Tall, Dark and Dangerous Vol 1: Tall, Dark and FearlessTall, Dark and Devastating

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Of course not,” she said quietly. “That would be dangerous to try on crutches. I’ll get the car, then I’ll come back up for Natasha.”

  He nodded once and disappeared.

  She’d said the right thing, but there was no time to sag with relief. Mia dashed into her bedroom to change her clothes.

  “AN EAR INFECTION?” Frisco repeated, staring at the emergency room doctor.

  This doctor was an intern, still in his twenties, but he had a bedside manner reminiscent of an old-fashioned, elderly country doctor, complete with twinkling blue eyes and a warm smile.

  “I already started her on an antibiotic, and I gave her something to bring down that fever,” he said, looking from Frisco to Mia, “along with a decongestant. That’ll keep her knocked out for a while. Don’t be surprised if she sleeps later than usual in the morning.”

  “That’s it?” Frisco asked. “It’s just an ear infection?” He looked down at Tasha, who was sound asleep, curled up in the hospital bed. She looked impossibly small and incredibly fragile, her hair golden red against the white sheets.

  “She may continue to experience the dizziness you described for a day or two,” the doctor told them. “Keep her in bed if you can, and make sure she finishes the entire bottle of antibiotic. Oh, and ear plugs next time she goes swimming, all right?”

  Frisco nodded. “You sure you don’t want to keep her here for a while?”

  “I think she’ll be more comfortable at home,” the young doctor said. “Besides, her fever’s already gone down. Call me if she doesn’t continue to improve.”

  An ear infection. Not encephalitis. Not appendicitis. Not scarlet fever or pneumonia. It still hadn’t fully sunk in. Tash was going to be all right. An ear infection wasn’t life threatening. The kid wasn’t going to die. Frisco still couldn’t quite believe it. He couldn’t quite shake the tight feeling in his chest—the incredible fear, the sense of total and complete helplessness.

  He felt Mia touch his arm. “Let’s get her home,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah,” he said, looking around, trying to collect himself, wondering when the relief was going to set in and push away this odd sensation of tightness and fear. “I’ve had enough of this place for one day.”

  The ride home was shorter than he remembered. He watched as Mia carried Tash back up the stairs and into his condo. She gently placed the still sleeping child into bed, and covered her with a sheet and a light blanket. He watched, trying not to think about the fact that she was taking care of Tasha because he couldn’t.

  “You ought to try to get some sleep, too,” Mia told him, whispering as they went back down the hallway to the living room. “It’s nearly dawn.”

  Frisco nodded.

  Mia’s face was in the shadows as she stood at the doorway, looking back at him. “Are you all right?”

  No. He wasn’t all right. He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Good night, then.” She opened the screen door.

  “Mia…”

  She stopped, turning back to face him. She didn’t say a word, she just waited for him to speak.

  “Thank you.” His voice was husky, and to his horror he suddenly had tears in his eyes. But it was dark in the predawn, and there was no way she could have noticed.

  “You’re welcome,” she said quietly and closed the door behind her.

  She disappeared, but the tears that flooded his eyes didn’t do the same. Frisco couldn’t stop them from overflowing and running down his face. A sob escaped him, shaking him, and like ice breaking up on a river, another followed, faster and harder until, God, he was crying like a baby.

  He’d honestly thought Tasha was going to die.

  He had been totally terrified. Him, Frisco, terrified. He’d gone on rescue missions and information-gathering expeditions deep into hostile territory where he could’ve been killed simply for being American. He’d sat in cafés and had lunch, surrounded by the very people who wouldn’t have hesitated to slit his throat had they known his true identity. He’d infiltrated a terrorist fortress and snatched back a cache of stolen nuclear weapons. He’d looked death—his own death—in the eye on more than one occasion. He’d been plenty scared all those times; only a fool wouldn’t have been. That fear had been sharp edged, keeping him alert and in control. But it was nothing compared to the sheer, helpless terror he’d felt tonight.

  Frisco stumbled back into the sanctuary of his bedroom, unable to stanch the flow of his tears. He didn’t want to cry, dammit. Tasha was safe. She was okay. He should have enough control over his emotions to keep the intensity of his relief from wiping him out this way.

  He clenched his teeth and fought it. And lost.

  Yeah, Tasha was safe. For now. But what if he hadn’t been able to get her to the hospital? It had been good that he’d brought her in when he did, the doctor had said. Her fever had been on the verge of becoming dangerously high.

  What if Mia hadn’t been home? What if he hadn’t been able to get Tash down the stairs? Or what if during the time he spent figuring out how to get Tash to the hospital, her fever had risen dangerously high? What if his inability to do something so simple as carry a child down a set of stairs had jeopardized her life? What if she had died, because he lived on the second floor? What if she had died, because he was too damn proud to admit the truth—that he was physically disabled.

  He’d said the words tonight when he spoke to the cab dispatcher. I’m physically disabled. He wasn’t a SEAL anymore. He was a crippled man with a cane—crutches now—who might’ve let a kid die because of his damned pride.

  Frisco sat down on his bed and let himself cry.

  MIA SET HER purse down on her kitchen table with an odd-sounding thunk. She lifted it up and set it down again. Thunk.

  What was in there?

  She remembered even before she opened the zipper.

  Natasha’s medicine. Frisco had picked up Tasha’s antibiotic directly from the hospital’s twenty-four-hour pharmacy.

  Mia took it out of her purse and stared at it. Tash wasn’t due for another dose of the liquid until a little before noon, unless she woke up earlier.

  She’d better take it over now, rather than wait.

  She left her apartment and went over to Frisco’s. All of his windows were dark. Damn. She opened the screen door, wincing as it screeched, and tried the door knob.

  It was unlocked.

  Slowly, stealthily, she let herself in. She would tiptoe into the kitchen, put the medicine in the fridge and…

  What was that…? Mia froze.

  It was a strange sound, a soft sound, and Mia stood very, very still, hardly daring to breathe as she listened for it again.

  There it was. It was the sound of ragged breathing, of nearly silent crying. Had Tasha awoken? Was Frisco already so soundly asleep that he didn’t hear her?

  Quietly Mia crept down the hall toward Tasha’s bedroom and peeked in.

  The little girl was fast asleep, breathing slowly and evenly.

  Mia heard the sound again, and she turned and saw Frisco in the dim light that filtered in through his bedroom blinds.

  He was sitting on his bed, doubled over as if in pain, his elbows resting on his legs, one hand covering his face; a picture of despair.

  The noise she had heard—it was Frisco. Alan Francisco was weeping.

  Mia was shocked. Never, ever in a million years had she expected him to cry. She would have thought him incapable, unable to release his emotions in such a visible, expressive way. She would have expected him to internalize everything, or deny his feelings.

  But he was crying.

  Her heart broke for him, and silently she backed away, instinctively knowing that he would feel ashamed and humiliated if he knew she had witnessed his emotional breakdown. She crept all the way back into his living room and out of his apartment, holding her breath as she shut the door tightly behind her.

  Now what?

  She couldn’t just go back into her own condominium, kn
owing that he was alone with all of his pain and fears. Besides, she was still holding Tasha’s medicine.

  Taking a deep breath, knowing full well that even if Frisco did come to the door, he might very well simply take the medicine and shut her out, she rang the bell.

  She knew he heard it, but no lights went on, nothing stirred. She opened the screen and knocked on the door, pushing it open a few inches. “Alan?”

  “Yeah,” his voice said raspily. “I’m in the bathroom. Hang on, I’ll be right out.”

  Mia came inside again, and closed the door behind her. She stood there, leaning against it, wondering if she should turn on the lights.

  She heard the water running in the bathroom sink and could picture Frisco splashing his face with icy water, praying that she wouldn’t be able to tell that he’d been crying. She left the lights off.

  And he made no move to turn them on when he finally appeared at the end of the darkened hallway. He didn’t say anything; he just stood there.

  “I, um…I had Tasha’s medicine in my purse,” Mia said. “I thought it would be smart to bring it over now instead of…in the morning….”

  “You want a cup of tea?”

  His quiet question took her entirely by surprise. Of all the things she’d imagined he’d say to her, inviting her to stay for a cup of tea was not one of them. “Yes,” she said. “I would.”

  His crutches creaked as he went into the kitchen. Mia followed more hesitantly.

  He didn’t turn on the overhead lamp. He didn’t need to. Light streamed in through the kitchen window from the brightly lit parking lot. It was silvery and it made shadows on the walls, but it was enough to see by.

  As Frisco filled a kettle with water from the faucet, Mia opened the refrigerator door and put Tasha’s medicine inside. As she closed the door, she saw that list that he kept there on the fridge, the list of all the things he could no longer do—the list of things that kept him, in his eyes, from being a man.

  “I know it was hard for you to come and ask me for help tonight,” she said softly.

  Using only his right crutch for support, he carried the kettle to the stove and set it down. He didn’t say a word until after he’d turned the burner on. Then he turned to face her. “Yeah,” he said. “It was.”

  “I’m glad you did, though. I’m glad I could help.”

  “I actually…” He cleared his throat and started again. “I actually thought she was going to die. I was scared to death.”

  Mia was startled by his candidness. I was scared to death. Another surprise. She never would have expected him to admit that. Ever. But then again, this man had been surprising her right from the start.

  “I don’t know how parents handle it,” he said, pushing down on top of the kettle as if that would make the water heat faster. “I mean, here’s this kid that you love more than life itself, right? And suddenly she’s so sick she can’t even stand up.” His voice tightened.

  “The thing that kills me is that if I had been the only one left in the world, if it had been up to me and me alone, we wouldn’t’ve made it to that hospital. I’d still be here, trying to figure out a way to get her down those stairs.” He turned suddenly, slamming his hand down on top of the counter in frustration and anger. “I hate feeling so damned helpless!”

  His shoulders looked so tight, his face so grim. Mia wrapped her arms around herself to keep from reaching for him. “But you’re not the only one left in the world. You’re not alone.”

  “But I am helpless.”

  “No, you’re not,” she told him. “Not anymore. You’re only helpless if you refuse to ask for help.”

  He laughed, an exhale of bitter air. “Yeah, right—”

  “Yeah,” she said earnestly. “Right. Think about it, Alan. There are things that we all don’t do, things that we probably couldn’t do—look at your shirt,” she commanded him, stepping closer. She reached out and touched the soft cotton of his T-shirt. She lifted it, turning it over and bringing the factory-machine-sewn hem into the light from the kitchen window. “You didn’t sew this shirt, did you? Or weave the cotton to make the fabric? Cotton grows in fields—you knew that, right? Somehow a whole bunch of people did something to that little fluffy plant to make it turn into this T-shirt. Does it mean that you’re helpless just because you didn’t do it yourself?”

  Mia was standing too close to him. She could smell his musky, masculine scent along with some kind of decadently delicious aftershave or deodorant. He was watching her, the light from the window casting shadows across his face, making his features craggy and harsh. His eyes gleamed colorlessly, but the heat within them didn’t need a color to be seen. She released her hold on his T-shirt but she didn’t back away. She didn’t want to back away, even if it meant spontaneous combustion from the heat in his eyes.

  “So what if you can’t make your own clothes?” she continued. “The good people at Fruit of the Loom and Levi’s will make them for you. So what if you can’t carry Tasha down the stairs. I’ll carry her for you.”

  Frisco shook his head. “It’s not the same.”

  “It’s exactly the same.”

  “What if you’re not home? What then?”

  “Then you call Thomas. Or your friend, what’s-his-name…Lucky. And if they’re not home, you call someone else. Instead of this,” she said, gesturing toward the list on his refrigerator, “you should have a two-page list of friends you can call for help. Because you’re only helpless if you have no one to call.”

  “Will they run on the beach for me?” Frisco asked, his voice tight. He stepped closer to her, dangerously closer. His body was a whisper away from hers, and she could feel his breath, hot and sweet, moving her hair. “Will they get back in shape for me, get reinstated as an active-duty SEAL for me? And then will they come along on my missions with me, and run when I need to run, and swim against a two-knot current when I need to swim? Will they make a high-altitude, low-opening jump out of an airplane for me? Will they fight when I need to fight, and move without making a noise when I need to be silent? Will they do all those things that I’d need to do to keep myself and the men in my unit alive?”

  Mia was silent.

  “I know you don’t understand,” he said. The teakettle started to hiss and whistle, a lonely, high-pitched keening sound. He turned away from her, moving toward the stove. He hadn’t touched her, but his presence and nearness had been nearly palpable. She sagged slightly as if he had been holding her up, and backing away, she lowered herself into one of his kitchen chairs. As she watched, he removed the kettle from the heat and took two mugs down from the cabinet. “I wish I could make you understand.”

  “Try.”

  He was silent as he opened the cabinet again and removed two tea bags. He put one into each mug, then poured in the steaming water from the kettle. He set the kettle back onto the stove and was seemingly intent on steeping the tea bags as he began, haltingly, to speak.

  “You know that I grew up here in San Felipe,” he said. “I also told you that my childhood wasn’t a barrel of laughs. That was sort of an understatement. Truth was, it sucked. My old man worked on a fishing boat—when he wasn’t too hungover to get out of bed. It wasn’t exactly like living an episode of Leave it to Beaver, or Father Knows Best.” He looked at her, the muscle in his jaw tight. “I’m going to have to ask you to carry the mugs of tea into the living room for me.”

  “Of course.” Mia glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. “That wasn’t really so hard, was it?”

  “Yes, it was.” With both crutches securely under his arms, Frisco led the way into the living room. He switched on only one lamp and it gave the room a soft, almost golden glow. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said, then vanished down the hallway to his bedroom.

  Mia put both mugs down on the coffee table in front of the plaid couch and sat down.

  “I wanted to check on Tash,” he said, coming back into the living room, “and I wanted to get this.” He was holding a
paper bag—the bag the doctor had given him at the hospital. He winced as he sat down on the other side of the long couch and lifted his injured leg onto the coffee table. As Mia watched, he opened the bag and took out a syringe and a small vial. “I need to have my leg up. I hope you don’t mind if I do this out here.”

  “What exactly is it that you’re doing?”

  “This is a local painkiller, kind of like novocaine,” he explained, filling the syringe with the clear liquid. “I’m going to inject it into my knee.”

  “You’re going to inject it into… You’re kidding.”

  “As a SEAL, I’ve had training as a medic,” he said. “Steve gave me a shot of cortisone in the hospital, but that won’t kick in for a while yet. This works almost right away, but the down side is that it wears off after a few hours, and I have to remedicate. Still, it takes the edge off the pain without affecting my central nervous system.”

  Mia turned away, unable to watch as he stuck the needle into his leg.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “But it was crossing the border into hellishly painful again.”

  “I don’t think I could ever give myself a shot,” Mia admitted.

  He glanced over at her, his mouth twisted up into a near smile. “Well, it’s not my favorite thing in the world to do, either, but can you imagine what would have happened tonight if I’d taken the painkiller Steve wanted to prescribe for me? I would never have heard Tasha fall out of bed. She’d still be in there, on the floor, and I’d be stupid, drooling and unconscious in my bed. This way, my knee gets numb, not my brain.”

  “Interesting philosophy from a man who drank himself to sleep two nights in a row.”

  Frisco could feel the blessed numbing start in his knee. He rolled his head to make his shoulders and neck relax. “Jeez, you don’t pull your punches, do you?”

  “Four-thirty in the morning is hardly the time for polite conversation,” she countered, tucking her legs up underneath her on the couch and taking a sip of her tea. “If you can’t be baldly honest at four-thirty in the morning, when can you be?”