“No drugs. I’m not stupid.”
She returned to the cabinet, pulse racing. If she fumbled around and wasted time, he might keel over. He also might shoot her, or one of the other employees. She didn’t dare run to the wall phone. Her cellphone was in her purse.
She’d already tried to trick him and it hadn’t worked. She couldn’t come up with a better option, so she decided to cooperate. Moving quickly, she selected the supplies she needed. Surgical towels, bandages, saline, lidocaine, syringes. First she had to clean the wound.
He was wearing a button-down shirt with jeans and work boots. His weathered face and sturdy clothes seemed incongruent with the situation. He looked more like a field-worker than a gang member, but he was clearly on the wrong side of the law.
He winced as she lifted the layers of his clothing to inspect the wound. There was an ugly, jagged hole on his right side, between his rib cage and his right hip. A smaller, neater hole marked his lower back. That was the entry point. The bullet appeared to have gone through and through, just as he’d reported, but it was still a life-threatening injury. If any of his internal organs had been nicked, he’d die without proper treatment.
He might die anyway.
She didn’t say that—his expression revealed he knew it. He knew it, and he’d opted to come here instead of going to a real hospital. A man so desperate was incredibly dangerous. He’d rather risk death than turn himself in to the authorities.
He gripped the edge of the exam table with his free hand as she cleaned the skin around the wounds. The pain must have been excruciating, but he didn’t complain. She filled a syringe with lidocaine, after showing him the vial. Then she injected the local anesthetic at several strategic spots around the affected area. No amount of numbing would make this process comfortable for him, so she didn’t overdo it.
When she filled a larger, needle-less syringe with saline, he grew wary. “What’s that?”
“I’m going to flush the wound.”
“The bullet’s not in there.”
She placed a couple of surgical towels by his right hip. There might be bullet fragments or other contaminants in the wound. “It still needs to be cleaned.”
He didn’t argue, so she continued treatment. He wasn’t as stoic about this step. It hurt, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise. She flushed until the fluid ran clear. His tense muscles eased as soon as she was finished. She didn’t see evidence of a foreign body, or any materials from his intestines. After patting him dry, she reached for an extra-large bandage.
“No stitches?”
“In this area, it’s better to let it drain.”
He grunted his permission. She adhered the bandage to his side and wrapped his midsection with stretchy gauze. When she was finished, she washed her hands at the sink. If he had been her patient, she’d have started him on fluids, but she figured that a bunch of tubes and a rolling IV stand would hamper his quick getaway, and she wanted him gone.
“Thank you,” he said, sliding off the exam table. His complexion was ashen. Slapping a bandage on a gunshot wound was no miracle cure. He looked weak and nauseated. He wouldn’t get far on foot, maybe half a block before he dropped.
She crossed her arms over her chest. Giving him first aid had calmed her down a little. She’d been able to focus on the injury instead of this terrifying predicament. But now, staring him right in the face, an awful thought occurred to her. She was no longer useful to him. And he had to know that she’d call 911 as soon as he left the clinic.
“You have a car?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, her voice quaking. “Take it.”
“Get the keys.”
She whirled around and opened the drawer where her purse was located.
“Go slow,” he barked. Then he wilted against the exam table, as if the effort had wrecked him. “Slow,” he repeated.
She lifted her purse from the drawer and fumbled for the keys. “It’s the white Volvo.”
“Get the door for me.”
Hitching her purse on her shoulder, she skirted around him and opened the back door. As soon as he shuffled through it, he gestured to her vehicle.
“Help me walk.”
Anything to get rid of him. She put an arm around him gingerly and continued forward. His motions were stiff, as if blood loss had seized his muscles. Cramping was common after a traumatic injury. His body was shutting down.
They crossed the short distance with some difficulty. The sun beat down on the crown of her head and traffic sounds roared in her ears. Cars darted through the nearby midsection. People living their everyday lives, oblivious to her plight.
“Get down,” he growled suddenly.
