Stranger Danger (7 page)

“If they find us, they’ll kill
us. Or take us someplace,
then
kill us.” He’d told her
the same earlier, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it then.
 
Now that her bedroom window had been shattered
by bullets and they were on the run in a stolen pickup, Sara did.

“Who are ‘they’?”

“M13,” he said. “
La muñequita
, I’ll tell you everything
when we get there.
 
You’re in it, now, as
much as I am but
por favor
, let me
get us to this cabin or whatever it is.”

“Trailer,” she said. “It’s an old
travel trailer set up to be permanent.”

His shoulders shrugged.
“Whatever.”

Something in his voice sounded
off. Sara turned to study his profile.
 
His tense posture made perfect sense, but he appeared pale, too. “Are
you okay?”

Santiago sounded weary when he
replied, after a brief hesitation. “
Si,
estoy
bien
,
querida
.
 
How much farther is it?”

“Half an hour or so after we’re
through Gravette,” Sara replied, peering ahead. “I think we’re at Decatur now.”

They rolled through the small
town and headed north on Highway 59.
 
Although she had a thousand questions, she said little.
 
Worry crawled through her like invisible ants
in a relentless march. Their situation concerned her and so did Santiago. She
knew him too well to believe he was fine. When they passed through Gravette, he
sighed.
“
Estoy muy
consado
.
See if the radio works, would you, please?”

Sara turned on the ancient AM
radio and got static.
 
She moved up and
down the dial. She found nothing but a faraway news station, a talk show, and
someone preaching the Gospel with fervent force. “Anything catch your fancy?”

 
He snorted. “I hoped for some music.”

She rolled through the
frequencies again without success. “I can’t find anything and there’s no CD
player.
 
Sorry.”

“Caramba
!”
He
balled a fist and whacked the steering wheel.

Maybe he’d changed more than
she’d thought.
 
“Is no music such a big
deal?” she asked.

“
Si
.”
 
He ran one hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m too tired to see
straight, and I thought it’d keep me focused.”

She reached out and put her hand
over his on the steering wheel. “Would you like me to drive?”

Santiago shook his head. “No. Would
you sing, though?”

Sara thought she’d misheard.
“Sing? You want me to sing?”

“Yes, if you would.”

Anxiety gnawed at her, ferocious
and fierce.
 
He’s a lot more tired than I thought or he’s sick.
Or
something.
 
“What would you
like to me to sing?”

He named songs they’d once loved,
old songs, and new.
 
Sara gathered breath
and launched into an old Jim Croce song,
Time
In A
Bottle.
As she sang the familiar lyrics, she
wished she could spend every day through eternity with Santiago.
 
With any luck and maybe a miracle, it could happen.

Her voice blended with the steady
sound of the steel-belted tires against the pavement as they drove into the
night, headed away from danger and into the unknown.
 
The sole comfort she had was that they were
together, for now.

Chapter
Five

Somewhere along the old highway
that wound tightly around the base of rugged bluffs and blind corners, they
lost their way.
 
Sara figured out where
they’d made a wrong turn and they backtracked.
 
It was after midnight before they bumped down the narrow dirt track,
branches and tall weeds pressing against the truck, and parked in front of what
she’d always called ‘the shack’.
 
The one
time travel trailer dated to the 1960’s and had been mobile, once.
 
Now it rested in a permanent spot beneath
tall hickory trees, without wheels and with an added porch.
 
The slide-out room, intended to be folded
back in place for travel, stuck out from the side.

“We’re here,” Sara said.
 
Her voice emerged from a very dry throat and
fatigue surrounded her like fog.
 
She dug
into her purse for the key and climbed out, expecting Santiago to follow.
 
Halfway across the knee-high expanse of
grass, she realized he remained in the truck.
 
She headed back as he climbed out of the cab with slow, stiff
movements.
 
Sara dashed to him and caught
his hand. “C’mon, I’ll show you the place.”

“Go ahead,” he said after a quick
squeeze of her hand. “I’ll catch up.
 
Turn on a light, too.
 
It’s dark.”

He sounded so weary, she thought,
almost weak if she didn’t know different.
 
“All right, then. Do you need help carrying the groceries and stuff?”

Santiago shook his head and released
her.
 
Sara’s eyes adjusted to the night
by the time she stepped onto the covered porch.
 
She walked the narrow length to the front door and unlocked it.
 
Once inside, she groped blindly for a table
lamp on top of the entertainment center and switched it on.
 
Electric light banished the gloom and she
breathed a sigh of relief.
 
Because of
the remote location, sometimes the power went out when a limb fell on the
line.
 
The stale, overheated air wrapped
around her as she turned on more lights and did a quick walkthrough to make
sure everything remained in order.
 

A fine coating of dust layered
the living room’s basic furnishings, an old six foot long crushed gold velvet
couch, a matching arm chair, a lone wooden kitchen chair, an entertainment
center with an ancient television that picked up nothing, a bookcase, and a
glass-fronted gun case.
 
The dinky
kitchen with its’ original carnation pink appliances and sink appeared to be in
good order.
 
She listened and heard the
old fridge humming.
 
Then she flicked a
burner on the aged gas stove and a flame flared to life
.
 
Good.
 
There’s propane in the tank for cooking and
hot water for showers.

She didn’t bother to glance into
the very small bedroom Erik had used as a studio but peeked into the bathroom
with its’ light yellow fixtures.
 
The
bedroom at the end of the hall held a queen sized bed which took up most of the
floor space, and she made a mental note to change the sheets before they put
one toe into the bed.
 
After switching on
the window air conditioner, she walked back to the living room, expecting to
find Santiago delivering the bags of groceries, but he hadn’t come inside yet.

When she peered through the door,
she saw him on the porch, moving with cautious steps and the gait of an old
man.
 
Sara met him and took several
bags.
 
 
He carried the disposable cooler in one hand
and had the other bags looped through his fingers on the other.

“There you are!” She placed the
groceries on the kitchen counters and started putting thing away.
 
He delivered the cooler and put down the
other bags on the floor.
 

“Sarita,” he said in an odd
voice.
 
She glanced up.
 
He leaned against the doorway and rubbed his
upper left arm, just below the shoulder.
 
His frown became a grimace.

“What’s wrong?” she said.
 
In the bright electric glow he looked very
pale and drawn. “Santiago?”

“
Estoy mal
,” he told her, white to the lips.
 
“
Me
voy
a
desmayer
.”
He
swayed for a moment and then collapsed. Her Spanish was more than a little
rusty and by the time she realized he’d said he was going to faint, he had.
She’d understood the first phrase – he felt bad and she wondered, as she
dropped to the floor beside him, why.
 
I knew he didn’t look well, I knew it.

She put a finger under his nose
and when his breath blew against it, she relaxed a little.
 
Sara touched his forehead and cheeks,
checking for fever but found his skin cool.
 
“Santiago,” she cried. She poked his belly, but he didn’t react.
 
Then she grasped his shoulder to shake him
awake and he moaned.
 
Although she hadn’t
noticed it in their mad rush to exit her apartment, his left shoulder seemed padded.
 
When she reached beneath his jacket, she
found a folded towel.
 
Sara removed it
and gasped.
 
It was soaked crimson with
blood.
 
She shrieked his name, terrified,
and his eyes fluttered open.
 
He stared
up at her. “
La muñequita
,” he said in
a quiet voice. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re hurt,” she said as a sob
caught tighter than a fish bone in her throat.

“
Si
, I got shot,” he said. “It’s not so bad, I don’t think.”

“Not bad?” Her voice shrilled up
an octave. “You should’ve said something. I would have taken you to the
hospital.” She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and prepared to punch in
911.

“No.” Despite his pallor, he said
the word with firm clarity.
“No phone unless you want them to
track you.
No hospital unless you want me dead.”

She didn’t. “Then who’s going to
take care of it?” she asked.

He managed a weak grin. “You
are.”

Sara glanced down at the wound
and winced.
 
“I can’t.
 
I run a flower shop and have a teaching
degree.
 
I’m not a doctor.
 
I’m not even a nurse.”

“You must, Sarita.
 
All you have to do is clean it.
 
The bullet went through.”

Her stomach rolled as she peered at
the bloody, ragged wound. “How do you know?”

He tried to sit up and she pushed
him back. “I know,” he said. “I’ve got a hole in front and back.
 
Besides, I’ve been shot before.
 
I’d know if the bullet was still in me.”

He’d
been shot?
No one told
me
. “Lie still. You fainted.”

Santiago shook his head. “That’s only
because I’m tired and lost some blood.
 
Look
in my duffel. There’s a first aid kit and other medical supplies in the bottom.
Help me to a chair.”

After dragging the straight
backed wooden chair to the kitchen, she wrapped her arm around his waist, and
Santiago pulled himself into a sitting position.
 
He managed the few steps to the seat but sat
down hard.
 
He muffled a groan and when
she hovered, he waved one hand.

“Get the stuff out of the bag,
por favor
.
 
Get the tequila, too.
 
Get it first.”

Sara brought the duffle to the
kitchen counter and unzipped it.
 
She
groped for the bottle and once she found it, handed it to him.
 
He managed to open it one-handed and took a deep
swig.
 
She shuddered, remembering the
potent taste of the powerful alcohol.
 
When he downed another longer swallow, she took the bottle. “That’s
enough for now. You don’t want to get drunk.”

He narrowed his eyes and
grimaced. “Actually, I do,” he said without mirth. “It hurts like a mother
fucker.”

Since he fainted, she’d kept a
tight hold on her emotions.
 
If she
didn’t, she’d be lost.
 
Her irritation
masked concern, but she could tell how much pain he suffered.
 
Sara cupped her hand to his cheek, and he
titled his head to lean into her caress. “I’m sorry,
mi corazon,”
she said. “I’m afraid it’s probably going to hurt a
lot more. What should I do now?”