Two German shepherds appeared out of the dark like four-legged demons. Ears erect, they circled me, growling and barking. I shied away from their snapping teeth. A man came forward, heavily dressed against the cold and holding what looked like a Kalashnikov in gloved hands. When he spoke, I heard the same language from the laundry truck and the tent.
At this point, I didn’t care if a small country of kidnappers was in that house; I wanted in where it was warm.
A second man, similarly dressed and armed, pulled my hands behind me and whisked me through the front doors. I almost collapsed with relief. After patting me down, the guard holding me took my baton, cellphone and watch and disappeared into a door off the entrance hall.
Staircases to the dim second floor curved to each side, with a gloomy hallway disappearing into darkness between them. Ornate wood doors were closed on either side of the entry. It was grand, but the place had seen better days. Faded, ripped tapestries mingled with framed art that someone had spray painted graffiti on. What rugs remained on the stone floors were thin and dirty. The mansion smelled musty and felt damp but was blissfully warm. Warmer than outside, at least.
I leaned against a wall, waiting while the guard who took my stuff disappeared into a room off the entrance hall. The other didn’t take off his mask or hat, and he didn’t speak. He just stood there, dripping on the floor, holding the growling dogs.
Wiggling my toes inside my boots felt like breaking up icicles. My nose stung and ears burned. Carefully, with my hands up where he could see them, I tugged off a glove. The tips of my fingers were white and numb. When the feeling came back, I’d be squirming. If the feeling never came back, I had bigger problems.
The mansion, I think they were called chateaus here, was eerily silent, but someone could scream all they wanted behind those hefty doors, and no one would hear them.
The other guard returned and gestured at me to walk toward the dark hallway with his rifle. When I didn’t move fast enough, he jabbed me with the muzzle.
I stumbled but tried to move my frozen feet quicker. As he escorted me between the staircases and into the hallway, snow and ice chunks dropped off my clothes to the floor with wet plops. A few paces down the hall, he opened a door to the right and pushed me in, then closed it behind me.
The room was cavernous. Bookless cases with a few broken shelves ran from floor to ceiling, another mangy rug covered the center of the floor, and piles of trash and discarded clothes were strewn in corners. There’d been a fire in the room at some point; one corner was singed black. Whatever furniture had been in here was long gone.
But my gaze swooped past all that and fell gratefully on the very real fire hissing and popping in the stone fireplace in one wall—and Veena sitting cross-legged by it.
“Nic!” She jumped to her feet and ran to me. I hugged her hard. When she pulled back, tears fell freely from her eyes. “Connor’s leg is bad, Nic. He needs help, and these guys won’t talk to us.”
Connor lay covered with a ratty but thick curtain, his head cushioned by Veena’s folded ski coat. His eyes were closed. I hurried over to him, pulling off my soaked coat and hat and heeling off my boots. I’d never get warm with them on. My stinging fingers were a startling white at the tips, and they ached.
The firelight threw weird shadows on Connor’s face. I learned CPR and some basic first aid at Juno, but I didn’t have the stocked kit we’d practiced with.
Make do, I heard my instructor, a former Special Forces medic, say.
I felt Connor’s forehead, but to my frozen hands it felt fiery. His breathing seemed regular, at least.
“Does he feel hot to you?” I asked Veena.
She touched him. “Warm.”
I peeled the curtain off his leg to take a look. Someone had tied a cloth over the wound. Everything was stained dark with his blood.
“Did you do this?” I asked Veena, lifting the tails of the cloth.
Her hands fluttered over him. “I tore down the curtain to cover him and make the bandage. Was that wrong? Did I make it worse?”
“No, you stopped the bleeding.”
I loosened the cloth and slid his snow pant leg up to see the wound, but I couldn’t move it far enough to see much. He shifted and winced, but his eyes stayed closed. I unsnapped and unzipped his snow pants and eased them down his slim hips. He wore a pair of black long underwear torn by a neat bullet hole surrounded by blood. Okay. This wasn’t how I imagined undressing him, but . . . I sidled the long underwear down to his knees, revealing a snug pair of boxer style underwear.
As the cool air hit his bare skin, his eyes winked open. He tried to speak, then cleared his throat weakly. I moved closer to hear.
“Are you taking advantage of me?” he whispered.
Veena squeaked happily; I sagged with relief. “I thought you were bleeding out!”
“A few times on that snowmobile, I thought I was too.” He licked his pale lips. “Any water around to drink?”
Veena shook her head; I grabbed my soaked glove.
“This might not taste good, but it will wet your mouth a little.” I put it to his lips, and he sucked on it.
He made a face, but his voice was a little clearer when he spoke. “Thanks.”
“How bad is it?” I asked. “Can you tell?”
“I think the bullet went through, but it bled a lot. My sock is sticky and wet.”
At least he had feeling in his foot. Gently, I probed the area around the wound, making the bleeding start up again
