The Protector (2003) (19 page)

"Then how could it be worse?"

"It wasn't center of mass. Only my shoulder." Staying low, Cavanaugh dumped water into his mouth, some of it spilling over his lips, then onto his jacket and the seat. His tongue was like a sponge, absorbing it.

Jamie's voice became agitated. "Is that like saying 'It's only a flesh wound'? What is that?
Duct tape?"

"Don't leave home without it."

"You patched yourself up like you're a leaky pipe? For God's sake, you could die from infection. I'm taking you to a doctor."

"No," Cavanaugh said quickly. "No doctor."

"But--"

"A doctor would have to report a gunshot wound to the police. I don't want the police involved. I don't want the authorities to know I'm alive."

"Doesn't Protective Services have doctors?"

"Yes."

"Then--"

"I can't let anybody there know I'm alive, either."

"What the hell is going on?"

Cavanaugh gulped more water. He was so parched, he could feel it flow down his throat and into his esophagus. Next to the flat of bottled water, he saw a small Styrofoam cooler. His wounded shoulder aching, he pulled off the cooler's top and looked inside.

"Pastrami on rye," Jamie said. "Potato salad and coleslaw. There're a couple of dill pickles in there, too."

Cavanaugh bit off a chunk of sandwich and chewed it hungrily. With the first swallow, though, he suddenly felt ill. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, which seemed to waver as he felt the smooth vibration of the car.

"You're serious? No doctor?" Jamie asked.

"No doctor."

"Where do you want me to take you?"

"Back to the highway. Head north. Albany's about an hour away. Check us into a motel, one of those places where you can park outside the room."

"Let me guess--nothing fancy, right?"

"On the seedy side. Where it's not unusual to pay cash and people don't like to phone the police."

"I can tell this is going to be charming."

"Did you bring a first-aid kit?"

"Something in your voice made me think I should get a big one. It's with those bags of clothes on the floor."

Cavanaugh sorted among the bags and found a plastic first-aid kit the size of a large phone book. His wound aching more, he pried the kit open and sorted among bandages, ointments, a pair of scissors, finding several two-capsule packets of Tylenol. He tore a couple of packets open and swallowed their contents, downing them with water. Drink slowly, he warned himself.

Don't make yourself sick.

"I've been patient," Jamie said. "I've asked you only once."

"You want to know what's going on."

"Gosh, how did you guess?"

"I've never told you about my assignments."

"That's right." Jamie kept driving. "But this time you will."

"Yes," Cavanaugh said. "If you're going to risk your life to help me, you have a right to know what you're getting into. This time, I'll tell you."

Chapter 5.

The Albany motel, called the Day's End Inn, was on a side street five blocks off the highway, in a cut-rate district away from the Holiday Inns and Best Westerns. Two bars, a transmission-repair shop, and a hamburger joint were typical of the adjacent buildings. With the lowering sun casting shadows, the transmission shop was closed. A few men got out of pickup trucks and went into one of the bars. Otherwise, there was hardly anybody on the street.

En route, Cavanaugh had used some of the bottled water to rinse blood and soot from his face. He'd put on the sport coat, jeans, and pullover that Jamie had bought for him, concealing the duct tape on his shoulder. A baseball cap that Jamie had thought to include covered his singed hair, allowing him to sit up without attracting attention. He studied the drab street while Jamie went into the office to rent a room.

Holding a key attached to a large yellow plastic cube, she returned to the car.

"You paid cash?" he asked.

"Yes. I told the clerk our credit card had been stolen." "As good an explanation as any."

"He's probably used to couples paying cash. Maybe he thinks we're having an affair." Jamie drove off the street, heading toward the back of the motel. "I understand why you don't want me to use a credit card. No paper trail. But in theory, no one knows about me, right?"

"In theory," Cavanaugh said. "I never told anybody at Protective Services, not even Duncan." In a flash of memory, Cavanaugh saw Duncan's mutilated face. His grief and rage intensified.

Jamie parked near a Dumpster at the next-to-last unit. "Then aren't you being more careful than necessary?" She shook her head. "I know what you're going to say. There's no such thing as being too careful."

Despite how he felt, he managed a smile. Jamie got out of the car, went over to the motel unit's door, and unlocked it.

Simultaneously, Cavanaugh opened the car's rear door, picked up several packages, which would distract anybody glancing in his direction--people love looking at packages--and walked as steadily as he could into the shadowy unit.

Two regular beds had faded covers. A table had scratches. A small television was bolted to the wall. The carpet was thin. The mirror over the bureau had a crack in one corner. "You said you wanted seedy," Jamie said. The room smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. "There weren't any nonsmoking units," Jamie said. "It's fine." Cavanaugh set the packages on a table, eased onto the bed, and sank back, closing his eyes, hoping for the unsteadiness in his head to lessen. "A good place to hide. You did great."

"I'll get the water and the rest of the stuff from the car." After Jamie finished, she shut the door and locked it.

On the bed, keeping his eyes closed, Cavanaugh sensed her studying him.

"Should I leave the lights off?" she asked. "Yes."

"What can I do for you?" "Bring me more water. Give me more Tylenol." "Is the wound infected?"

He swallowed the capsules and the water. "I guess"--he man-| aged to rouse himself--"we'd better find out."

Chapter 6.

The hot shower cascaded over Cavanaugh, drenching his bowed head and his back. Then he tilted his head up, letting the water pour over his face and chest. He was so unsteady, he had to sit.

The shower curtain was pulled open. Silhouetted by the light from a makeup mirror outside the shower stall, Jamie lowered the lid on the toilet seat. She sat, put her elbows on her knees, and watched him.

Although the light out there hurt his eyes, it allowed him to see the blood, dirt, and soot swirling down the drain. As he shampooed his head, bits of singed hair followed them.

"You've got bruises on your legs and chest," she said.

During the drive north, he had haltingly told her what had happened. Again, she had made him proud by listening, not interrupting with outbursts, instead swallowing her emotions and asking occasional necessary questions.

"Must have been when I rolled down the gully," he said. "You could have been an operator, you know that? You learn fast. I don't know where you got them, but you have the right instincts."

Her solemnity straining her beauty, Jamie said, "The instincts come from hanging around with
you."
She rolled up her sleeves and soaped his back. "So why did Prescott want your team dead?"

"And who were the guys in the helicopters? They handled themselves the way military special ops teams do," Cavanaugh said.

"What about the assault team at the warehouse?"

"They had hardware, but their tactics were conventional. They weren't as disciplined as the guys in the helicopters. When they stormed the stairs at the warehouse, they hung back, almost as if they were afraid."

He turned off the shower. As the water dripped from him, neither he nor Jamie moved for a moment.

"I guess it's show time," he said. "You remember what needs to be done?"

"You were very clear."

"Okay." Cavanaugh took a deep breath, reached his right hand to his left shoulder, pried up the edges on the duct tape, exhaled, took another deep breath, and started to pull the strips away. The pliant tape had a sticky under-side that parted slowly from his skin. He couldn't do it quickly, because he wanted to avoid tearing and widening the wound. Each second prolonged the pain. With the tape off, blood now flowed, but not as much as when he'd first been shot, clots having formed in the meantime.

Immediately, Jamie pressed the soapy washcloth onto it, swabbing quickly but gently, cleaning away dirt and puss.

He grimaced.

"Done," she said.

He leaned forward to turn on the shower, rinsing. "I can't move my head enough to see it."

"It's a gouge across the top of your shoulder. The good news is, as much as I can tell, the bullet went through."

"Felt like it. What's the
bad
news?"

"The gouge is two inches long."

Cavanaugh nodded. As blood flowed down the drain, he turned the shower off and braced himself for what Jamie was going to do next.

Before checking into the motel, they'd made a quick stop at a drugstore to buy a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

Jamie opened the bottle and poured it over the wound.

As the liquid bubbled and foamed in the long, deep gouge, the pain felt like razors and fire combined. He gritted his teeth and grabbed the side of the tub.

"Rinse it," Jamie told him.

His vision shaking, he turned on the shower again. More blood, mixed with foaming liquid, swirled down the drain. When he leaned back from the spray, Jamie poured another stream of hydrogen peroxide. Again the long, deep gouge erupted in bloody foam.

"Christ Almighty . . ." Cavanaugh murmured. He leaned into the spray. As more bloody foam swirled down the drain, he turned off the shower and slumped over the side of the tub, feeling Jamie towel the wound.

His jaw muscles hardened.

"The skin's red," Jamie said.

"The tape must have irritated it."

"No. This is a different kind of red. It looks like the wound's infected." Jamie soaked up more blood. In a rush, while the gouge was temporarily dry, she opened a tube of antibiotic cream, squeezed half of it along the gouge, pressed a wad of gauze over that, and sealed everything with several strips of first-aid tape.

He took a deep breath.

"Can you stand?" Jamie asked.

He slipped when he tried. Jamie grabbed him before he could fall, water from him sticking her blouse to her chest.

She sat him on the toilet lid and used the last towel, a big one, to dry his arms, chest, head, and back, avoiding the area of the wound, the thick bandage on it now pink with blood.

"I'm going to pull you up," Jamie said.

Off balance, Cavanaugh felt her move the towel over his legs, privates, and hips. Apart from the pain in his shoulder, his sensations came from a distance, as if his body didn't belong to him.

"Hang on." Jamie hooked his arm around her neck and guided him into the shadowy bedroom, easing him onto the nearer of the two beds. "You feel hot. Do you think you have a fever?"

Before he could answer, he started shivering.

As his chills became more violent, Jamie took off her slacks, got under the covers, and held him. "You need a ..."

"No," Cavanaugh managed to say between shivers.

His eyelids felt heavier. The shadows in the room darkened.

She held him closer.

Chapter 7.

A tug at Cavanaugh's shoulder woke him. Blinking from faint light filtering through curtains, he managed not to wince when Jamie removed the bandage from his shoulder. Her green eyes narrowed, assessing the wound.

"How does it..."

"As red as last night," she said.

He felt something inside him tighten.

"But at least you don't feel as hot."

"That's encouraging, don't you think?"

"The wound crusted over."