Flipping off the interior light, he said, “Don’t worry, we’ll be at the hospital in just a few minutes.”
She mumbled something in return and he missed it. “What?”
“I said no hospitals.”
Shane shook his head. He must have heard her wrong. “You have to go to the hospital — you look like death warmed over.”
“You really know how to sweet-talk a girl.”
“Sorry about that, but you definitely need medical attention.”
“No,” she repeated emphatically. “I said no hospitals.” The strength of her voice and the intensity of her response surprised him, and he raised his eyebrows. “What are you talking about? You were in an airplane crash—of course you’re going to the hospital. Where else would I bring you?”
“Anywhere,” she said. Her voice had returned to its previous weak volume, barely more than a strong whisper. “This hick town have a bus station?”
“Of course.”
“Then you can drop me there.”
Maybe this young woman’s problem wasn’t a head injury. Maybe she was just plain batshit crazy. “You think any bus driver’s going to let you board? Your leg is awash in your own blood and you look like you just lost a gunfight. Besides, if you try to stand on your own right now, you’re going to drop like a felled tree. I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’re going straight to the hospital.”
The young woman leaned forward, reaching down to her right ankle and fumbling around. What she was looking for, he had no idea. The longer he rode with her, the more Shane was beginning to believe she really was crazy. He glanced forward onto the deserted road and when he looked back, he found himself staring straight into the barrel of a handgun.
“No hospitals,” she said.
Tracie concentrated on not puking. Her head pounded relentlessly and unless she focused hard her vision insisted on wavering, sometimes disappearing entirely. She knew she had suffered a concussion — hopefully it was only a concussion — and the gash in her leg throbbed with every beat of her heart.
She needed stitches.
She needed sleep.
She wasn’t going to get either.
She forced herself to hold the gun steady on her rescuer. “No hospitals,” she said, and to his credit, the guy didn’t even blink.
“O-kay,” he said. “Then where to?”
“You’re right about one thing; I can’t take a bus looking like this.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said drily.
“But they’ll be watching the bus terminal before long,” she muttered, thinking out loud, struggling to concentrate through the haze of pain and confusion. “They probably don’t have any operatives in this tiny nowhere town—”
“Thanks, on behalf of all Bangor residents.”
“—but they will very soon, and then I’ll be trapped. Dammit,” she said, punching the seat in frustration.
“What kind of trouble are you in?” her rescuer asked. “And what were you doing on a military plane out of uniform? You’re not in the military, are you?”
Tracie gazed at the young man, thinking. He had reacted much differently to having a gun shoved in his face than she had expected him to — much differently than most civilians would — and she liked that. And he had risked his life by climbing inside a burning B-52 in the middle of nowhere to haul her ass out of the fire. Literally. She had been semi-conscious in the aftermath of the crash and thought she was seeing things when his body tumbled through the smashed wind screen, dropping like an angel from heaven as the fire worked its way through the cabin.
And he seemed genuinely concerned about her condition. She decided to take a chance.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m not in the military. My father is a State Department bigwig and he’s dying. I was on an emergency flight home because he only has a few days left, and I want to say goodbye.” She teared up, mentally congratulating herself on her acting skills, even after a plane crash and with injuries.
“Bullshit,” he said, and that was when she saw the sign approaching rapidly on the right. NORTHERN MAINE MEDICAL CENTER.
“I told you, no hospitals,” she said sharply, leaning forward to jam the barrel of the Beretta under his chin, ignoring the resulting pain.
“We’re not going to the hospital,” he said in annoyance, “although I think you’re making a mistake. You’ve lost a lot of blood, that gash in your leg needs to be examined, and it seems pretty clear you’ve suffered a concussion at the very least. But what the hell, I’m not your guardian. You want to be a damned fool, it’s none of my business.” The Volkswagen passed the hospital’s entrance and continued along the lightly traveled road.
“So, where are we going, then?”
“My apartment’s not far from here. I’ll patch you up the best I can and you can crash there for a few hours while you figure out what you want to do next. Your story is complete bullshit, but I’m not going to just drop you off in the middle of this ‘tiny nowhere town,’ as you call it, injured and alone. I wasn’t raised that way. Maybe you won’t go to the hospital, but I can’t just leave you, either.”
Tracie said nothing, stunned. This guy was a complete stranger, he had risked his life to save her from a burning airplane, and by way of thanks she had threatened him with deadly violence. Now he was driving her to his home. And to top it off, he was cute as hell.
“Think you could get that gun out of my face?” he said into the shocked silence, and she lowered the Beretta to her lap. She was really starting to like this guy. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Name? Why do you care about my name?” She was instantly suspicious.
“Jesus,” he answered in exasperation. “I’m just making conversation. It’s what people do. For example: I’m Shane Rowley, it’s nice to meet you.”
Tracie stared at him, thinking, then chuckled despite the pain. She must be getting paranoid. There was no possible way anyone on either side of the geopolitical fence — USSR or United States — could have known that B-52 was going to crash-land in Bangor, Maine. Thus, there was no possible way this guy could be anything other than what he claimed to be: a Good Samaritan who had been driving past, seen the plane go down, and pulled her out of the burning wreckage.
She sighed and smiled. “My name’s Tracie,” she said softly, realizing with some surprise that she hadn’t introduced herself to a stranger using her real name in well over half a decade.
“See, that wasn’t so hard. We’re making progress.” He hung a left at a red brick bank building that was maybe five stories high — what passed for a skyscraper here in Nowhereville, USA — urged the Beetle up a hill, banged a couple more turns, and drove into an apartment complex overlooking a good-sized river. Small pools of sickly yellow light dotted the parking lot from poles spaced too far apart to do much good.
Her rescuer guided the Bug into a spot directly under one of the light poles and Tracie said, “No, not here.”
“What are you talking about? My apartment’s right in front of us.”
“Not under the light,” she said. “Park in one of the dark spots.”
He looked at her like she was crazy — he seemed to be doing that a lot — but didn’t argue. He simply shook his head, shifted the car into reverse, and backed directly into another spot, between two of the light poles lining the rear of the lot. “Better?” he asked.
Tracie nodded. “Better.” She unsnapped her seat belt and opened her door, placing her right foot on the pavement.