of Jack’s shoulder; and since the bleeding had stopped, I knew it hadn’t severed a major blood line.
So infection had to be the biggest danger. I’d have to clean the wound. Unless…
“Is there any chance of me taking you to the hospital?” I asked.
He shot me a look that said the question had been as futile as I’d feared. “I’ll get back to my place,” Jack said. He began trying to push himself up from the floor with his uninjured arm.
“Oh, sure.” I was scared of treating the wound, so my voice came out harsh.
“Obviously, this is too much of a risk for you,” he said, in an I’m-trying-to-be-patient voice.
Quelling my impulse to haul him to his feet, twist his good arm behind his back, and propel him into the nearest wall, I inhaled a calming breath. I let it out evenly, with control.
“You don’t get to tell me what risks I’m prepared to assume,” I said.
“I can go back to Little Rock, but you live here.”
“I appreciate your pointing that out to me. Give me your hand.” I was going through my own set of shakes. Stepping outside in my nightgown had chilled me to the bone in all kinds of ways.
Jack reached out with his good hand, and I planted my feet, gripped the hand firmly, and pulled up. His face twisted as he rose to his feet. Standing, he was taller than me, his physical presence dominating. I decided I preferred him on the floor. No. I felt more comfortable with him on the floor.
“You’re freezing!” he said, and stretched out his good arm as if he would gather me to him. My white bathrobe fell off him and crumpled in a dirty heap. The remains of his shirt hung in rags around his shoulders.
“We’re going into the bathroom to work on your wound,” I told him, trying to sound confident. “Can you walk?”
He could, and was sitting on the toilet seat in a few seconds. I got out all my first-aid equipment. I had some sterile water, and some bandages containing powdered antibiotic, and a tube of antibiotic ointment. I had a lot of gauze and some tape. The Lily Bard MASH unit for wounded detectives.
The sterile water was even in a squirt bottle.
I worked the rest of the shirt off Jack, tried not to be distracted by his resulting bareness, and draped him with my oldest towels. I swept his half-dry hair over onto his sound shoulder. I assumed nurses and doctors learned how to detach themselves from touching people so intimately; I had not. This felt very personal to me.
“I’m going to clean the wound,” I said.
“Yeah.”
I lifted the plastic squeeze bottle. “So, did you recognize the men after you?” I asked. I squirted sterile water onto the bloody furrow. Jack turned whiter, and dark stubble stood out sharply on his lean cheeks. “Answer me, Jack Leeds,” I said sharply.
“Not all of them.” His voice more of a gasp.
“Of course there was Darcy.” I squirted again, this time from the back. I thought of tiny fragments of shirt, or microscopic bits of the vest, that might be embedded in this tear in Jack’s flesh. I felt dreadfully responsible.
“Uh-huh.” His eyes closed. I kept going with the lavage.
“Who was another one, Jack?”
“The kid, the one with the pimples, works on the loading dock at the lumber and home supply place.”
I patted the area dry with the cleanest whitest washcloth I had. I examined it. It looked clean, but how did I know? I wasn’t used to cleaning on a microscopic scale. I squirted.
“And the guy with the big belly, the one who looks like a good heart-attack risk, I’ve seen him.”
“That was Cleve Ragland, works down at the mattress factory,” I murmured. “Cleve’s been arrested for drunken driving at least twice, got a kid in jail for attempted rape.”
Squirt, wipe.
“The other guy,” Jack gasped, “isn’t he a cop?”
“Uh-huh, Tom David Meicklejohn-in plain clothes. He kept to the back like it was possible for me to mistake him,” I said, hoping the plowed track of the wound was clean enough. At least Jack’s eyes were open again, though he wasn’t looking at my face.
“And then there was Jim, works in the gun department, works out with Darcy. Another coworker.” I patted again.
It looked dry. It looked clean. I leaned even closer to inspect it, and nodded in satisfaction. I hoped I hadn’t hurt Jack too much. He had a very strange expression on his face.
“Lean forward,” I told him. I spread the antiseptic ointment on the wound. I put an antiseptic pad on the shoulder, with a strip of surgical tape to hold it in place.
“Lean back.” I padded the wound with sterile gauze in case he bled again, and unrolled surgical tape to secure the gauze. Jack’s face relaxed while I did this, and I felt proud of myself. I turned and began to search the bathroom cabinet for a pain reliever. While my back was to him, Jack’s finger traced the curve of my hip.
I stood still, not believing it.
“Are you crazy?” I said. “You just got shot!”
“Lily, all that got me through that bandaging was your breast wobbling about three inches from my face.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Did I hear you step out in front of them in your nightgown?” he asked.
I nodded.
“No wonder they were all quiet. Not a one will be able to sleep tonight.”
“You’d left a handprint on one of the posts.”
“You did a damn fine job of distracting.”
“I hated doing that. Don’t talk like it was easy.”
“I hope I know better.”
“We need to get your wet clothes off so you can come get in bed.”
“I thought you’d never say it.”
I noticed that he wasn’t any longer mentioning going home. And he’d never suggested we call the police, though in view of Tom David’s presence, that had probably been wise. I shook out a pill, handed him a glass of water. He swallowed it and leaned back, his eyes closed.
I pulled off Jack’s boots and socks, wiping off his wet cold feet with a hot washcloth and drying them vigorously with a towel. But I left him to remove his own jeans. I went outside one more time, to clean the bloody fingerprint from the post. That had been niggling at me.
It was still raining. Any other traces Jack had left would surely be obliterated.
I’d turned down the bed, and by the time I came in the room, Jack had managed to climb in and cover up. On my side. His chest was bare and it occurred to me he was most likely bare all the way down.
I’d given him one of the pain pills Carrie had left me a few months before when my ribs had been bruised. It had knocked Jack Leeds clean out, as I’d expected.
I yanked the blue nightgown off and stuffed it in the trash can. I pulled a pink one out of my dresser drawer. It was almost as pretty; I buy good nightgowns. I put the bloodstained bathrobe into my washer and set it to wash on cold; as an afterthought, I threw in Jack’s damp jeans, socks, and underwear, which he’d left in a heap on the bathroom floor. Hot water would have been better for his stuff, but I couldn’t stay awake for two loads. While the clothes churned through the shortest cycle, I straightened up the bathroom and set out a toothbrush, still in its wrapper. I rechecked all the locks. Then I put the washed clothes in the dryer.
When all the lights were out, I slid into bed on the wrong side. The night was silent except for the friendly sound of the tumbling dryer and the detective breathing heavily beside me, and I slept.
I opened my eyes about five-thirty, later than I usually get up. To see my clock, I had to raise myself to peer over the dark mound that was Jack. I thought I’d heard him go into the bathroom, heard the water running, but he seemed to be asleep again. I could barely discern the outline of his features. The bedclothes had fallen down, and I could see his exposed shoulder because of the white of the bandage. I covered him back up, very carefully, not wanting to wake him. His loose hair had fallen over his face. Gently, as delicately as I could manage, I brushed it back.
The rain was drumming on the roof again, loud enough to penetrate the comforting drone of the central heating. I made my own trip to the bathroom, rinsed out my mouth. I snuggled back down into bed, turned away from my sleeping companion. I sank into a half-doze, random thoughts floating through my head.
