by Sharon Sala
He glanced out the window, swallowing past the knot in his throat and willing himself not to panic. After all, she was as unpredictable as the cat for whom she’d been named. If fate stayed true to form, she might only have used up her third life, which meant there should still be six left to go.
Damn the woman. He hadn’t meant to fall in love with her. He didn’t want to care what she’d done to herself, but it was too late. He cared. God, he cared so much he ached.
He was in such a state of confusion that the taxi driver was pulling into the hotel parking lot before Wilson realized they had arrived. All at once, he panicked. How could he do this? She hadn’t told him what room she was in, but he wanted to play this low-key. If she was hurt bad, she wouldn’t answer the phone, and they weren’t going to tell him her room number outright. He wasn’t sure what to do first, and then he saw her car. She might have left a clue in there, he thought.
“Let me out here,” he told the cabbie.
The driver hit the brakes and put the car in Park. He was about to get out and open the door for Wilson, but Wilson beat him to it. He handed a pair of twenties to the man, who grinned broadly at the overpayment and quickly drove away before the Americano loco could change his mind, leaving Wilson to see if he could spot anything through the windows of Cat’s vehicle that might tell him what room she was in. But when he tried the door, to his shock, he found that the car was unlocked.
He opened the door quickly, then froze. Even from where he was standing, the first thing he saw was the dried blood—on everything. On the steering wheel, the floor-boards—all over the front seats. He reached toward a dried smear, then stopped and straightened back up, taking long breaths of air, trying desperately to counter the nausea. When he had himself together enough to dare a second look, he found something even more disturbing. The keys were still in the ignition. He couldn’t imagine what shape she’d been in to abandon her things like this.
“Oh, God, oh, baby…what did he do to you?” he muttered.
In desperation, he began tearing through the papers in the front seat, as well as some that had fallen onto the back floorboard. He spotted a handful of papers on the passenger seat that had the hotel name on them. It didn’t take him long to find her room number. Room 204.
Finally…the answer he needed.
He took the keys out of the ignition and pocketed them after he shut and locked the car. Within seconds, he was inside the hotel, then running up the stairs. He exited one level up and began moving down the hallway at a fast clip, counting room numbers as he went. It wasn’t until he looked down that he realized he was also following a trail of blood drops on the carpet runner. His trek took a turn at the end of a long hallway. His heart was hammering, his gut in knots. He paused for a moment, reading the signs, then took a quick right before he found her room.
The do-not-disturb door-hanger was out. At least she’d been aware enough when she’d gotten to her room to know she had to keep out the maids. But at the same time, he couldn’t get in, and picking the lock wasn’t possible, not with the computer-generated key cards hotels used these days. That left him with no other option but to knock, then call out.
“Cat! Cat! It’s me, Wilson. Let me in!”
He knocked again, then waited. As best he could tell, no one was moving inside. He pounded on the door again, this time louder, this time shouting louder. Again, no one answered.
At that moment a dark-eyed woman in a maid’s uniform peeked out of the room across the hall.
Wilson heard the sound and turned abruptly. Thank God. Housekeeping. They had passkeys. He pointed to the door.
“You need to let me in. My friend is hurt.”
The little maid shrugged. “No hablo inglés.”
Wilson wiped a shaky hand across his face, trying to concentrate on the bits of Spanish he knew. Then he saw the blood spots on the carpet, and grabbed her arm and pointed, showing her that they stopped at the door.
The maid’s eyes widened as she recognized the blood.
“Mi amiga…muy mal,” Wilson said. He couldn’t remember the word for hurt or injured, but he’d just told her his friend was bad. Maybe she would put the blood and his broken Spanish together and figure out what he meant. Then he remembered another word that might get him in. “Muerte…muerte.”
She gasped.
He wasn’t sure if he’d just told the maid that Cat was dead or murdered, but either way, he saw understanding spreading across her face. He pointed to her passkey, then pointed to the door over and over, until the woman finally relented.
Nervously, she stepped past Wilson, slid the passkey into the slot, then gasped when he jostled past her. Curious, she followed him inside. Both of them saw Cat at the same time. She was lying on her side on the floor, between the sofa and the coffee table. Her clothes were stained with so much dried blood that Wilson couldn’t tell what color they’d been originally.
The maid cried out, then covered her face.
Wilson didn’t blame her. He wanted to cover his face, too. There wasn’t a feature on Cat’s face that he would have recognized. Everything was swollen, with one eye completely closed. There were deep gashes and cuts on her face that looked as if someone had used brass knuckles on her, but he remembered how big Tutuola had been and knew the man wouldn’t have needed brass knuckles to break bones.
Wilson shoved the coffee table aside, then dropped to his knees and put two fingers against her neck. She had a pulse.
“Jesus, honey…oh, Jesus,” Wilson muttered, as he slid his arms beneath her neck and knees, then stood up and laid her on the sofa.
She was in such bad shape that he was afraid to touch her for fear of doing more harm than good. What he needed was a doctor, but one who would treat her and keep his mouth shut at the same time. The only person who might be able to help him was the maid, and from the look on her face, she was ready to bolt.
He pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to her.
“Doctor? Do you know a doctor who would come here?”
She began to cry, shaking her head to indicate that she didn’t understand, and ran toward the door. Wilson was right behind her. The last thing he needed was her spilling the beans and calling attention to the situation.
“Wait! Wait!” he called, and grabbed her by the arm just as she was about to escape.
“Hey, what’s going on here?”
The appearance of a redheaded bellman coming down the hall was as surprising to Wilson as the fact that the man had spoken in English.
Everyone stopped in mid-stride. The maid looked relieved, because she obviously knew the bellman. Wilson was just as relieved, because he was going to be understood.
He pointed to the maid. “Tell her I didn’t mean to scare her, but I need to get help for my friend.”
The bellman glanced past them to the woman lying on the sofa.
“Damn, mister…is she still alive?”
“Yes, but she’s in bad shape.”
“What happened to her?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Wilson said. “I just got here.”
The redhead frowned, then spoke quickly to the maid, who answered him with quick nods.
“Asuncion says she let you in.”
“Yeah, like I said, I just got here. Couldn’t rouse anyone and got worried. I don’t know what’s happened to her, but I would like to keep this quiet. Can we do that?”
Wilson was pulling money out of his pocket while he was talking. He was holding a hundred dollars in twenties when he looked up at the man.
The bellman hesitated, but only briefly. This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked to keep his mouth shut and probably wouldn’t be the last.
“Name’s R.J.,” he said, then took the money as he uttered what sounded to Wilson like a brief warning to the maid to keep her mouth shut, too.
She nodded quickly and disappeared without looking back.
Wilson grabbed the bellman by the arm and dr
agged him into the room, then closed the door.
“Do you know a doctor who would be willing to come here?”
R.J. hesitated. “On the quiet again?”
“Yes.” R.J. glanced at the woman on the sofa, then shrugged. Why the hell not?
“Yeah, I think I do.”
Wilson pointed to the phone. “Call him.”
The bellman took his own phone out of his pocket.
“I’ll use mine,” he said, then took the phone book from a nearby table, leafed through the pages and made a quick call.
“Hey, Doc, it’s me, R.J. Yeah, I’m all better. Yeah, I took all the pills.” He was grinning until he caught the look on Wilson’s face and shifted into serious gear. “Say, Doc…we got a situation here at the hotel. Got a lady here who needs some serious doctoring, and they want to keep it on the quiet.” He paused, looked at Wilson, then asked, “Has she been shot?”
Wilson shook his head. “I don’t think so. Just appears as if she’s been beaten.”
R.J. relayed the information. “Yeah. Now. Okay, I’ll tell them. Oh…it’s room 204 and come in the back way…okay? Yeah, you, too, and thanks, Doc.”
He hung up, then turned to Wilson.
“Doc’s name is Scott…Mack Scott. Originally from New Hampshire, I think. He’ll be here in about ten minutes.”
“Can I trust him?” Wilson asked. R.J. nodded. “Oh yeah…Doc is the kind of man who flies under the radar.”
Wilson had a moment’s impression of some hack who’d lost his license and had gone across the border where people weren’t as apt to check for licenses as they were in the U.S. He grabbed the bellman by the arm and pushed him up against the door.
“Is he some kind of butcher? If he is…and he comes in here and does more harm than good, I’ll beat the crap out of both of you.”
R.J.’s gaze slid past the fire in the man’s eyes to the single gold loop in his ear, then shuddered. The man looked like he could make good on the threat. He pulled out of Wilson’s grasp as he reached for the doorknob.
“No, he’s all legal and everything…he just likes to drink a little too much.”
“Great,” Wilson said, then eyed the bellman. “Sorry. I appreciate your help.”
“No problem,” R.J. said. “Look, I’d better go or they’ll come looking for me pretty soon. I want to make sure Asuncion is keeping her mouth shut, too.” He pointed toward Cat. “Good luck there, man. I hope she gets okay.”
“So do I,” Wilson said, and turned back to Cat as soon as the bellman was gone.
“Come here, baby,” he said softly, as he picked her up from the sofa and carried her into the adjoining bedroom.
He needed to remove her clothes to see the extent of her injuries, but even as he was laying her down, he was starting to dread the answers. She’d groaned out loud with every step that he’d taken, and now, flat on her back and still unconscious, she was weeping. It was almost more than he could bear. He reached for her jacket, then paused.
“Cat, sweetheart…it’s Wilson. You’re hurt. You’re hurt bad, and I need to take off your clothes.”
He thought he saw her lips move, then decided he was mistaken. Still, he couldn’t put this off any longer. She’d been unattended to too long as it was. He reached for the collar of her jacket with one hand, grabbed the sleeve with another, and began trying to ease it down.
Within seconds, she screamed.
He turned loose of her and the jacket as if it were on fire, his voice shaking as he pulled back.
“Lord have mercy, baby…it wasn’t enough that you had to break my heart. Now you’re bound and determined to stop it.”
He took a knife out of his pocket, then pressed on the side of the hasp. The blade sprang out, then locked in place. Without wasting any more time, he slid the blade inside the sleeve at the wrist and began to cut. He cut until the jacket was split from the right sleeve all the way to the collar, then began on the left sleeve, repeating the motion. He cut every stitch of her clothing away from her body without moving so much as a hair on her head. The moment her midsection was revealed, he knew she had multiple breaks in her ribs. The swelling and bruising was horrific.
“God in heaven,” Wilson mumbled. It was all the prayer he could manage.
He checked her pulse again, making sure that her heart was still beating, and had started to the bathroom to get some wet cloths to clean the blood off her when there was a knock at the door.
“The doctor,” he muttered, and took a moment to pull a sheet up over Cat’s nude body, then ran out of the room.
* * *
Mack Scott had been in Chihuahua for almost fifteen years. He liked to think of it as nothing more than an extended vacation, but truth was, he’d gotten siesta fever and hadn’t been able to face any more New Hamp shire winters. Also, there was the booze. He liked it a little too much for the ethics committees in the States. However, the Mexican authorities were a little more lax in their requirements. It hadn’t taken him long to get accredited to practice medicine here. Once that happened, he’d had no reason to go back.
It wasn’t like he did anything illegal. He just made himself available for people who tended toward keeping their business a bit closer to the chest than the normal. Every so often, R.J. the bellman funneled a little business his way. It didn’t hurt anybody and kept him in tequila.
He’d been setting a broken bone on a little boy who’d fallen off his bike when R.J. called. He’d finished up the cast, prescribed some pain pills and sent the family on their way, then packed up his bag for the house call.
Once inside the hotel, the blood trail down the hallway had not escaped his notice. He was already anticipating problems when he knocked on the door. The man who answered looked like someone who’d just stepped out of a pirate movie, right down to the fierce glare and the gold hoop in his ear. Mack took a deep breath and then offered his hand.
“I’m Doctor Scott.”
Wilson ignored the hand. “Follow me,” he said, and turned away.
Mack walked inside, then shut the door behind him. He paused for a moment to survey the area, noting the smears of dried blood on the furniture and the floor, then kept on going.
“In here,” Wilson said.
Mack stepped into the room, then stifled a gasp. The woman on the bed wasn’t moving, and her face was a mess.
“Is she dead?” he asked.
Wilson grabbed him by the arm.
“If she was dead, I wouldn’t have needed a doctor, now would I?”
“Oh. Yes, right,” Mack stuttered, and then hurried toward the bed. “Do you know what happened to her?” he asked, as he pulled back the sheet.
“Best I can tell, she’s been beaten within an inch of her life.”
“Why not take her to a hospital?” Mack asked, as he got out his stethoscope and began his examination.
“We’re not locals, okay? I just need to get her in traveling condition and get her home.”
Mack glanced up. “You two on the run?”
Wilson might have laughed, but he was afraid he would start crying and never stop.
“No. We’re bounty hunters…the ones who usually do the chasing.”
Mack frowned, then got down to business.
“She needs X-rays, you know. Her ribs are broken.”
“I know they’re broken. Can you tape her up enough that she can travel?”
Mack frowned. “Damn, man, moving her when she’s like this could finish her off.”
Wilson leaned down until he was only inches away from the doctor’s face.
“Then make sure you fix her so it doesn’t. We need to leave…understand?”
The threat was only implied, but Mack didn’t feel like pushing his luck.
“Get me a basin and some washcloths. We need to clean her up first so I can see exactly what we’re dealing with.”
Wilson turned quickly and headed for the bathroom. He filled the ice bucket with water, grabbed two washcloths, then he
aded back to the bed. Together, they managed to remove the dried blood, revealing even more cuts and gashes than before.
And if that wasn’t enough to deal with, sometime during the impromptu bath, Cat Dupree came to.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cat had shut down hours ago, unable to take the pain. Now something was pulling her back. Once she’d thought she heard Wilson’s voice, but then she’d convinced herself it was part of the nightmare she’d created for herself. When she felt hands on her body, her mind went straight to Tutuola. Her first instinct was to fight, but when she moved, pain spilled into every muscle.
She gasped, then groaned.
The doctor was still examining her for injuries, and Wilson was washing blood off her face and neck when he realized she was coming to.
“Thank God,” he muttered, then leaned close to her ear. “You’re gonna be okay, baby. Lie still and let Dr. Scott help you.”
She pushed weakly at their hands.
Wilson was afraid to hold her too tight for fear that he would further injure her already broken bones, but he kept saying her name, talking reassuringly to her.
“Cat…baby…it’s me, Wilson. It’s me, honey. Don’t fight us. We’re just trying to help.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought she understood. At least she quit fighting him. Moments later, he watched as she reached toward her mouth, running fingers across the cuts and swellings, then tried to lick her lips.
He grabbed a clean washcloth and dampened it, then held it close to her lips, squeezing lightly and letting droplets of water fall onto her mouth.
When Cat felt the moisture, she turned toward the source like a baby turning to its mother’s breast. The droplets on her face and mouth were enough to wake her. Despite the fact that she couldn’t see much more than light and shadows from one eye and nothing out of the other, she now knew enough not to try moving again. She also knew she was no longer alone. She reached out, her fingers touching, then curling around, someone’s wrist.