Flame's Dawn (9 page)

His voice went hard and sharp, like the edge of a knife. “It was a crazy night. You must have been mistaken in what you saw.”

But at his narrowed glare, she snapped her mouth shut on a follow-up question. Message received. “What about tonight? How did you end up at that hospital, Barnaby? Damned convenient if you ask me.”

His wry smile twisted something both hopeful and uncomfortable deep in her belly.

“I'm a lucky guy. I've been spending some time in San Francisco for the past few years.”

“You just happened to be working at the hospital where I was treated?”

“Stranger things have occurred.”

“Let me get this straight: You didn't blow up on the roof where an explosion went off. And you're just hanging out in San Francisco for the hell of it?”

He glanced at the beige shag carpet. “I, ah, had a lot of time on my hands. Why not spend it in San Francisco?”

A heavy weight of sadness pressed on her ribcage. “Time. Got it.”

“You never know who you're going to run into. It's a small world.” His clipped words didn't ring true. Speech patterns changed. He was hiding something.

She motioned to her bony, worn-out body. “Are you glad you ran into your old army buddy?”

“Not in this way.”

It hurt to swallow. “Yeah. I figured.”

Sounds of the city filled the space while she tried to find something else to say.

Barnaby spread out his fingers as if reaching for her, then folded them into a loose fist. “What in God's name happened to you?”

Flashes of Thompson's bedroom, the scent of sweaty male, and the texture of polyester double knit made her want to claw her way out of this living room. Thank God Barnaby didn't wear Brut cologne, or she'd throw up. As it was, the more she tried to remember, the more light-headed she became.

She had no right to feel sorry for herself. She'd gone willingly into the abyss, all in the name of the mission.

Barnaby didn't need to know all the details. He'd done so much already. Adding the burden of her mangled conscience wouldn't help anything.

Besides, once she recovered, she'd get out of his life. No need to burden him any further.

“Can't talk about it. Sorry.”

“Why?”

“How about, I don't
want
to talk about it?”

“I have some idea of what might have occurred, you know.”

“How?”

He gestured toward the folder resting on the countertop. “My friend stole your medical file and a bunch of antibiotics.”

“Wow. I only remember a few bad pieces of the last few months. What does the file say?”

“You're really sick.”

“Mentally or physically?”

“Both.”

“Well, then. Shouldn't you return me to the asylum?”

“Do you really want to go back there?” The quiet strength of his voice bolstered her.

“Hell. No.”

“You and I both know that's not where you belong.”

She shrugged. “So says the psychiatrist.” Her laugh sounded pathetic. Even more so when Elton John started belting out “Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me.” Damn it, she refused to listen to the lyrics, especially during this conversation.

“What happened?”

It took all of her willpower to meet his concerned eyes. “Thompson.”

“What about him?”

“He got me committed.”

“Why?”

“I knew too much. About his business.”

“Drugs? Other stuff?”

She gave him a sharp nod, nothing more.

“This is worse than I thought?”

“Yeah, aren't you glad you stepped into the nightmare with me?”

“Nowhere else I'd rather be.”

“You're kidding.”

Nope—if the serious, intense stare and tight press of his lips meant anything, Barnaby was dead serious.

She played with the sateen edge of the blanket. “Anyway. I'm fine now.”

“No, you're not.”

Her head whipped up. “What are you talking about?”

“Thompson's not going to stop until he finds you.”

She sucked in a big, tepid breath, and it tasted like failure. “I know he won't stop. Man, tonight, it was like Thompson had become possessed. I've never seen him that mean.”

He didn't meet her eyes. “He's more dangerous than you can imagine.”

“How would you know?”

“I just know things, okay? Our best bet is for you to disappear from anyone's radar.”

There was that painful truth again, but Barnaby was right. Her best hope was getting the hell out of here. Unfortunately, she could barely raise her arms, much less stand and run.

If she waited here, eventually Thompson would find her. Then what? She shuddered.

“You shouldn't be mixed up in my mess, Barnaby.”

His eyes hardened like cold, blue diamonds. “You want to deal with this on your own?”

“No, but—”

“Then you'll let me help until you get stronger.”

“Yes, but—”

“Do you want me to force-feed you oxtail soup?”

“What? Gross. No way.”

“Then you work on getting better. Best you let me help.”

“But why?”

He ran a hand through his light brown hair. Opened his mouth then closed it. “I just do.”

“That's a lie.”

His sigh told more of a tale than his words. “Look, why don't we focus on you? It seems like you might want to clean up.”

Meaning she was unclean. She couldn't disagree.

He added, “You're also due for another dose of medication.”

Her head whipped around. “Not the psych med?” Pain and horror threatened to drown her.

His warm hand on her arm anchored her to reality. “Only the antibiotic. Promise.”

“Okay, then. Sure.” When she rotated to a sitting position, her head swam. Where was the stupid bathroom? It would take an act of Congress to make it there.

Before she tried to stand, Barnaby's arms were under her, lifting her. His quick strides took her to the bathroom. He kicked the toilet seat down and sat her on it.

In no time, he had the tub filled with temptingly steamy water. What she'd give to scrub the hell out of her skin. Scour the flesh until she eliminated the taint of what Thompson had done to her. Unfortunately, her wounds went deeper than the skin. Maybe a sandblaster would work better.

“So, um…” Barnaby's calm voice broke her reverie.

“Yes?”

“You'll need to ... get out of your clothes to get in ... because ...” His thick neck reddened.

It probably matched her cheeks. “I'll be okay. You can leave.” That came out all wrong, as the pull at the corners of his mouth attested.

“I won't—I can help you.”

“No thank you, Barnaby.” Even though she said it as kindly as possible, there was no way to wipe the disappointed furrow from his brow.

“Right.” He flicked a thumb toward the door. “I'll be just outside, so ...” The poor man backed away and eased the door closed.

In the stillness of the warm bathroom, Jane finally released the blanket. Her ragged and dirty nails gave some indication of her personal hell these past few months. With the last bit of strength, she untied the gown and dropped her underwear on the bathroom floor. Thank goodness, no more blood.

There was more wrong with her, though. More than an infection. More ...

Oh God, another red flash of light and pain.

Her belly clenched with real-time pain and echoes of what had come before.

Laying for days in that bedroom. Feverish pain and far too much blood.

Without the benefit of antipsychotic meds, reality blasted her with both barrels. She'd been pregnant.

And now she wasn't. Jane rubbed the skin of her hollow belly that sagged like a web between her jutting hipbones.

She covered the sob breaking out of her throat.

Remembered stabs of pain drove her to her knees next to the tub. The memory of days upon days of endless agony, begging for help, and bleeding until it was impossible for one person—much less two—to survive.

A knock at the door startled her back to reality.

“Are you all right?” Damn Barnaby's kind voice. He had no idea.

Actually, he did. He had read her medical file.

Damn it.

“Fine, just fine.” The tone was wrong—too high and flat—but it would have to do.

Silence. He must have walked away. Smart man.

With a graceless heave, she flopped over the edge of the tub. Hot water flashed over her, taking her breath away. Then the warmth seeped into her muscles until she relaxed.

Unwilling to simply lay there, she soaped up and scrubbed, over and over. Her arms burned with the effort to lift the washcloth, but no way would she stop now. Over her legs, her flat belly. Over the points of bone protruding from under her thin skin. She scrubbed until lines of red bloomed over her skin. Still, it wasn't enough.

When she dipped the cloth lower, the only thing good about that pass was that no taint could be seen. Still, she felt filthy.

Clean. She had to get clean. Didn't care that there was nothing on the washcloth, she had to make sure nothing of Thompson remained.

With about a hundred baths, maybe she could make her skin clean again.

But what about her soul? No amount of soap and scrubbing would fix that wrecked mess.

She tried to wash her hair but gave up when her burning arms failed her. With an overwhelming rush, the tears flowed and she couldn't stop her sobs. Pressing her fists to her mouth, she fought to stay silent. On an audible gulp, she froze.

“Jane?”

No. Please.

“Jane, do you need help?”

She couldn't answer without sobbing.

The door creaked open.

Oh, no.

The image burned into his mind like acid etching a pane of glass.

Jane sat, hunched over, head bowed, in the tub. Her thin shoulders shook with each deep gasp, but she made no sound. With her arms locked around her bent knees, she had curled into herself.

Not that he blamed her after what had happened. Although the medical records contained sparse information, he could read between the lines. Before him sat a strong woman who had been completely devastated, physically and emotionally.

Barnaby would die a thousand deaths before anyone hurt Jane again.

The wave of rage and protectiveness stunned him stupid.

Powerless to help, Barnaby could only look at her bent head. The depth of her sadness and his own inability to fix this problem froze him in place.

Well, as they said, out of the frying pan, into the fire.

“I'm going to help you, Jane. I won't hurt you, I swear. Okay?”

A sniff and a shaky wave of her hand would have to count for a green light.

He knelt down to move her clothes and the blanket.

“Don't touch those!” she yelled.

Jumping back, he pressed against the towel rack. “All right. Can I push them out of the way?”

She nodded.

With deliberate movements, he used the toe of his shoe to kick the material into the corner, behind the toilet. He'd burn everything, his own clothes included, everything from this apartment, if she wished.

“Tell me what I can do, Jane,” he whispered.

He had to strain to hear, as she still had her face buried between her fragile arms and pressed onto her bent knees.

“I can't get my hair clean.”

“Hair?”

“Yes.” The misery infused into the word grabbed his heart and squeezed.

“Hair.” He frantically scanned the bathroom. “Hair.” He'd turned into a parroting imbecile. “No problem. We'll get you cleaned up, right as rain.”

He dashed out to the living room and fished through the bag of toiletries Dante had dropped off. By Jove, Dante had thought of everything. A pink bottle. Contents smelled like flowers. Women's shampoo. Bless that big Swede.

Running back into the bathroom like he carried a grenade about to blow, Barnaby crouched near the head of the tub. Keeping himself pressed tightly to the wall, he tried to shove his body into a nonthreatening shape.

Jane's shoulder blades pressed out from under her pale skin, and he could count every single bone in her spine. The soft curves he'd recalled from Saigon were long gone, replaced by a tortured, thin frame. On her left hip below the waterline was a red mark. A red
T
.

Shite.

A brand? That whoreson frigging branded her?

His vision turned as red as her puckered skin, and it took every ounce of willpower not to turn around and hunt down Thompson and brand every inch of skin on that sick minion. Did Thompson do it before or after he turned minion?

Didn't matter.

If Barnaby ever had the chance, he'd annihilate that creature. Minion. Criminy. Minion.

Which meant Jerahmeel had become too interested in the human happenings in San Francisco. Minions had one job: Keep the Indebted focused by any means on obtaining kills to feed Jerahmeel via that damned knife.

Which meant Jane's life hung in the balance unless Barnaby could get her to safety and destroy Thompson, if such a thing were even possible. Or Barnaby could break the Indebted contract and remove himself from the payroll, so to speak. Damn that mess in Vietnam, but he needed to get over there and look at those scrolls.

In the act of storming out of the bathroom to go hunt down a minion, Barnaby turned and stopped cold, pinned in place by the ocean-blue of Jane's haunted eyes.

The shimmering fear and despair sucker punched him back to reality.

He grabbed a cup off the sink and dropped to his knees.

Praying that his touch could bring succor, even with the rage swirling inside his mind, he stroked her hair until she relaxed back into his hand. He lifted the cup full of bathwater up and rinsed. Over and over, he lost himself in the smoothness of her hair as the water sluiced through the dark brown strands.