by L. L. Muir
His accent was catchy, so she wanted to hear him talk some more. “So if I were to ever to go to Scotland, do you mean to tell me that all the Scotsmen wear kilts? Like, every day?”
“Sadly, no. They’re rare enough, now. Even in my day, they weren’t worn by all.”
“In your day?”
He grimaced. “Auch, aye. I shouldna said it that way.”
“Something lost in translation?”
He jumped on it. “Exactly so.”
“So what did you mean to say?”
He shrugged one shoulder like he was embarrassed. “I’ve forgotten.”
“That’s all right. I only wanted to hear you speak some more. Your accent is… I like it, that’s all.” She could feel herself blushing, so she got up and started snooping. A door led to another office. “Hey! This one has a window!”
He came up behind her as she peeked out between vertical blinds. “Do ye see the van anywhere?”
“Crap!” She pointed across the street where that familiar dark vehicle moved slowly. Beside it, on the sidewalk, was one of Bart’s goons. She figured the second one was combing the near side that was blocked from view by a line of trees. Suddenly, the van jerked to a stop and Bart, behind the wheel, stuck his head out the window and looked up.
She and the Scot jerked back, but she kept her hand on the blind to keep it from swinging.
“Do you think he saw us?”
He shook his head. “I think they decided to search here before that fellow ever looked up at the window. We’ll just have to hope they don’t come knocking on every door.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Scot went back to the inner office and fiddled with the knob.
She had to ask. “Can you lock it?”
He shook his head, and the look he gave her said it all. If Bart came looking, they were screwed.
She bit her lip and nodded, trying not to fall apart. It had been a long afternoon. If she’d caught the Trax train just a few minutes earlier, she would have been at the south end of the valley by now, hitching a ride to St. George where she could blend in with thousands of college students and lay low until she could figure things out. If St. Clair got his hands on her one more time, she’d spend the rest of her life in a psych ward being over-medicated under the orders of Dr. Quack, with regular electric shock therapy sessions to keep her in La La Land.
She’d overheard him bragging to Bart late one night when they thought she was sleeping. It was enough to convince her she was fighting for her life, not just her trust fund. And if she hadn’t known in her bones that he’d poisoned her mother and had Milton killed, she might have been willing to hand over her money just to get away from the man.
But she wasn’t about to let the monster win.
She shuddered to think of how close Bart had come to getting her into that van. If those boys wouldn’t have intervened… And then the Scot…
“What’s your name,” she whispered. “I haven’t thanked you for saving my life.”
With just his head, he gave her a little bow. “My name is Lachlan MacLean. Of Drimnin.” Then he frowned. “No. That’s not right, is it? They call me Number 18. I’m the eighteenth of Culloden’s 79.” He shook his head and paced, stirring up dust. “Just a moment.” Then he repeated it over and over again. “Just a moment. Just a moment.”
Harper’s stomach sank as she realized her rescuer was in serious distress. And no wonder. He’d been through a scare himself, almost shot by Bart with no one coming to help. No one had even called the cops.
She moved to stand in his way when he paced back toward the table. He looked up from the dirty purple carpet and stopped, surprised, as if he’d forgotten she was there.
She waved her fingers. “Hello.”
“Hello,” he said, and his features relaxed. “Sorry. I just…had a thought and I wanted to think it through before it slipped away, do ye ken?”
“Do I what?”
“Do ye understand?”
“Yeah. I understand. I do that too. I have to have it completely quiet if I need to concentrate.”
He nodded and his shoulders dropped a little more.
“So? Did you figure it out?”
He frowned again, but only slightly. “It’s passing strange. I’d all but forgotten my name, and yet it surfaced just for the asking.”
Forgotten his name? Thought he was Number 18? She suddenly pictured him escaping a psych ward in Scotland, where he’d spent most of his life behind a door with the number 18 above a little window. Maybe he’d made it to the states by sheer luck.
He rolled his eyes and grunted. “I’m not daft, lass. I can tell yer thoughts by the look on yer face, aye?”
She opened her mouth to deny it, but didn’t bother. She’d always been easy to read.
“Ye see, I’m part of a…large organization of Highland lads, and we’ve always given ourselves numbers—”
“Seventy-nine of you?”
“Aye. Seventy-nine. And I’ve always been 18 because, well, I was the eighteenth to rise—that is to say, I was the eighteenth to join the organization. Ye see?”
She shrugged. “I don’t understand how you could forget your name—unless this was some kind of cult.”
His frown deepened and his eyes were focused on somewhere far away. “Weel, I doona care much for the word, but perhaps that is as good as any.”
“You had a leader?”
“Aye. I suppose we did—”
She nodded. “And you weren’t allowed to leave?”
“Auch, now.” He gnawed on the corner of his lip. “I canna say, because I never truly tried.” Then his focus was gone again.
“Mm hmm. Well, I’m sorry you were called a number.” She wasn’t just sorry, she was horrified, but she wasn’t going to embarrass him if she could help it.
They were still standing close and it was tempting to put her arms around him and show him sympathy too. But it was awkward. In the end, she patted the side of his arm.
His attention returned instantly, and after he glanced at her hand on his sleeve, his eyes locked with hers. “Naught to be sorry for. I was not alone, and there are few things in this world that are worse than being alone, aye?”
She nodded because it was impossible to find enough breath to make her voice work when he was staring down into her eyes like he was. That idea returned—that he could lead her anywhere and she wouldn’t resist—and she just prayed it wasn’t written all over her face too.
Alone? Yeah. She knew all about being alone. But if Bart came knocking on that office door, she’d never be alone again. She’d have plenty of company in the mental institution of Dr. Quack’s choice.
Lachlan lifted his hands to touch the sides of her face. “And once more, I am not alone.” He frowned slightly. “But why you, I wonder?”
“Why me?”
“Were ye chance? Or were ye chosen?”
For a second, she wondered if maybe the guy didn’t realize he was speaking out loud. “You think you and I meeting wasn’t a coincidence?” She remembered thinking he was working for her stepfather and now she felt bad about it. But paranoia was what had kept her alive these days.
He grinned and pulled his hands away. Then he yawned and stretched like he was just waking up. “’Tis nothing, truly. Just the tail of a mystery. A mystery I mean to solve in a day…or two.”
The distant ding of the elevator got her attention and she automatically reached out for him. “Lachlan?”
He gathered her against him and stepped back to the wall behind the door. Thankfully, he held her tight enough to keep her from shaking. “Aye, lass?”
“I’m Harper.”
“Sorry?”
“That’s my name. Harper. If we end up dead, I just wanted you to know. And I’m sorry. You know, if we end up dead.” By the end of the sentence, her whisper was only slightly more substantial than her breath.
“That’s all right,” he whispered against her head. Then she could have sworn
he added, “I’ve been dead before.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Harper exhaled silently. Whoever had gotten off the elevator moved down the hall without knocking on any doors. Did they go into an office? Or had Bart seen the blinds move and knew just where to find them?
A door squeaked, then snapped shut. Then…nothing. She was dying to peek into the hallway, but was scared enough to huddle against the wall with her disturbingly disturbing savior—for days if necessary—to make sure the coast was clear.
She was about to ask Lachlan what he thought, but he stopped her lips with a gentle press of his fingers. He shook his head, leaned forward, and breathed into her ear. “Put yer arms about my neck and lock yer fingers.”
The hard muscles beneath her hands grew harder still. She reached under his hair behind his head and grabbed one wrist. She was touched, actually, that he’d want her close with trouble possibly coming through the door.
The knob turned with a squeak. But trouble didn’t come in—they went out.
Lachlan bent and lifted her by the knees, pulled them up around his hips, and used her butt as a battering ram to break the door down! The goon who’d probably been turning the knob fell on his back and clutched his forehead. She could see him over the Scot’s shoulder while her butt was used again, with a little help from centrifugal force, to mow the other two down.
Three seconds, tops.
Then they were sprinting down the hall, or the Scot was, at least. She was still playing the part of bouncing necklace/battering ram. Absently, she wondered what other uses he might have for her derriere. Hail a cab? Well, in a city with maybe a hundred cabs, and all of those sniffing around the airport, maybe not.
Since she was facing backward, she saw the instant Bart made it to his feet and reached into his jacket.
“He’s got a gun!”
Her ride didn’t react, he just kept running.
“Almost there,” he grunted.
Then he grunted again at the same second the shot rang out. Funny thing about long corridors—you can hear a bullet coming toward you after it’s already hit.
Lachlan went down on one knee.
Harper tried to get free. “Let go of my legs!” He wasn’t listening, so she had to wiggle herself out of his grasp.
Bart kicked at the other two, still on the ground. He must have been pretty sure of his accuracy if he wasn’t in any hurry to catch up.
She didn’t want to look at Lachlan’s face, to add it to the collection of people who’d been hurt or killed by St. Clair because of her mother’s money, but she didn’t need to look at him to help. She tried to pull him up, but he was too big to budge.
He touched his hand to his chest and when he pulled it away, there was no blood. The bullet hadn’t gone through. Even she knew that was a bad thing.
He looked up at her. How could she not look him in the eye? She had no choice.
“Can you stand?” She tugged on his arm again. “Maybe we can make it to the elevator. But we have to hurry.”
He stood and shook his head. “It didn’t…”
“It didn’t go all the way through, that’s all. We’ll get to the street and call an ambulance. Come on.” She put her shoulder under his and tried to take on part of his weight, but the guy was too tall for her to be of much help.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Bart dropped the guy he’d been helping and ran toward them. His hand slipped under his jacket and around behind his back. But he wasn’t paying attention and a chunk of the broken door caught on one shoe and he stumbled and fell.
Five feet from the elevator, she ducked out from under Lachlan’s shoulder to push the down button, then hurried back to catch him. But he seemed to be standing on his own.
The doors slid open and she dragged him inside.
Bart stopped about ten feet back and frowned at Lachlan’s chest. When the doors started to close, he finally realized they were getting away, so he quickly pointed his gun at the disappearing gap.
“No!” Harper tried to step in front of the Scot, but he shoved her hard. Her left shoulder smacked against the elevator wall just as the gun fired and the doors closed. She had enough sense to jump forward and push the button for the main floor while holding down the one to keep the doors shut. Once the big box started to drop, she could finally let go and help the man who had saved her life yet again.
The second shot had pinned him to the back wall, still on his feet.
She couldn’t hold back her tears as she reassumed her role of crutch. The door would open any second. They were already to the sixth floor.
5
4
“You shoved me,” she said.
“I did that.” He didn’t sound repentant.
“Thank you.”
3
“Ye’re most welcome, though I do hope ye’re credited for the heroic deeds ye’ve intended this day.”
2
She sniffed and tried to mop her face without being obvious. “I hope you get credit too.”
He snorted. “Surely…this time.”
The doors opened. She urged him forward, but he stubbornly refused to lean on her. Stubbornness also got him out the main door. She was relieved there wasn’t another of St. Clair’s goons waiting for them.
They needed to be seen. They needed a dozen drivers to call 911! They’d take the first ambulance that showed up. Forcing his heavy arm over her shoulder, she led him toward the street. She intended to let him prop up the street lamp while she stood in the middle of the road and forced cars to stop. But he wouldn’t be led. Finally, she turned to face him with her hands on her hips.
“Look, buddy.”
He grimaced. “Forgive me, lass.”
“Forgive you for wh—”
He bent forward. She thought he was collapsing, to die at her feet. But instead, he rushed at her legs and tossed her over his shoulder!
“For this,” he answered her forgotten question and ran down the narrow sidewalk of 7th East. She didn’t have it in her to argue with him. If he wanted to use his last gasp to get her farther away from Bart and the boys, who was she to argue? He’d be haunting her for the rest of her life whether he died in a hospital or on the move.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Could people survive a couple of shots to the chest?
Harper supposed, since he was still able to carry her, he hadn’t been shot in any major organs, so maybe he would live through the day in spite of getting mixed up with her.
“We can get to a hospital a lot faster in an ambulance,” she yelled against his back. Then she wondered, hanging against it like she was, why she wasn’t getting all bloody? There was a thick sash of plaid wool that crossed his body and she assumed the wounds were beneath it, so she reached for the material and pressed hard on the cloth.
He reacted immediately, spinning in a circle, sending her scarf and hair flying.
“What do ye do there?” He stopped turning and went back to running.
“I’m sorry. I was trying to stop the bleeding. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
They were at a corner. Plenty of cars. Plenty of witnesses.
“This would be a good place to put me down,” she hollered.
“No. It wouldn’t.”
Someone honked. A guy hung out his window and whistled as he made a left turn.
She patted the side of his leg. “Why not?”
He dawdled. She assumed he was waiting for the light. Finally, he said, “Because, when ye realize… Well, ye’ll only fall when ye faint.”
Harper didn’t know if it was from all the blood engorging her head or not, but she started to laugh. He was nuts. He was going to fall down, dead. Bart was going to pull up and take her away, and she wouldn’t have to worry about the poor Scotsman haunting her because she’d be dead too.
Maybe they could haunt the Salt Lake Library together. He was a pretty piece of work. Spending a decade or so with the man, looking at his face, and his knees, could be an easy way to pass the
time—until the right ghost whisperer came along and made them stop playing footsy and walk into the light.
She could catch up on some reading.
“Hold tight,” he called out and they left the sidewalk.
From upside down, it looked like someone had decorated their yard waaay too early for Christmas. And it was just the last part of June.
But it wasn’t a house they were headed for, it was another big-windowed building. It took her a second to read upside down.
Modern Display.
A glass door swung past her head, then banged shut on it. She figured Lachlan must be very close to giving out if he couldn’t think to get his favorite battering ram clear of the door.
And still he didn’t put her down.
The floor came up to meet her, then turned into green, thinly carpeted stairs. She only noticed how thin because she thought her head was going to land on it. Some things you can judge in a split second.
Finally he lowered her feet to the ground and jumped back like he thought she might go ape on him. She was too dizzy to go ape. And she was seeing things. A giant purple flower hovered above his head like it was going to devour him, like a snake.
The purple really clashed with his red kilt.
She shook her head. Maybe it was just the atmosphere that had her thinking like some designer. Or maybe that’s what everyone in their growing audience thought about the massive purple thing hanging over his head. A couple of smartly dressed men were looking at her Scot like they shared the same appetite as the damned flower. She hoped, when Lachlan collapsed in a pool of blood, they’d feel like jerks.
She widened her eyes at them. “Would someone please call an ambulance?”
Nobody moved.
Lachlan turned to the others. “She’s mistaken. I have no need of an ambulance. Would ye mind givin’ us a wee bit o’ peace? Thank ye.” Harper reached for the plaid sash across his chest, but he caught her hands and held them.
The well-dressed duo gave her a snotty look and walked away. A woman wearing an apron and a name tag opened her mouth to say something, then must have realized she was drooling and hurried off. Two other people rifled through boxes of Christmas lights nearby. Packages spilled past their elbows onto the floor. No one looked up.