Make this a dream. A nightmare. Please, dear God, make this a dream.
Soft hands grabbed his and pulled. Stronger hands lifted his feet, others supported his middle. Voices merged in the background for a stretcher and medic. And someone pounded the smoldering material on his legs as he was placed on the cart. Within seconds, the stretcher jerked as the paramedics slid it into the ambulance, then placed a plastic mask over his mouth and nose.
Oxygen.
“No! Leave me alone.” He shoved the lifesaving air aside again and again while his lungs fought to suck deep, racking breaths. Exhausted, he pushed against the fingers stroking his forehead. “Leave me alone.”
“It’s Marcy. JB listen to me.”
Softness against his cheek.
“I’m okay. Look at me, I’m okay.”
He pushed the mask aside. Marcy?
A kiss, then another, then another. His tongue licked the salty wetness that caressed his lips. The fog of his mind craved the feelings flooding through the break. He’d do anything if she were alive. Quit law enforcement. Move back to Crayton. Anything. Even leave her alone if that’s what she wanted.
“Look at me, JB. I’m okay.” Her voice cracked as the hand holding his trembled.
Sucking in the clean air, he fought to open his eyes. “Marcy?”
She nodded, curling her fingers through his hair. Tears flooded across her soot-covered face, joining his as she burrowed her cheek against his.
“I thought I’d lost you.” He pulled her against his chest as the ambulance doors closed behind them.
Her fingers gripped his shirt. “Me, too.”
He kissed her hair. Her forehead. His lips skimmed hers as he thumbed away the soot from her cheek. “I thought I’d lost you.”
…
JB’s few hours in the trauma unit pushed him to his exasperation limit. Talking to Marcy had tested his last iota of composure. “Yes, I heard what you’ve been saying for the past five minutes. Can we get past this?”
“Not until you tell me what I said,” she stated.
Ultimatum? She thought she’d issue an ultimatum to him. Hell. Even stone-cold killers had balked at issuing him ultimatums. He was only one turn of a key in his truck’s ignition away from leaving Crayton far behind for good. “Let it go, Marcy. I agreed with you, so let it go.”
She took a step in his direction. “So what did I say?”
Marcy seeing him in the hospital’s so-called gown didn’t sit right with him. Made him appear weak. Wrong, if that’s what she thought.
“You basically said you still can’t stand to be in the same room with me. That you had a moment of weakness when you thought I was gonna die, and that I shouldn’t get any ideas you meant anything you said or did out there.” He fought to control his tone.
“And?” Hands on her hips, she pushed to get her answer.
“Listen lady, I’m not going to stand here and repeat everything you said. Just know that line of thought goes two ways. This is just another case to me. And you are just another victim to protect.” He gritted his teeth and glared in her direction. “Now, where are my clothes?”
Dressed in a set of blue scrubs the staff had given her after she’d cleaned up, Marcy eased into the chair by the window and leafed through the same magazine she’d been looking at for the past hour. “They smelled to high heaven. Betsy’s taking Mama to the house to pick up clean ones for you.”
“Sadie had better be back soon, or I’m leaving this place the way I am.” JB kicked the sheet off the bed, tugging the gown’s hem down to mid-thigh. “Do you think there’s a law against walking out of a hospital wearing nothing but one of these?”
“I wouldn’t know.” She tossed the magazine in the chair next to her. “You’re the big, fancy FBI agent around here.”
“Ex-FBI agent.”
“That may be, but you’ll always be a lawman. Just like I’ll always be a counselor. We don’t know how to do anything else.” She sighed. “Besides, you’re damn good at what you do. The world needs people like you who risk their own lives to save the rest of us.”
JB needed to solidify his position. Make sure she didn’t get any ideas about him being her own personal hero of the moment. “I’m trained to protect people, among other things. It just happened to be you this time. Next time might be somebody heading into witness protection. All the same to me.”
Dr. Crowley walked in, carrying a file. “JB, the trauma unit says you’re tied for first place as the worst patient they’ve encountered in the past ten years.”
“What’s the prognosis? When can I get out of here?” Showered, shaved, and shampooed, JB still had the smell of soot and grime permeating his senses. Brought back memories of a drug bust explosion last year where the factory blew up right as they entered. Took forever to feel clean again.
“If you pipe down and let me recheck your wounds, I might let you leave.” The doctor poked and prodded, pressed on JB’s ribs, hips, chest, and back. “Got any blurred vision?”
“Nope.”
“Headache?”
“Nope.”
“Ringing in your ears?”
“Nope.”
Doc looked at his paperwork again, then found the right spot to retest with his fingers, hard and to the point. Raw hellfire and brimstone cranked into JB’s lower back, shooting up his spine.
“Any pain?” Doc asked.
JB’s brow furrowed, along with the powerful clench of his teeth. “Nope.”
“Would you tell me if you did?” The elderly doctor released his pressure point.
“Nope.”
Doc glanced in Marcy’s direction. “He still staying at the house?”
She nodded.
“I’m concerned about a possible concussion, but I’ll sign the release since she’s there to keep an eye on you tonight.” Doc sighed, flipping the chart closed, then he turned to JB. “And, don’t you think for one minute I believed your denial about pain in your back.”
“Wait one minute.” She sprang to her feet, hands propped on her hips. “You forget. I’m not responsible for him anymore.”
The doc raised his eyebrows and lowered his gaze on her. “Is that so?”
She bit her lip and nodded. “That’s so.”
“Marcy Marie Bradley, did you forget I’m the deacon in your church? Birthed both of you. Know most everything goes on in Crayton. And I’m not past divulging non-medical information when push comes to shove.”
“Oh, all right.” She sat in the chair again and picked up the magazine, thumbing nonchalantly through the pages. “I’ll call the ambulance if he incapacitates himself during the night. But I’m not waiting on him hand and foot. He can make his own breakfast, scrub his own back, and take care of any other bodily needs by himself.”
Took great restrain on JB’s part not to burst out laughing as doc’s face reddened. The old guy shook his head and stomped from the room, muttering something about “respect for a religious man.”
“Now where are my clothes?” JB rolled to a sitting position and dangled his legs down the side of the bed. His body hurt more than he planned to admit to anyone else. The spot doc pressed might bear watching.
A tap on the door caught their attention, and Marcy stood.
“Here’s a shirt, jeans, and a pair of socks,” Sadie said through the opening, pushing her arm into the room with the clothes. “Forgot the underwear.”
“Commando’s fine with me.” JB offered.
Marcy shot him a can’t-believe-you-said-that-to-my-mama look before she took the stack from her mother. “Thanks.”
“You need anything else?”
“No, we’re ready to head home. I really appreciate you doing this.”
The red-haired woman reached through and gave Marcy a hug. “I’m glad you’re both okay.”
“Me, too.”
“Thanks, Sadie,” JB said.
The door closed with her goodbye before Marcy brought the clothes over to the bed, laying
them next to him. When he stood, the world shifted for a moment, and he steadied his leg against the mattress then ripped the hospital gown off.
She grabbed his arm, flicked her glance in a quick once over of his body, then dropped her hold. “You sure you’re okay to go home?”
Their looks met for a long, steady moment. The heat from her hand on his arm had touched more than his skin. From the flush of her cheeks, she’d felt it, too. She turned away, and he pivoted toward the bed.
“I’ve been hurt a lot worse than this. Get your stuff together, so we can get out of here.” Glancing over his shoulder, he grinned as she walked to her chair. “And, don’t worry, sugar, I can take care of my bodily—”
Damn, he’d done it again. Called her sugar. He needed to stop, even if he did like to see her fume every time he said the word.
The door banged open, and in barged Betsy.
“Do you ever knock?” Marcy asked.
If he thought turning around would get her sister out of the room sooner, he would. Instead, he stayed facing the bed then looked back over his shoulder.
Betsy let her gaze rest right where it landed. “Looking mighty good from the backside, JB.”
Too late, Marcy dashed to block her sister’s view.
“Glad I got your approval.” Naked and cold and still a little wobbly on his feet, he didn’t move.
Betsy cleared her throat. “I wanted to make sure you both were okay.”
“We’re fine. Is there anything else we can do for you?” JB squared his shoulders. “If not, then you may want to leave, because I’m gonna turn around in about three seconds.”
Marcy spun to face him, her look one of jealous indignation. “You wouldn’t dare.”
JB grinned. “One. Two.”
Betsy turned and walked out the door while Marcy followed her, blocking any chance of reentry.
“You sure everything’s okay?” Betsy asked through the barely open doorway.
“Everything’s good.” Marcy pushed the door closed inch by inch. “Thanks for taking mama to get the clothes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The door finally met the doorframe, but a second later, it reopened a couple inches. Better not be someone with a wheelchair.
“Marcy?”
“Yes, Betsy.”
“Be sure you keep an eye on those ugly bruises on JB’s side and back. They don’t look good, if you ask me.”
He glanced in Marcy’s direction as she walked back in the room. Buttoning and zipping the jeans in place, he could feel the weight of her stare. He quickly dragged the black T-shirt over his head. Winced as he stretched his arms into the sleeves. Damn that hurt.
As he eased the shirt down his body, his wife’s gaze lingered on his chest. He figured she saw the bruises. Maybe even the still red and puckered scars from his last case. He didn’t plan on talking about those any time soon. He shuffled into his boots and laced them up. The faster he got himself and Marcy out of there, the less likely she’d ask questions.
“You ready?” His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind her ear when he stepped in front of her.
Her lips parted. Her eyes focused on his for a moment before they lowered to his shirt again.
“Don’t worry. It’s nothing. A couple of bricks hit me in that second blast.” He turned her to the door.
“What about the other—”
“Not now, Marcy. We’ll talk later.”
She let him steer her as she stared straight ahead. At one point, she swiped away a couple of tears that had the nerve to roll down her cheek. She’d always said women who cried were weak. Not always. He’d learned that emotions can do strange things to a body’s reactions. Tears were just one of many coping mechanisms.
Sometimes against pain. Sadness. Joy. Or, being glad for another breath, hour, or day. Being tortured made you realize what you had to be thankful for. Surviving made it even more apparent.
His grip tightened beneath her elbow as he guided the two of them out the door. “Let’s go home.”
Eyes unfocused on the empty air between them, she nodded.
The vicious, puckered scars across his chest would need to be explained. Along with the brand. Not today, though. And not unless he felt she could handle what he had to tell.
Chapter Seven
Hours later, JB stormed into the Crayton Police Department’s new two-story brick building. He’d spent the last hour arguing with Marcy about whether he should stay home and rest or go rattle the police to see what the hell they’d found out on the bombing. Finally, he agreed to make the meeting short and eat a bowl of minestrone soup when he got home. Evidently, she’d added being nearly blown to smithereens as something cured by her famous minestrone, right along with broken legs, gunshot wounds, and the common cold.
No one better try to convince him the explosion had been caused by the water heater blowing up or a gas main rupture. No doubt that’s what the evidence would show. He’d bet money against it. Whoever was behind what was going on in town had crossed the line when they’d involved his ex-wife.
“Where’s Deputy Evans?” he asked the grey-haired sergeant behind the front desk.
“He and that FBI friend of yours are over at what remains of your…uh…” Awkwardness didn’t begin to describe the expression on the sergeant’s face as he cleared his throat. “At what’s left of the tattoo parlor and counseling office.”
JB thanked the man and bolted to his truck. He should have gone by there first, and he would have if his head didn’t hurt so damn bad he couldn’t think straight. And the nausea rumbling through his stomach didn’t speak well of the night to come.
A couple minutes later, he parked his truck parallel to the police tape stretched across the street a block away from the scene. Deputy Evans and Special Agent Landon were deep in conversation a few feet away from the broken down building that used to be Marcy’s office.
Deputy Evans held out his hand as JB approached. “Glad you’re okay.”
The cop’s grip felt firm and genuine.
“What are you doing here, deputy?” JB scanned the area for markers.
“Watching the arson and bomb people do their job. The sheriff will want a full report not just on what they find, but one from me on how they performed.”
Sounded like something Sheriff Davis would insist on. The man always dug deep and then even deeper once he was involved in a case. Plus, being the uncle of one of the victims meant he was involved on an entirely different level.
Landon walked into the conversation. “Good to see you’re still walking around. Shouldn’t you be home resting?”
JB shot him a glance. “Still hanging around I see.”
“I figure since I’m here on the bank robbery, I might as well see if I can lend a hand on this case.”
Might be the appropriate thing to do, but JB wasn’t convinced Landon was being entirely truthful. “Maybe you should let the Crayton Police Department take care of their business. They know when and who to call in for cases involving experts they don’t have on the force. Isn’t that right, Deputy Evans?”
“Right.” Evans agreed as Kennett stared into the air.
Just thought I might be of help.” Landon walked into JB’s space. “What are you doing here anyhow?”
JB might have felt like his head might explode, but his ex-partner provided all the incentive he needed to stay in the moment. “I plan to see who bombed the building where Marcy has…had her office. If that means sticking my nose into the investigation, then so be it.”
Landon poked his finger in JB’s direction. “You’re too damn personally involved to think with anything but your—”
“You might want to stop before you finish that sentence.” JB’s hand fisted as he stepped within an inch of the loudmouth. “Otherwise, I’m gonna plant you in the ground.”
Kennett, the rookie, eased to the side of the combatants.
Deputy Evans cleared his throat. “It’s been a long day, men. Maybe we should take a
step back and wait for the experts’ conclusion.”
“All I’m saying is you’re making a lot out of some tattoo parlor getting blown up.” Landon glanced at JB. “Unless you think this is tied into that whole bank robbery episode.”
“Don’t tell me the thought hasn’t crossed your mind.” JB relaxed his stance.
“I don’t plan to tell you anything since you’re no longer part of the FBI.” Landon shook his head. “Damn shame.”
“What?”
“I said it’s a damn shame. I thought you were smarter than that.” The special agent narrowed his focus at JB. “And just for the record, I was going to say you were thinking with your heart instead of your head. That’ll get you in trouble every time. Got your last partner, Jennings, killed.”
JB realized Landon was right. Jennings had gone on the last police call to meet an informant. Some young girl who’d come up to him on the street and said she was being used in a child slavery scheme. She’d agreed to meet him the next day with more details but had been so scared she didn’t trust anyone else coming along. Jennings had gone by himself like she wanted. Thought with his heart…not his head. He’d been ambushed and killed at the meeting point.
Evans finished his notes and tucked the pad in his pocket. “What makes you think the target was the tattoo parlor?”
“May be a long shot, but look at the facts,” Landon said. “Their business is closed for a few days. The owners are out of town and can’t be reached. And, from what I’ve heard around town, Cross’s Tattoo Parlor caters to some real lowlifes around the area.”
Kennett straightened.
Landon ambled along the perimeter of the crime scene tape. “Probably nothing more than payback for a bad drug deal.” He crouched to eye something on the ground, then straightened and walked away as his phone rang.
JB turned to the deputy. “What can I do to help?”
No response. He opened his mouth to ask again, but Landon walked back in to the group, so JB decided to wait.
“Just for the record, I’m the one in charge of this case until the sheriff gets back. So don’t go trying to pull anything over on me or my men.” Deputy Evans pulled out his pen and pad. “That goes for both of you.”
Risk of a Lifetime Page 6