Dangerous Thing

by Josh Lanyon

  To distract myself from my incredible shrinking jeans, I questioned, “So what’s the deal with turning forty?”

  Jake shrugged.

  “You thought you’d be a lieutenant by now?”

  “Nah.” He met my eyes briefly. “I just thought I’d be ... I don’t know.”

  I made a wild guess. “Married?”

  His eyes met mine. “Yeah, maybe. I guess I expected to have kids by now. My own family.”

  “Kids?” I echoed.

  He said defensively, “I like kids. I’m good with kids.”

  “You are?”

  “I’ve got nieces and nephews.”

  Jake’s biological time clock was ticking. Who’d a thunk it? I sighed.

  “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll have your baby.”

  He stared at me, unamused.

  “It’s a joke,” I explained. “The truth is, I can’t have babies. My doctor told me.”

  “See, you say I don’t communicate, but when I do ….”

  Damn. A billy club right between the eyes. I blinked at him a couple of times. “Sorry,” I said. “I guess I don’t get it.”

  His eyes looked amber in the candlelight. “You don’t care that you’ll never have kids? Your family line ends with you?”

  “Probably a wise decision, don’t you think?” At his expression I admitted, “Oh, hell. I’m not the paternal kind. Kids make me nervous. Kids and small dogs.”

  Jake finished his wine. The delicate crystal stem looked effete in his large, tanned hand. It was a hand designed for beer bottles and boxing gloves.

  “So why don’t you get married?”

  He said finally, “I plan to.”

  Razors to my wounded heart, as Will put it in Titus. I drained my brandy and inquired, “Anyone I know?”

  He probably would not have answered anyway, but right then the waiter brought the bill. I reached for the leather book.

  “Thanks for dinner,” Jake said.

  “My pleasure,” says I.

  * * * * *

  We were passing the old movie revival house when I spotted the marquee.

  “Hey, they’re playing Captain Blood,” I said. “We could catch the ten o’clock showing.”

  Jake, who hadn’t spoken since we left the restaurant, said, “What’s Captain Blood? Tell me it’s not another pirate movie.”

  “You’ll love it. It’s got Errol Flynn, your favorite not gay actor.”

  “What is it with you and pirates?”

  “I don’t know. My deep and abiding love of the ocean, I guess.”

  “Oh, what the hell,” grumbled Jake and we pulled into the parking lot behind the theater, Jake no doubt hoping to prevent any further spilling of conversational guts.

  The theater smelled of old popcorn. The red velvet furnishings were as tacky as the Coke-stained floor, but the seats were Jake-sized and comfortable, and it was all ours, except for the row of teens making out in the back.

  For 119 minutes we lost ourselves in the black and white swashbuckling romance of 1935’s Captain Blood, starring Flynn and Olivia de Havilland who early on proclaims herself familiar with pirates and their “wicked ways: cruelle and eville ...” At which point Jake, his carcass arranged so as not to touch mine at any potentially interlocking body part, snorted and offered his popcorn.

  * * * * *

  It was a long drive home for a man who hadn’t slept in two nights. Luckily Jake wasn’t someone who required bright conversation to stay sharp. I woke with a crick in my neck as we were bouncing over the cattle guard on the road to the ranch.

  “Sorry. Was I snoring?” Gingerly I swiveled my neck.

  “It’s more of a droning.”

  At least I wasn’t drooling. I straightened up in the cramped seat.

  We pulled into the front yard. Jake parked and we got out into the frigid night air. The wind blowing off the distant mountains tasted of snow. The clouds had cleared and the sky was brilliant with stars. Porch light spilled out over the steps and front yard.

  When it happened we were walking toward the house; I was slightly ahead of Jake who was jingling the car keys in his hand. Something zipped past my ear followed by a crack that echoed through the mountains.

  Behind me Jake uttered an oath, and the next I knew I was hitting the ground. Hard. There’s nothing like being tackled when you’re not prepared. And so much for all those Tai Chi exercises and instructions about sliding your palms and bending your elbows. I slammed down, the wind knocked out of me, with Jake on top. A second rifle shot split the night. The sound seemed to ricochet around the deserted ranch yard, rolling on forever.

  I was trying to work out what was happening when Jake raised himself off me and fired his 9mm over my head. This took out the cheerful welcoming porch light.

  “Move,” Jake yelled in my ear. I could only hear him muffledly, due to the fact that I was half-deaf from the blast of the automatic a couple of inches from my eardrum.

  Jake rolled off me and I got to my feet, sort of, and did a four-limbed running scramble for the porch steps. Not more than several yards but it felt like the LA marathon — or a gauntlet.

  Every second I expected to feel bullets thud into my body, tearing muscle, bone, vital organs. There’s nothing more frightening than being shot at — except maybe having a knife held at your throat. The fact that I had now experienced both was not a good thing.

  As I reached the porch there was another shot. Jake, right on my heels, made an inarticulate sound and then yelled, “Stay low.”

  Yeah, no kidding. I had my keys out, though I didn’t remember fumbling for them. I knelt in front of the door, jamming one key after another in the damn lock until I found the right one.

  More shots. One hit the porch post behind us. The other rang off one of the cowbells hanging from the homemade chimes in the pine.

  “Any time,” Jake remarked a little breathlessly.

  I pushed the door open and he shoved me into the room and slammed the door behind us.

  No more shots. Just the sound of our panting filling the long room, tree branches scratching against the outside walls, the house creaking.

  “Why didn’t you fire back?” I gasped between breaths.

  “He’s got a rifle, probably with a scope. I’ve got a handgun. He could be half a mile away.” Jake scooted over toward the window, a bulky shadow in the unlit room.

  “Can you see anything?”

  “No.”

  We waited while the wind moaned down the chimney. Jake muttered, “If he’s got any brains he’s halfway back to town.”

  “Or back to camp.”

  “Good point.”

  He rose, keeping clear of the window and yanked shut the heavy drapes, cutting off any outside view of the room. I did the same on my side. When the room was secured Jake said, “Okay, turn on a lamp. But — Adrien?”

  “Yeah?” I paused, my hand on the switch.

  “Don’t freak. I’ve been hit.”

  “What?” I snapped on the light.

  Jake was on his feet, and sure enough, his left sleeve was soaked with something darker than the black knit material. Something that glistened in the gentle lamplight. The blood trickled down his hand, which he was wiping on his jeans.

  “It looks worse than it is.”

  “Sure, just a flesh wound,” I said stupidly.

  “It is just a flesh wound.” He gave me a sharp look. “You’re not going to pass out, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Because you’re sheet-white.”

  “Just my girlish complexion.” I got a grip on myself and said, “We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”

  “No. What kind of first aid kit do you have around here?”

  “You’re going to a hospital, Jake,” I said. “I’m not in the mood to play doctor.”

  “For this scratch?” He set his gun on the table and began struggling with his shirt.

  I tore my eyes away from the Beretta. “You’re damn right! Y
ou could get blood poisoning or lead poisoning or lose too much blood.”

  There was such a lot of blood. Blood smeared his breast and spilled out the ugly plowed flesh of his upper arm, in a slow but steady trickle. A fat drop hit the floor and splattered. The sight of it oxidized my brain.

  “You’re going to the hospital now.” I headed for the door, and Jake, half in and half out of his shirt, intercepted me.

  “Hold on. Maybe you’re right, but let’s do this by the book. We’ve got to make sure he’s gone.”

  “He’s gone! He’s not going to come after us. He knows you’ve got a gun. We’ve got a phone. He’ll think we’ve called the sheriffs.”

  Why the hell weren’t we calling the sheriffs?

  “Let’s do this by the book,” Jake repeated. “We’ll go for the Bronco, it’s closer. Got your keys?”

  I held my keys up. They were jingling. I lowered them.

  Jake returned to the window. He parted the drapes a crack and stood motionless, holding his injured arm.

  It felt like forever before he gave me a twisty smile and said, “Stand by for action.”

  I opened the door. Injured or not, Jake moved fast. He brushed by me, and was out the door first. If I had been on my own, nothing on Earth would have got me outside. I’d have stayed put and called for the cavalry. But no way was Jake going out there without me. I followed him out onto the porch.

  Nothing moved in the yard. The wind rippled through the waves of grass and wildflowers beyond.

  “Stay low, stick to cover,” Jake instructed. “Give me the keys.”

  “You can’t drive.”

  “I’m going first.” As I opened my mouth to argue he plucked the keys out of my unresisting fingers and slipped out into the windswept darkness.

  I followed Jake along the porch. He climbed over the rail and dropped down to the ground. I followed suit, hitting the hard-packed dirt with a thud that jarred my shins.

  I imitated Jake’s awkward running crouch to the old water trough. We were still a few feet from the Bronco. Jake motioned me to stay put.

  Waiting, I broke out in cold sweat while he sprinted across the open space and ducked behind the Bronco tire.

  Silence.

  The wind sighed through the cotton willow leaves.

  Unlocking the Bronco, Jake slipped inside. I heard the engine roar into life. I saw Jake’s bulk slide past the wheel.

  It was now or never. I’d have preferred never, but that wasn’t an option. Hauling ass across the lot, I jumped in and slammed shut the door. My hands were shaking as I threw the gears into reverse and we shot back in a wide arc, just missing the tree with its swing gently swaying in the breeze.

  “Easy, easy,” cautioned Jake.

  I cranked it into first and we tore out of the yard like the starting moments of NASCAR. The Bronco’s tires burned up the dirt road; we rattled across the cattle guard, bouncing down hard on every rut and rivulet in the road as we raced for the main highway.

  “Shit, I’m getting blood all over your upholstery.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the upholstery!”

  “I know, baby. Keep it together.”

  Second Action Figure not included. When I thought I could match Jake’s neutral tone, I said, “Do we call the sheriff when we get to town?”

  “Not unless you want to spend the rest of the night answering questions. There’s nothing Billingsly can do tonight. Tomorrow I’ll have a look around. I think one of those bullets hit the porch.”

  He gasped in pain as we hit a pothole.

  “Sorry. Are you sure you’re not —”

  “The bullet nicked the fleshy part of my forearm.” He tried to examine himself in the darkness. “I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt like hell.”

  “I am so goddamn sorry, Jake.”

  “Knock it off,” he growled. “It’s not your fault.”

  “It is. If I hadn’t insisted —”

  “Shut up.”

  I shut up. Just as well. I had to concentrate on my driving since I was doing seventy on a winding mountain road.

  Thirty minutes before I had been so tired I didn’t think I could stay awake long enough to walk to the bedroom. Now I was on an adrenaline rush that felt like it would carry me into next week.

  The road snaked through the silent forest as I decelerated into each curve, accelerated out, the tires squealing now and then when I turned the wheel too tightly.

  Jake said nothing, his hand clamped over his arm.

  I slowed to a sedate sixty as we tore through town, stopping at the twenty-four hour “doctor in a box.”

  We were the only customers past midnight. Jake calmly explained to the nurse behind the counter what had happened while drops of his blood pooled slowly on the Formica. I hovered anxiously.

  “Gunshot!” the nurse exclaimed. “We have to report gunshot wounds.”

  “Not a problem,” Jake said. “We plan on reporting it.” He pulled out his wallet, but it was his insurance card he was after, not his LAPD ID.

  The nurse shepherded Jake off to room number nine, and I dropped down in an orange plastic chair in the empty waiting room, feeling like someone had yanked my plug. Like I couldn’t have moved if my life had depended on it.

  A few minutes later I saw a white-coated doctor go into the room and close the door.

  * * * * *

  How long did I sit there petrifying in the orange plastic chair? It began to seem like a very long time. Too long. Not only was I the only person in the waiting room, I seemed to be the only person in the clinic.

  At last a door opened at the far end of the corridor.

  A doctor I hadn’t seen before was walking toward me. He was dressed in surgical scrubs and his face looked weary and grim. It seemed like he was walking in slow motion. My heart began to slug against my breastbone.

  I stood up instinctively.

  “I’m sorry,” the surgeon said. “We did everything we could.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I stood there my heart banging like a battering ram against a drawbridge. My body seemed to turn hot and cold by turns.

  “That can’t be right,” I said stupidly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But it was just a flesh wound.”

  “Guys like Jake always say it’s a flesh wound.”

  “But —”

  “He went into shock and we lost him. It happens.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. I thought probably I was going into shock too. It all began to seem far away, the hospital corridor receding, the bright overhead lights dimming, swirling away ...

  Chapter Ten

  “Adrien.”

  Someone was shaking my shoulder.

  I opened my eyes. Jake loomed over me, frowning.

  My heart kicked into overdrive.

  I croaked out some sound and leaned forward, holding my sides to keep my heart from bursting through my rib cage like the parasite in Alien.

  Jake demanded, “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  He began feeling around my shirt pockets. Irritating. I sucked air into my lungs, pushed his hand away and sat up.

  “Hey,” Jake said. “Are you okay? Adrien?”

  The strange doctor, his bizarre comments — of course it had been a dream.

  “I’m okay,” I managed. My heart was staggering along, punch drunk and swinging wildly, but still in the fight.

  “You don’t look okay.” He turned to the reception desk like he was going to summon help.

  Under other circumstances the concern in his eyes would have cheered me no end. Now I snapped, “Leave it! I’m fine.”

  Jake was alive. His arm was bandaged, a neat cuff of white around his muscular forearm. Otherwise he looked A-okay. I scrubbed my face with my hands, took another long cautious breath. Everything seemed fully operational, but the dream had been so real that I still felt shocked and disoriented. Grieved.

  �
��Here.”

  He reappeared at my side with a paper cup of water from the cooler.

  I got my pills out, popped the cap with my thumb and tossed two back for safety’s sake. I took the cup from Jake. The paper felt squishy, too flimsy to contain the weight of the water — kind of how I felt. Like I could tear apart at the slightest pressure.

  If something happens to him because of me ...

  If something happens to him ...

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” The hazel eyes were keen.

  “Great,” I said impatiently. “How’s your arm?”

  “Kinda stiff. Funny thing. Usually bullets bounce off me.” He smiled a rare smile.

  I smiled weakly in response.

  In the end we checked into the Motel 6, neither of us up to fending off another firefight that night.

  There’s something safe and sane about the generic comforts of a budget motel chain, even when you wind up with the room by the ice machine. One room with one king-sized bed. The walls were decorated with insipid watercolors of villas in the south of France for travelers whose idea of a dream vacation spot was Branson, Missouri. All I cared about was the deadbolt and chain decorating the door.

  I slid the deadbolt, hooked the chain, and peered out the peephole. Nary a gunman lurked in the parking lot.

  “Cable,” Jake approved, switching on the TV.

  I headed for the john. I turned the sink taps on full and proceeded to lose what remained of my expensive dinner. When the dry heaves were over I splashed a couple of gallons of arctic water on my face and brushed my teeth with the toothbrush supplied at no extra charge by the front desk.

  Stepping out of the bathroom I found find Jake comfortably sprawled across the bed, propped by pillows, remote control in hand. He was watching The Hunted.

  “I’m not going to say I told you so,” he remarked, as I tottered toward the bed.

  “I appreciate that,” I said. I lifted my side of the blankets. He was wearing black briefs. His body looked as hard and sculpted as one of those underwear mannequins in department store displays.

  “If it’s any comfort to you, I’d say we’re on the right track. Tonight’s ambush proves it.”