by Lee Boschen
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Hard Shell Word Factory
www.hardshell.com
Copyright ©1999 Lee Boschen
1999 Hard Shell Word Factory
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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Prologue
The siren yelped and screamed as the ambulance hurtled through the night suburbs of Indianapolis. Inside, the woman's eyes flickered open.
"Our pictures,” she gasped. “They wanted the pictures for our Christmas cards."
Busy replacing the sodden bandages over her knife wounds, the paramedic thought he'd misunderstood. He leaned closer. “Christmas card pictures?"
She clutched his arm. Her strength surprised him. “They said ... if we'd give them the pictures. And we did, but they threw them down and yelled at us. They weren't the right ones. Then he ... the little man killed Jack.” She struggled to breathe, her eyes wide. “He yelled at me where were the others? But there weren't any others. When I tried to tell him, the little man ... he—"
Her grip slackened as she died.
Chapter One
Lingering over his after-dinner coffee, Richard Webb people watched. His gaze drifted back to her again. Nothing unusual in that, it almost always did. Ever since that Friday evening, weeks ago, when he had first wandered into the Prince Edward restaurant in the Meridian hotel.
It was because she was so easy on the eyes, he had decided. Her hair, long and dark—about the color of fresh-brewed coffee—fell in loose, shining waves around her shoulders. She had a slight widow's peak, and beneath it her eyes were a light color he'd never been close enough to make out. Her nose was straight and sharp without any cute little upturn at the end. Her look, when their eyes met, was, surprisingly, not cool and unfriendly. But there was a wary look in her eyes that spelled an unhappy time, a look he wished hadn't been there.
Finishing her coffee, she patted her lips dry with her napkin. Oh yes, her lips—pleasantly full, not voluptuous. He drew a deep breath.
What would it be like to kiss her?
It wasn't the first time that thought had troubled him.
The young girl with her was maybe nine or ten. About the same age Timmy would have been. A real charmer, the daughter had the same endearing lopsided grin as her mother. A grin which told him that whatever had put the wariness in mother's face had not been allowed to trouble the child. And they seemed to like each other. He thought that was a good sign.
His eyes moved back to mother. He liked the look of her. Always had. Okay, maybe her face was a little thin, but on her it looked good. He had checked for rings weeks ago. Actually, almost the first thing he had done. She wore none. So she wasn't married. Nor a widow, he speculated idly, or she would probably still be wearing her ring. Divorced? Yes, that was it. That would account for the tense look around the eyes. Make her hard to approach too. Once burnt, twice shy, he'd heard.
Richard straightened abruptly as he realized what he had been fantasizing. Approach? What was he thinking? Her? Why her? She wasn't bright and glamorous. In fact, she seemed a little quiet.
But he'd never been able to get her out of his mind. There was something—he searched his mind. Elegance. That's what it was, an air about her: quiet, refined. Elegant. He could take her anywhere, hell, he would take her everywhere. And no matter where they went, her hand on his arm, she would shine like a jewel. He knew it.
Another deep breath. There were other, more carnal considerations. He recalled his casual examinations of her figure over the weeks. Well, perhaps they'd been more than casual. Her shape was okay. No, he had to be fair ... more than okay. Nice, actually. Tall. Trim. She was, perhaps, the merest trifle hippy. But then, trying to be fair again, he reasoned that because her waist was so little it just made her look that way. Otherwise, nothing about her was out of proportion, nothing really spectacular. Except ... he'd had to force himself not to stare at her legs. Long and exquisitely shapely—he looked down at his coffee cup, shifting his position and tugging at his trousers to ease his discomfort.
It was weeks ago, when he first saw her smile at her daughter, that he knew he would have forgiven her anything. And tonight everything had come together, his heart stumbling as he finally realized why he had kept looking, week after week. He wanted her to smile at him like that. But that was crazy. Why her? He didn't know her, or anything about her. He wanted to, though, and tonight he finally realized just how much he wanted to.
She dropped her napkin on the table and began looking around for the waiter. They'd finished. They'd be leaving soon. He knew what he ought to do—go over to her booth and settle it. Ask her for a date. Put an end to his misery.
He sat turning his coffee cup round and round in the saucer. What was he thinking, anyway? One more guy hitting on her. The way she looked, no way he could be the first. Would she scream sexual harassment? If he only asked her for a date? Damn it, how did you meet someone you really wanted to know? He wished he had more experience at this. It had been six years since ... it had been too long.
"So what's it going to be?” he muttered. “You going to talk to her, or not?"
He reminded himself again how much he had to do at his office yet that night.
It didn't work.
As if his eyes worked independently of his will, his gaze moved back to her. He watched her slide out of the booth, put on her heavy winter coat and help her daughter into hers. Something the little girl said caused mother to smile. She was still smiling as she turned to leave the restaurant and her gaze met Richard's.
Jesus! He felt the impact like a fist. Breathless, he stared into her eyes. He opened his mouth to try to call out to her, but his thoughts tumbled over each other and he couldn't find the words. Her step slowed, her smile fading as they stared at each other, then she turned and hurried out of the restaurant.
Richard chided himself for his inaction. That wasn't like him. Usually, when he made up his mind—but that was the trouble, wasn't it? He hadn't yet accepted what he wanted to do about her. No, what he had to do about her. About them.
Then, suddenly, he did. Click. He felt it, like throwing a switch. It was time to stop eyeing her like a voyeur. Maybe he could still catch her. He picked up his check, dropped some bills on the table for a tip, and tossed the check and a fifty-dollar bill on the cashier's desk as he ran out of the restaurant. “Ring it up,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I'll be back in a minute."
Outside, he looked up and down Meridian street. She was nowhere in sight. He ran to the corner and looked up and down Washington Street. Not a sign of her. He was too late.
Frustrated, he jammed his hands in his pockets. Why had he waited so long to act? He trudged back into the Prince Edward to collect his change. Back to the office, he thought. Work all night again. He'd been doing that for so long it almost seemed normal, ever since—his mind shied away from that afternoon on a West Virginia mountain road. He needed to keep his mind on business. Might as well, it would be a week before he could see her again. A week. But, next Friday—he grinned, his step more lively. Next Friday he wouldn't sit there, mute as a stone. He rubbed his jaw—maybe he ought to rehearse what to say. But no matter what, next time, by God, he was going to talk to her. Get it settled.
He started back to the parking garage for his car. Walking through the tunnel to the garage elevator, he heard furtive footsteps hurrying up behind him. Cautious, he started to turn to see who it was when he was
staggered by a blow on his head. Everything turned splotchy gray and black, and he fell to his knees. He clawed at the wall to try to stand. Another blow, and he dropped into darkness.
Chapter Two
The pain woke him.
"Oh, Jesus,” he groaned. He tried to remember what had happened. He couldn't, his memory was a muddle of gray and white and black. He opened his eyes. A blaze of stars stretched across the sky.
Stars? Puzzled, he closed his eyes. Why was he flat on his back looking up at the stars? No, he realized, not flat. He lay on a slope, a steep slope. He reached up the slope, and thick grass crackled and snapped under his fingers.
Another sensation. His right side ached with cold. What was the matter with him? He moved his arm and heard a splashing noise. Water?
Yes, that was it. He lay on the bank of a stream. Or maybe the side of a ditch. A ditch full of ice-cold water.
The memory teased him, fading in and out. Yeah, the thump, the jarring impact when he'd landed on his back, sliding, tumbling him almost to the surface of this splotchy gray dream.
He raised up on his elbows to look around and white-hot pain exploded in his head. Gasping, he fell back, sliding down the slope and breaking through the skim of ice as he plunged into the water. He strangled on the water that poured into his nose and mouth, and he sat up in a convulsive lunge, coughing and gasping for breath, ignoring the lancing pain in a mindless determination to survive.
Chest deep in the freezing water, his body so cold his skin burned with fire, he cradled his head in his hands, waiting for the pain to subside.
It didn't.
He had to get out of the water. Now. Shouldn't be too tough. Just stand up and climb out. Knotting his hands in the dense growth of grass, he tried to pull himself to his feet.
He couldn't do it. His shoulders sagged in dismay. How could it be so hard? He was strong, but, God, he felt as though he weighed a thousand pounds. What if he wasn't strong enough? What if he couldn't make it?
No. He had to get out. If he didn't, he'd die. Alone. In a ditch in the middle of nowhere.
Anger at that picture drove him to try again.
It took him forever to drag himself up to where he could lean against the sloping side of the ditch. His heart thundered in his ears, and he wanted desperately to rest. He laid his forehead on the thick cushion of frost-covered grass. The dreadful pain in his head diminished for a moment, and he could almost relax. Almost allow himself to slide smoothly into sleep. Oh, God, to sleep for just a minute.
And die. “No,” he groaned. He raised his head to shout the word. “No!” The effort, and the rasping croak he made, got him stirring again. He grunted, deep guttural sounds, like an animal, as he strained to pull himself out of the ditch. His wet shoes slipped on the frozen grass, and he fell. He tried again, and again he fell. He felt despair then, and he fought it off. “Once more,” he muttered. “Come on, man. You can do it. Give it one more shot. Then you can rest. I promise."
He drew a deep breath. Again. Then, in a wild, scrambling frenzy, he clawed his way up the slope. And suddenly he was out, exhausted, lying on the shoulder of the road.
He rested a minute, gasping for breath that burned raw in his throat. Then he yelled at himself, “Get on your feet, man.” This time he managed to crawl the few feet to where he could see the cross arms of a telephone pole silhouetted against the starry sky. A telephone pole? Leaning at a crazy angle like that? He accepted it. Another part of his nightmare.
He put his arms around the pole, feeling the rough, splintery surface under his hands, and began to pull himself to his feet, hand over hand. But when he was almost to his feet, the pole fell to the ground with a crash, taking him with it. He landed heavily on his side, and the pain that flared through his head sent him whirling back into inky darkness.
When awareness returned, he lay on his face beside the fallen pole, shivering violently, the pain in his head a living part of him. He tried again to climb to his feet. But the fall, and the effort to climb out of the ditch and the cold—the relentless, insidious cold—had sapped his strength, and he couldn't rise from his knees.
"You can do it,” he told himself again. “Just take a minute to rest."
At first he didn't recognize the light as merely a flashlight. He screwed his eyes shut against the glare, brilliant as the sun to his dark-adapted eyes. But there was no mistaking the voice.
A woman.
"You!” she gasped, as her flashlight illuminated his head. “Oh, my God. Let me help you. Can you stand?"
Still on his hands and knees beside the fallen pole, he knew he was hallucinating when he heard her voice, and saw the dark shadow of a huge animal outlined against the stars. When her flashlight shone on the pistol in her other hand, it all appeared even more surreal. Was she going to shoot him? No, that couldn't be right, you never die in your dreams. Something always makes you wake up first. Except ... he smelled her perfume and he knew that all this was real and not some terrible dream because you don't smell things in dreams.
"What...?” he muttered. He ached with cold, and his teeth chattered so strongly he could scarcely speak. Clamping his jaws tight, he tried to stop the chattering, but he couldn't.
She knelt beside him. “Will you be able to stand? Please try. You've been hurt, and we've got to get you out of this cold."
How did she know he'd been hurt? “Help me up,” he mumbled.
As he tried to stand, he heard the ditch water that had frozen on his clothes crackling like dry twigs snapping underfoot. Her grip under his arms was strong, and she grunted as she strained to help him stand. He reached up and twisted his hand into the cloth of her heavy jacket, and with her help, he dragged himself to his feet. The world spun crazily before his eyes. He swayed, and would have fallen again if she hadn't taken his arm and put it over her shoulders to brace him.
"When you think you can move,” she said, “we'll cross the road and get you into the house."
He closed his eyes, and his dizziness slowly faded. But no matter how he tried, he couldn't stop shivering. He locked his knees and turned his head to look at the woman, her face a pale blur in the starlight. “Let's go,” he chattered. “I can do it."
He wasn't sure she believed him, because she wedged him firmly against herself as she took the first tiny step. He clung desperately to her as together they staggered across the road and up her front walk. In the dim starlight her house looked enormous. He managed the first of the four steps up to her porch. There his strength faded. On the second step, his knees buckled. His legs got tangled with hers, and she groaned under the strain of holding him up until he got his feet beneath him again.
And his head, all the jostling—he wanted to shriek in his agony, but how could he do that with the woman beside him, struggling to help him? Damned if he'd quit before she did, and she wasn't showing any sign of giving up, lifting and tugging at him, talking, asking him to please try just once more.
He tried to push the pain aside, and concentrated on moving one foot, then the other, until at last he managed to stumble up the steps. At the top, he sagged to the floor and began to crawl painfully across the front porch. But when he started through her front door on his hands and knees, he couldn't do it. He willed his muscles to carry him the few more feet through the doorway, but they wouldn't obey, and he collapsed to the floor, into darkness, and an end to the pain.
* * * *
"Hoo, man.” Leslie Carson strained to drag the limp form of the man across her living room. When she'd first seen him in her flashlight's beam, his bloody head and face had nearly scared her to death. Then, when he collapsed, half in, half out of her house, she thought he had died. She felt his wrist for a pulse. When she didn't find it there ... oh, God, please not let him be dead. Not him. Hurriedly, she opened his jacket and shirt and put her ear to his chest, breathing a sigh of relief at the slow thump of his heart. Her relief didn't last long; his deathly cold skin and his slow pulse combined with his violent shiver
ing to take on a dreaded new meaning in her mind.
"Hypothermia,” she muttered. She drew a deep, hissing breath. “We've got to get you out of those clothes and start warming you up.” She wavered, undecided whether to take the time to call at once for help. At last she picked up the phone.
Dead. She tried clicking for a dial tone. Nothing. Finally she slammed down the phone. She knew what had happened, and not for the first time. Squirrels had chewed the line in two again. “Why now?” she muttered in frustration.
No longer any choice. She had to act. With the nearest neighbor nearly a mile away, if she went for help, would he be alive when she got back?
Stripping the wet clothes off his limp, uncooperative body took forever. It had been a long time since she had seen a naked man, and it had felt strange to handle his body, with him unconscious and helpless as an infant. But she had learned about hypothermia, and she knew she couldn't wait to start warming him. When she wrestled his naked body up onto her sofa, she tried to handle him as gently as she could, lest she drive the cold surface blood deeper into the core of him. And kill him.
It was an hour before she was able to relax a little, and think about what had happened. She made herself a cup of coffee and sat on the couch beside the man she had rescued.
He lay under a sheet and blanket. Underneath him, a layer of aluminum foil. On top of him, under the blanket, was more foil. But already he wasn't so terribly cold to the touch as he had been.
She nodded in satisfaction. “You've been a lot of work, my friend,” she murmured. She had never saved a person's life before, and it was exhilarating. Could she really be fizzing inside? Was that bubbling excitement what people meant when they said ‘rush?'
She sat tapping a finger on her cup. She still marveled over the strange coincidence. What a shock it had been to find him, him, of all the men in the world, bloody and beaten, lying beside the road across from her house. She knew him. Well, not really, but she felt a definite sense of connection with him. And now she felt, yes, protective, as though she wanted to preserve him from harm forever. Wasn't it odd, to feel like that about him, an almost stranger? Did that happen to everyone who saved someone's life?