by Rebecca York
The mobster was propped up against the pillows, facing the TV, but he appeared to be dozing.
Zane clicked on the recording function of his phone before waking his quarry with a loud greeting. “Hello, Tuckerman,”
The man whipped to the side, reaching toward the drawer in the bedside table.
“Don’t go for a weapon,” Zane ordered, or I’ll put a bullet in your chest. And nobody will think it’s anything but your TV cops and robbers show.”
The man went very still, then flopped back against the pillow.
“What do you want?” he croaked.
“Answers.”
He saw the thug’s lips firm.
“Guys you work with broke into Angelo Lucci’s house and killed him. They ended up disabled, and whoever hired them hired you to go after his niece.”
Tuckerman blinked and sat up straighter. Unaccountably, he grinned. “You got that all screwed up,” he said.
“Set me straight. Who are you working for?”
The grin turned defiant. “Like I’m gonna tell you.”
“Why were you following Francesca? What were you paid to do?”
The man didn’t answer.
As the sound of shots started up on the TV again, Zane aimed the gun toward the end of the bed near one of the thug’s feet and fired into the mattress.
The man screamed. “Jesus Christ, what are you doing?”
“There’s more where that came from,” Zane growled. Next time I won’t miss your foot.”
The thug licked his lips, apparently calculating how little he could say and not get shot.
“I wasn’t in on the part at the house,” he said. “We was hired afterwards to round up the girl.”
Zane snorted. “There were two guys at the house and three following her. It was a big operation. Murder and arson.”
“It wasn’t murder.”
“Oh sure. What’s your version of events?”
“I’ll get in bad trouble if I tell you.”
Zane knew the guy was stalling and that he was also afraid. “You’re in bad trouble now,” he shot back.
“It was a setup, but it didn’t go the way it was supposed to.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I guess you’re gonna find out.”
Before Zane could work his way through that comment, the whole dynamics of the scene shifted abruptly as one of the large flowerpots from outside came crashing against the window.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Tuckerman pulled the gun from the drawer in his bedside table. He and the man fired at the same time. The thug’s aim was off, and his shot hit Zane’s left arm.
Zane’s bullet went into the man’s chest, and he fell back against the pillows.
In the next moment, Zane felt a gun poking into his back. And he knew in a flash of sick realization that someone had come into the house behind him.
Chapter Thirteen
“You son of a bitch,” a gravelly voice growled. “You killed Connie.”
Before the newcomer could obliterate Zane’s spinal cord, he heard a loud cracking sound, and the man behind him went down.
Whirling, he saw Francesca standing in the hallway and shattered shards of another flowerpot on the floor around the intruder’s head.
“Thanks,” he said, looking from her to the man on the floor.
“I saw him through the window. I knew it would be too late if I called you on the phone. I didn’t know what else to do besides throw something at the window.”
“And then you came around in back of him.”
She nodded.
“And saved my life,” he added, before dragging in a breath and steadying himself. He weighed the pros and cons of searching the house. He wanted to see what he could find, but were the police already on the way? The shots could be mistaken for the TV show, but the flowerpot crashing against the window was another matter. Then there was his arm, which had started to throb. He could move it, and he thought the bullet had missed the bone. But was it still in there, or had it gone through? He’d have to find that out later.
He looked at the dead man slumped on the bed. Zane had shot in self-defense, but he’d also invaded Tuckerman’s house, which meant that getting the police involved was a bad idea.
“We’d better get out of here,” he said. “Did you touch anything?”
“The doorknob. The flowerpots,” she answered.
He gestured toward the shards on the floor. “Wipe off the bigger pieces with your shirt.”
As she stooped to comply, he saw that his arm was bleeding. Damn!
When he pulled off his shirt and wrapped it around the wound, she caught her breath.
“You’re hurt.”
“Not much. Check for blood on the floor.”
She made a sound of distress but bent to inspect the place where he’d been standing.
Ignoring the throbbing pain, he turned to the chest of drawers where he found several more tee shirts. He wrapped one over the makeshift bandage he’d already applied to his arm. After using another to wipe the drawer handles, he pulled on the shirt, which was miles too big.
Looking up, he saw Francesca had straightened and was staring at him.
“The floor okay?” he asked.
“I think so,” she whispered.
“Let’s beat it.” Crossing the room, he stepped over the assassin on the floor.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“His housemate. I assume. Maybe one of the other guys who was following us a couple of days ago. But I don’t want to stop now and turn him over.” Zane reached into the man’s pocket. Finding a wallet, he removed it and took it with him.
On the way down the hall, he opened a door and looked into the other bedroom. It was similar to Tuckerman’s, with bedclothes in casual disarray, as well as a nightstand, chest and TV.
Knowing they were out of time, Zane turned to Francesca.
“Gotta get out of here.”
“I know.”
He led her into the living room and out the door.
“Use your tee shirt to hold the knob,” he said, hearing the weakness in his voice.
“What about the other flowerpot?”
“Did it shatter after it hit the glass?”
“Yes.”
“Leave it.”
Francesca gave him a sharp look. “You’re going into shock. You need to lie down.”
“Yeah,” he admitted
She put her arm around him, holding him close, and it was tempting to lean too much of his weight on her. Once outside, they crossed the yard and headed down the sidewalk, hip to hip, two lovers out late, perhaps coming home from a party.
“Anybody looking at us?” he asked.
She surveyed their surroundings as they walked back to their rental. “Not unless they’re hiding behind the window curtains.”
That was a possibility, of course. He said only, “Okay. Good.”
They kept heading toward the car, and he wished he hadn’t parked so far away. He had been holding himself together with spit and packing tape, but the tape was beginning to shred. He gritted his teeth, hoping he was going to make it out of the neighborhood under his own power. When they finally reached the Chevy, he unlocked the passenger door and collapsed into the seat, struggling to keep himself from revealing how little reserve he had left.
She gave him a long look. “I guess I’m going to drive.”
###
Francesca closed Zane’s door, walked around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. When she saw he hadn’t hooked his seat belt, she reached across him, pulled out a length of shoulder strap and struggled with the metal catch, cursing silently when she couldn’t quite snap it into place.
After she finally hooked it, she took care of her own belt and started the engine.
“Turn off the recorder on the phone,” he whispered.
“Oh, right.”
She closed the app. She had to get out of the neighborhoo
d, but she wished she had a better idea of the way home.
She kept expecting to see police cars coming in the other direction, speeding toward Tuckerman’s house. But they were the only ones moving through the early morning hours as she headed toward the highway.
When she cleared the neighborhood, she wondered what she was going to do next. Zane had been driving, and she hadn’t been paying a lot of attention to the route. She wasn’t even sure if she could get back to the last place they’d been—the bar.
She could feel the burner phone in her pocket. Probably it didn’t have a navigational app. But she knew the marina was on a river off the Gulf. What was it called? Cypress Grove? No Cypress Creek. Maybe she could look up the address in a phone book, for all the good that was going to do her.
As she drove slowly west, she kept sliding glances at Zane. He had cranked back his seat and was lying with his eyes closed. Maybe if she kept going toward the coast, she could figure out where to find the marina, but that would be wasting time when she should be seeing how bad his wound was and tending to him.
It made her stomach knot to think about bothering him when he needed to sleep, but she knew she wasn’t going to get home without some help.
Angry with herself for being a total screwup, she asked softly, “Are you awake?”
He stirred in his seat and opened his eyes, looking disoriented, but he answered, “Yes.”
She dragged in a breath and let it out before admitting, “We went to the bar first. I don’t know how to get back to the marina.”
“Can you get to Route 41?” he asked in a slurred voice.
“I’m not sure.”
“Give me a minute.” He winced as he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his personal phone, not the burner. As she drove, he got his nav app and turned it on. It was already programed for the marina. After setting the phone in the cup holder near the dashboard, he collapsed into the seat.
She looked at his arm. Blood had seeped through the tee shirt bandage, but it wasn’t bleeding freely. That must mean the bullet hadn’t hit an artery. Making a quick decision, she decided the best thing was to get him back to the boat.
But as she drove, she couldn’t stop guilty thoughts from chasing themselves around in her mind. Zane had found her in trouble on the beach near her uncle’s house. He’d done everything he could to help her. She’d felt a rush of connection to him, and she knew he’d felt it too.
Now he’d been shot—trying to figure out why the thugs had killed her uncle and why they were after her. It was only because she’d been looking in the window that he hadn’t gotten killed by the man who came up behind him. At least she could give herself credit for that. But she hadn’t been much help to him otherwise. In fact, as she contemplated her behavior from his point of view, she saw herself as an ungrateful jerk.
The trip seemed to take forever, and she thanked God when she finally saw the sign for the marina. Guilt was still swirling in her brain as she pulled onto the access road and returned to the spot they’d left in the parking lot. With a sigh of relief, she cut the engine and sat for a moment, glad that she’d actually made it.
At this hour of the morning, everything was dark and quiet, and she saw no lights in the office or in any of the boats, although there were lights along the edges of the dock.
Zane hadn’t said a word since he’d put the phone in the cup holder. Pulling into the space hadn’t awakened him, and when she touched his forehead, his skin was wet and clammy and his body was shivering. Did he have a fever, or was this just a reaction to the trauma of getting shot?
“We’re home,” she murmured. “You have to wake up.”
His body jerked, and she saw him reaching for his gun.
Quickly, she put her hand on his arm. “It’s okay. It’s just me. We need to get you onto the boat. I don’t think I can carry you.”
“Right,” he answered, his voice barely audible.
“We have to make sure neither one of us falls off the dock and into the water.”
He managed what she assumed was an attempt at a laugh.
She put his phone in her own pocket and came around to his side of the car, where she unbuckled his seat belt.
“There’s a first aid kit in my suitcase,” he said.
He grunted as she helped him out of the car. When he wavered on unsteady legs, she put her arms around his waist and took as much of his weight as she could. As she pulled him close, she could feel him shivering. She thanked God he’d made it this far, as they climbed onto the dock. It was wide enough for the two of them to walk abreast. But as they started up the boards, she had to keep him from listing toward the water. It was the longest and slowest thirty yards she had ever walked, and when they reached the Lady Slipper, she sighed with relief. But there was still the problem of getting him from the dock to the boat.
“I can’t hold you and pull the boat in,” she whispered.
“I’ll manage.” He slumped against a piling.
Hoping he could stay upright for a little while on his own, she pulled on the rope and brought the craft closer. Still, she could picture him pitching into the water as he tried to board.
“Let’s sit down,” she said, helping him lower himself to the weathered boards. When he’d done that, she climbed onto the bench seat at the edge of the rear deck, then reached for Zane, easing him up and then across the gap between the boat and the dock.
He landed heavily on the bench and sat breathing hard, his shoulders slumped.
“We made it,” she breathed.
Lifting his head, he said, “Check to make sure there’s nobody else on board.”
She hadn’t thought of that, but she knew it was an excellent idea. Quickly she turned on some of the battery-powered lights, then inspected the craft, looking into the bedrooms, the head, and into the storage hatch under the prow before coming back for Zane.
“All clear,” she reported when she returned.
He’d already made it into the main cabin. Lurching down the companionway, he plopped onto his bunk.
After pulling off his shoes and settling him on the mattress, she rummaged through his tool case for the kit. He’d said it was for first aid. She hoped it was a bit more substantial than that.
In the dining area, she looked through the kit. There was a packet of antibiotic tablets, and she figured he’d better start taking those to ward off an infection.
She helped him sit up on the bunk and gave him a glass of bottled water and two tablets which he took before flopping down again. Then she got to the part she’d been dreading—looking at the wound.
With more water, a little soap, and one of the tee shirt bandages, she started gingerly washing off the blood, watching Zane’s face to make sure she wasn’t hurting him too much. When the area was clean, she saw that the bullet had gone into the flesh at the outside of his arm, about four inches from the shoulder. There was an entrance wound and an exit wound, so she had to conclude that the bullet wasn’t still inside him. Thank you, God.
“The bullet exited?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“You need to put antiseptic on it, then a bandage. When am I supposed to take another pill?”
She looked at the packet. “It’s two to start, then one a day for four more days.”
When she finished taking care of the wound, he lay back with a soft grunt.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Getting caught.”
She made a dismissive sound. “There was no way to know he had a roommate who would be coming home.”
“Should have checked the other bedroom.”
She would have protested, but sapping his strength by getting into an argument was a dumb idea. If anyone should be sorry, it was her. For dragging him into this in the first place.
“Give me your gun before you go to sleep,” she said.
“You know how to use it?”
“Yes. My dad thought tha
t knowing how to use a weapon correctly was an important skill.”
Zane upholstered the weapon, and she took it with her as she made another trip around the boat, dousing the few lights she’d turned on.
Returning, she pushed back the curtain that closed off his room and secured it with the tieback. He was still shivering, and she found blankets in the drawers under the bunk and laid them over him.
“Thanks,” he murmured without opening his eyes. She longed to get in bed with him and lend him her warmth. But the surface was small and she didn’t want to crowd him.
Instead she opened the curtain on her own cabin so she could see him. Really, they were only a few yards away, and she’d be able to get to him quickly if he needed her.
She thought she should stay awake, but that was impossible. Despite the unease she was feeling, she dropped off quickly—only to awaken, she wasn’t sure how much later, feeling disoriented. It took only a moment to remember she was on the boat Zane had rented, and he’d been shot.
That reality was brought home when she heard him moan. Leaping out of bed, she crossed the companionway and hurried to his side. In the dim illumination that came in from the overhead lights on the dock, she could tell he was lying on the bunk with his eyes closed. His head was rolling from side to side, and he was saying something. It sounded like “Taranis, Epona, Cerridwen,”
The words were strange, not English. They might have been some kind of otherworldly chant, and they gave her a shivery feeling.
“Zane?” she whispered.
He didn’t seem to hear her, and the strange syllables coming out of his mouth grated along her nerve endings. It was too dark to see him clearly, but did his face look somehow different? Were the contours changing? To what? Oh Lord, what was happening?
Chapter Fourteen
Fear zinged through Francesca. What she was seeing and hearing made her feel like she was standing in a cold wind, unable to stop shivering.
Raising her voice, she shouted, “Zane!” At the same time she gripped his good shoulder and shook him. To her vast relief, the chanting stopped and his eyes snapped open. At first it seemed like he had been pulled from the middle of some scene that wasn’t part of reality. Then the look in his eyes changed, and he focused on her.