Bad Nights

by Rebecca York

  Clenching her teeth to reinforce her resolve, she reached for a can of pea soup in the cabinet next to the sink. Just as her fingers closed around the cylinder, a gust of wind shook the house. Setting the can on the counter, she turned to the window and saw trees swaying wildly. A loud thud nearby told her one of them had gone down. She was just thinking she was lucky the house hadn’t been hit when the lights went off.

  Fumbling in the dark, she found a flashlight in the utility drawer and clicked it on, grateful that the batteries were okay. With the light in her hand, she ran into the living room. Jack No-Last-Name was still lying on the floor, dead to the world. The nearby crash hadn’t even made him crack an eyelid.

  Her next stop was the phone, where she picked up the receiver and found the line was dead. And she knew her cell phone wouldn’t do her any good. She’d intended to charge it when she’d arrived here, but she’d forgotten.

  Which meant that she was stuck. Even if she’d wanted to turn her visitor over to the cops or have him transported to the hospital, that was impossible now.

  Once again, possibilities chased themselves through her head. He could be hiding his identity because he was a criminal. But she suspected he was trying to keep her from getting involved in whatever had happened to him.

  She looked down at him for long moments, then knelt beside him and pressed her hand to his jawline. His skin felt warm but not hot. He didn’t stir when she touched him. He’d been on alert earlier, but he was deep in sleep now. Was that dangerous? Like, what if he had a concussion? Too bad Dr. Rains didn’t have a medical degree instead of a PhD.

  Back in the kitchen she put the soup back into the cabinet and took out a box of crackers, then some sliced cheese from the refrigerator. After putting the simple meal on a plate, she carried it to the living room and set it on the end table beside the wingback chair where she’d been sitting before Jack had stumbled into her woods. Now the chair and everything around it felt like they’d been transported to another reality.

  Munching on the cheese and crackers, she shined the beam around the room. The light fell on the simple furnishings that her mother had bought years ago, and nobody had felt the need to update. The low maple coffee table. The sofa with its faded chintz slipcover. The familiar picture was marred by the unconscious man lying near one wall, and the gun she’d set on the end table.

  When she finished eating, she brought one of the coal oil lamps from the pantry and lit the wick. It seemed weird trying to go about her normal life with a guy sprawled on the floor, but what was she going to do? Sit and stare at him?

  Instead, she sank back into the chair where she’d been watching the videos and picked up the book of seventeenth-century American literature that one of the women in the English department had recommended. It fell open to the poetry of Anne Bradstreet, a remarkable woman who had sailed to the Massachusetts Colony with her husband in 1629. Married at sixteen and the mother of eight children, she’d found time to write and publish a four-hundred-page book of her verse.

  Morgan had marked one of the poems: “To My Dear and Loving Husband.”

  If ever two were one, then surely we.

  If ever man were lov’d by wife, then thee.

  If ever wife was happy in a man,

  Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

  Maybe it wasn’t as eloquently phrased as a Shakespeare sonnet, but her eyes misted as she read the lines. Once she could have boasted the same thing. Not now. Not ever again because hers had been an extraordinary partnership in an age when couples got married and divorced with alarming regularity. She’d had a match to last a lifetime. Too bad Glenn’s life had been cut short at thirty-two.

  With a jerky motion, she stood and walked to the window, trying to see something. It was too dark, but she could hear the wind blowing the tree branches. Too bad she hadn’t already called the police and turned over her problem to them. It might be storming outside, but that wouldn’t have stopped the cops from driving out here.

  And why did she want to get rid of Jack? Because she was afraid of him? Or because his big cock had fascinated her?

  The deliberately crude phrasing made her snort. Just because he had a big cock didn’t make him a good lover. Her study of sexual functioning had taught her that some men with superior physical equipment assumed that they didn’t have to do much to please a lover besides shove their dick inside her.

  Shocked by the path her mind was wandering into, she returned to the chair. Tomorrow she’d find out what had actually happened to her guest. Maybe she could even drive him out of the area. Then she’d be finished with him, and she could comfort herself that she’d done the best she could under difficult circumstances.

  She picked up the book of poetry again, but instead of reading she leaned back in the chair again, thinking she needed to relax. She’d just close her eyes for a moment, she thought as she let her body sink into the cushiony chair. That was a mistake. As soon as she gave into fatigue, she was lost to the world.

  Chapter 4

  Jack Brandt snapped awake, every muscle tensing as he anticipated the pain of another blow or another burn at the hands of men who had been taught by an expert to inflict agony. But no fist smashed into his kidneys. No glowing cigarette pressed into his thigh.

  Thank God. His mind had been fuzzy. Now it was clearer. Even if he probably had a concussion. The good news was that he wasn’t dead, and when he moved his arms and legs, they seemed to be working.

  The room where he lay was lit by a warm glow that he recognized as coming from an oil lamp. When he looked toward the light source, he saw the woman who’d brought him into her house. She was sitting in a wingback chair, a book in her lap, the gun on the table beside her, and her head lolling to the side. It looked like she’d tried to keep herself awake and failed.

  Her name was… Morgan something. She’d told him, but he couldn’t remember the rest.

  Hoping not to wake her, he took an inventory of his injuries.

  When he ran his tongue against his teeth, he was relieved to note they were all in place. And when he fingered his nose, he decided it wasn’t actually broken—just battered.

  Gingerly he touched the swollen tissue around his eye. The massive bruise was tender, but hopefully there wasn’t any permanent damage to his vision.

  Still, it wasn’t all good news.

  When he started to sit up, he felt a sharp stab in his ribs on the right side. Moving cautiously, he pushed himself to a sitting position and fought a wave of dizziness that had him cursing silently. He was relieved when it subsided after a moment. Scooting his body to the coffee table, he got enough leverage to pull himself to his feet. He waited to be sure of his balance, then inched to the nearest window where he saw the gray light that comes before dawn. Time to get out of here, if he could manage to stay mobile.

  A while ago he’d been trying to remember a name that wouldn’t come to him. Now it sprang to the front of his mind like a demon leaping out of the shadows.

  Wade Trainer. The self-appointed head of his own tinhorn paramilitary organization. The Real Americans Militia. RAM for short.

  It was a sure bet that Trainer and his men were beating the bushes for the fugitive right now.

  Jack went still. Coming up with the militia leader’s name had unleashed a flood of recent memories.

  Hadn’t it been storming last night? Jack remembered buckets of cold rain. Maybe the downpour had slowed them down or halted their search.

  He looked back toward the woman to see if his moving around had awakened her, but she was still dead to the world. Good. Maybe he could find something to wear—and find a back way out of here before she realized he was missing.

  As he took a step, pain laced through him. He gritted his teeth and drove past it. If he needed medical attention, he’d have to get it later. When he thought he had the pain under control, he looked toward the yawning darkness of the hall. There must be a bathroom down there somewhere.

  He found the
toilet and relieved his full bladder before peering at himself in the bathroom mirror.

  The light coming through the window was low, but the battered visage that stared back made him wince as he saw the bruises, the crusted blood, and the eye that wasn’t yet open.

  The woman had been using a kerosene lamp. Which probably meant the electricity was out. But maybe there was still hot water in the tank. Turning on the tap, he let it run hot while he found a cloth and gingerly washed the dried blood off his nose and mouth.

  As he did, memories of the beating zinged back to him. The bastards had worked him over pretty good, but he knew they were just doing their job. Or to put it another way, they were avoiding similar punishment, because Trainer’s men ignored his orders at their peril.

  The man was a stickler for discipline. The grunt who’d let Jack get away had made a bad mistake—leaning over a prisoner he thought was unconscious.

  Jack had surprised him with a head butt, then slammed a fist into the guy’s jaw before heaving himself off the torture table and dashing down the hall. Then what?

  He had a vague memory of stealing an SUV and barreling out the main gate, then ending up in a ditch. After that he must have taken to the woods, intent on getting the hell out of there before he ended up buried in the camp garbage dump.

  Apparently he’d escaped. But how far had he gotten from the compound in his battered condition? He had no way of knowing for sure. His guess was—not far enough.

  He gripped the sink, steadying himself when a wave of dizziness swept over him. It passed, and he hoped he didn’t have a hematoma bleeding into his brain.

  Lifting his hand, he touched the lump on the back of his head. He wasn’t quite sure where he’d gotten it. Hell, he wasn’t perfectly sure what he’d been doing just before the torture session. When he tried to reach for those memories, they simply weren’t there, which was probably a consequence of the blow to the head.

  He clenched his fists. He had a feeling that whatever was missing was important. But when he strained to recall the missing hours of his life, the only thing he got for his efforts was a throbbing skull.

  Looking for something to relieve the pounding in his head, he opened the medicine cabinet. On the bottom shelf, he found a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers and swallowed a couple with water cupped in the palm of his hand.

  The woman had put salve on his burns. He found the tube and applied more before sticking his head out of the bathroom and looking down the hall. His hostess was still sleeping in the wingback chair. Given the cold and the storm, she’d probably saved his life by bringing him inside. He’d hate to return the favor by getting her killed.

  He moved quietly into one of the bedrooms farther down the hall. The double bed was covered with a quilt. An oval rag rug lay on the pine floorboards. Across from the bed was a low dresser that held a lamp and old-fashioned washbasin and pitcher. When he tried to switch on the lamp, nothing happened, and he reminded himself about the electricity.

  In the darkened room, he turned to the taller chest near the door. When he started opening drawers, he found men’s folded jeans and shirts. From the husband she’d mentioned, presumably. He pulled on jeans that were a little short and a button-down cotton shirt that was an inch too short in the arms. For good measure he took an extra shirt. His luck held when he found socks and tennis shoes in the bottom of the closet. They were a size too big, but better than too tight, he thought as he kept exploring.

  He’d probably have to rough it in the woods for a few days. Was there anything else he could use? He found a sleeping bag in the closet.

  Again he stuck his head into the hall and saw that the woman named Morgan hadn’t shifted her position in the chair. Steadier on his feet, he entered a second bedroom where he found a couple of backpacks with useful items like water bottles, ponchos, a flashlight, knife, and wooden matches.

  Was there a back door? He’d take the stuff and get out of Morgan’s life before she was even sure she’d really brought a naked man into the house.

  Back in the bathroom, he filled two water bottles and stuffed them into the packs. Did she have any food in the kitchen that he could grab?

  He shouldn’t risk it, but the thought of food made his stomach rumble. Another good sign. He wasn’t too sick to eat, and apparently his stomach wasn’t punctured.

  He made his way quietly down the hall and slipped into the kitchen. There was a box of crackers on the counter, and he found sliced cheese in the refrigerator. Probably what she’d had for dinner. He ate some and washed the food down with water from the sink.

  Feeling a twinge of guilt, he took a quick inventory of the kitchen and found granola bars and fig cookies. One of his favorites. There was also canned food, but he shouldn’t spare the energy to carry it. He did, however, take a knife that looked like it would be useful, rationalizing his pilfering with the knowledge that Morgan would be well rid of him.

  After wrapping the knife in a dish towel, he returned to the bedroom, where he stuffed the stolen items into his pack. He hadn’t spotted a back door, but a window would do just fine, since the house was only one story.

  If he’d had any money, he would have paid for the stuff he’d taken, but that wasn’t an option. He’d just have to chalk it up to necessity.

  As he congratulated himself on making a clean getaway, he heard a knock at the door and went stock-still.

  Christ!

  Morgan was in trouble. Unless that was the electric company at the door, coming to ask about her service.

  Yeah, right.

  He wanted to run down the hall and grab her before she could answer, but racing was still beyond him. And calling out would give him away.

  As the knock came again, he moved toward the sound, judging his balance and his fighting potential.

  Morgan’s back was to him as she faced the door. “Who is it?” she asked, and he was glad she had the sense to keep the barrier between herself and the people outside.

  “Federal Agents Richards and Becker. We need to talk to you, ma’am.”

  Federal agents my ass, he thought.

  “What’s this about?” she asked, playing dumb.

  “We’re looking for a fugitive reported to be in this area, and we need your cooperation.”

  Jack shook his head as he recognized the voice as one of Trainer’s men.

  “Reported by whom?”

  “A local resident.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone,” she answered, her voice not quite steady.

  “We need to verify that.”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

  “Hold up your identification.”

  Apparently the men outside had had enough of playing federal agents—and enough of Morgan’s stalling tactics. Without making another plea for cooperation, they hit the door with something solid.

  Chapter 5

  Jack was in no shape for a confrontation, but that didn’t stop him. He was already halfway down the hall when the lock broke and the door burst inward. He was moving faster than he thought possible, given that he’d taken the beating of his life a few hours earlier.

  But he wasn’t going to let these bastards get away with whatever they had in mind for the woman who had saved his life. He kept his gaze on the two men who barreled into the room like Nazi storm troopers on a mission to round up and kill enemies of the state. Despite the false names they’d given, he knew they were Danforth and Ryder, two of Trainer’s most loyal men. But not two of his smartest.

  Danforth saw him coming and was dumb enough to waste his breath and precious seconds on a victory shout. “Like I thought, the lying prick’s here.”

  Jack ignored the jibe and put on a desperate burst of speed, bashing into the militiaman with his shoulder and knocking him against the wall. It was lucky the guy stayed on his feet because Jack was so off balance himself that he would have gone down too.

  Instead, he was able
to follow the shoulder slam with a fist to the man’s jaw.

  Danforth struck back, and Jack took a blow to his already-injured cheek.

  The counterattack only made him madder. He ducked low and gave Danforth a one-two punch to the gut. As the militiaman went down, Jack noted in some part of his mind how good it felt to smash the guy.

  It was only a temporary victory. Danforth bent over and flailed out, grabbing Jack’s foot and pulling it out from under him. He struggled to keep his balance but lost the battle and ended up sprawled on the floor, where Danforth leaped on him.

  It had all happened in a few short seconds. As he grappled with Danforth, Jack saw that Ryder was still on the loose. He whipped around, his weapon pointed at Jack.

  But in focusing on the escapee, the fake federal agent took his attention off Morgan. The gun was still in her hand, and Jack wondered if she could fire.

  Instead, she brought the butt of her pistol down on his skull with a resounding crack, and he dropped, sprawling unmoving on the pine floorboards.

  As Jack struggled with Danforth, he felt his strength failing. He was an expert at hand-to-hand combat, but he wasn’t in good enough shape to finish off this bastard.

  Still, he understood that failure meant Morgan’s death. Calling on every ounce of reserve he possessed, he kept grappling with the attacker, each of them scrabbling to get the advantage as they rolled across the floor, punching and kicking, the fight as inelegant as it was desperate. Trainer’s man was trying to get off a killing shot with the gun that was still in his hand. Jack was trying to keep himself or Morgan from getting hit.

  And he was losing the fight.

  In desperation, Danforth grabbed Jack’s hair and tried to slam his head against the floor. Jack wrenched away, feeling hair come out by the roots. Hoping to end the struggle quickly, he raised a hand and stiffened his fingers, going for the man’s eyes. Danforth screamed and jerked his head back.