The door rolled open. In front of them, in the grayish cold darkness of the predawn, four men stood in the clearing in which the moving van was parked. Orlov’s stocky body was easy to identify, as was Malik’s thinner form. The other two were with reasonable certainty the same goons who had been with Rostov from the beginning. Clara breathed a little easier. At least they weren’t faced with an army of
KGB
agents. The moonlight glinted off the gray metal of weapons piled neatly in front of the trailer.
“Tell them to stay where they are.” McClain hissed the order at Rostov, He hesitated, and McClain prodded him hard with the rifle.
“Stoy!”
The goons continued to stare up at them, unblinking.
“All right, we’re all going to sit, and put our feet over the side. Together. Now!” The hissed command was meant for Rostov and Clara.
It was awkward, but they managed to get on the ground without altering their basic conformation, Clara’s mouth was sour with fear; behind her she could feel the slow, steady pounding of Jack’s heart. In front of her, tight as bread on a sandwich, was Rostov’s bare back. She could feel his heart pounding, too. The next few seconds would tell the tale. Would the goons allow them to proceed to the front of the truck and get in the cab? Would the rifle wired to Rostov’s neck persuade them? Did they have any inkling of what was going on? There was an air of confusion about them as they peered at the closely pressed trio that maneuvered around the corner of the trailer and backed toward the cab, closely hugging the trailer’s side, protected by its deep shadow. The night itself was shadowy and cold. A thin sickle moon floated overhead, obscured for the most part by rushing clouds. Clara had to concentrate to keep from stumbling over the frozen tufts of grass. Her hands rested on Rostov’s damp bare back; despite her revulsion she had to keep them there for balance.
“Almost home,” Jack muttered. Clara felt him reach up and behind him for the door handle as they reached the cab. There was a click as the handle turned. The goons hadn’t moved. Their heads turned as they followed every little
movement. Clara prayed that they would stay confused just a few seconds longer.
“Stop them!” Rostov shouted as he threw himself violently forward. Jack’s attention had been distracted by opening the door; the Kalishnikov was pulled from his hands before he could squeeze the trigger. Rostov hit the ground, scrambled away on his hands and knees, reaching behind him for the rifle as he went. The other
KGB
men, after a split second’s astonishment, began to run toward their rifles. It was all over. …
“Jesus H. Christ!” Jack yelled, grabbing her around the waist and throwing her up on the van’s vinyl seat. Shocked, terrified, she nevertheless retained the presence of mind to scramble out of the way. He leaped in the truck beside her, banging the door closed, feeling for the keys. Thank God they were in the ignition! He turned the engine over just as the Russians rushed up, their rifles blasting. The bullets whacked into the metal cab. Clara screamed, ducking. The windshield shattered.
“Oh shit!” McClain muttered as his body jerked. His hand clapped to his chest and dark liquid that Clara knew was blood spurted through his fingers. Clara stared at him with horror; the driver’s side door was jerked open. A black shape loomed in the space.
Clara lifted the pistol and pulled the trigger. A spurt of fire shot across the cab just above Jack’s lap. The shape screamed and fell back.
“That’s my girl,” Jack managed with a half smile even as he nearly fell out of the cab reaching for the swinging door. Clara grabbed for him, but he recovered, slamming the door as he trod hard on the accelerator. The huge truck shot forward; a goon jumped out of the way. Another was mowed over, screaming. The truck bucked and slid out
of the muddy clearing onto the dirt road. Bullets whacked into the trailer behind them; Clara could hear the whistling as they ricocheted off the metal.
“Jack! My God, Jack!” She moved closer to him, terror in her eyes as she touched his shoulder. His face was dead white. Blood still oozed between the fingers he had pressed to his chest. To her horror, she discovered that she could hear blood bubbling. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the air. He was swaying; his left hand was locked to the wheel, but he blinked once or twice as if he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. “Jack, you’re hit!”
“You better drive,” he muttered, his voice thick. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed on the steering wheel. The horn blared with his weight. The huge truck skewed wildly across the muddy track. Terror stopped her breath. They were going to crash!
Hand closing over his shirt collar, Clara yanked Jack sideways, off the wheel. He slumped onto her lap. There was no time to move him out of the way. She grabbed for the wheel, hung on to it, fought the urge to close her eyes as the cab hurtled toward the densely packed trunks of sturdy pines. With all her strength she yanked the wheel to the right. The truck obeyed, skidding madly in a new direction. They could jackknife, turn over … Clara swung the wheel back to the left, her heart in her throat. Somehow the truck ended up back on the road, hurtling furiously forward. Clara heaved a sigh of relief. By the grace of God and nothing else she had managed to keep them from crashing. Jack’s foot was a dead weight on the accelerator. Of course, that was why they were still traveling at such a speed. Kicking Jack’s leg aside, she was relieved to find that the truck slowed on its own. Then she remembered Rostov and jammed her own foot down on the gas. The truck shot
forward again. Still there was no time to move Jack out of the way. Hampered by his deadweight across her lap, she leaned sideways, stretching her arms to the utmost to get a firm grasp on the wheel, exerting every ounce of her strength to keep the lurching, swaying truck on the narrow dirt road. As the dark shadows of the woods shot past on either side, Rostov and his goons fired furious, impotent shots after the speeding truck. Clara realized that she had been too frightened even to pray.
XXII
“Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Please don’t die. God, please don’t let Jack die.”
The litany ran over and over again in her brain. Clara had managed to wedge herself between Jack and the door and shove him off the steering wheel. Now he slumped, inert, on the bench seat beside her. Her right hand was pressed tightly over the hole in the bloody sweater. Blood oozed through her fingers, oily and frightening, its volume increasing and declining with each pump of his heart. She was so afraid he was going to die. And there was nothing she could do to save him but try to stem the flow of blood with her palm. She felt like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike.
A little while back the dirt road had opened onto a paved one. The forest was still thick all around them, just barely starting to lighten as the sun came up. The smelt of dewy evergreens was everywhere. Clara wondered where on earth they were. Where could she take him? Where would he be safe from Rostov? She had to stop before long, before he bled to death.
A small green sign ahead proclaimed they were approaching
Highway 58. It was a four-lane road. As she turned on to it, the rising sun was straight ahead. Which meant that they were traveling east. It seemed as good a direction as any. The thing was to put as many miles as possible between themselves and Rostov. They had left him without transportation, but she had no illusions that that state would last long. He was probably in touch with confederates. Maybe he could even call them on that walkie-talkie they’d had. She had no idea of Us range.
She was going to have to stop soon. Casting a worried glance at McClain, she saw that beneath his stubble of black beard his face was as white as a corpse’s. He was still, so still that she had a momentary horror that he might not be breathing. Then she felt the rhythmic pump of blood beneath her hand and dismissed that worry. His heart was still beating; he was not dead.
Minutes later 58 connected with 24, and the Atlantic Ocean loomed before her. She turned south on instinct, rumbling down the ocean road. The scarlet sunrise turning the foamy breakers to pink was a gorgeous sight, but she was too frightened even to notice. She had to find a place to stop, a place where they could hide.
A large sign informed her that she was leaving the Croatan National Forest. She drove over a bridge and found herself in the town of Swansboro. A large truck stop with a gleaming neon sign and a shabby looking motel caught her eye. A dozen huge semis were parked in front; more were in the back. If she parked around to the rear, where the truck couldn’t be seen from the highway, this might be as good a place as any to hide. Rostov wouldn’t be expecting them to stop so soon. Anyway, wasn’t there a saying about the best place to hide being in plain sight?
She swung off the road, maneuvered the truck behind the
buildings without doing anymore than scaring a stray cat that happened to be crossing the parking lot, and parked between two semis. Turning off the ignition, she bent over McClain. He was breathing strongly despite his pallor. Lifting his sweater and yanking his shirt from his pants, she got her first look at his wound. His chest hairs were matted with blood. Blood covered him from his collarbone clear to the navel. He was losing a lot. …
“Jack! Jack, can you hear me?” There was no response. Should she take him to a hospital? But there was a good chance that they would recognize him there. After all, his picture had been on the front page of the
Washington Post,
and there was no telling how many other papers. And for all she knew they’d even run it on
TV
. No, she couldn’t risk it. But what risk was it, she argued with herself, if he was going to die in any case?
Jack would not want her to take him to the hospital. She knew that. He would prefer to take his chances with her. She would just have to do the best she could for him herself. Gritting her teeth, she pulled her sweater over her head and stripped off her shirt, thanking God that the parking lot was deserted of people so early in the morning. Then she pulled her sweater back over her head and folded the shirt into a pad. This she crammed under his sweater and shirt, holding it tightly against the wound. That might slow the blood a little.
She needed to get him inside. Clara felt a frission of fear as she realized that she would have to talk to a real live person face to face to get a room, but of course it would be safe for her. Her picture had not been in the newspapers and on
TV.
Jack was the one the police were looking for. She hoped.
Money. To rent a room she needed money. She had not a
penny on her. Did Jack? She had a notion that he’d spent his last cash when he’d bought the paper and their crackers at that roadside store three days before. Maybe there was money in Rostov’s pockets.
She needed something to hold the makeshift bandage in place. Clara thought for a moment, then remembered the expensive looking snakeskin belt around Jack’s waist. It was Rostov’s, and she pulled it free of its loops with satisfaction. Rostov had tried to kill Jack. It was only fitting that something of his should be used to save him.
The belt would not fit around Jack’s chest. Clara stared at the five inches or so of muscled flesh keeping the two ends from meeting and felt herself grow savage. She had to find something. …
The seat belt. The seatbelts were wedged between the seat and the back, but she managed to extract them. Pulling the passenger belt out as far as it would go, she wrapped it around Jack’s chest. Then she clicked the end into the lock.
It worked like a charm. The belt contracted until it was pressing tightly against Jack’s chest. Already Clara thought the blood flow was beginning to stem. At least her shirt was not turning red as fast.
She watched him for a minute, then thrust her hand into his pants pocket. She needed money for a room. The first pocket was empty, but the second yielded paydirt. A wallet with nearly two hundred dollars in it and a fistful of credit cards. All in the name of Andrei Rostov, Clara began to smile grimly. Rostov was being more of a help than he knew.
She didn’t dare use the credit cards, but the cash was perfectly acceptable to the disinterested, sleepy looking woman who was manning the front desk. Clara handed over twenty-eight dollars for a double, and was given a blue-handled
key in return. Room number 38, around back as she had requested, ground floor. Now all she had to do was get Jack out of the truck and into the room.
In the end she managed it by maneuvering the truck until the passenger side door was no more than five feet from the room door. She pushed, dragged, and shoved, and somehow managed to get Jack inside. The pressure of the seatbelt had staunched the flow of blood, she had been relieved to see when she’d returned to the truck. But all her jostling started the wound to bleeding again. Her shirt was stuck fast to the drying blood on his chest, and Clara feared what would happen if she tried to free it. Instead she stripped the top sheet from the bed, chewing the edge until she could rip it across. Tearing strips from the sheet, she wrapped them around his chest, tying a hard, tight knot directly over where she judged the wound to be. The bandage might not be sanitary, but her first priority was to stop the bleeding again. She pressed her hand down hard over the knot until her wrist began to ache. Then, cautiously lifting her palm and peeping under the edges of the bandage, she judged that the bleeding had once again stopped.
Getting him into the bed by herself proved impossible. He weighed a ton. Regretfully, Clara left him on the floor with a pillow tucked under his head. Then she wrapped a blanket around him, tenderly tucking the ends in around his bare feet, from which she had removed the raunchy sneakers, and went into the small bathroom. Looking down, she was shocked to find that her hands were covered with blood to the wristbones. She had always hated the sight of blood. Her stomach heaved, but Clara refused to allow herself to be sick. Jack had only her to care for him; she had to be strong for him. Taking a deep breath, she methodically washed the blood from her hands. She would have to be careful. It
would raise too many questions if people should see her coming and going covered with blood.
She had done the best she could for Jack for the moment, but there were other problems to be considered. To begin with, the truck had to be moved away from their door. Pulled diagonally across six parking spaces as it was, it was sure to invite a lot of comment.
When Clara returned from moving the truck back to its hiding place and buying a take-out meal as well as a few necessities at the small drug and gift store next to the truck stop’s restaurant, Jack still lay on the floor exactly as she had left him. For a moment she again feared the worst. Then she knelt beside him and saw the uneven rise and fall of his chest. He was still alive.
“Jack! Jack, can you hear me? Jack, it’s Clara.”
He didn’t move, didn’t make any sign that he heard her. Clara sank back on her heels and looked at him. She didn’t know what to do. If he didn’t have medical attention he might die, but she couldn’t call a doctor. She couldn’t call anyone. She would have to care for him as best she could herself. If his condition worsened, then maybe she would take a chance on taking him to a hospital. But they would know at once that it was a bullet wound, and then they would almost certainly call the police who were sure to recognize him.
Clara had another worry, too. Rostov could find them at any time. He probably had agents scouring all roads leading out of the Croatan National Forest by now. It was just a matter of time until someone spotted the truck, with its distinctive orange color and the words Horizon Movers emblazoned across the side. There couldn’t be many on the road like that, certainly not in this neck of the woods.
She ran out to the truck and fished the pistol from under
the seat. Then she locked and chained the motel room door, and jammed a chair under the knob. If someone looked like breaking in, she decided that, no matter what, she was calling the police. At least that would give them some time.
There was no help for it, Clara knew. She had been putting the moment off, but it had to be done. She, and she alone, Miss Weak Stomach herself, was going to have to do what she could for Jack’s wound. She had never been much good at nursing, never had to be. Her mother never got sick, and she was blessed with the same iron constitution. But Jack had only her to take care of him, inexperienced and inadequate as she was. She was going to have to do her best, and to hell with the queasiness that threatened to overwhelm her whenever she was faced with a little blood.
Gripping her lower lip between her teeth, Clara extracted the scissors from the bag of supplies she had bought and proceeded to cut the thick Irish wool sweater across the shoulders and down the center. She didn’t want to risk lifting his arms to pull it over his head. The bleeding might start again. When the sweater was off, and the shirt was carefully unbuttoned and laid open to expose the bandage of sheets and her flannel shirt, Clara hesitated. It was imperative that she clean out the wound. Even she knew that from the books she had read. She had bought some antiseptic for that very purpose. But the strips of sheet, not to mention her shirt, were already stained scarlet and black with fresh and dried blood. When she cut through the binding of sheets and tried to pull it away, she found that it as well as the shirt was stuck fast to the wound. Frowning with concentration, she cut away as much of the material as she could. Then she filled the flimsy ice bucket with warm water from the sink, soaked a washcloth in it, and proceeded to lay it over the stuck cloth. After several tries it worked.
She was able to gently lift the blood soaked shirt away from the wound.
A small amount of blood still oozed from the blackened hole that was no bigger than a dime just beneath his ribcage. It occurred to Clara that a bullet was lodged in his chest. It should be removed, but she could not do it. She might kill him. It would have to stay where it was, and she would hope for the best. The edges of the hole were puffy and white, grotesque. Already the flesh around it was swollen and discolored. Dried blood matted the hairs on his chest. More blood had smeared his belly and crusted in his navel. His right hand was covered with it where he had grabbed and held the wound just after being shot. Blood spattered Rostov’s once immaculate trousers. In all, there was more blood than Clara had ever seen—or wanted to see—in her life.
In a book somewhere she had read that when one didn’t know what to do he should just do the next thing. The next thing seemed to be to clean away as much of the blood as she could, so that’s what she did. By the time she had finished, she had gone completely through the meager store of towels allotted to the room, and had changed the water in the ice bucket six times. But finally there was left on him only the small amount of blood still oozing from the wound, and the spatters on his pants.
Still going by the principle of doing the next thing, she swabbed the wound with the antiseptic, then opened a tube of antibiotic ointment she had bought at the same time and smeared it liberally over the wound. Then she ripped open the package of large sterile gauze squares and put one over the oozing hole, securing it in place with a roll of gauze, which she wound around him. After she tied the knot so that it would apply pressure directly over the wound, she sat for
a moment looking down at him. Was there anything else she should do?
He was deathly pale. His skin felt cold to her touch when she laid her hand against his cheek, and for some reason that frightened her more than it would have if he felt hot. Quickly she got up and stripped the bed, piling blankets and the bedspread over him. After that, there didn’t seem much more she could do. She knelt for a moment beside him, then leaned forward to press a quick kiss to his chalky white, sandpapery cheek. Then she sat down at the small rickety table in front of the tightly curtained window and forced herself to eat the meal she had bought for herself at the restaurant. The coffee was stone cold, and the cheeseburger which the woman had zapped in the microwave was nearly as bad, but she ate them anyway. Funny, just the day before she had been starving and now she had to force herself to eat. She looked down at the man sprawled at her feet. Because of Jack. …