“It hurts…”
Presently, as he looked down at the young battered and broken girl in the same bed in which his wife had once said those exact words to him, the same look of pleading in her eyes, he wondered if it would be better to show her the kind of mercy he hadn’t shown his wife. If the girl died, it wouldn’t matter if the Merrills came. He would let them take the corpse if they so desired. Once the life was gone from the body, what remained would no longer be his concern. And with her dead, they would have no reason to hurt him, as long as he kept his mouth shut.
He shook his head and drew the fresh blankets up around the girl. He had disinfected her wounds, then stitched them, but it was not within his means to give her the attention she so desperately needed. The damage to her eye was serious, as were the severed digits on her fingers and toes, but other than cleaning them, and applying pressure bandages and tourniquets above the amputations, he was out of his league. There was a good chance that if he didn’t get her to a hospital soon, she would die.
She was awake, however, and apparently lucid, though given the trauma she’d endured, he didn’t know how much of it was genuine and not just a reaction to the painkillers. What he did know for certain was that the girl looking at him now was not the same one Jack Lowell and his boy had brought to him. She was still pale, and dazed looking, but her pupil had returned to its normal size and her trembling was not nearly as severe.
Slowly, he sat back in his chair. “How’re you feeling?” he asked.
“Hurts,” she replied, in the small voice of a child who has just scraped her knee. It was so heartbreakingly sincere, Wellman found himself wondering if she had receded into madness to protect herself from the pain.
“I know, but we’ll take care of you.”
She blinked. “Where am I?”
“My home, in Elkwood.”
“Elkwood?”
“Alabama. My name’s Doctor Wellman.” He offered her a warm smile, but resisted the urge to lay a hand on her, no matter how paternal the gesture was intended to be. After all she’d gone through, physical contact outside of the necessary medical ministrations might not be wise.
“Claire,” she told him. “Claire Lambert.”
“How did you end up here, Claire? I’m just guessing you’re not from Alabama.”
“Ohio.” She winced as the pain fluttered within her. “Columbus, Ohio.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
“I know. Can you call my Mom?”
“Of course,” he said, but didn’t think it the wisest idea. If he did, who was to say her family wouldn’t pile on the next flight down and be here right when the Merrill clan decided to pay a visit? As bad as leaving Claire at the hospital and driving away was going to make him feel, putting the rest of her family in jeopardy was not something he was willing to have on his conscience. But having her contact information would help the doctors in Grayson identify her and they could take it from there. This in turn triggered the notion that although Sheriff McKindrey might be useless, the State Police might prove more helpful. But would they make it here in time to counter the tide of violence that must surely be bearing down on them? He resolved at least to try. But for now, he could only concentrate on one thing at a time, and so fetched a pen and some paper and jotted down the girl’s address and phone number as she gave them to him.
“They tried to kill me,” she said afterward. “They killed my friends.”
“Who did?” Immediately, he regretted the question. The less he knew about all of this the better. But how was he supposed to play dumb when the victim of the atrocity had become his patient, and after Jack Lowell had told him his terrible story? “Never mind,” he added. “We can talk about this later. Most important thing now is that you get some sleep and concentrate on feeling b—”
He stopped. A rumbling sound registered from outside the house. It was coming closer. Wellman watched as bright white light spilled in through the window, washed over the ceiling of the room before crawling down the walls, then sweeping across them to the door and vanishing into the corner. Headlights. The rumbling sound stopped. He listened for footsteps and after a moment was rewarded with the sound of boots crunching gravel. Approaching the house.
“You just relax now,” he told the girl, alarmed at the quaver in his voice. “I’ll be back in just a moment.” He tried to think of something more to say, but his brain was scrambled, his thoughts lost in a fog of panic. He hurried from the room, bound for the kitchen and the cabinet where he kept his liquor, glasses, and an old tin box. Inside that box was a gun he hadn’t used in over twenty years, an old military issue Colt .45 a veteran had given him instead of payment one winter when it was clear the diagnosis he’d been given was a terminal one. Wellman hadn’t wanted the gun, but the look on the patient’s face had told him it was less an offer than the last command the retired Colonel was ever going to give, and therefore needed to be obeyed. The doctor had accepted the gift, stashed it in an old filing cabinet, and for over ten years had managed to keep its existence a secret from his wife until he retired and forgot the gun was in a box full of medical forms. To his surprise, Abby hadn’t demanded he get rid of it, but requested it be kept somewhere out of sight for the duration. He hadn’t thought of it again since shutting it up in its little tin box, but he was forced to think of it now.
It felt heavier than he remembered as he removed it and checked the magazine, which had been kept apart from the weapon at Abby’s insistence. She didn’t want that tin box tumbling down some night and blowing holes in the kitchen, or them. With five bullets still nestled in the clip, he slid the magazine home and cocked the hammer.
The footsteps stopped.
Wellman glanced toward the sound, or rather the complete absence of it, and held his breath.
Someone knocked on the door.
-10-
“He ain’t here,” Aaron said, and Luke felt his guts plummet even though he had reached the same conclusion almost as soon as he saw the dead man downstairs.
“Wait a minute, we ain’t checked the barns yet,” he protested.
“I did,” Aaron told him. “Nothing but a bony ’ol horse and a pig or two. Papa’s out there now, inspectin’ ’em, seein’ if they’re worth comin’ back for.”
They were in what might once have been a large bedroom, but was bare now aside from a small table in the corner, upon which stood a fancy looking but dusty lamp without a bulb. Next to that was a chiffarobe. Both boys had viewed it as an ideal hiding place for the kid they were searching for, but all they found was a few old moth-eaten shirts and one faded dress. A window looked down onto the yard below and faced the large red barn, the interior of which was cloaked in shadow. Security lights glared in at Luke as he tried to make out his father’s lithe form. But for now, there was nothing to be seen.
Behind him, Aaron stood tossing his knife in the air. Luke could hear the swish of the blade as it sliced up, then downward, the fall intercepted by his brother’s sure grip. He wished he’d stop. The sound of that blade only heightened his anxiety. But then he thought of something and turned, his shadow robbing the blade of its gleam.
“Papa said see if they’re worth comin’ back for?” he asked, and watched Aaron’s head bob in the gloom. “Why come back? Why not just take ’em now?”