Protecting His Witness

“Lucky for both of us,” she murmured. “I’m probably a little rusty at this.”

The wound cleaned, she reached for the scalpel she’d scrubbed less than five minutes ago.

Poising the blade over the bullet’s point of entry, she told him, “This is going to be the hard part.” Still nothing.

Which was good. But she still wished she had something to knock the man out in case he woke up and began to struggle. But things like that, other than 101 proof whiskey, couldn’t be purchased in the local pharmacy. Besides, she honestly never thought she’d need something in the way of an anesthetic ever again. She’d left that life behind, not willingly, but of necessity. It all boiled down to the same thing. She wasn’t a practicing doctor anymore.

Very carefully, she began to probe the wound. Glancing up at the stranger’s face, she saw him tense even though he was in another realm where hard-core pain didn’t exist. Her patient continued sleeping. Satisfied that, at least for the time being, he was unaware of what was happening, she probed deeper. Just where had this bullet gone?

After a couple more minutes, she was finally rewarded with the feel of metal against metal.

Gotcha.

Holding her breath, she secured the bullet and gingerly retracted the instrument until she could pull it free of the flesh around it.

Like a fisherman who had managed to finally pull a marlin out of the water, she held up the tiny bit of mangled metal, examining it against the overhead light. She shook her head.

“Not much to look at, is it?” she marveled. Small but deadly was an apt description. She wondered if the man on the floor knew how close he came to never seeing another sunrise. “Bet that could have ended your life with no effort at all if it’d hit just a little bit higher and to the left. Talk about lucky…”

Again she shook her head, awed how some people died after tripping on the sidewalk and hitting their head, while others walked away from what appeared to be certain death after taking a fall from a second-story window. Or catching a bullet just beneath their rib cage, she thought, amazed.

Cleaning the wound a second time, Kasey then picked up the sutures and very carefully sewed up the small hole. She wished she had access to some antibiotics to insure against infections, but he would have to take care of that for himself. Once he was awake.

It didn’t take long to finish stitching him up, even though she took her time, studying his face after every stitch was taken.

“You really are dead to the world, aren’t you?” she marveled. Finished, she put what was left of the sutures into a small white envelope and sealed it again.

There wasn’t much.

“Now what?” she asked herself out loud, looking down at her patient.

He was still unconscious, still in her house. What did she do with him? She had no one to turn to, no one to go to for help. And that was strictly her own doing. Edwin Owens, the owner of the used bookstore Rare Treasures, had indicated that he was very willing to be her friend. Very willing to be more than that if she wanted him to be. But while he seemed like a nice man, she knew better than to make friends or form attachments. Friends asked questions, they noticed things about you. Things they could repeat, however innocently, to people who might come looking for you.

So this was better, remaining an isolated mystery. It was also far less complicated. Now that she thought about it, this path she’d been forced to choose was also a great deal more lonely. Until right this minute, loneliness had not been a real problem for her. God knew she had more than enough on her mind to keep her occupied and busy. Too busy to feel lonely.

But right now, if not an actual shoulder to lean on, she could have really used an extra pair of hands to help her with this man.

Blowing out a long breath, Kasey shrugged as she put everything back into the basin and went back to the bathroom with it. There was no point in dwelling on what she didn’t have. She would have to make the best of it.

The way she had these last endless months.

Switching off the bathroom light, she went to the minuscule linen closet next. It was hardly big enough to hold a handful of towels and the extra bedding she kept there for cold winter nights. Grabbing the pink flannel blanket and the lone pillow from the top shelf, she returned to her patient.

On her knees, Kasey gently raised his head and slipped the pillow under it, then threw the flannel blanket over him. She spread it out, making sure all of him was covered.

“Who are you?” she asked softly as she rose again to her feet.

He’d had no wallet on him, no ID. She’d already checked his pockets. Had he been mugged? Or was there some other reason he didn’t have any identification with him?

Too many questions, no answers, she thought.

Looking down at herself, Kasey realized that she’d gotten the stranger’s blood on her when she’d dragged him in as well as on the floor and her rug. It wasn’t going to scrub itself out. So, for the next forty-five minutes, she did what she could to wash the telltale streaks of blood from her house and herself.

When she was finally finished with that, she paused to check the lock on the bathroom door. Satisfied that it would hold, she still brought in a chair. Closing the door, she wedged the chair underneath the doorknob— just in case. She’d learned the hard way that trusting made you exceptionally vulnerable.

Kasey took the world’s fastest shower.

Coming out of the bathroom, dressed in a pair of jeans and a fresh shirt, still relatively damp from the shower, she checked on the stranger one more time. This time, he was exactly where she’d left him and he was still unconscious. The body was doing its part to help him heal.

As for her, she knew that her body was far too keyed up now to sleep. Resigned to yet another restless night, not unlike so many other nights, Kasey staked out a place for herself on the sofa, turned the TV on to one of the classic cable channels and turned the sound down to a whisper. She didn’t really need to hear what was being said. She knew the dialogue to this particular movie by heart. Even so, there was a certain amount of comfort in hearing the familiar repeated.

She smiled as Cary Grant, resplendent in a tuxedo and radiating charm, came on the scene. Some things you could always count on. It made her feel a tad better.

He felt as if his body had been disassembled and then put back together incorrectly, with some of the parts missing. Every single bone and muscle in his body made its presence known with one hell of an ache.

But pain was a good thing, right? Pain meant he was alive.

Either that or in hell.

With effort, Zack pried open his eyes. The first thing that came into focus was the flannel blanket.

He was no expert, but he was fairly certain that there were no pink blankets in hell. Which meant that his first impression was right. He was alive.

It was a good starting point.

He played dead for a moment, lowering his eyelids until all that remained opened were two tiny slits. Zack scanned the immediate area in front of him. He was lying on the floor of someone’s house.

Whose?

And for that matter, what was he doing on the floor, covered with a blanket? It wasn’t pulled over his head, so they—whoever “they” were—obviously didn’t think that he was dead. But why had they brought him here?

And, while he was at it, just where was here?

And what the hell was that searing pain all about? It threatened to take off the top of his head. The only way he could have felt worse was if he’d fallen headfirst into a wood chipper.

Zack struggled to extract his brain from the center of its cotton-batting prison. He needed to think clearly in order to piece things together.

He thought back. The last thing he remembered was going out into the alley behind the Internet café.

No, wait, the last thing he remembered was being shot and struggling with the man he’d been tailing. He’d tried to get possession of the man’s weapon before he could get off another shot. But it did go off again. And this time, the bullet had gone into the other man’s body.

Had it killed him?

Zack didn’t know. He always hit what he aimed for but this time, he wasn’t aiming. The discharge had been by accident, forced by the other man’s hand.

No, wait, that wasn’t the last thing he remembered, he amended again, desperately trying to hang on to loose, stray thoughts. He remembered trying to get away. He did get away. He’d managed to leave the strip mall and find his way into a development of white brick houses. A whole village of them. It was like something out of that silly fairy tale about the three little pigs. Except that he wasn’t the big bad wolf.

Even so, when he’d knocked on one door after another, nobody would let him in. No one would help him. And then, too weak to go on, he’d fallen to his knees before the last house.

After that, there was nothing. Had he passed out?

There was a woman on the sofa, dozing from the looks of it. Did he know her? He didn’t think so. He would have remembered a woman who looked like this one did, he thought. Even from this distance, with his eyes all but shut, he could see the woman with the curly brown hair had class. And looks.

Too bad he wasn’t going to meet her, but he really had to get out of here. There was someplace he had to be by noon. Dawn was breaking, so he judged that he still had some time left. But he had a feeling he wasn’t exactly himself today and that getting to where he had to be would require a lot of energy. If he didn’t make it in time, all hell could break loose. He knew that without being told. This was a delicate operation that required precise timing.

Removing the blanket from his body with a hand that felt incredibly stiff, Zack started to sit up.

The flash of sharp, excruciating pain was completely unexpected. So was the moan that involuntarily escaped his lips.

The woman on the sofa was awake and on her feet before he realized that the sound had come from him.

She had long, curly light brown hair and blue eyes that flashed as she came closer.

“What are you doing?” she demanded sharply, crossing to him.

He would have thought that would have been obvious. “Trying to get up.”

“Wait,” she cautioned, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him. She squatted down beside him. “Put your arm around my shoulders.”

Why did that sentence sound so familiar to him? As if he’d just heard it moments ago. But that was impossible. He had a feeling he’d been out at least several hours.

Shaking off any extraneous thoughts, he tried to do the same with the woman. “I can get up by myself,” he told her.

“No, you can’t.” She said it with such authority, he almost believed her. “If you strain yourself, you’ll wind up breaking open your stitches.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Now, lean on me and let me help.”

No matter what she sounded like, the woman looked like a delicate little thing. Just proved that looks could be deceiving. The strength he felt in her hands as she wrapped one around his waist surprised him.

Though he hated to admit it, even to himself, getting up was a lot easier with her help.

She got him up and onto the sofa. But he didn’t want to sit, he wanted to leave. Had to leave. Still, he was grateful for the momentary respite. Just getting to his feet had taken a lot out of him. He wasn’t used to playing the invalid.

Breathing hard, he mumbled, “Thanks.” After a beat, his breathing more regulated, he asked her, “How did I get here?”

She watched his face as she answered, looking for some telltale sign that this was a ruse. So far, he seemed genuinely confused. “I found you on my doorstep and dragged you inside.”

Zack frowned. “Why didn’t you call the police?” That would have been what most people would have done—if they would have done anything at all. If this had happened in one of the more metropolitan areas, the good citizens of that city would have probably walked right by him, pretending not to notice that he needed help.

She saw no reason to embellish on the truth. “You were bleeding and had a bullet wound. I didn’t know if calling the police would have gotten you into more trouble.”

“More?” he echoed.

“You were wounded,” she pointed out. “That seemed like enough trouble for one person for the time being.” She saw him glancing down at his side. Raising his bloodstained shirt, he exposed the large gauze bandage that wrapped around his rib cage. “I took the bullet out,” she explained matter-of-factly, second-guessing his next question.

He let the shirt drop back into place. “You a doctor?”

Kasey congratulated herself on not batting an eyelash. Instead, she nonchalantly shook her head. “No. I work in a secondhand bookstore.”

He raised a perplexed eyebrow at her answer. “I don’t follow.”

“I do a lot of reading in my spare time,” she elaborated, adding, “I particularly like reading medical books.”

He supposed that made sense, in an odd sort of way. He couldn’t argue with the fact that she’d taken out the bullet. He spotted it in the center of a coaster on the coffee table.

“Lucky for me you retained what you read,” he commented, amused.

She merely nodded. Getting up off the sofa, Kasey glanced toward the window. The sun was up. Time for her to get ready for work even though she’d had approximately an hour’s worth of sleep. The television set was still on, softly droning in the background. Someone was extolling the virtues of a newly developed body cream that did everything up to and including finding Prince Charming.

Turning off the set with her remote control, Kasey turned toward the man she’d helped.

Logically, she should be ushering him on his way. She’d taken out his bullet, sewed him up and let him sleep on her floor. It was time for him to go.

And yet, caring for him had awakened the person she’d once been. The person she liked. It prompted her to take another step into the world of kindness. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt, she silently argued. “Would you like something to eat?”

The moment she asked, Zack became aware of the gnawing pain in his belly. It wasn’t giving him discomfort because he’d been shot. He was hungry. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten. Was it yesterday morning? The night before that? Zack couldn’t recall. His line of work didn’t encourage sticking to any sort of a reliable schedule.

He nodded in response to her question. “Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

She moved toward the kitchen. “If I’d minded,” she informed him, “then I wouldn’t have offered.”

The lady sounded tough as nails—or was that only the impression she wanted to give? His job had taught him to look beneath the surface and read between the lines. Something had struck him as off right from the moment he opened his eyes.

“Aren’t you going to ask me any questions?” he asked, rising to his feet. He was less steady than he would have liked and it hurt like hell to walk, but he figured each step would get easier.

Kasey stood before the pantry. “Do you want eggs or cereal?”

“Eggs.” That wasn’t the question he had in mind. “No, I mean about why I got shot.”

She spared him a quick glance just before she opened the refrigerator. She might have questions, but she wasn’t about to ask them.

“No,” she told him, taking out the egg carton. “The less I know, the less anyone else can ask me.”

Chapter 3

Gingerly, bracing his hands on the small kitchen table, Zack lowered himself into the chair closest to him.

Maybe it was his police background, but he sensed she’d had experience with interrogation. She certainly piqued his curiosity, even if he did feel as if he’d been run over several times by a semi. Who was she? And was it chance, or fate, that had brought him literally to her doorstep?

“A woman with no curiosity,” he marveled in awe. “I didn’t think such a thing existed.”

She set the carton of eggs on the counter. “I’m glad I could contribute to furthering your education.”

No curiosity and a flippant response. An interesting combination. So was her long, curly light hair and her golden complexion. He watched the woman move gracefully around the small kitchen. No unnecessary movements. Everything seemed within reach. In moments, she had everything out and ready to prepare the breakfast she’d mentioned.

As he drew in the welcoming scent of coffee, she turned suddenly toward him. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Cooked.”

His mouth quirked in a quick grin. It transformed a scruffy-looking possible criminal into an adolescent boy who knew his way around charming the opposite sex.

Wasted on me, hotshot, she thought. I don’t charm anymore. But if she did, she added silently, that grin would have been an excellent start.

She waited for him to be more specific about his choice. When he wasn’t, she pressed, “Any other requirements?”

Zack shook his head. “Nope, I’m easy. I’ll have them whatever way you’re having them. Fried, poached, scrambled…” His voice trailed off, leaving the rest up to her to fill in.

“Scrambled it is,” she answered, turning back toward the counter and stove. Breaking four eggs, she dropped them directly into the frying pan rather than into a bowl. To her, it was just an unnecessary step, generating more dishes to wash. She took the spatula and broke apart the pattern the eggs began to form. The yolks and whites flowed into each other until they began to solidify in fluffy tufts. “Toast?”

Something he quite possibly would have been had she not been his Good Samaritan, Zack thought. He started to nod in response to her question, then realized that she wasn’t looking at him. “If you don’t mind.”

This time she did spare him a glance over her shoulder. Her expression seemed to repeat her previous statement that if she’d minded, she wouldn’t have asked him.

As she dropped two slices into the toaster, the silver appliance only held two slices. She was single, he decided. And had taken quite a chance with him.

“What’s your name?” he asked suddenly.

Instead of answering, she looked over her shoulder at him again and asked, “Why?”

She might be short on curiosity, but she was long on suspicion, he thought. Was that inherent or something she’d learned? And if it was the latter, what had made her this way?

None of his thoughts were evident in his voice or on his face as he said glibly, “So that when I tell people the story of how an angel came to my rescue, I’ll be able to refer to you by name.”

Uh-huh, she thought. Right. She turned back to her cooking. “Rumplestiltskin.”

Zack laughed. “Not hardly. You don’t look like any ugly little fairy-tale creature that I ever saw in my sisters’ storybooks.”

So, he had sisters. Or was that just what he wanted her to think? God, but she missed the days when a duck was just a duck and not a camouflaged cheetah.

“That’s just to give you a false sense of security,” she told him.

Done, Kasey divided the eggs that were in the pan between two plates. Just as she finished, the toast popped. After setting the frying pan down on a dormant burner, she took the toast and applied a light layer of margarine to both slices. She cut them in half at an angle and placed both onto the stranger’s plate, framing the eggs. If she’d had bacon, she could have made a smiley face, like her mother used to a million years ago when both she and the world were innocent.

Kasey slid the plate in front of the dark-haired stranger. “There.” She placed her own plate opposite his on the kitchen table. But instead of sitting down, she asked, “Coffee?”

He thought she’d never offer. His eyes darted toward the coffeemaker. “Just bring the pot.”

She went to the cupboard and took out one cup, one mug. It was all she had. “Oh, you’re one of those.”

Watching her stretch to reach the top shelf made him momentarily forget about all the little devils beating on his body with pointy silver hammers. She had one hell of a graceful body, he couldn’t help thinking.

“Those?” he queried when she turned around again.

Taking a little for herself—she only liked a small taste to get her going—she poured the rest into the large mug she ordinarily used when she sipped soup. “People who claim they can’t wake up until they’ve had their morning coffee.”

There were days when he felt as if he ran on coffee. “Guilty as charged.”

Leaving her cup on the counter, she brought his mug over to him. “Milk, sugar?”

Zack shook his head, taking the mug from her and holding it with both hands, like someone receiving long-awaited sustenance.

“Only gets in the way,” he told her. Zack took a deep drink and she could have sworn he sighed with contentment. Glancing up at her again, he said, “Good coffee.”

“Grew the beans myself,” she deadpanned, taking her seat. She saw his eyebrows knit themselves together in a bemused line. “The coffee comes from a can,” she told him, erasing any misconceptions.

Obviously the man thought she had no sense of humor. Ordinarily, he would have been right. She had no idea what had possessed her to make the quip. Things like humor and kidding around had long since ceased being part of her daily life. She couldn’t even begin to remember the last time she’d laughed. Running left no time for laughter, left nothing to even smile about.

With coffee in his veins and his belly, he felt almost human again. And ready to pick up where he’d left off. Trying to find out who she was. “You’re really not going to tell me your name?”

She didn’t look up from her plate. “Kasey,” she answered. “Kasey Madigan.”

“Well, Kasey, Kasey Madigan, it’s an honor and a privilege to make your acquaintance.” He put out his hand as if to shake hers.

Kasey kept her hand where it was. She nodded at his plate. “Just finish your breakfast. I have to leave soon and I can’t have you here when I’m gone.”

He could see her point. Nodding, Zack applied his fork to the fare before him.

He ate like a man who had only faint memories of his last meal. Quick and with gusto. Was he homeless? she wondered, going back to her initial impression of him. He was scruffy, but not that scruffy. The stubble on his face couldn’t have been more than a couple of days old. If he was homeless, it couldn’t have been for that long. But then, she supposed that even homeless people had a first week of homelessness in their past.

“Where do you work?”

He asked pleasantly enough, but she didn’t like dealing with questions. Any kind of questions. “In a bookstore.” She’d already told him that.

Zack nodded. “I know, but where is the bookstore located?”

“Why, are you looking to expand your library?” she asked.

She was reluctant to give out any information, he thought. And yet, she’d taken him in and seen to his wound, something a lot of other people wouldn’t have done. Especially if they lived alone.

The woman seemed like a walking contradiction.

“You never know,” he answered, going with her last comment. “I like reading.”

She merely nodded, as if she expected everyone to feel that way about books. Zack let the topic drop. He noticed her plate was empty. The next second, she was getting up, taking it to the sink. He quickly polished off the last of his eggs and toast. He could have eaten more.

“This was good,” he told her.

“It was simple,” she replied, ignoring the compliment he had given her.

Leaning his palms against the table top, Zack slowly pushed himself up to his feet. Damn, he still felt wobbly. He had no patience with infirmity when he was the one who was infirm. This was going to be a problem, he thought.