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“You hurt him. He needs medical attention.”
The man sneered. “Screw him. It’s his fault I’m not headed to Mexico right now. I need medical attention.”
Her gaze darted to the bloodstain on his shirt. “How bad is it?”
He raised his shirt again to show her the bullet wound. “Hurts like fire, but you’re better able to say how bad it is.”
Inhaling deeply for composure, Lilly tried to push aside her fear and focus on the robber not as her captor and a murderer, but as her patient. She examined the gash on his side but didn’t touch it. Her hands hadn’t been sanitized. “It’s deep, but it looks like a flesh wound. I need more light and a chance to wash my hands before I can examine it any closer. It needs to be irrigated and disinfected for starters, probably a butterfly bandage or stitches.”
Inspiration struck.
“Yes, definitely stitches.” She pinned the man with the steadiest look she could, praying for the authority in her voice that would cover her duplicity. “You need to go to the local ER. Stat. Without cleansing and stitches, the wound can fester, lead to sepsis—”
His eyes narrowed. “Sepsis?”
“That’s when infection spreads throughout the body. Sepsis can lead to organ failure and death.”
The gunman frowned and cocked his head. “Bullshit.”
She squared her shoulders. “I’m serious. Sepsis is dangerous. That wound, left untreated, could easily spread infection throughout your body and make you very ill.” She squeezed her hands in fists at her sides, trying to stop them from shaking. She was taking great liberties, exaggerating the seriousness of his condition, and he couldn’t know she was trying to scare him with medical horror stories. “Why do you think so many people died in the old days from things as simple as a stab wound or strep throat? They didn’t have the means to fight infection the way we do now. Simple infections spread and overwhelmed patients’ defenses.”
He seemed to be considering her warning, but the doubt never left his gaze. The muscle in his jaw worked, and he leaned close enough for her to smell his fetid breath. “I ain’t going to the hospital.”
His tone was dark and low. Final.
Her heart beat hard enough for him to see the quivering of her shirt if he looked. She pressed a hand to her chest to calm the skittering sensation there. “You should. You need—”
“Shut it! Anything needs doin’, you do it. You think I stopped off here at your house instead of hightailing it out of town ’cause I like your decorating?”
His comment sent a jolt through her. Her mouth dried. “What?”
“I said, you’re gonna doctor me. Now get to it!” He grabbed her arm and shook it. “Whatcha need? You got a first-aid kit or something?”
She shook herself from the shock of his comment about why he’d retreated to Helen’s house and waved vaguely toward the bathroom. “I’m, um, sure we can find s-something in the bathroom.”
He waved her that direction with the muzzle of the gun. “Get on with it then. I don’t want none of that sepsis stuff you talked about.”
She moved to the master bathroom, which adjoined the bedroom, casting a glance to Dave as she passed his prostrate form on the ground. His eyes were closed and he was still, but she thought she saw the muscle in his jaw tense as they walked past. Bound hand and foot as he was, she knew he would be no help to her if things went south with the bank robber.
She was on her own. As usual. She should have been used to the feeling, but somehow, under the circumstances, “on her own” was emptier. Bleaker. Scarier.
Lilly opened the cabinets in Helen’s bathroom and rummaged the shelves for anything she could use. First-aid disinfecting spray. Hydrogen peroxide. Bandages. Tylenol. Sterile pads.
“Take your shirt off,” she said as she set the items on the counter around the sink.
Giving her a wary eye, he set the gun on the rim of the bathtub behind him and carefully peeled off his T-shirt.
She washed her hands and dried them on a clean towel, then began ripping open sterile pads to begin cleaning the wound. “Can you raise your arm? I need better light on it.”
Grunting, he held his arm up to shoulder level, then winced when he tried to move it higher.
“That’s good. Hold it there.” She really wanted to irrigate the gash but didn’t see anything—a squirt bottle or syringe—for the sterile wash. She began dabbing at the wound with a sterile pad soaked with disinfecting spray. Cutting a quick glance to her captor as she worked, she asked, “What did you mean about coming here instead of getting out of town?”
“What do you think?” he scoffed. “On top of a place to lay low, I needed doctoring and couldn’t go to the ER. When I found your hospital name tag in your purse, I knew you could fix me up.”
A sick feeling washed through her, and she stilled as the truth sank in. The cretin had come here because of her. Her life, Dave’s life,was in danger because the robber had sought her out. Horror crawled through her and soured in her gut.
“But...” She paused for a breath, forcing her concentration back to his wound. “My name tag is for a Denver hospital. How did you find this house?”
“The envelope full of goodies in your purse. All the documents listed someone named Helen Shaw with this address.”
Lilly’s heart seemed to slow. The things from Helen’s safe-deposit box. The nausea swirling through her intensified.
The thug continued, “Figured that had to be where you were staying while in town.” He snorted. “I ain’t as stupid as I look.” He turned his head to eye her. “So should we be expecting Helen to join us soon?”
Tears filled Lilly’s eyes, and she whispered hoarsely, “No.”
“You sure about that? If I find out you’re lying to me—”
“She’s dead.” Lilly met his gaze directly, angry that he’d forced her to speak the words she’d been trying to avoid since December. “She was murdered right before Christmas.”
He held her stare as if searching for deception, then muttered, “Damn. That’s gotta make for a sucky holiday.”
She scoffed bitterly. “You think?” Dropping her gaze to continue dressing his wound, she grumbled, “Kinda like the sucky days that poor old security guard’s family will have thanks to you?”
His lip curled up on one side, and he stuck his face close to hers. “I did what I had to. Better him than me.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, knowing that debating the morality and necessity of his actions wouldn’t be productive. She swabbed his wound harder, not caring any more if she hurt him.
He hissed in pain. “Hey, take it easy!”
“You want it cleaned or not?”
His only answer was a scowl.
As her initial flood of fear and adrenaline receded, lulled by the familiarity of the task at hand, a new feeling swelled inside her, boosted by her anger and grief over Helen, fueled by her disgust for the man who’d invaded Helen’s house and terrorized her. A boldness. A realization that if she was going to die today, she didn’t want to go quietly.
Maybe, if she could get the gunman to see her, make some kind of connection with her, he’d have a harder time shooting her.
After another moment of working to clean the wound, she asked, “So you got a name?”
“Of course I do. Everyone does.” He arched an eyebrow as he turned a smug look on her. “But I ain’t telling you mine.”
“Is that fair? You know mine, but won’t tell me yours?”
He gave a brittle laugh. “Fair? What do you think this is—kindergarten? Life ain’t fair. Deal with it.”
“No. Life is certainly not fair. A fair life wouldn’t have seen my sister murdered, my father leaving us when I was nine, or my mother dead from breast cancer when she was barely fifty.”
He flinched. If she hadn’t had her eyes fixed on the wound she was doctoring, she might have missed the small shudder that rolled through him.
“What?” she asked, eyeing him.
“What what?”
“Do you know someone who died of cancer? Your mom?”
He angled a glare at her.
“Was it breast cancer?” Keeping half her attention on his expression, she finished disinfecting the bullet wound and moved on to clean the rest of the blood from his arm and chest.
He snatched his arm away to unbuckle the analog watch from his wrist. He turned to the sink, took a rag from the tiny shelf over the toilet and began washing his arm and chest for himself. “My mother died of a drug overdose in a crack house in California,” he said coldly, his resentment obvious. “At least that’s what my dad told me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
He snorted. “Good riddance.”
“Then someone else had cancer?”
He pressed his mouth in a grim line and shot her another quelling stare. “Shut it.”
She raised her palm in acquiescence. “Fine. Fine.”
As she turned toward the supplies she’d piled on the sink to find a butterfly bandage, she moved his watch out of the way. His hand clamped hard on her wrist. “Don’t touch that.”
“I was just moving—”
He gave her wrist a shake and another firm squeeze. “I said, don’t. Touch. My watch.”
She gave the watch another look, curious what about it made him so protective of it. She could tell by the well-worn leather strap that it was old. The face was scratched and the gold-toned metal case showed wear. A family heirloom perhaps? The thing didn’t look valuable but she knew well enough that you couldn’t put a price on sentimental items.
She nodded, and he released her arm. After picking out a bandage for his wound, she faced him in time to see him lift a hand to his chest and rub a neat, red scar there. A surgical scar, if she wasn’t mistaken. And it clicked.
“You had cancer!” she blurted before she could catch herself.
His head snapped up, and the startled, pained look in his eyes spoke for itself. In the next moment his countenance darkened, and his nostrils flared as he exhaled harshly. “Have,” he growled. “The damn thing came back.”
Chapter 4 (#u30a78ded-e4ca-5e9a-904e-2c7b5d364700)
Dave’s head throbbed, but when he tried to raise a hand to his aching skull, he found his hands bound behind his back. He groaned and blinked against the overhead light that glared in his eyes.
He was on the floor. Why was he on the floor and—?
Angling his head, he discovered his feet were bound as well. A surreal notion of danger flooded him, setting his senses on full alert even before he could muddle through fog that muddied his brain. He turned his head, squinting against the light as he tried to place himself. The decor was familiar, yet...different. Helen’s room? Why—?
Reality crashed on him like a boulder, crushing him. Helen was dead. Bank robbery. Gunman at Helen’s house.
Lilly! His breathing accelerated, keeping time with his pulse, as he thought of Lilly alone with the bank robber. If he’d hurt her, if he’d...touched her... He couldn’t even think the more accurate word without fury scorching his veins. He tried to sit up, and the pounding in his head sent him back flat on the floor. Slowly.
So...head injury. The robber had smacked him on the temple. Hell...
A movement to his left snagged his attention, and he angled his head to peer into the shadows under Helen’s bed. A fluffy black-and-brown cat with a white chest blinked at him. Meowed softly.
But... Helen didn’t have a cat. So where...?
The sound of voices drew his attention away from the cat and toward the bathroom.
“I’m sorry.” Lilly’s voice. “I didn’t—”
“Shut up!” A male voice. Presumably the robber. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk at all! Just finish up with this and keep your trap shut. Okay?”
The man’s hostility set Dave on edge. The guy was armed, unpredictable and currently alone with Lilly. Dave rolled on his side and curled his body so that he could see his feet. He had a thick band of clear tape around his ankles. Then tape had also been looped around the leg of the bed. He was useless to defend Lilly if the dirt wad tried to hurt her.
“Do you want something for the pain?” Lilly asked, her voice drifting in from the bathroom. “I have Tylenol here, and I think I have ibuprofen in my purse. Assuming you didn’t lose the bottle when you snatched my purse from me.”
“Screw that. I have some of the good stuff. Serious painkillers.” There was a beat of silence, then the robber bit out a curse. “Left my pills in the car,” he grumbled.
“I can get them for you,” Lilly offered.
The cretin chortled. “Like hell you will. You’re going in there with your buddy. Are we done here?”
“I—”
“Never mind that.” He heard a clatter. “We’re done.”
Dave tensed as he realized they were returning to the bedroom. He had no plan, and he scrambled mentally. Should he pretend to still be unconscious? Was there anything nearby he could use as a weapon? His hands might be bound behind him but if the opportunity arose...
“Well, look who’s awake. Won’t be trying any more of your stupid tricks now, will you, Hero?” The robber shoved Lilly’s shoulder. “You. Get over there with him. On the floor.”
Lilly gave the gunman a disappointed look. “Is that really necessary? I’m not—”
“Yes,” the man replied, his expression sour. “It is necessary. Until I figure out what I’m gonna do with you two, how I’m gonna get out of town with this delay... Hell, if I’m going to leave town. Maybe hiding out here for a couple days is my best bet. Huh?”
Lilly stood motionless, staring at him. Her shoulders were back, and her eyes glowed bright with challenge.
Dave’s stomach swooped. What was she doing? Challenging a desperate man with a gun was asking for trouble. The thug had already proven his willingness to kill innocent bystanders. Dave tested the bindings on his wrists for the hundredth time. Nope. If the gunman attacked Lilly, he’d be useless to her. His incapacity clawed at his soul. He had to find a way to protect Lilly, to rescue her from this lunatic before she was hurt.
“Go!” The man gave Lilly’s shoulder a nudge and took a roll of packing tape from the top of the dresser.
Lilly trudged over to Dave and squatted beside him on the floor, taking a moment to check the bump on his head. “How do you feel? Any nausea? Double vision?”
She touched his face, just below the spot on his head that ached from the robber’s assault. Even the slight pressure of her fingers sent lightning bolts streaking under his skull. He sucked in a breath, startled by how much his head hurt—and by how good her cool touch felt on his skin. Despite the pain from the knot on his brow, Lilly’s soft caress, the concern in her green eyes and the subtle floral scent that surrounded her were a heady combination.
Dave shook his head slowly. “No. None of that. Just a sore skull.”
The screech of tape ripping from the roll redirected his attention to the robber. “Yeah, boo-hoo. You shot me. This—” he pointed to the bandage on his side just below his armpit “—ain’t no picnic, either. So stop your griping.”
Dave’s attention went to the revolver tucked in easy reach in the waist of the man’s threadbare jeans.
