.”

  “I’ll be sure to replace it.” I carefully peeled the bandage away and took in the sight of his jagged incision. Since the bullet had gone straight through his leg, they’d cleaned it up with minimal surgery, but his abdomen had been a different matter. He’d been in surgery for hours, and they’d removed his spleen as well as repaired other damage. I could see the pink puckered scar from the drain they’d removed a week after surgery.

  A stark reminder that he’d been shot saving me and Wyatt. Tears stung my eyes. Marco had almost died because Carson had wanted to kill me.

  “Hey,” he said in a husky voice, and I lifted my gaze to his. “I was shot in the line of duty.”

  I released a short laugh and wiped the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand.

  “So it was nothing personal?”

  “Then? I was just doin’ my job, Carly.”

  The and now? hung heavy between us. We’d become friends, but the way he was looking at me now made me worry he was feeling something more, which was laughable. Marco Roland did not settle down.

  “You have a small tear in your front leg wound, but this one looks good. Where’s most of your pain?”

  “Both my leg and my side, but I tweaked something in my gut when I slid in the mud,” he admitted. “I’m supposed to limit the use of my crutches because of my side wound.”

  “Marco.” I looked at the abdominal wound again. What if slipping around in the mud had torn something loose inside? Not to mention he’d gone up and down those stairs and traipsed everywhere else.

  He closed his eyes again. “I knew you’d go without me.”

  My heavy heart pressed on my lungs, making it difficult to take a breath. “Go to sleep. Rest.”

  I hated that he was in so much pain. I felt even worse that he’d done it for me. Again.

  Chapter Twenty

  I covered him with an afghan and put his food in the fridge, then took my lunch out to his front porch, sitting down in one of the chairs to enjoy the view while I ate. I could see why he liked it here. While I enjoyed spending what little free time I had on Hank’s front porch, Marco’s view was ten times nicer.

  I started to eat my sandwich, my stomach churning with worry. I had no idea what signs pointed to internal bleeding, but we were nearly an hour away from a medical facility that could take care of him. I didn’t even have internet to look it up on WebMD.

  I only choked down half my sandwich and a couple of bites of the salad before I gave up and went inside to search for his discharge paperwork. I checked the bathroom, where he kept all his supplies, and found it tucked behind a box of bandages. He had a cordless landline, so I took the phone outside and called the phone number listed on the papers. The call went to an answering service. They told me the doctor would call me back, but I didn’t know Marco’s number, so I had to find my cell phone—my glorified address book in this rural mountain town—and look it up. I worried that all the opening and closing of the front door would disturb Marco, but he was out cold.

  Desperate for something to do, I picked up Marco’s jeans and found a pair of sweats in his drawer that mostly fit me. After I took everything out of his pockets and put them on his dresser, I tossed both of our jeans in his washer along with another pair I found in his dirty laundry. I would have done
some housework to occupy my time, but Marco kept a tidy house and other than some laundry and a few dirty dishes in the sink, there wasn’t much to do.

  Except…I’d been hoping to talk to Ginger this afternoon, and I realized I could probably do that over the phone. I found her number in my cell phone, then used Marco’s cordless phone to make the call on his porch.

  Ginger answered after a couple of rings, sounding breathless.

  “Ginger, this is Carly. Did I call at a bad time?”

  “With three kids underfoot, there’s never a perfect time,” she said. “Junior said you might be stopping by.”

  “That was the plan, but Marco overdid things today, so I brought him home. Now he’s taking a nap, and I’m out at his house without my car.”

  “Do you need someone to come pick you up?”

  “Maybe later,” I conceded. “But for now, I’m sticking around to make sure he’s okay. I’ve put in a call to his doctor, and I’m waiting to hear back.”

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help…”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m hoping you can help with something else. I’m not sure what Junior told you, but Marco and I are worried about Greta. She didn’t show up to work this morning, and I hear that’s not like her.”

  “It’s not. She really likes that job, and she wouldn’t screw it up. Even if she decided to play hooky, she’d pretend to be sick.”

  “If she was scared, do you know where she might have gone?”

  She was silent for a moment. “Why would she be scared?” Her voice rose in pitch. “Is that damn Tim Hines stalkin’ her again?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve heard he stalked her this summer. Do you know why he stopped back then?”

  “I don’t have a clue. She just said he stopped comin’ round.”

  “Did she say if she got someone to intercede for her?”

  “Who would do that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, not wanting to volunteer any information and sway her answers. “Do you know if she’s been seeing anyone recently?”

  “No. I know she had that one-night stand with Max back at the end of the summer, and then she said she was taking a break from men.”

  “I know Lula is her best friend, but does she have anyone else she might turn to?”

  “Other than me, not really,” Ginger said. “All her friends moved away. Oh, wait. One of them recently came back to sort through her parents’ things after they moved to Florida. They took what they wanted and left the rest for her to deal with.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

  “They gave her the house too. It ain’t worth much, but something is better than nothin’. Her name’s Leann Burton.”

  “Do you have a number for Leann?” I asked.

  “Last I heard, she doesn’t have a landline. If you want to talk to her, you’ll have to drop by and hope she’s there.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  “More like directions,” she said, then proceeded to give me detailed instructions on how to find her place off the highway to Ewing.

  “Did Greta tell you anything about Lula?” I asked.

  “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “Did she tell you that Lula had come back?”

  “No. I had no idea. Does that mean you’re out of a job? Crap. Does this mean Wyatt doesn’t want me to clean Hank’s house anymore?”

  “That’s between you and Wyatt,” I said. “And Lula took off the very next day. Marco and I were trying to find her—then Greta disappeared too.”

  “I called the sheriff’s office like Junior suggested, but they won’t do nothing since it hasn’t been more than forty-eight hours.”

  My stomach cramped. Angie had said she’d call them too, so the pressure was on—but they likely wouldn’t do anything for another day and a half. That meant that Marco and I were currently the only ones looking for her, and Marco was out of commission for the foreseeable future.

  “Do you have a grandmother in a nursing home in Ewing?” I asked. “Angie said Greta went up there a few times a week to see her nana.”

  “Yeah, Nana Thelma. She and Greta are pretty close. I don’t get up there all that much because of the kids.” Her excuse was understandable, but I still heard the guilt in her voice.

  “Do you think your nana would be open to me paying a visit?”

  “You think Nana Thelma knows something about Greta bein’ missin’?” she asked, a little incredulous.

  “I don’t know,” I said, wondering how much I should tell her. “But I know a man stopped by the café last week asking about Lula, and he made Greta uncomfortable. She told Angie she recognized him from Ewing, but she wasn’t sure where she’d seen him before. I figured I’d check out the places where she spends the most time. Ask around about him.”

  The phone beeped with an incoming call, and caller ID said it was a medical clinic. “Ginger, Marco’s doctor is on the other line. Thanks for all your help.”

  “When you find Greta, tell her to call me.”

  “I will.” I hung up and transferred to the other line. “Hello?”

  “Carly? This is Dr. Freeman.”

  “Thank you for calling me back.”

  “From what the service told me, Marco’s in severe pain after doing a lot of physical activity? Why don’t you fill me in yourself?”

  I told him some of the things Marco had done, including our mud adventure, leaving out the fact we were investigating two missing women. “He just got so tired out of nowhere. It scared me, and I wondered if he might have hurt himself.”

  “We did some extensive work in his abdomen, so there is a possibility of internal damage and bleeding. Does he have pain in his abdomen? And if so, in one spot or all over?”

  “He has pain in his leg, but he says it’s mostly his abdomen.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Have you checked his blood pressure?”

  “No.”

  “If you have a blood pressure cuff, take his pressure. If it’s running low, bring him in to the ER, but I suspect his pain and exhaustion are from overdoing it. He underwent major trauma, and it’s going to take some time for his body to heal. But if you have any more questions or concerns, feel free to call me back. Or if you think he’s getting worse, bring him to the ER.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Freeman.”

  As I hung up, I realized that I needed to get a blood pressure cuff, which meant I had to head back to town. I’d need to leave Marco alone for a little while in order to properly take care of him.

  I went back inside to check on him. His breathing was steady, but he still looked pale. I kneeled next to the sofa and lightly pinched his wrist to check his pulse with my fingertips. It seemed strong enough at first touch, but I held on tight, counting the beats to be sure.

  He stirred slightly and murmured, “Are you sure you’re not a nurse?”

  There was no way I was telling him that I’d cared for a dying woman before fumbling my way to Drum. It didn’t fit with my Carly Moore cover, and besides, it wasn’t liable to reassure him. “Shh, I’m trying to count your heartbeats.”

  He lay still for a few moments, and although I didn’t have a watch with a second hand to count off the seconds, I could tell his heartbeat was steady and strong. “I talked to your doctor, and he says to monitor your blood pressure. You don’t have a blood pressure cuff, do you?”

  He opened his eyes wider to give me an incredulous look. “Why would I have a blood pressure cuff?”

  “I had to ask.” I started to get up, then squatted back down. “You’re not going to chastise me for calling your doctor?”

  “I’ve learned that you do what you want, and you did it because you care about me.” He took a breath. “You want to go get a blood pressure cuff, don’t you?”

  “But I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “I was alone when I came home from the hospital,” he said. “Go ge
t the blood pressure cuff if it makes you feel better. I’ll be okay.”

  I hadn’t even thought to check if he’d had any help after his release. Now I felt terrible.

  “What’s got you upset?” he asked with a frown.

  “Don’t you have any family around?”

  He took a moment before he said, “None worth speakin’ of, but I’m fine. I’ve got Max. I’ve got friends. I’m good. Someone would have stayed if I’d asked, but I didn’t. All of that’s to say if I was okay then, I’m totally fine now. Now go get some money out of my wallet and pick up that blood pressure cuff. I’m gonna go back to sleep.”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  “Take mine. The keys are in my pocket.”

  I headed to his room and grabbed his keys and his cell phone, which I’d retrieved from his jeans before throwing them in the washer. I left his wallet. I didn’t feel right taking his money. Besides, I figured Hank could use a blood pressure cuff, so I’d keep it for him.

  There was a floor-length mirror in the bedroom, and I caught a glimpse of my reflection. With my jeans in the washing machine, I was wearing jogger pants that barely fit, paired with a sweater that definitely didn’t match. I considered running by Hank’s for a change of clothes or putting on my Max’s Tavern T-shirt, but right now I felt I had no right to wear it. So I searched Marco’s drawers until I found a well-worn University of Tennessee long-sleeved T-shirt. It was too big for me, and I had to roll up the sleeves, but the ensemble looked better than what I’d had on before. Besides, I was running to the Dollar General in Drum. I could have worn a gunnysack and been fine.

  I set Marco’s cell phone and the cordless landline receiver on the coffee table next to the sofa and made sure his crutches were within reach in case he needed to get up. Before I headed out the door, I refilled his glass of water and set it down next to the phone.

  There were only a few keys on his key fob, and I was lucky enough to pick the one that locked the front door on the first try. I got in the Explorer and headed back into Drum.

  Dollar General was packed on a Saturday afternoon. I searched the shelves in the small health section for a blood pressure cuff, but when I couldn’t find one, I tracked down an employee.