by Byrne, Wendy
She shook her head and tried not to think about all the possible things that could go wrong. She hated being in charge, and wasn’t very good at it.
“Why me?” he muttered but pulled at his t-shirt nonetheless. With her help, he managed to get it over his head.
Amidst the purplish bruising, a big scar ran the length of his abdomen. Rather than new, this scar was old and ugly, a jagged section of skin raised and pink. The suturing hadn’t been done by a doctor. While she wanted to ask the when, where, and who of it, now didn’t seem to be a good time.
“I’m going to run to the drugstore and get some supplies.” Without another word, she ran across the street and picked up painkillers, toothpaste, bandages, antiseptic cream, gauze, baggies for the ice, and an elastic wrap. When her stomach grumbled, she grabbed some snacks and a couple liters of water and pop.
Her heart was beating triple its normal rate when she opened the door to the room. While she hadn’t been gone longer than ten minutes, she couldn’t help obsessing about the possibility that someone had found them.
To her relief, he was where she’d left him. Once settled, she unwrapped the elastic bandage and read the directions along the back. ‘For sprains and pulled muscles.’ She glanced at his chest. That didn’t seem to apply, but she could swear she’d seen people with this thing wrapped around the chest when they had broken ribs.
While she was trying to decide what to do, he stirred and asked for painkillers. Handing him a bottle of water, she placed her palm under his head and lifted it so he could swallow. “Here.”
He gulped down the pills. She helped him move up on the bed so his head rested on the pillow. She removed the ice pack from his eyes and used a washcloth to wipe down his face. Next, she dabbed the antiseptic cream on the cuts.
After carefully reading the instructions, she used a butterfly bandage to cover the largest cut, about two inches above his right eyebrow. No doubt he’d scar, but he didn’t seem to be the type of guy who’d worry about a nick or scratch here or there.
Next she needed to tackle that wrap bandage. She tried to ease it underneath him, but quickly recognized she couldn’t do it without his help.
“Shane, sit up so I can wrap this around your chest.” When he didn’t move, she tried to pull him to a sitting position.
“Ooouuch,” he wailed, suddenly emerging from his near-comatose state.
“Don’t be such a baby.” If she’d hurt him, she hadn’t meant to. But she’d be the first to admit she didn’t know what she was doing and was in way over her head. Being in charge wasn’t her thing. Way out of her comfort zone, she should be insisting he see a doctor. Pronto.
“You’re going to kill me,” he blurted out.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Despite her feelings of inadequacy, she was all he had. Which was really bad news for him. “This bandage will make your ribs feel better.”
He groaned. “Nothing is going to make me feel better. Now will you leave me alone?” No sooner did he say the words, than he somehow heaved himself off the bed and headed for the bathroom. She hadn’t seen him move anywhere near that fast since finding him in the alley.
She could hear him retching. While she didn’t know much, she did know that was a sure sign of a concussion.
She heard the toilet flush, then the water running at the sink. Five minutes later the water was still running.
She knocked on the door. “Don’t you dare die in there. You’re much too heavy. I’ll leave and take your crappy car with me.”
The door opened and he exited. His head glistened with water as if he’d stuck it under the faucet. Somehow he’d managed to remove his pants. He wore a pair of blue silk boxers and nothing else.
His torso was long and lean with a defined six-pack amongst the bluish-purple bruising and the nasty scar running through the center. His shoulders were wide, and his arms long and defined by muscle. The legs peeking from beneath his boxers were likewise muscled.
“You have one fine body.” She knew it wasn’t the time or place, but if she thought about the time and place and how much trouble she was in, she’d no doubt dissolve into tears. “Except for all that black and blue, and those welts and bumps, that is.”
He turned, attempting to look at her with eyelids that opened no more than a fraction of an inch. “Say that to me when I can do something about it,” he mumbled. “Where’d you put the gun?” With his eyes swollen to slits, he had to negotiate his way back to the bed with his hands.
Which brought her smack dab back to reality. Too bad. It was a nice fantasy to imagine they were here for a casual sex romp.
“The nightstand.” To be honest, even in his condition, he probably was a better shot than she was. While Enrique had insisted she engage in target practice with him occasionally, and she knew enough about guns to not shoot herself in the foot, she was far from good at it.
He moved to the bed on the side closest to the nightstand and slid under the covers. Feeling around along the top, he located the towel holding the ice and held it to his face. Almost immediately he began to snore, which made her feel a lot better. At least he wasn’t moaning.
But as the quiet settled in, she started to freak out. As she munched on a bag of sour cream and cheddar potato chips in the hope it would make everything right, the opposite thing happened.
Panic began to storm inside her and she paced the room. She didn’t have a clue what to do. Who could she call for help? Her oldest brother, Enrique, was out of the country with his wife, Sammie. Her mother wouldn’t be much help. Her sister Francesca owned a chain of hair salons, not exactly a good fit for what she needed. Her younger sister, Juliana, was a state’s attorney, but she’d probably make her feel guilty for doing everything wrong.
That still left her younger brother, Joaquin. Even though he was fresh out of Quantico and working for the FBI, there was still the fact he was her baby brother. How humiliating would that be?
There was no question she needed help. She couldn’t continue to do this alone, even if she had managed to get them both this far. It might be days before Shane could be of any help. Would they make it that long?
Joaquin was the logical answer. After they were in the hands of the FBI, she would make Joaquin pinky swear a conspiracy of silence to the remainder of her family.
She threw the bag of chips into the one chair in the room and strode toward the phone on the nightstand. With a plan in mind to enlist her more able-minded sibling, she felt so much better. Her heart rate had slowed and she could almost breathe normally.
After reading the instructions printed on the phone, she picked up the receiver and began to dial. At that moment Shane’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm with a steel-like grip.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Figures; half-dead he was more alert than she was. “I need to call my brother; he works for the FBI. I’m sure he can help us.”
His grip loosened and his voice got gravelly. “Nobody. We trust nobody.”
“But he’s my brother.” Did Shane not get that this whole thing was out of her league? If he had even the tiniest inkling of how incompetent she was, he would be begging her to call the nearest police station. Sure, she’d managed to get them this far, but how long could her luck hold out?
“I can’t trust anybody else.” His voice was quieter, much more controlled. She couldn’t tell if he was losing consciousness or overcome with exhaustion. He laid back on the bed.
“If I told Joaquin to handle things himself, he would.” At least she hoped he would. He was new to this police stuff, but still had to be miles better than she was. She was losing this argument big time and could feel the resultant spike in her pulse. Once again she began to hum to keep herself from going over the edge.
“Sometimes that’s impossible.” His eyes remained closed as he whispered.
Even though she came from a long line of strong black females, clearly he was delusional if he was putting his faith in her. She’d never be
en cut from the same cloth as her ancestors.
“Don’t you get it? I’m not ready for this. I’m not an in-charge kind of person. I get confused picking out nail polish. If you’re relying on me alone, I’m going to get us both killed.” She began to pace again, panic rising in her like a volcano ready to blow.
To her utter frustration, he only grunted and settled in under the covers.
“I don’t want to be here. I’m scared to death every second. I’m scared you’ll go into a coma. I’m scared they might have followed us here because I’m not too good at avoiding a tail. I’m scared that any minute they’re going to burst inside with machine guns and mow us down. I’m scared.” Tears rose from somewhere deep inside her chest and began to dribble down her cheeks. “I want to leave.”
“This isn’t your mess. Take my car. I’ll be fine.”
He’d given her a way out, but she didn’t consider taking it. There was no way she could ever live with herself if she left him there. Instead, she stripped off her leather skirt and fancy see-through blouse and slipped under the covers next to him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The knock at the door, accompanied by the words “maid service” in a Spanish accent, nearly sent Gabriella into cardiac arrest. She turned to find Shane with the gun leveled at the door, even though his vision had to be marginal.
“I’ll get it.” He attempted to get out of bed, but she stopped him.
“No. I will. If it’s not the bad guys, you’re going to scare the crap out of the maid, who’ll probably report that Frankenstein pointed a gun at her.” She glanced at the clock; a good sixteen hours of shut-eye.
She slid out of bed and moved towards the door. With her hand on the frame, she peered out the peephole. There were two women dressed in used-to-be-blue-but-nearly-washed-white maid’s outfits. With the chain in place, she opened the door a crack and spoke to them in rapid Spanish. They giggled and left.
“Did you just tell them we were on our honeymoon, and didn’t want to be disturbed?” Shane sat up in bed and put the gun back on the bedside table.
“It was the only thing I could think of to get them to leave us alone.” She hesitated a second. “You speak Spanish?”
“Not great.” As if those few words had exhausted him, he slid back down into the bed. “Everything, including my eyelashes, hurts. But the good news is, my johnson is working. What the hell are you wearing?” That was the longest string of sentences he’d uttered since this whole thing started. Maybe he was going to live after all.
She looked down, remembering she’d been sleeping in her underwear. Her black thong and miniscule bra didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. Based on his comment, he must have more eyesight than he had yesterday.
Self-conscious, she slid on her see-through blouse, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense. “I couldn’t very well sleep in my clothes. Like you, just my underwear.”
“Doesn’t look quite the same on me.”
Instead of responding, she slipped into her skirt.
That blow to the head must have softened him. He wasn’t the cantankerous Shane she knew, which scared her more than she cared to ponder for very long.
Almost as if she’d imagined the conversation, he immediately went back to sleep.
* * *
After checking Shane one more time, she peered out the door. She hated to leave him, but there were things she had to get, namely food and a change of clothes.
She’d spotted a big box store when they came into town the other morning. Although it was not a place she’d ever shopped, it seemed like a logical place to get what they needed.
Wearing a leather skirt, see-through blouse, and four-inch heels, and attracting a little more attention than she would have liked, she made her way, aisle by aisle, through the vast space. Starting with necessities, she picked up whatever she could think of.
Shane’s clothes were bloody and ripped. Once he came around, he’d definitely need something to help him blend in until they could take the next step. Since she’d checked the size of his discarded clothes before she left, it was easy to pick up a pair of jeans and a couple of t-shirts and something warmer for him. After adding some underwear and socks, she was on her way to the women’s section.
Ignoring the finicky voice in her head about lack of designer labels, she rummaged through the racks for her size. Once she found some t-shirts, jeans, a sweatshirt, gym shoes, and underwear, she went through the food department, picking up snacks to help them through the next day or so. Then she hit the electronics section, finding a charger for the iPod—a necessity, as far as she was concerned—as well as a charger for her phone. With the wad of cash Shane had stashed in his trunk, she had more than enough to pay for the purchases.
While not gone long, she felt as if she’d been away for days. A nagging kind of fear twittered at her spine. With his eyesight as poor as it was, she hadn’t bothered to leave him a note, but felt guilty at the idea he might wake up and think she’d left him. And she still had this feeling that something bad was about to happen.
Being in charge was not good for her. She didn’t have the steel nerves required. And never would. Didn’t this prove it? She was jumping at shadows and imagining things that weren’t there.
Shane. He had to be all right. Her premonition was simply a case of paranoia after all she’d been through.
She was pushing the cart out the automatic doors when the headline of the newspaper in one of those old-fashioned metal machines caught her attention. Chicago Bar Owner Sought for Questioning. Putting some change into the slot, she pulled out a copy and scanned the article. The police believed it was Shane who’d shot Mack, or at least he was wanted for questioning, which she knew in cop-speak meant he was halfway to trial. That was ridiculous. She’d seen who killed Mack and it wasn’t Shane.
She’d known when they left town, as Shane had insisted, that they were making a mistake. Of all the times for her to ignore her intuition, that had definitely not been the time.
At a convenience store, she picked up another local paper as well as the Chicago Sun Times, the Chicago Tribune, and the Daily Herald. Once she returned to the hotel she could scour each and every one of them, compare the details, and find out how much trouble Shane was in. With a little luck, he’d be coherent enough to help.
Unfortunately he was still passed out cold, pretty much in the same position she’d left him, when she returned to the motel room. She fanned the newspapers out on the small table next to the chair, finding a similar article in each and every one.
With each account, she became more and more anxious. A small, grainy-looking picture of Shane was featured in each paper. The police were asking for the public’s help in finding him. The papers didn’t give a lot of detail other than to say there was a murder weapon found at the scene and that there had been an altercation between Shane and Mack. But it was the Chicago Tribune that convinced her things were much worse than she possibly could have imagined.
Gabriella was mentioned as having been seen with him last. Which didn’t make sense. He hadn’t been around all night long, and Mack was killed after closing. That fact could be easily verified.
Who could put her and Shane together except for the men who were shooting at them when they left town? And why would they volunteer information to the police that might possibly implicate themselves unless they were sure they were free from scrutiny.
Hungry for more information, she turned on the TV. Pacing the room, she waited for the news. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to see more coverage about what had happened or if she was fearful there’d be even more attention about the incident.
Unfortunately, it was the lead story in the news report. There was a big honking picture of Shane and a plea for help in finding him. Oh my God. This was infinitely worse than she’d thought.
At just over the state line, the one thing she knew for sure was they were much too close to Chicago to be safe for very long. It would only be a matter o
f time before they were discovered.
She gathered up their things, changed into her new purchases, put a baseball hat on Shane’s head, and, with not much help from him, got him dressed.
She looked at a map and picked a spot. North seemed as logical a choice as any. From what she could tell, Madison, Wisconsin looked like a fairly large town where they could blend in, regroup, and wait until Shane recovered enough to figure a way out of this mess.
“Shane, we have to get out of here.” She opened the door and glanced both ways. When a police car circled the block, she held her breath and slammed the door shut.
After a litany of ‘pleez, oh pleez, oh pleez’ she peered out the door once again. Not a police car in sight. Still, they needed to move on.
First she brought their things to the car. Then, after some maneuvering, she managed to get Shane safely inside. Her heart had to have been beating at least twice its normal rate until they were safely on the road.
* * *
Gabriella settled them into the new motel using yet another set of plates on the car. Although the motel was almost identical to the last place, one step above a dive, she felt a whole lot better being further away. Here there were no Chicago newspapers in the stores, and there were no broadcasts of Chicago TV stations.
Using the music on Shane’s iPod to soothe her fears, she was singing when she heard Shane.
“Damn, Gabriella, you have a great voice.” Shane’s voice sounded hoarse, as if it had been strained. “Could I have some water?”
“You’re awake. Thank God. I thought for sure you were in a coma. I’ve been going absolutely stir crazy with no one to talk to and nothing to do but watch TV. If not for alternating between your iPod and mine, I would have gone stark raving mad.” Jumping up, she grabbed a bottle of water and handed it to him. She couldn’t believe how much better she felt now that his eyes were actually open. Desperate to transfer responsibility, she figured a partially recovering Shane had to be better than her.