Under Cover Of Darkness

by Elizabeth White

  “What’ve you got, a direct line up there?” Jack demanded as he walked by Meg on the way to round up the rest of the crew, who had retreated into the carriage house.

  Within ten minutes, the rain had stopped as if turned off by a giant faucet, and the sun lit up a rainbow that streaked in glorious Technicolor across the roof of the house.

  Meg grinned at Jack’s obvious stupefaction. “Sometimes I think God just likes to make me laugh.”

  He looked up at the sparkling sky. “Maybe so, but this is just…spooky.” Shaking his head, he disappeared into the carriage house.

  Fortunately, the men were eager to get back to work. Within minutes, they’d pitched in to help plant a twenty-foot live oak, which Manny had driven all the way to Lewisville to obtain.

  Manny himself operated the front-end loader with the tree suspended by straps from the bucket. From the top of the incline, he maneuvered the tree ball closer to its intended spot, while Jack directed, holding his hands above his head and bringing them closer together to indicate Manny’s distance from his target. The other men waited nearby, ready to guide the tree into the hole.

  Meg was leaning against the extended-cab, checking a blueprint, when one of the cables holding the tree suddenly snapped. Hearing Manny shout, she watched in horror as the huge tree wobbled and fell.

  Tomás was right in its path.

  Meg screamed “Move!” and the men shouted as the tree hurtled downward. Frozen, Tomás looked up, mouth and eyes wide.

  With a speed she could only later recall as a blur of time and motion, the men all scattered except Jack. He dove at the boy’s knees, knocking him out of the way.

  He was almost clear himself, but the tree rotated on one strap, the trunk bouncing against the front-end loader. The second strap snapped with a gunshot-like pop, sending the tree arcing. The heavy root ball of the tree clipped the back of Jack’s head, then landed with a thud on top of a pile of dirt. Jack sprawled motionless at the base of the new retaining wall.

  As Meg ran for Jack, her peripheral vision caught a white-faced Manny ramming levers to lock the loader in place. He launched himself to the ground, sparing a look to make sure Tomás was safe, then slammed to his knees beside Meg. The other men formed an anxious circle around them.

  “Dead?” asked Manny.

  “No.” Meg could feel Jack’s shallow breath when she put her cheek close to his mouth. Her own heartbeat roared in her ears. Manny reached to turn him over, but she stopped him. “Wait—I think you’re not supposed to move people when they’re unconscious.”

  She probed Jack’s head with gentle fingers. A huge lump was forming behind his ear, but there was no blood that she could see. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

  Manny frowned. “We better call an ambulance.”

  “I should’ve thought of that.” Meg scrabbled for her cell phone and punched in 9-1-1.

  When the operator promised that an ambulance would arrive shortly, Meg settled cross-legged on the ground, close to Jack’s head. His skin was pasty-gray under the olive complexion, but his breathing seemed normal. The bump continued to swell.

  “We should put some ice on this,” Meg fretted. She gently smoothed her fingers across Jack’s forehead and black hair, skirting the outside of the purpling wound. “Come on, Torres, wake up!” she muttered.

  Somebody handed her a cold drink cup, and she looked up to find Tomás leaning close, his young face puckered in concern. “Thanks,” she told him and carefully touched the cup to Jack’s bruise; he flinched but didn’t rouse.

  Tomás nodded. “I am dead if Torres does not push me.”

  What if Jack dies? The thought nearly shut down Meg’s brain. Oh, please let him come around.

  Fifteen tense minutes later, Jack still hadn’t moved or even groaned. Meg tugged her shirttail out to wipe sweat off his upper lip and forehead, vaguely worried because it wasn’t that hot out here after the rain. His skin was clammy to the touch, his cheeks and jaw shadowed by a faint, scratchy beard. She looked at her watch for the hundredth time. Traffic in this part of town could be horrible, and it was getting on toward late-afternoon rush hour.

  Where was the ambulance?

  On the thought, a siren pierced the general traffic noise. Within moments an ambulance wheeled, lights flashing, into the messy dirt-packed area and backed toward them. The ambulance doors burst open, and the crew peeled out of the way, leaving an opening for the EMTs and their equipment.

  “What happened?” asked a uniformed woman who knelt beside Jack and began to check his vitals with stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. The driver and other tech hauled out a stretcher, backboard and neck brace.

  Meg twisted her hands with anxiety. “A tree strapped to a front-end loader came loose and hit him on the head.”

  “Where was his hard hat?”

  Meg looked blank. “This is a landscaping crew.”

  The EMT directed an impatient glance at Meg, continuing her gentle but thorough examination of Jack’s body. “Has he been conscious at all?”

  “No.” Meg’s voice clogged. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “We’ll do our best. Have you moved him?”

  “No.”

  The woman nodded approval. “Look, sit with him and let me ask your boss some questions before we move him, okay?”

  “Okay.” Meg looked up at Manny for support, and he unexpectedly pressed her shoulder. She gave him a wobbly smile. “But I’m the boss.”

  The EMT blinked and gave a small grin. “Cool. Okay, boss-lady, does anybody know this guy well enough to know if he’s allergic to anything? Any previous conditions or other medications he might be taking?”

  “I don’t think any of us knows him that well,” Meg said. And not for lack of trying. “His name is Jack Torres. I’ve never seen him take any drugs, and as far as I know he’s as healthy as a horse, but—” She looked down at Jack’s still face and shrugged. “I think he’s afraid of water.”

  The EMT snorted. “Well, that’s real helpful. What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Meg.”

  “Okay, Meg, scoot back out of the way and let my guys in to give Jack some oxygen.”

  Meg complied, crouching as close as she could without getting in the way so she could watch the medical team work. While the woman placed a C-shaped collar about Jack’s neck, one of the men attached a plastic pincherlike object to Jack’s finger, then checked his pulse—which seemed to be normal, if the medics’ expressions were any indication. Lifting Jack’s eyelid to note the pupil’s response to light, the male medic frowned. “Probable concussion,” he muttered. The third partner took notes on a clipboard.

  The lady tech continued to address Meg. “Now I need to know about the accident. First of all, was it an accident?”

  Meg looked up at Manny again. His whole face tightened with fear. “Of course it was an accident,” she said quickly. “Manny here was operating the machine, moving a tree over to plant near the retaining wall. It swung out unexpectedly, and one of the guys wound up underneath. Tomás, over there.” Meg gulped. “Jack took time to shove him out of the way, but the tree caught him—Jack, I mean—on the head.”

  “How long has he been out like this?”

  “Twenty minutes now, I guess.” Was that too long? Was Jack actually in a coma now?

  “Hmmm. How high up was the tree when it started to fall?”

  “About—I don’t know! Manny, what was it, about five feet?” Manny shrugged, and Meg gestured helplessly. “It hit the wall and the strap broke, so it must have been coming down pretty hard.”

  The medic responded to the panic in Meg’s voice with a sympathetic look. “All right,” she said, “no I.V. and no drugs for now. He looks good, except for that bump and zero LOC. Let’s package him and get on the way. Hopefully he’ll come around soon.”

  Near tears, Meg stood back and watched the medical crew roll Jack onto his side and slide a backboard beneath him, keeping his body carefully aligned from he
ad to foot. One of the medics removed Jack’s wallet from his hip pocket in the process and tossed it to Meg. As they lifted the backboard onto a stretcher, the female EMT said over her shoulder, “Look through there and get Mr. Torres’s date of birth, social security number, and anything that might tell us about his previous medical condition.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Come on, you can ride in front.”

  Relief flooded Meg. She’d been afraid they’d make her stay behind. She turned to her foreman. “Manny, you’re in charge. Take the men and all the equipment back to Sunset and make sure Sam knows what happened and where we are—” She turned to one of the medics, who had just slid the stretcher into the back of the ambulance and locked it to the floor. “Which hospital?”

  “Harris Methodist on Pennsylvania.”

  “You got that, Manny?” Meg backed toward the passenger door of the ambulance, Jack’s wallet in her hand.

  “Sí. Vaya con Dios.” Manny lifted a hand, then turned to give instructions to the other men. The last thing Meg saw before getting into the ambulance was Manny slinging his arm around his little brother’s neck and walking off with him toward the company truck. The other men followed, though Efrin hesitated, turning to watch the ambulance.

  At least Tomás was all right. Thank You, Lord, and please be with Jack.

  Jack came out of black, blanketing darkness to find his arms strapped to his sides, something plastic up his nose and all kinds of noise aggravating a monumental headache. Radio static, a woman’s unfamiliar voice chattering to him, and above it all a siren wailing. He couldn’t get his eyes open.

  “Shut it off,” he said, and immediately felt the woman’s ear at his mouth.

  “His lips are moving,” she announced. “Breathing returning to normal. Let’s see your fingernails, sweetheart.” He felt her mash a couple of them. “Oxygen perfusion is nearly normal now,” she said to someone, presumably not Jack, because he didn’t have a clue what oxygen perfusion was. “Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”

  “You talkin’ to me?” he said in his best DeNiro voice, which was pretty weak at the moment.

  The woman laughed. “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you, cute thing. Come on now, show me your stuff.” Jack clenched his fist and received a pat on the hand. “Good boy. What day is it?”

  “Monday, July eleventh. Is Tomás okay?”

  “Who? Oh, you mean the little guy you tackled? Just fine. Walked off without a scratch. Next time you decide to play hero, though, you might want to wear a hard hat.”

  “Yeah, I got a bit of a headache.” He tried opening his eyes again. The interior of the ambulance was dimly lit, but it still felt like shards of glass entered his skull directly through his eyes. He groaned.

  “Don’t look,” he was advised. “Just lie still and enjoy the ride.” Since he was strapped down like a victim in a Vincent Price movie, Jack could hardly argue. “However, if you’re in a chatty mood,” the EMT continued, “you might help me finish filling in this form. Is all the info on your driver’s license correct?”

  “Yeah.” It was, to a point. Deep undercover, he was given altered ID for just such a situation as this. No need to panic.

  “Good,” said the medic. “Since you were unconscious, we gave your valuables to your boss. Your beeper and keys…”

  Jack missed the rest of her sentence as a buzz of adrenaline nearly blacked him out again.

  “Whoa!” he heard through a fog, “we’re losing him again, guys. Radio the ER, tell them…”

  He didn’t hear what she told them because disaster poured through a brain that currently had the retention capacity of a sieve. He was too sick to think, too sick to pray.

  Okay, God, what are you up to here?

  The Harris Hospital emergency room was nowhere near as chaotic as the inside of Meg’s head. No sooner did she grab on to one thought than another one chased it off. She laid her head back against the wall, jingling Jack’s keys. What was she supposed to do with them? The Harley was parked at Sunset, along with her Mustang.

  When it had occurred to her that she didn’t have a ride home, she’d decided it was a good time to use her cell phone to page her father. She found him, fortunately, next door at the Cook Children’s Medical Center. He’d promised to pick her up as soon as he wrapped up his evening rounds.

  Since she wasn’t a relative, the nurses wouldn’t let her in to see Jack. Just told her he’d be kept overnight for observation. With a severe concussion, he’d be subject to violent headaches and nausea for a few days, then gradually get back to normal. Whatever normal was.

  Meg gripped Jack’s keys until the jagged edges bit into her palm. The EMT’s questions had brought home how little, beyond basic phone number and address information, she knew about Jack.

  Well, she knew that his commitment to Christ had begun to change his behavior. And that he was funny, tender and courageous to the point of idiocy.

  But there were so many things that didn’t match up. His secrets with Manny and his prison time, which he still refused to talk about.

  Lord, she admitted, my emotions are way out of control. Can’t You turn them off, like You did that thunderstorm this afternoon?

  Ha. Like that was going to happen. God might enjoy making Meg laugh, but He seldom rescued her from the consequences of her own choices.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Early the next morning, Meg parked outside Jack’s room at the Starlight Inn. It had occurred to her that he might appreciate a change of clothes; her plan was to pick up a clean pair of jeans and T-shirt and drop them off on her way to work.

  And, in the dark recesses of her heart, she had to admit she wanted to look around. Since she had a key, that wouldn’t technically be breaking and entering.

  Still, she sat in the car a minute or so with the engine running, working up the nerve to get out. Without Elliot’s genial bulk, the neighborhood scared her a little. The sky was dark with a brewing dust storm, the sun still cowering behind the buildings up and down the street. Nobody was out and about, but she watched a stray dog snuffle around somebody’s garbage a few doors down. Would it attack when she got out of the car?

  You’re being silly, she told herself.

  Standing outside Jack’s door, her hands shook a little as she tried to fit the key in the lock. A siren wailed a few streets over, and the smell of the garbage made her nose wrinkle. Let’s get this over with and get out of here.

  Just as the rusty lock finally gave, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “’Dias, señorita. What are you doing here?”

  Meg jumped a foot and turned around with her hand on her throat. She fell back against the door. “Efrin! You scared me to death!”

  Efrin Herrera grinned. “I scare you?” he repeated. “That’s good.” He did not, Meg noticed, remove his hand.

  She shrugged it off. What did he mean by “that’s good”? “I wasn’t expecting to see anybody I knew,” she said nervously. “I came by to pick up some clothes for Jack Torres.” There was no reason to explain herself, and judging by Efrin’s quizzical expression, she wasn’t sure he’d even understood her. Babbling just seemed to help. “Well, goodbye. See you at work.”

  She turned the doorknob, all but fell into the dark room, and slammed the door in Efrin’s face.

  Praying the door had locked behind her, she felt for the light switch. To her relief, it came on. She wandered around the tiny room, touching Jack’s pillow, the guitar leaning against a chair, and the leather Bible lying on a lamp table beside the bed.

  Marveling that the bed was neatly made—the last time she’d made hers up had been about five years ago when her grandmother came to visit—Meg sat down and opened the Bible. Inscribed inside its cover, in a lovely, old-fashioned script, were the words “To Jack, with love from Dottie and Vernon.” Flipping through it, she saw notes inked in the margins, in spiky, masculine print that only increased her curiosity. Here was the private side of Jack: possessions kept no
t to impress anybody, but to sustain the soul.

  What sort of man played the guitar, wrote in his Bible…and lived in a place like this? He had to make a decent salary. Did he save his money, or did he spend it all? Did he have large debts? For all she knew, he had a drug habit or a wife and children somewhere that he had to support.

  The thought made Meg’s stomach lurch, and she couldn’t help looking around for pictures. There were none. Just stark, pathetic bareness. The room of an intrinsically lonely man.

  It was then that the guilt of snooping overcame her curiosity; after choosing jeans and a green T-shirt from a stack inside the cheap dresser, Meg drove straight to the hospital, determined to dig information out of Jack. All he could do was tell her to mind her own business.

  Standing outside the partially open door of Jack’s hospital room, Meg shifted the grocery sack in which she’d packed his clothes, and lifted her hand to knock. She hesitated when she heard someone else in the room. A doctor, judging by the hale and hearty tone of voice.

  She was about to walk down to the nurse’s station to ask for a cup of coffee, when she heard Jack’s raised voice.

  “Look, you can’t file that report, I don’t care what kind of OSHA rules you break.” Jack sounded tired, upset, yet somehow in command.

  Meg found herself utterly incapable of walking away. Why wouldn’t Jack want the doctor to file a simple OSHA report? Was he concerned about getting the company into trouble?

  The doctor seemed equally mystified. “Mr. Torres, this is just standard procedure for head injury cases. Nobody’s going to prosecute you. It’s your employer’s responsibility—”

  “All right, Doc,” Jack interrupted. He lowered his voice so that Meg had to lean closer in order to hear. “I’m going to hold you to patient confidentiality here. Can you handle that?”