Читать книгу Rancher's Hostage Rescue - Beth Cornelison - Страница 16

Steeling himself, Dave slid one of Helen’s best knives from the butcher’s block. He sent up a silent prayer as he moved as quickly and quietly as he could down the hall toward the master bedroom. He pressed his back to the wall. Stopped outside the bedroom and leaned sideways to peer around the door frame.

“I know you’re out there, man,” a voice said from inside the room, along with Lilly’s muted whimpers of fear. “Get in here, before I blast a hole in this one’s pretty head.”

Dave hesitated. Did he dare? Was following the robber’s demands his best move, or was there some better course of action he couldn’t see?

He touched his pocket in search of his cell phone, and his heart sank as he remembered he’d left it his truck, charging. He mouthed a vile word. His thoughts were scattered, adrenaline hiking his pulse and blood thundering in his ears. He only had a knife. The cretin had a gun, one he’d been quick to use at the bank.

“Do it, man! I swear to you, I’ll shoot her!”

Dave believed him.

Sticking the knife in his jeans at the small of his back and covering it with his shirt, he raised his hands and crept into the bedroom. His eyes went first to Lilly, wanting to assure himself she was unharmed. She stood trembling, at the business end of the robber’s gun, and her terrified eyes pleaded with Dave for help. He gave her a small nod, trying to reassure her he’d do whatever he could.

He shifted his attention to the robber, sizing him up with a rapid up-and-down glance, then a closer scrutiny of the punk’s face. The robber from the bank had shed the black hoodie, his countenance now fully visible. He was younger than Dave had estimated when he talked to the cops after the robbery. Midtwenties maybe. Large ears. Extremely short brown hair. Rounded nose. Acne scars. A wan complexion. His expression was pinched, his face sweating despite the cool temperature in the house. His breathing was shallow, fast.

“Well, well,” the gunman said, curling his lip. “If it ain’t Mr. Hero from the bank.”

Remembering the blood he’d seen in the kitchen, Dave dropped his gaze briefly to the dark stain on the man’s side, just under his arm. Pain, then. That’d explain the guy’s pale appearance and rapid breathing. Dave had a brief moment of self-satisfaction, knowing one of his shots at the bank had hit the robber.

When the thief’s glare narrowed on him, any smugness vanished. The robber had the upper hand now, and Dave could only pray he wouldn’t be vengeful. And what were the odds of that mercy?

“Get in here!” The thug jerked his head toward the bathroom door. “Get the belt from that robe and bring it here. Hurry up!”

Dave glanced at the bathrobe in question, a light blue silky number. Lilly’s he’d wager, since he was certain he’d never seen it on Helen. Again he hesitated, hating to comply but seeing no option while the guy had a gun on Lilly.

Maybe before he’d hurt his leg he’d have felt more confident in his ability to overtake the robber, but his bum leg slowed him considerably. When he didn’t move for a couple seconds, the robber swung the gun toward him and fired into the wall just inches from his head.

Lilly screamed, and tears spilled onto her cheeks. “Do what he says, Dave. Please.”

“Yeah, Dave,” the guy mocked. “Do what I say. I can’t promise no one will get hurt, but it’s still the wiser choice.”

Expelling a harsh breath and trying to keep his back and any evidence of the knife facing away from the robber, Dave moved slowly to the robe. He removed the belt and carried it to the robber.

In a move Dave had been unprepared for, the robber dropped his grip on Lilly and shoved the gun under Dave’s chin instead. “Now hand her the belt.”

He did.

Lilly took the silky strip of fabric and swallowed audibly.

Keeping the weapon trained on Dave’s head, the robber eased behind him, yanked up Dave’s shirt and pulled the knife from Dave’s jeans. He scoffed, “Nice try, Hero, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

He tossed aside the knife, and it clattered as it fell onto the linoleum floor of the bathroom.

“Now, you,—” he looked to Lilly “—tie his hands behind him.”

Lilly met Dave’s eyes, as if asking what she should do. The robber noticed her hesitation, her subtle eye consultation, and shouted, “I’m not playing around here, lady! If either of you tries something, I will shoot you both in a heartbeat and lose no sleep over it. Now, move!”

She edged past Dave and gave his hand a squeeze before pulling his wrists together. He kept his arms slightly apart, allowing for some slack in the belt as she wrapped it loosely.

Dave heard the robber huff a frustrated breath. “What did I just say?”

When neither of them answered him, he yelled, “What did I just say?”

Lilly gasped and whispered, “I... I’m not—”

“No tricks! Tie him tighter.”

“It’s okay, Lilly,” Dave said, hoping to ease her guilt.

She drew the belt tighter, still allowing for a degree of comfort and a slim chance of freeing his hands later.

“Tighter!” their captor growled.

She cinched the belt marginally tighter, then inhaled sharply when the thug grabbed the belt and jerked it, hard.

“Now tie it off and find something to bind his feet.”

* * *

Lilly’s stomach churned sourly as she knotted the ends of her belt around Dave’s wrists. Without Dave’s assistance, how was she supposed to escape the robber? Maybe the bastard had no intention of leaving them alive to bear witness to his crimes. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he killed them yet?

He swung the gun toward her again, and her pulse leaped.

“You got some rope somewhere? Or tape?” He shifted his gaze to the boxes she’d been packing. “Where’s the tape you’ve used on these?”

“I, uh, don’t remember.”

The gunman stepped toward her, making a low growl in his throat. “Find it.”

As they started out of the bedroom, the gunman smacked the butt of the gun against Dave’s head, and he slumped to the floor, unconscious. Lilly gave a cry of distress. Anger, fear and concern for Dave tangled in the plaintive sound.

“Let’s go. I’ve got plans for you.” He jerked his head toward the door to the hall, and steered her toward the front of the house. “First, find that tape, then you’re gonna take care of this.” Lifting his shirt, he dipped his chin and his gaze to the wound in his side.

“Me?”

“You’re a nurse, ain’t cha?” he asked, lifting a thick eyebrow.

She blinked, and an itchy feeling crawled down her spine. “How d-did you know?”

His dismissive expression was the equivalent of a shrug. “Went through your purse to find anything that I thought would help me. Very informative, your purse. Found your name badge from the hospital in Denver. What’s the name again? Lorna? Lisa?”

She held her breath, disgust writhing in her gut.

“Lilly?” he asked, and she couldn’t stop the cringe. He laughed. “Lilly. We have a winner.”

Violated was too mild of a word for what she was feeling. Her skin crawled as if he was pawing her, stripping her naked and—

Bile surged up in her throat. I’ve got plans for you...

He could still do much worse to violate her than going through her purse, learning details of her life against her will. They entered the living room, and she spotted the large roll of packing tape, one of many she’d bought, on the coffee table.

He jabbed the gun in her back. “Get that tape.”

She retrieved the roll and carried it back to the bedroom, the muzzle of his weapon poking her between the shoulder blades. Following his orders, she removed Dave’s boots and socks, then lashed Dave’s feet together.

“Keep going,” her captor said when she would have stopped at a few layers. “More around his ankles, then tape his legs to the bed, so he can’t go anywhere.”

Her heart in her throat, she bound Dave’s feet to the leg post of Helen’s bed. When she finished securing Dave, she crawled to his head and examined the red knot on his forehead. The goose egg was swelling outward. A good sign. Maybe he’d escaped damage to his skull, his brain. Then she lifted his eyelids to check his pupils. They were responsive to light, which was also good, and he groaned as she probed him, which was even more encouraging.

“What are you doing?” the gunman snarled. “Get away from him.”

“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.”