He opened his eyes, groggy but alert. “Wha?”
“We’re at the cabin. How do you feel?”
D blinked and sat up straighter. “Uh… okay, I guess.”
“Come on; let’s get inside. You need to rest that shoulder.”
“I’m fine,” D said, flapping a hand at him. Jack kept an eye on him as he hauled himself out of the passenger seat, his left arm done up in a makeshift sling Jack had fashioned from a towel. He paused and looked up at the cabin. “Huh. Nice place.”
“Yeah. Caroline’s father is very well off. Just ask him. He’ll tell you all about it.” Jack shouldered his bag and went up the walk to the front door. The spare key was in a fake rock half underneath the porch. He heard D snort in derision at this half-assed attempt at security. He shot him a look. “Not everyone’s on their guard against armed assassins and drug lords, you know. A fake rock’s good enough for most people.”
D followed him into the cabin. It was a nice place. Two bedrooms that shared a big bathroom, with another bathroom off the kitchen. Cozy living room and a deck that looked out over Lake Tahoe a few miles away. “Where are we, exactly?”
“About halfway between Carnelian Bay and Tahoe City.”
“Still in California, then.”
“Yeah. No one’s around. Closest neighbor is two miles off to the east; you can’t even see the lights through the trees.”
“Good.” D sat down heavily while Jack went back to the car for the aluminum cases.
“So… we’re sure we weren’t followed?” Jack said, shutting the door behind him and flipping the deadbolt.
“Pretty sure. Unless there’s another tracker on the fuckin’ car.” D winced and let his head fall back against the couch.
Jack leaned over him and undid the top two buttons on his shirt, pulling it aside and lifting his bandage. He tried not to show it, but the sight of D’s wound didn’t reassure him. It was angry red around the edges and suppurating slightly. He was out of antibiotics. “When was your last tetanus shot?” he asked.
D looked at him like he was crazy. “Tetanus shot? Fuck if I know.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Shit, no. Got ’em regular in the Army, not since.”
“So more than ten years, is what you’re telling me?” Jack straightened up and ran one hand through his hair.
“Is that bad?”
“Bad? D, you got shot! You could get tetanus!”
“Thought that was from rusty nails.”
“Anything metallic penetrating the body is a possible source of infection and that does include bullets. It’s not too likely you’ll get it, but if there was ever a time for better safe than sorry, this is it.” He shook his head. “I’m going to have to get some tetanus vaccine somewhere.”
“I’m fine. I ain’t gonna get tetanus.”
“You don’t know that. And if you develop symptoms it’ll be too late to administer the vaccine. Tetanus has a fifty percent mortality rate, D. You like those odds? Because I don’t.” D looked a little troubled by this. “I can’t take the risk. And your wound… it isn’t looking good. You’re not looking good, either.” D was pale and clammy.
“I feel kinda feverish. Didn’t like ta say nothin’.”
“You don’t do that, you hear me?” Jack said, rounding on him. “You tell me how you’re feeling! I can’t take care of you if you’re hiding things from me, and I can’t have you dying of sepsis or tetanus or fucking necrotizing fasciitis because you didn’t tell me you felt feverish in time for me to do anything about it!”
D just blinked at this tirade. “Fine. You the boss, doc. So let’s hear yer big fuckin’ plan. You gonna waltz right inta some ER and walk out with pockets fulla drugs? ’Cause I hear they crackin’ down on that shit.”
“I’ll think of something.” He sighed and fell back into the corner of the couch, watching D. “But not until tomorrow. I want to see how that wound does, and if you need more antibiotics. It takes at least two days to develop symptoms from tetanus so it’ll be fine for me to go tomorrow.”
“Go where?”
“I haven’t figured that part out yet.” He smirked a little. “C’mon, D. Trust me.”
“Well… I guess I owe ya that much, don’t I?”
The cabin was pretty well stocked with canned goods, so Jack put the microwave to good use. He hadn’t really realized how hungry he was until he smelled the chili, crappy sodium-laced canned chili though it was. They sat at the little round table in the kitchen; Jack wolfed down his food while D picked at his. “You need to eat,” Jack said.
“Ain’t too hungry.”
Jack paused. “You should be; we haven’t eaten all day.”
D glanced at him. “Feel kinda… mashed up.” The admission of physical vulnerability seemed to embarrass him.
“How’s your shoulder?”
“Hurts like a sumbitch.”
“Hurts how? Is it a sharp pain, an achy pain, or a burning pain?”
“I gotta pick just one?”
Jack stood up and put his hand to D’s forehead. He definitely felt warm. He went to his bag and pulled out a digital thermometer. “Under your tongue,” he said, and D obliged him, though he didn’t look happy about it. Jack withdrew the probe. “Well, you’ve got a one-and-a-half-degree fever. That’s not so bad but it isn’t good.” He went to the stove again. “Go sit on the couch and wrap up in that afghan. I’m going to make you some tea.”
D stood up slowly. “Ya sound like a fuckin’ grandmother.”
“Grandmothers were doctors before doctors were doctors. You need fluids.”
When Jack came back to the living room, mug in hand, D was on the couch, wrapped up in the afghan as Jack had instructed. “Thanks,” he said, taking the tea. Jack sat on the far end of the couch. D was looking around the room. “This place secure?”
“Secure?”
“The windows lock? Got a second entrance?”
“Everything has a lock. There’s just the front door and the patio door.” D grunted, sipping his tea. “You seem nervous.”
D shrugged. “If I’m laid up, you ain’t got no defense.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Best hope is that no one finds us here.”
Jack nodded, curling up into his corner of the couch with another afghan. He studied D’s face, flushed now with heat from the tea. “How’d you get into this business?” he asked.
“Jus’ kinda happened.”
“A person can’t ‘jus’ kinda’ become a hired killer.”
“Well, I did.”
Jack tried another tack. “Why did you join the Army?”
D shrugged again, as if these questions had no importance. “I was eighteen, didn’t have no prospects, hadta do somethin’.”
“You must have liked it to stay in as long as you did.”
“It was okay. It liked me pretty well. Officers said I had the attitude for it, the right kinda personality, whatever the hell that means.”
“You were in during Desert Storm, right?”
“Yep. Spent two years over there.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“What was it like?”
“I don’t wanna talk no more.”
“Come on, D. You know everything about me.”
“Don’t think that’s so.”
“Well, ask me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Ain’t nothin’ I wanna know. Know enough. Ya saw a lady murdered and yer gonna say so in court, and ya don’t deserve ta die. That’s all I care about.”
Jack said nothing, hurt more than he would have expected by D’s lack of interest. He couldn’t abide silence for long, though. “So… how does it work?”
“What?”
“The whole hired-killer thing. How does it work?”
D sighed wearily. “Got a handler. Contracts come ta her, she shows me the files, I take jobs I wanna take, client pays her, she takes a cut, pays
me. Real simple. I work when I want, no more ‘n’ no less.”
He didn’t want to ask, but he knew he had to. Eventually, he had to, and he might as well do it now. “How many?”
D’s face turned slightly toward him, his eyes still focused toward the fireplace. He didn’t hesitate. “Sixty-seven.” He said it without pulling the punch, like he wanted the blow to strike Jack hard.
Sweet Jesus. “How many of those were while you were in the Army?”
“None.”
“None?” Jack asked, incredulous.
“Never even fired my weapon. Army trained me ta kill, but hadta leave it ta become a killer.”
Jack was determined not to look away. “Who were they? These sixty-seven people?”
“You don’t wanna know this, Jack.” D was staring down into his mug again.
“I do. Tell me who they were.”
“I don’t want you ta know.”
“Why?”
D suddenly turned the high beams of those blazing eyes full on him. “’Cause I don’t wanna wreck that world ya live in, where folks are good and help each other out and you fix people’s faces that’s got hurt, and where ya step up and stand and fight when ya seen wrong bein’ done, where ya take care a some man who was sent ta kill ya, and I don’t want ya ta know how it ain’t like that, not really, and ’cause I don’t want ya touched by me and my kind and the world I know so’s you can go back ta yer life jus’ the way you are right now.”
Jack stared, transfixed. That was the most D had spoken at one time, and it was the first time he’d heard that kind of emotion from him. D looked away, and then put his mug aside. “I’m goin’ ta get some sleep.” Jack just watched him go into one of the bedrooms, the afghan still clutched around him, and shut the door behind him.
He slumped down on the couch, one hand over his eyes. Jesus fucking Christ, what have I gotten myself into?
D struggled awake through layers of heavy fog, and that in itself was alarming. He usually snapped awake, directly to full alertness, a leftover skill from the Army that had saved his ass on more than one occasion. Jack was shaking him.
No, he ain’t shakin’ you, you jus’ shakin’, he realized. He was wrapped in an afghan and sweat was pouring off him, but he was shaking. His shoulder was on fire and he felt hollowed out, mind and body. He’d been sick a few times in his life, but nothing like this. This felt like burning alive, liquefying and pouring himself out of his pores.
He struggled to sit up, then got his feet on the floor, but stumbled and fell with his feet tangled in the afghan. He heard quick footsteps, then the bedroom door opened and there were arms lifting him back to the bed. “What the hell are you doing?”
It was a blow to D’s carefully cultivated independence and detachment to realize how glad he was to hear Jack’s voice. He had to restrain himself from clutching at him. He just felt so strong and calm and healthy and D had little experience with feeling needy. “Woke up… shaky,” he managed.
“Christ, you’re burning up,” Jack said, pushing him back onto the bed and turning on the bedside lamp. He pulled D’s shirt aside to look at the wound; D could tell by Jack’s tight face that it didn’t look good. He sat on the edge of the bed, much closer than D would ordinarily have tolerated, but he felt so low that he didn’t care. “D, I have to get some more medicine for you.”
“How?”
Jack sighed. “I’ll drive into Carson City and sneak into a hospital.”
D opened his eyes and focused on Jack’s face. He sure as hell looked serious. “Jack, I was kiddin’ when I said that.”
“I’ll buy some scrubs from a medical-supply store, a lab coat, take my stethoscope, and walk in like I belong. Isn’t that how they say you get by? Walk around like you belong?”
“Yeah, guess so… but….”
“I can do it. I have to do it.”
“No, it’s too risky. You get caught… brothers might find ya….”
Jack leaned a little closer and fixed him with a determined stare. “D, I am not going to do nothing while you die of sepsis or some kind of staph infection. I know what I’m doing. I’ll be quick, and I’ll be back before you know it.”
“You ain’t goin’ now, are ya?”
“No, I can’t. I’d be more easily noticed at night, when there’s less staff around. I’ll go in the morning.” He had two fingers on D’s wrist, taking his pulse. “I wish I could go now, though. You’re getting worse by the minute.”
“I’m okay.”
“Cut out that impervious-ruthless-killer act. When’s the last time you were seriously ill?”
“Don’t think I ain’t never been.”
“Well, it’s a great equalizer. It makes everyone feel vulnerable, from the weepiest soccer mom to the toughest drill sergeant. You’re not so tough that you’re immune, you know.”
D grunted and scooted away a little, like maybe that’d make him forget about the bolts of panic that ran through him at the thought of Jack going out. “Don’t need no hand-holdin’, doc.”
Jack chuckled. “You say that now, sure.” He got up and went into the living room, coming back with his bag and a glass of water. “Sit up,” he said, and D was humiliated to find that he needed help doing this. “Here, take these,” Jack said, holding out his hand.
“What are they?”
“Just aspirin, dumbass,” Jack said, with a playful smirk that D didn’t really understand. “Help with the fever and the chills. And drink this entire glass of water. I don’t want you dehydrated on top of everything else.” D took the aspirin and drained the glass as fast as he could. “All right, let’s get you into bed. Come on, get undressed.”
D looked up at him. “Ya mind?”
“Oh. Sorry. My brain gets into doctor mode where I forget that people have modesty. I’ll get you some more water; you get undressed and get in bed.”
Jack left the room and D struggled out of his clothes, a task made more difficult by the pain in his shoulder and the uselessness of his left arm. He managed to strip down to his boxers and climb into the bed, which felt soft and inviting. He settled back against the pillows with a sigh, feeling marginally better, but still like he’d gotten a real close acquaintance with the front end of a truck.
Jack came back in with a glass of water and a bowl of something. “Drink this, and I want you to try and eat something.”
D’s stomach cramped up at the thought. “Cain’t eat nothin’.”
“Then at least drink.”
D took the glass and got a few sips down. Jack took the glass and examined his shoulder again. “I have to change this dressing. It’s going to hurt.”
“Okay,” D said.
He was right. It hurt.
Jack looked a little ill himself as he disposed of the old bandage. He wiped D’s face with a cool washcloth. “Sorry,” he said.
“Nuh… don’t….” What was he going to say? He was drifting away. He felt weightless and the room was coming apart, floating apart in pieces. He could hear Jack saying his name, but it wasn’t his name, just one stupid letter, the least you could get away with and still call it a name. Wanna hear you say my real name someday, Jack. The thought floated through his mind, moorless and slick so he couldn’t hang on to it. Might be that yer the person I could tell why it ain’t mine no more.
~~~~~
Jack watched as D drifted into semi-consciousness. He took his temperature again. 101. Higher than before. And that was with aspirin in him. He had to get some stronger antibiotics, and fast, before the infection spread and made him even sicker. He hated that he now had to wait until morning.
He took D’s laptop out into the kitchen and set it up at the small table, hoping he could pick up a network. He was pleased to discover that at some point, Warren had wired this place up, so he was good to go. He found the location of Carson-Tahoe Hospital and copied down the directions from MapQuest, and did the same for a uniform store where he could buy scrubs. Their Web site said that they could
even embroider his name on a lab coat while he waited, which would lend a touch of believability to his disguise. Was it really a disguise? He was a doctor, after all.
D was right about one thing. He couldn’t walk into the ER and grab a couple of handfuls of drugs and tetanus toxoid. Emergency rooms had pretty good security these days. But if this hospital was anything like the ones he’d worked at, there would be little to no security at the employee health center. One nurse on duty, who would have plenty of antibiotics and probably tetanus vaccine in her office. All he had to do was wait for her to go to lunch or something. He even found the floor plan of the hospital online and located the employee health center. He sat and studied the floor plan until he had it pretty well committed to memory. It’d be hard to look like he belonged there if he was wandering around with a lost look on his face.
You could just run, you know. D’s in no condition to give chase, and he won’t have a car. Drive to Reno and call the Marshals. Have them put you back in protective custody. This man’s dangerous. He’s said there are people after him apart from the ones after you. The last thing you need is a traveling companion who makes you an even bigger target. Get away from him. Far away.
Jack got up and went back into D’s room. He was sleeping, not entirely peacefully. Jack crossed to the bed and sat down on the edge, looking down at his unlikely ally with a head full of troubled thoughts. In sleep, the bedrock guardedness that D wore like a second skin was gone, and he looked vulnerable, human and frail. Jack put the back of his hand to D’s forehead again. Still hot. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t leave D. Not now. He’d saved Jack’s life at least three times. He might be a vicious killer, but Jack couldn’t bring himself to judge him. There had to be something that had driven him to it, because Jack had looked but he hadn’t seen the kind of coldness or cruelty that he had to believe would be there for a man who’d truly chosen to make his living by killing others.
It was his turn to do the rescuing, and he’d do it, by God.