Authors: Sharon Sala
The man in the
bushes was following the sound of the van's running motor. He was so blinded by
the pain in his chest and back he could barely focus. The clumsy duffle bag he
was dragging behind him kept getting hung in the thick bushes.
The driver
fidgeted, glanced several times at the luminous dial on his watch, and knew it
was taking far too long. How much time could it possibly take to subdue one
very small woman, tie and blindfold her, and carry her less than a block
through the alley?
Just as he had
started to exit the van to investigate, a police siren broke the silence of the
night, and he nearly fell from the van door. When he caught himself, he also
thought he could hear a woman screaming for help.
Jesus Christ!
he thought. /
should have known
that fool couldn't pull this off.
Instinct told him to leave, but he knew
if the idiot was caught, he would be implicated in an instant.
His meandering panic
was interrupted. His heart thudded to an abrupt halt as he saw the stooped
figure stumbling about in the hedge bordering the alleyway. He dashed toward
him, thinking he would help carry the girl.
"Oh hell! Oh
hell!" the man moaned, as he fell into the driver's outstretched arms.
"Get me out of here."
"Where's the
girl?" the driver snarled, and grabbed hard at the man's arm.
"Aieee,"
he shrieked, and then staggered backwards in pain. "I didn't get her. But
she hurt me. She hurt me bad. You've got to get me out of here and get me some
help. I'm bleeding to death."
A long string of
curses erupted from the driver's mouth as he saw the blood. It was everywhere.
The fool was covered in it, and even worse, had gotten it on him, too. Enraged,
he shoved the wounded man toward the van, slid the side door open and shoved
him and the duffle bag roughly toward the gaping hole. He slammed the door
shut, not caring whether the man was completely clear of the door's force.
Hurrying to the driver's side, he quickly concealed himself from any curious
eyes. For two cents he'd finish the job the girl started and leave the fool for
the street sweepers. But he didn't. He was a careful man and decided to dispose
of this garbage in his own way.
"What in
hell happened?" the driver snarled, as he turned up the opposite alley,
driving as quickly as possible without alerting the neighborhood. It was only
after he'd gone several blocks and turned onto a main thoroughfare that he'd
turned on his headlights. "Can't you do anything right, Lynch? You owed
me, and this botched episode does not cancel anything. Do you hear me?"
"Jesus, I'm
hurt bad. You got to get me to a doctor. And it ain't my fault things didn't go
right. You didn't tell me what she was like. Dammit, man, I could have stuffed
a tiger in a gunny sack easier than this. Hell," he groaned, slumping
lower into the seat he'd pulled himself into, "she shouldn't have fought
me. She made me mad."
"What do you
mean?" the driver asked in a menacing whisper. "You didn't hurt her
did you? This blood all better be yours. You weren't supposed to kill her, just
kidnap her. Answer me! Is she hurt?"
"To hell
with her," he whined. "Just look at me. I'll have scars for life, if
I don't bleed to death."
"You tell me
now," the driver snarled, and slammed the van to a screeching halt in the
middle of a deserted street, "or I swear to God, I'll finish what she
started."
It was obvious to
the injured man that his condition was less than important. He should have
known not to get mixed up in something like this anyway.
"She ain't
hurt hardly at all. Just a few scratches. I wasn't trying to kill her," he
whined, and felt himself losing a grip on reality. "She just made me mad,
that's all. Now please, get me some help!"
For a few
moments, the van remained motionless. Then it accelerated slowly, as if the
driver couldn't quite decide what he was going to do. Finally it picked up
speed and disappeared into the darkness.
Jesse had
adamantly refused any kind of anesthetic that would render her unconscious. She
wasn't about to be put to sleep. The last time she slept, someone tried to kill
her. She wasn't going through that again.
She welcomed the
roughness of the warm, wet washcloth on her face. She knew the nurse was being
as gentle as she could as she washed away the ugly traces of her ordeal.
As the
bloodstains disappeared, the fragile beauty of the young woman appeared—a
heart-shaped face, thick, dark wavy hair just below shoulder length, and wide,
sky-blue eyes above a near perfect nose with just the tiniest inclination to
tilt. But there was ho happiness to pull her soft, generous mouth into its
usual smile. Jesse LeBeau was trying hard not to lose her mind and the only way
she knew for certain she could do that was to avoid being put back to sleep.
"Okay,
little lady," the doctor said, acquiescing to Jesse's demands for only
local pain-killers. "There isn't that much to put back together. I think
you can take it. After all, you're a real toughie, aren't you?" He kept up
his banter, trying to take Jesse's mind off the actual act of minor surgery
that he was going to perform on her hands. "And, I do understand . . .
okay?"
"Okay,"
Jesse whispered on a shaky sigh of relief, and allowed herself to relax
momentarily. "Just remember you promised." Her chin wobbled a bit as
she struggled with the urge to scream and scream and never stop. "My
students at Lee Elementary wouldn't break a promise to me, so you can't
either."
Jesse managed a
slight smile and then took a deep breath as the first needle full of the pain-killing
solution entered the shredded area of her hand.
It took longer
than expected, but she'd managed to stay alert as they worked. It was only
after she was in her assigned room, groggy from all the drugs they'd shot into
her system, that she'd let down her defenses and dozed off. Then the medicine
kept her lethargic enough that she couldn't pull herself from the somnolent
state. She hung, suspended in a world of nightmares, where, as she had feared,
she relived her attack over . . . and over . . . and over.
The elevator door
opened as one lone passenger emerged. He stood unmoving, silently assessing the
lay of
second floor. He was just recovering from the tension of the flight. He'd had
to find a hotel and deposit his luggage, when all he wanted to do was get to
Jesse. He'd let his imagination run to all sorts of horror but felt that the
sooner he saw Jesse for himself, the better he was going to feel.
Loud talking, telephones
ringing, and carts being shuffled about alerted King to the location of the
nurses' station. He started down the long corridor, his nostrils twitching as
he recognized the familiar smells of hospital disinfectant, the faint but
unmistakable scents of flowers in the various rooms, and always, in spite of
the constant antiseptic cleaning, the smell of sickness and dying. His muscular
legs covered the distance quickly.
Several of the
nurses watched his approach with more than usual interest.
"Look at
that!" one of them whispered. "Don't you just love it? Boots, jeans,
sexy walk, and all."
"Yes,"
the other nurse answered. "I'm sort of partial to those slim hips, broad
shoulders, and that big old cowboy hat. Makes me wish I'd been born about a
hundred years ago."
"What do you
need with a hundred years ago, dummy? Right there comes the civilized version
of your dream."
"Well,"
she drawled, as King came closer. "I don't want them too civilized, if you
know what I mean." And then she whispered, as King came closer, anxious
that her words not be overheard, "Ooh, is there no justice? He's got that
lean, hungry look, too."
She was referring
to the chiseled planes of King's face. They were distinctive features inherited
from his Scottish ancestors. The high cheekbones, shapely nose, once broken and
nearly mended as good as new, a strong, stubborn chin and full, yet firm lips
that were capable of a sardonic or sensual twist, depending on his quicksilver
mood. Dark hair and dark eyes were the only features he had inherited from his
mother's side of the family. His sport coat was draped casually across his arm
in deference to the heat and humidity beyond the air-conditioned corridors of
the hospital. The heat King was generating at the nurses' station had nothing to
do with the outside temperatures. His appearance was stunning, but he really
got their attention when he asked for their latest patient.
King spoke even
before he came to a complete stop. His voice was deep and raspy, a voice women
always found incredibly sexy. It was actually the result of riding into a
low-hanging clothesline on a horse—in the dark.
He had been
celebrating his eighteenth birthday in a most unsatisfactory manner, as his
father often reminded him over the ensuing weeks. He'd been a bit drunk. He
knew never to drink and drive, but no one told him not to drink and ride. They
didn't have to tell him again after his accident. He hadn't been able to talk
for a month, and when he finally could, the husky rasp was all that was left of
his voice. That was the last time he ever rode a horse full tilt in the dark,
and the last time he ever got drunk. King McCandless was not a fool twice.
"Jesse
LeBeau," he asked, "what room please?"
The RN on duty
stepped out of her cubicle as she heard the name of their incognito patient.
They had been instructed by the police to check every visitor asking about the
young attack victim.
King's dark eyes
followed the woman who stepped up to the desk to answer his question.
"What
business do you have with her?" she asked crisply.
"Listen,
lady," King answered, "I got a phone call about four o'clock this
morning that probably took ten years off my life and I've been on a damn plane
ever since, trying to get here to Jesse. Now can you tell me where she is, or
do I have to go find her myself?"
The nurse knew
rope when she saw it, and this man was just about at the end of his. She came
around the desk and motioned for him to follow.
"She's down
at the end of the hall. Room 202. It's a single, makes it easier to maintain security,
and there's an officer at the door. You have to get past him. And your name had
better be on his list or threats won't make a whistle-stop worth of
difference."
Her sardonic tone
was not lost on King, and he turned his head sharply, eyeing the nurse with newfound
respect and a silent look of apology. He smiled slightly as he saw her accept.
Sure enough, it took several pieces of identification proving he was actually
who he claimed to be before the guard would allow him inside.
He hesitated,
suddenly afraid of what he might see when he opened the door. But his
hesitation disappeared when he heard the soft, agonizing moans and mumbled
cries for help. King took one frantic look at the guard. He answered with a
grimace and a shrug. He was helpless to stop what was going on behind the
closed doors, too.
"She's just
dreaming, Mr. McCandless. It's been going on for hours."
King muttered
under his breath as he shoved his way past the guard and entered the room. It
was obvious Jesse's agitation had been going on for some time. The bedclothes
were in a wadded mess. The high, chrome guard rails were in place to keep Jesse
from rolling out of the bed, but she had bunched herself completely against the
back of one, trying in sleepy desperation to escape her attacker.
King couldn't
describe the emotion that overwhelmed him as he witnessed the terror she was
living. His first instinct was to awaken her, get her to see she was no longer
in danger; but something made him hesitate. He didn't want to frighten her more.
A cold rage filled his mind, and he knew, if he ever had the chance to do
anything about it, the man responsible for her injuries and terror would know
far worse before King was through with him.
He took his sport
coat off his arm and laid it across the foot of her bed. Walking quietly for so
big a man, he came around to stand beside her and began to speak softly, hoping
to penetrate her semi-conscious state enough that she would know who was
present when she awoke.
Her hair was
fanned out across the pillow, and dark, tiny wisps had plastered her
heart-shaped face in damp disarray. He resisted the urge to touch her and had
to satisfy himself with a vocal approach instead. All the while he was talking,
he was thinking of the joy he'd felt, when he realized there were no tubes or
machines hooked to her fragile body, beeping her life signs for all who entered
to hear. That had to mean she was not in any serious danger. All he could see
in the way of obvious injuries were the bandages on her hands. They were hard
to miss since she kept waving first one and then the other weakly in the air,
continuing to fight the man who'd attacked her. The sight was finally more than
King could bear. He spoke a bit louder, trying to penetrate her dream world.