Page 75 of Sting

“Will you please stop that? It hurts like a son of a bitch.”

Her brow was furrowed. “Shaw, listen to me, you’re—”

“What time is it?” He crooked his left arm and blinked the numerals on his wristwatch into focus. It wasn’t too long till dawn which was why the darkness was no longer absolute black, but a dark gray. There wouldn’t be a sunrise, however. Not the way the rain was coming down.

“Are you lucid?” Jordie asked.

He looked at her and nodded.

“This is worse. It’s getting infected.”

Although he had to clench his jaw to keep from moaning, he struggled up so he could check for himself. Jordie had untied the makeshift binding and removed the blood-soaked bandana, exposing the torn, raw flesh. The area surrounding the wound had become puffy and red.

“You’re burning up,” she said.

Yes, he realized that he had a fever. His skin felt itchy and too tight; his eyes were stinging; he had a raging thirst. “Pass me that water bottle.”

She was quick to do so, reaching for it with her right hand, since her left was still shackled to his. As he raised the bottle to his mouth, he halted it midway. “What was that?”

“What?” She followed the direction of his gaze to the door. “Lightning. It’s been flashing off and on for at least an hour.” Coming back around, she said, “Shaw, you’ve got to give up. Let me cut myself free. Tell me where the phone battery is. Or the car keys. I’ll drive you—”

“Shh!”

“Don’t shush me. You’ve got—”

He pulled her down beside him and rolled partially on top of her so he could reach the spotlight with his left hand. He clicked it off.

“What are you doing?” She tried to throw him off, but he kept her pinned down, his left thigh thrown across her.

He trained his feverish eyes on the door where he saw another flicker of light, but the rumble he detected above the racket of the rain on the roof wasn’t thunder.

“Shaw—”

“Be quiet!”

“Let me up!”

Instead he clamped his left hand over her mouth. “Car,” he said. “If you say a word, if you even breathe hard, whoever is in it will likely die. His or her blood will be on your hands. Got it?”

She hesitated for only a second, then bobbed her head as much as his restraining hand would allow.

He removed his hand from her mouth and blinked hard to keep from passing out from the pain as he struggled to sit. He drew his right knee up and with his free left hand reached beneath the stringy hem of his jeans and into his boot, and pulled out the Bobcat.

When Jordie saw the palm pistol, she gasped.

He said, “What kind of hit man would carry only one gun?”

“Is that one loaded?”

“Always.”

The headlights that he’d seen approaching cut an arc across the front of the building, then remained stationary, but on. For the longest time, nothing happened. Which signaled to Shaw that it was a cop. A curiosity seeker would be less cautious. A cop on a manhunt would be calling in his position before coming to explore further.

Beside him, Jordie remained tense as she, too, kept her eyes on the closed door.

Shaw strained to catch the sounds of a car door opening, approaching footsteps, but the noise of the rain striking the roof drowned out everything else, until a voice with a noticeable Louisiana accent called out, “I’m Deputy Clint Morrow, Terrebonne Parish Sheriff’s Office­­. Identify yourself, please.”

Beside Shaw, Jordie was trembling, but she didn’t speak.

---