6.
Tracy shrugged the rough blanket off her shoulders and stood shivering in her bra and panties. She squeezed the leg of her jeans, the shoulder of her sweat shirt. Damp, but better than standing around naked in a smelly blanket. This way she felt less vulnerable.
She pulled her clothes from the bunk where they'd been drying and climbed into them. The wet denim scraped against her unshaven legs. Not having to shave her legs and armpits was the only advantage of living in California now-the way making a right turn on a red light used to be.
C'mon, Tracy, she scolded herself, don't flip out now.
There was a rustling behind her, a low moan.
'Am I dead?' Eric asked quietly, his eyes opening.
'Too soon to tell.'
He grinned, figuring the effect was worth the pain.
Tracy's cool fingers pressed against his forehead, holding him down. He could have told her he wasn't going anywhere. Not until someone removed the Plymouth from his chest. In a minute or two he'd worry about the situation. Right now he closed his eyes, let the ship's swaying lull him for a moment. He slipped into a dream and saw Annie smiling, waving, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Behind her stood Fallows, smirking, holding Timmy's hand. Timmy's mouth curved into an evil leer. Eric forced his eyes back open. His own grin was gone.
He looked down at his chest, recognized the blue cotton material used to bandage his wound. 'I see your sweat shirt's missing a hood and some sleeves. You getting into the punk look?'
Tracy snorted. 'On this ship who would notice?'
He looked around the cabin. It was a double stateroom with extra sleeping bags lying in twisted heaps on the floor. Enough bedding to sleep an expanded crew. A sloppy crew by the looks of things. Dirty clothes were thrown everywhere, tattered skin magazines spread-eagled on several bunks. Eric turned his head to the wall. Ragged pages torn carelessly from the magazines were tacked to the wall. Naked women. Naked men. Naked boys with girls no more than eleven or twelve.
'How you feeling?' Tracy asked.
'I wish you wouldn't try to sound so chipper. Makes me think I've got only minutes to live.'
'Sorry,' she said. She wasn't talking about now.
Eric reached out, traced her jawline with his finger. 'Forget it. Really.'
'Guess I couldn't hold my breath as long as I thought.'
He gestured with his chin at the messy stateroom. 'If you lived in this room long enough, you'd learn to hold it indefinitely.'
It got a slight smile.
Eric struggled to prop himself onto his elbows. A flaming spear skewered his chest.
'Don't move, Eric. Without our clothes from the canoe, I can't afford to lose any more of this sweat jacket to make fresh bandages.'
With the sleeves ripped off the jacket, her long smooth arms hung naked to her sides. The skin was tan from weeks of exposure to the sun, the muscles sharply defined from the exercise. A few scabs and scratches in various stages of healing decorated her arms. Broken blisters and callous pads clumped on her palms. Her face remained pale, though Eric thought he noticed a gradual building up of freckles across the bridge of the nose. The nose itself was still a little crooked from a fall from a horse a month ago. To him, she was more beautiful than ever.
Eric walked his fingers across his bandaged chest, probing the sore and tender spots. When they touched the rim of the wound he winced, clenching his face like a fist. 'Christ!'
'You were lucky it wasn't worse. The water probably slowed the arrow some. Not to mention your chipped rib.'
'Take the bandage off,' he said quietly.
'What?'
'Take it off.' He swung his legs over the side of the bunk, swallowing the pain. His head pulsed with electrical shocks. He clawed at the jersey bandages, unwinding them.
Tracy clutched his hand, trying to stop him. 'What are you doing? You want to bleed to death?'
He shook his head, not wanting to squander his waning energy on words. 'Tighter. Make it tighter.'
'Okay, okay. Tighter.' She grabbed the cloth, began rewinding it, pulling it tighter, watching him swoon under the pressure. 'Jeez, Eric…' She hesitated.
'Tighter!'
She finished wrapping it. The hard muscles of Eric's chest bulged slightly over the edges of the bandage. The stony ridges of his flat stomach shone with sweat.
He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. 'Good. Now at least I can move.'
'Move? Move where?'
'Escape.'
'Escape?' She stomped over to the narrow porthole of the cabin, pointed out through the glass. 'Unless you're planning to squeeze through there, forget escape. After they fished us out last night, I counted ten men and three women up there. All armed. All who would have trouble deciding which would be more fun, killing you or twisting the legs off a puppy.' She spun back to face him. 'Get the picture now?'
'Yeah.' He stood up, naked. 'Where are my clothes?'
She threw up her hands, yanked his still-damp clothes from the bunk where she'd hung them to dry, and threw them at his chest. The impact knocked him back onto the bunk with a groan. 'Escape, huh?' She shook her head. 'My hero.'
Eric dressed slowly, each movement like some elaborate mime. Tracy didn't offer to help him. She stood with her arms crossed staring out the porthole. It was dawn outside, the sun just beginning its ascent somewhere behind the Long Beach Halo. The sky was already the hazy-orange yellow color it would remain for the rest of the day. The ship was moving along at a pretty decent clip.
'Did you get a look at our captain?'
'No. He must've been below when they brought us aboard.'
'How about the oriental woman?'
'Yeah, she was snapping out a lot of orders, throwing me dirty looks as if I'd stolen her last pair of pantyhose.'
'She get a good look at me?'
Tracy laughed. 'What balls. I hate to crush your ego, Eric, but she didn't seem interested. Maybe you're not Chinese enough.'
'She's not Chinese; she's Vietnamese.'
'Whatever.' Tracy paused, turned to stare at him. 'How do you know? You were unconscious.'
'I know her. That's why we've got to escape as soon as possible. I don't know why they didn't kill us last night, but once she sees me, they won't hesitate.'
'Why? What'd you do to her?'
He stood up, zipped his pants. 'I killed her.'
'You what?'
'Or at least I thought I had. Back in 'Nam, when I was with the Night Shift. She'd been selling military secrets to the Cong out of Saigon. Orders came in that she was supposed to disappear. Fallows sent me.' He walked over to the porthole, watched the orange-crested waves whip by. Last night they'd been so black and cheerless as they'd closed over him like a coffin lid. 'Guess, I blew it. But I know I killed somebody.'
But who? Who belonged to the body he'd pumped two 7.62-mm sniper slugs into fourteen years ago? Whose arms had flailed in the air, clutching at the wounds before flopping onto the floor of her bedroom, her winter coat buttoned to the neck as she'd prepared to go out at the usual time. He'd framed her face in his scope seconds before pulling the trigger. It had been her.
'Just take my word for it, Tracy. We're better off making a run for it than waiting for her to recognize me.'
Tracy sat on the edge of the bunk and shook her head. 'I don't know.'