by Rebecca York
Still, the animal would need to be treated. And the bullet wound was something he could use to his advantage—the centerpiece of a story he could tell the local vets.
He chuckled as he imagined the conversation. Have you found an injured dog? I saw somebody shoot it, but it ran away before I could catch it, and I'm worried about the animal.
Yeah, that would work.
Methodically he replaced the man's possessions in the box, stowed it on the shelf, and then went in search of the telephone book.
MEGAN went looking for first-aid supplies and found them on the bathroom counter where Marshall had tossed them. Before returning to her patient, she wet a clean washcloth with warm water. After laying the cloth on a towel, she knelt beside Marshall again, fighting the unaccustomed sense of unreality that had crept up on her earlier.
His eyes were closed once more, and for a long moment she stared down at him, struck by the notion that there was something remarkable about this man. Something she didn't quite understand.
His voice had been compelling when she'd heard it on his answering machine. Even in his weakened state, his physical presence added to the impression of strength and power. Not just physical strength. Something more. Charisma? That didn't seem to be the right word. Cutting off the speculation, she bent to her task.
He was still covered by the quilt. With a firm hand, she moved it away from the right side of his long-limbed body. When she connected with his thigh, her fingers felt icy against his hot flesh.
Calling on rusty skills, she assessed the wound. The hole in his leg was red and oozing, ragged around the edges where he'd dug out the bullet. The surrounding skin was hot and swollen.
He groaned as she began to clean it, groaned again as she sloshed on antiseptic.
Next she replaced the bandage, praying that the antibiotic was going to take care of the infection. Otherwise they were looking at blood poisoning.
She sat there beside him, feeling overwhelmed. Then she shook herself, because she couldn't leave him on the floor.
Unfortunately, there wasn't a chance in hell that she could carry him to bed. What was the alternative? Getting a sheet under him and pulling him along the floorboards?
Grimacing at the prospect, she pushed herself up and retraced her steps down the hall—this time entering his bedroom. As she'd anticipated, the linens were stained with blood. First she stripped the bed and remade it with fresh sheets and pillowcases she found in the closet. After bundling the soiled laundry into the ham-per in the bathroom, she returned to the man on the floor.
"I have to get you into bed. Can you help me?" she murmured, not really expecting an answer.
"Yeah."
She jumped, wondering how long he'd been with her again.
"Did I hurt you when I changed the dressing?"
"No."
She was sure he was lying.
Then he asked a question of his own. "Did I threaten you with a gun?"
"You remember that?"
"Well, it has a… dreamlike quality." Regret etched his chiseled features. "Sorry."
"You were pretty out of it."
"I'm… not in the habit of shooting visitors."
She nodded tightly. "Can you walk?"
"I hope so."
"How do I get you on your feet?" she asked, turning the problem over to him.
He thought about it for a moment. "Need to sit up." After taking several breaths, he heaved his torso to a vertical position, sweat breaking out on his forehead from the exertion. Moving close to him, she squatted and draped her arm around his waist, holding him up.
He took several more breaths, then said, "You… count to three. Then… I'll push… you lift."
"Wait." Realizing that he was going to be naked again when he got to his feet, she tugged at the edge of the quilt, pulled it away from his legs, and tucked the fabric over his shoulder like a sort of toga.
Then she started to count. As she reached three, she felt his muscles strain. She was pretty sure he couldn't have stood on his own, but working together—pushing and pulling—they managed to get him erect, where he stood swaying on his feet, leaning on her shoulder. She knew they weren't home free yet, and she wanted to urge him to hurry before he toppled back to the floor.
His progress down the hall was painfully slow, with his weight on her shoulder increasing and the quilt slipping immodestly off his body as they moved. Finally, when she thought one of them might trip over it, she kicked it away.
By the time they reached the bedroom, he was naked again, and they were both panting from the exertion of moving him thirty feet.
She eased him down onto the mattress, pulling the top sheet out of the way as he collapsed with a groan. When he was horizontal, she pulled the sheet back into place, covering the lower half of his body.
The trip down the hall had provided a fresh assessment of his condition—and of her ability to take care of him. "You should be in the hospital," she said again.
"No. I'm tough."
She didn't bother to argue, because she knew that much was true. Partly because she wasn't sure how a man in his condition had dragged himself down the hall before she'd arrived, and partly because she was sure that few men in his shape would have made it back to the bed on their own feet—even with help.
"More water," he said.
She left him, went back for the glass, and topped it off at the kitchen sink.
It seemed he was out of energy. Although he gave it a good try, he couldn't push himself up again, and she sat down beside him on the bed, lifting his shoulders, cradling his back against her front, feeling like she was invading his privacy as she felt his body trembling against her.
She wanted to tell him there was nothing humiliating in being weak from a high fever. She was pretty sure he wouldn't agree. So she simply held him as he took several swallows of water.
"Enough?"
"Yes." His voice was barely audible now.
She helped him lie back on the mattress, and he sank into sleep within seconds of his head coming down on the pillow. Instead of getting up, she remained beside him on the bed. With a tissue from the nightstand, she gently wiped the sweat from his brow, then brushed back a strand of his dark, wavy hair. It was fine textured and seemed to twine around her fingers of its own accord.
Her touch must have startled him, because those fathomless eyes blinked open again. Feeling as if she'd been caught doing something illegal, she scrambled for something to say.
"You need to sleep."
"You need to leave."
"I can't leave you like this. You and I both know you should be in the hospital."
"No hospital. I'm used to… being alone," he said through gritted teeth.
"Not in this condition."
"You… clear out."
She sensed danger in his dark eyes now. Danger to her, on some hidden level that she hardly understood. Yet he couldn't be a physical threat—not when he could hardly hold his head up.
Still, as she stood up, she knew it would be a good idea to take his advice. Clear out of his house before something happened—although she couldn't say what.
A sudden image flashed in her mind. The two of them. Herself and Marshall on the bed, their naked bodies tangled together, their breath coming in sharp gasps as searing heat swirled through every one of her nerve endings.
Momentarily dizzy, she swayed on her feet, her heart pounding and her breath rushing in and out of her lungs. She must have made some sound, because his eyes shot to her face, and she had the sudden conviction that he'd seen the same image as she. That they had unaccountably shared the same heated vision.
"No," he said thickly. "Get out of here."
"All right," she breathed, and this time she took a step back.
His features relaxed, and she turned and bolted from the room.
Standing in the dimly lit hallway, she felt her mind clear, her heart rate and breathing returning to normal. Resisting the impulse to look back over h
er shoulder, she wondered what had happened to her. The vision had been like a prophecy. A promise. A promise that she longed to keep.
Teeth clenched, she shook off the notion. God, had she ever been so unprofessional with a patient? Well, it certainly wasn't going to happen again.
The bottom line was, she needed to stay. To give him medical attention because she'd promised not to call an ambulance.
Deep within herself, though, she knew that she wasn't being entirely honest. There were other reasons for her reluctance to leave, reasons that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the way this enigmatic stranger made her feel.
CHAPTER FIVE
« ^ »
JACK FINISHED THE note he was writing on Marshall, then rocked back in his chair, feeling a little surge of excitement flare in his chest. It was the old hunting instinct, he supposed. Not the primitive hunt of a man in the woods, stalking game with spear or a gun. But the modern variety—following a paper trail, adding bits and pieces of information until you had enough to take the measure of the man you were investigating.
He was still waiting for utility records, a credit report, and tax information. But he'd found out some fascinating—and unexpected—stuff as a result of checking through motor vehicles.
Not the two speeding tickets Marshall had acquired over the past five years. No, his interest had pricked up when he'd seen the long string of address changes, going back to when the PI was eighteen and had moved out of his parents' home.
Jack looked down at his notes on his interview with Rosa Lantana, who'd lived a couple of doors down from the Marshall family in Parkville, a working-class neighborhood north of Baltimore.
"I'm doing a credit check on Victor Marshall, and I was wondering if you're acquainted with the Marshall family," he'd begun.
"Is that no-good son of a bitch in trouble again?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
That had led to an earful about the family. The senior Marshall was an auto mechanic by trade and a belligerent individual who had alienated everyone in the neighborhood. He'd also beat the hell out of his sons and finally driven them away—including the middle one, Ross.
"Alice, she's a saint," Lantana went on. "He kept her pregnant and barefoot until she got too old to have any more of his children."
"There are a lot of children in the family?"
"No. Most of them were stillborn. Let's see. There were four or five boys who lived into their teens. I think there are only two who are still alive. None of them are at home anymore. Troy got himself killed in a bar fight. Adam is out west somewhere. Ross is still in the area. I know 'cause he visits his mother sometimes when the old man isn't home."
Mrs. Lantana rambled on.
Two boys had keeled over from mysterious causes in their teens. Personally, she thought the old man had beaten them to death, although there was never any evidence against him.
She painted a picture of a classic dysfunctional family, if there was such a thing. And she also put forth the theory that the senior Marshall supplemented his mechanic's income through some kind of illegal means.
Long after they'd dispensed with any material that would be relevant to a credit check, he kept digging for information, recognizing pay dirt when he encountered it.
"Did Ross get in any trouble that you know of?"
"That boy? Oh my, no. I never saw a youngster more determined to make something of himself. Starting when he was fifteen, he worked as a carpenter's helper in the summers and after school. Then he started doing, you know, handyman projects on his own. He built the shelves under my stairs. And… let's see. He practically rebuilt my falling-down shed out back. He was in college—the University of Maryland—on a scholarship, when he bought a row house in the city. His mother told me. You should have seen her face; she was so proud of him."
Instantly alert, Jack asked, "Where did he get that kind of money?"
"I don't know. But I can tell you he came by it honestly. That boy was a real straight arrow. Not like his good-for-nothing father. He sold that first house he fixed up. And he bought another one. And then did it again."
Well, that accounted for the string of addresses in progressively more affluent neighborhoods around Baltimore and D.C. Apparently he'd made a career out of buying distressed properties, whipping them into shape, and investing the profits in more real estate.
Jack slipped the notes from Mrs. Lantana into the folder. It wasn't what he'd expected to find out about Ross. A young man from a troubled family who'd made good in the eyes of the world. It sounded like a real success story. Except for the violence factor. The father had pounded on his sons, taught them that might makes right. Had Ross learned that lesson too well? Or had he escaped that part of his heritage?
Standing, Jack went to the computer room to put Victor Marshall's name into the database and see what he got.
MEGAN headed down the hall to the bathroom, leaving the bedroom door ajar so she could hear her patient if he needed anything. She'd been in a hurry when she'd stuffed the dirty sheets in the hamper and collected medical supplies. Now she had time to look around.
The room had obviously been remodeled—with a greenhouse wall totally exposed to the woods. There were no blinds and no screening, except for the lush-looking ferns hanging in the window over the large spa tub. At least the toilet was behind a half wall, giving some privacy. The remainder of the area was dominated by the tub and the curving window wall. The open vista and the indoor greenery gave the room the effect of being in the middle of the woods.
After using the facilities, she washed her hands, then cupped her palms under the faucet, scooped up some cold water, and gulped it down.
She made her way back to the great room—and another bank of windows.
The house was as open to the natural environment as it could be and still keep out the elements, she thought as she stared at the meadow and the forest beyond, the leaves taking on a golden hue where they caught the last rays of the sun.
Then the sun disappeared, and darkness began to swallow up the landscape, blurring the shapes of the bushes and the trees.
When she'd stopped at the wooden bridge over the stream, she'd imagined cunning little fairies and elves gamboling among the ferns and flowers. Now the images that came to her were much darker: creatures of the night, monsters you wouldn't want to meet in this isolated location—or any other.
She stifled a nervous laugh. All kinds of amazing images had been popping into her head since she arrived here.
Not just images, she reminded herself. There had been one strikingly memorable incident, too. When Marshall had pulled that gun on her.
Perhaps it would be smart to take his advice and get out while the getting was good. Forget about imaginary monsters in the woods. She was focusing her fears in the wrong direction—like the heroine of a horror movie who goes around locking all the doors and windows only to find that the real threat is inside the house. It was folly to stay here with a man she didn't know. A man who had already proved himself to be dangerous. And who'd chosen to live in as secluded a spot as you could find in the Baltimore-Washington corridor.
She had told him she would leave.
On the other hand, she had also told him she wouldn't call an ambulance. And she couldn't possibly do both those things. So she chose to stay and make sure he didn't die.
As soon as she knew everything was all right, she would go home and stop obsessing about Ross Marshall. That was a promise she was making to herself.
She told herself she'd been acting in a perfectly rational manner since arriving here. And the decision to clear out as soon as it was safe to leave her patient lifted a weight off her shoulders. Feeling lighter, she moved around the living area, turning on lamps, the yellow pools of light shutting out the darkness beyond the windows.
The room had been made for nighttime. In the lamplight, the leather upholstery took on a soft, inviting patina, and the wood floor gleamed.
The
massive stone fireplace was set about two feet from the floor, with a neat stack of wood piled underneath. It was an appealing, cozy environment, and she thought for a moment how nicely a roaring fire would chase away the evening's chill. Unfortunately, she had little experience with building fires. And trying to learn the skill with someone else's fireplace smacked too much of taking liberties.
Instead she drifted toward the custom-made bookcases that took up the rest of the fireplace wall. Reading had been a part of her life since she'd gotten old enough to ride her bike to the library on Saturdays to bring back a stack of books. Novels. Nonfiction. Her own parents hadn't been readers. In fact Dad had jeered at her for having her "nose stuck in a book" instead of doing something constructive. But reading had opened up a world for her that reached far beyond the confines of her middle-class Boston neighborhood. And she'd come to the conclusion that you could tell a lot about people by the kind of libraries they owned.
One thing she knew about Marshall: he was a collector. Books lined the wall from a foot above the floor to several feet above her head, with two wheeled ladders attached to tracks along the shelves giving access to the upper volumes.
She learned more as she began to study the titles—like the fact that Ross Marshall was a very organized man who arranged his books by subject matter and then alphabetically by author. With such a well-ordered collection, it was easy to see that his interests were wide, ranging from philosophy and psychology to genetic diseases and criminal investigation and animal husbandry.
Apparently he liked poetry. Particularly e. e. cummings, Emily Dickinson, and T. S. Eliot. Unusual reading material for a man who made his living as a detective. Well, it was more than simply making a living, she amended. When he'd spoken about investigating a killer, she'd caught a fervor in his voice that revealed he was on a personal mission to wipe a demon from the face of the earth.
Lord, what kind of man was he? she wondered. Dangerous. Powerful in ways she didn't understand. Idealistic. Intelligent. Stubborn. Macho. Sexy. Let's not forget sexy.