The Sooner the Better (10 page)

Not knowing what else to do, she jumped on Carlos's back and wrapped her arms around his neck as tightly as she could in an amateurish endeavor to strangle him. He tossed her off almost effortlessly. She hit the side of her head when she landed, and for a moment saw stars.

Stunned, she sat and waited for her vision to clear, then struggled to her feet. Refusing to stand by and do nothing, she reached for the bucket. If she could clobber Carlos over the head with it, or better yet put it
on
his head, she might actually be able to help. Unfortunately he wouldn't hold still and she ended up chasing him around the deck, pail in hand, ready to act once the opportunity presented itself.

Jack proved an able-bodied combatant, but Carlos outweighed him by forty or fifty pounds. He, too, seemed to be an expert at hand-to-hand combat.

“The gun!” Jack shouted at Lorraine. “Get the gun.”

Of course. That made perfect sense and would be a great deal more help to him than chasing after Carlos with a yellow rubber bucket. Adrenaline pumping, she hurried below for the Glock .22 he'd given her.

As she disappeared she heard Jack curse. Frantic, she grabbed the weapon from its hiding place and checked to make sure it was loaded. Then, her hands trembling so badly she could hardly manage it, she released the safety and climbed back to the main deck.

It didn't dawn on her until a shot rang out that Jack hadn't been referring to the gun belowdecks but the one she'd knocked away from Carlos. The one that had just been fired.

The sound was like an explosion that echoed in her ears long afterward. She prayed with all her might that it was Carlos who'd been hit. Not Jack, please, not Jack.

But God hadn't heard her desperate plea. When she reappeared on deck, she found Jack lying in a pool of blood. He stared sightlessly up at the sky, unmoving.

Jack, who'd put himself in harm's way to protect her.

“No!” she screamed. She didn't hesitate as she leveled the weapon she held at Carlos. “You dirty son of a
bitch,” she sobbed, thinking Jack would be proud of her. Because she'd advanced beyond
darn.

Blindly she fired the gun. Once, twice. Again and then again. The first bullet knocked the weapon out of his hand. He roared in anger and sprang back. The second shot grazed his shoulder. The next two went wide.

Lorraine paused and aimed more carefully, figuring that if she'd hit him once she could do it again.

Her calm determination must have frightened him. With a cry of outrage, Carlos jumped overboard. Lorraine would have shot him in the water if not for the men racing toward the waterfront, shouting and waving guns. A bullet bored into the wood next to her head as two men pointed their weapons at her from the wharf.

Acting purely on instinct, she reached for the boat's throttle and shoved it forward. The powerful engines heaved and roared, but didn't budge. Groaning with frustration and fear, she pushed them into full power as Jack had showed her earlier. Again nothing happened. Then, all at once, the boat surged forward with such force she was nearly hurled overboard. Her grip on the wheel was what saved her.

Something didn't feel right, but she didn't have time to discern what it was until they were safely at sea. As they headed out, she looked back and realized what had happened.

She hadn't untied
Scotch on Water.
Behind her, she towed the entire dock and every other boat in town.

R
ather than deal immediately with the problem of the attached dock, Lorraine set the course of
Scotch on Water
toward open sea. Leaving the helm, she ran over to Jack. His blood slicked the deck. Falling on her knees, she searched frantically for a pulse. Relief and gratitude surged through her at the strong steady beat she could feel against her fingertips. He was alive.

“Thank God,” she whispered as tears stung her eyes. “Thank God.”

Her medical training had been extensive, but she'd never had to deal with a gunshot wound. She trembled, mentally reviewing emergency procedures.

The bullet had entered Jack's shoulder, and when she tore aside his shirt, she saw that the wound still bled profusely. She also realized he was close to going into shock. Getting to her feet, she went below and grabbed a pillow, blankets, clean towels.

She settled the pillow beneath his shoulders, wrapped him snugly from stomach to feet in the blankets, then pressed a towel to the wound, holding it firmly in place. Once the bleeding had slowed, she was able to examine the wound more carefully. Fortunately the bullet hadn't
struck his chest, so she didn't have to worry about his lungs. Nor had it severed an artery.

One step at a time,
she reminded herself. One tiny step at a time.
You can do this. You can do this.
She repeated the words like a mantra, hoping they'd bolster her confidence. The last thing Jack needed now was for her to panic.

“Oh, Jack,” she sobbed, brushing the unruly hair from his forehead. She blamed herself; if she'd gotten the right gun, none of this would've happened. She could have saved Jack. Instead, he might die and it would be all her fault.

She refused to dwell on her own fears and regrets. What she had to concentrate on now was helping Jack, following the right procedures…not failing him again. Blessedly he was unconscious; at least now she could do whatever was necessary. She forced herself to think. Closing her eyes, she sat back on her heels and continued to stroke his face while she considered her options. She decided to start by probing the wound to determine exactly where the bullet was and how deep it lay. She hated to use something as crude as a filleting knife, but what else was there? That was when she remembered the compact sewing kit she carried in her purse.

She lingered for a moment, not wanting to leave him, then hurried belowdecks.

After setting a pan of water on the stove to boil, she dumped the contents of her purse on the mattress. Her wallet, passport, a pen and her cosmetic bag tumbled out, together with the miniature sewing kit. She yanked it open and extracted the small scissors. What she really needed was tweezers.

She had a pair, she remembered, experiencing a sense of exhilaration. Her cosmetic bag. She kept one there, or
had in years past. She pulled open the zippered bag and emptied it onto the bed. A wrapped tampon, her compact, lipstick and blush bounced on the mattress and scattered among her other things. When she shook the bag, her eyebrow pencil, lip liner and something round and gold followed, along with the tweezers.

She took the tweezers and the small scissors, and put them both in the pan of boiling water, leaving them there for several minutes to sterilize. While she waited, she rummaged through the cupboards, certain she'd seen a bottle of scotch in an earlier search.

“Yes!” she cried in triumph when she found it.

Tucking it under one arm, she carried the pan of boiling water in both hands and returned to Jack.

Feeling relatively confident that no one was chasing them—it seemed unlikely, since she'd towed every boat in town—Lorraine shut off the engines. She stared in dismay at the bobbing dock and the string of boats. Actually, her lack of forethought had been a godsend. She'd inadvertently deprived their pursuers of any way to follow them. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry as she leaned over the side and untied
Scotch on Water
, leaving the dock and its attached boats to drift away of their own accord.

When she'd finished, she readied Jack as much as possible and prepared herself for the coming ordeal.

“I'm going to check to see where the bullet is,” she told him, then explained that it might be necessary to leave it inside if she couldn't remove it easily. Again she touched his face. For whatever reason, touching him comforted her and calmed her frazzled nerves. Her mouth was dry and her throat thick with fear.

As gently as possible, she lifted the blood-soaked towel from his left shoulder and poured a liberal dose of alcohol
on the wound. Then, feeling she needed a bit of fortification herself, she took a deep swig. The scotch burned through her, but the jolt was exactly what she needed. She secured the top and set the bottle aside.

Inhaling a shaky breath, she studied Jack's pale expressionless face. She tried to imagine what he'd say if he could speak to her. No doubt there'd be a few curses, an insult or two—and gruff reassurance. Biting her lower lip, Lorraine prayed for guidance and a sure hand.

The hot tweezers scalded her skin, but she forced herself to grip them tightly, afraid they might slip. She dug carefully into the open wound. Blood gushed from his shoulder the instant she did. She dabbed it away with a folded towel. As she wiped the injury clean, she noted once more how raw and red the torn flesh looked. If he lived through this—and he would!—Jack was going to have an ugly scar.

The tweezers scraped against the bullet, and just as she'd feared, it was buried deep in the flesh. Blood flowed more rapidly from the wound as soon as she pulled the tweezers away. Sweat beaded her brow. It soon became apparent that any attempt to extract the bullet would do more harm than good. He'd already lost a lot of blood.

“It's going to be all right, Jack. I'm going to leave the bullet and pack the wound with a tampon because that's the best I have in the way of medical supplies. I'm not going to let you die. Understand?”

Unexpectedly Jack moaned and rolled his head to one side. It seemed that, even unconscious, the man was going to argue with her.

“Don't worry, you won't get PMS.” Her laugh was mildly hysterical. He'd never know what she'd done, and that was just as well or she wouldn't hear the end of
it. From now on, she'd need to boil gauze and pack the wound with it until healing had begun.

She discarded the tweezers and scissors, returned belowdecks and retrieved the tampon. By the time she'd finished bandaging him, knotting the gauze as tightly as she could, reaction had set in and her hands trembled fiercely. She stroked his brow and pushed back his hair. His skin no longer seemed as clammy, she thought, assessing his condition in as detached a manner as she could. His respiration was better, too, not as shallow.

It was then that the first drop of rain hit. Intent as she was on her task, Lorraine hadn't noticed the darkening sky. The wind had picked up, as well. Moving Jack belowdecks would be impossible.

A second drop hit her and then more. Many, many more.

She had no choice but to wait out the storm here on deck and shelter Jack as best she could.

 

Jack was in hell. At least, he assumed that was where he was. He felt as if he were on fire, then realized the pain was more localized. His shoulder seemed to be responsible for the greatest part of his discomfort.

His mouth was parched, and all he could think about was a drink of cool, refreshing water. No, he had to be in hell—otherwise he wouldn't be this thirsty.

As if he'd spoken the request aloud, he felt something cool against his lips. But only a drop. God must have intended to torture him by granting a hint of relief. Just enough to remind him of the intensity of his thirst…

“Drink,” a feminine voice whispered.

Marcie? Here? Now? That was all he needed to convince him he was indeed being punished. Everything he wanted was offered, then withheld. He'd ventured into the
lake of fire. His heart ached at the sound of her voice, so soft and loving.

He felt his head being gently lifted. A glass of water was pressed to his lips. As soon as he recognized what it was, he drank greedily, gratefully.
Heaven,
he decided. He'd been routed toward a more angelic resting place—although he couldn't imagine what he'd done to warrant such exalted treatment. But, hey, who was he to question an executive decision, especially one that leaned in his favor?

Content now, Jack fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

In his dream he was visiting a Mexican village. He glanced around at the sun-baked adobe houses, the small church, the cantina. So far, so good.

Then Marcie appeared. Sweet Marcie, the plumber's wife. Marcie and her children. Marcie and Clifford, her husband.

Jack watched her and admired what a terrific mother she was to her twins. Every once in a while, she looked in his direction and smiled. She couldn't see him, though; he knew that. Because Jack stood apart, gazing in. He felt a deep sadness. The kind of sadness that left him in no doubt of his own failings and imperfections.

Watching the dream-Marcie with her family, observing their love and happiness, was like seeing how his own life might have gone had he been a different sort of person. Had he made other choices through the years.

Caught up in his regrets, Jack didn't realize another man had joined the small party. He blinked, certain there must be some mistake. The man was Carlos. Jack called out a taunting remark, but the dream-Carlos couldn't hear him.

Then Carlos grabbed Marcie by the shoulder and
shoved her against the wall. Jack bolted upright. “What do you think you're doing?” he shouted.

Knowing it wouldn't do any good to yell since no one seemed able to hear him, Jack waited for Clifford to step in. But Clifford was nowhere to be seen. The children had disappeared, too.

Turning his attention back to Marcie, he watched helplessly as Carlos shoved her again. Sure as anything, Carlos was going to rape her. Jack had to stop him. There wasn't time to let her find her own way out of the scrape. There wasn't time. Dammit, he'd told her to stay out of sight, warned her again and again.

Fists clenched, Jack entered the fray. The other man's head snapped back with the first punch. Jack was beginning to think he'd outmaneuvered him when a gun appeared in Carlos's hand. Only, it wasn't Jack he pointed the pistol at but Marcie.

“No!” With a cry of outrage, Jack leaped in front of the other man and took the bullet. He felt its impact, the searing pain and the instant knowledge that he'd really done it this time. After all those lucky escapes, eluding death, it seemed his luck had run out. He was too late. This time he would die.

Ah…now he understood. It was all plain to him now. His death, giving up his life so someone he loved might live, was what had secured him a place in heaven. The throbbing pain in his shoulder didn't seem nearly as intense anymore. He'd saved Marcie….

“Jack, oh, Jack, you're burning up with fever.”

He opened his eyes, expecting to find Marcie gazing down at him. Instead, it was Lorraine. He blinked, confused.

“Where am I?” He wasn't sure he'd said the words aloud until she answered.

“In the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. Oh, Jack, I don't have a clue where we are. We're just drifting—the engines are off. I haven't seen land in two days…. But at least it's not raining right now.”

Despite his determination to keep his eyes open, they slowly closed. He yearned to tell her not to worry, everything would work out, but the ability to speak had been taken away. He could rest easy now. Marcie was back with her husband and children, and Lorraine was safe, too. Safe from Carlos and safe from him.

 

The torrential rain beat down on them with a vengeance. Sitting on the deck beside Jack, Lorraine held a vinyl slicker over their heads until the muscles in her upper arms cramped in protest. The slicker offered little protection, but at least it kept the rain off Jack's face.

The storm had raged on and off for two days. Every time the downpour slackened, she thought it was over—and then it would start again. Lorraine had never experienced such misery. She didn't know which was worse, the weather or their predicament. Without land in sight, she had no idea where they were or how to find out. If Jack died, Lorraine didn't know what her own fate would be.

She wanted Jack to live—and for a whole lot more than his navigational skills. She owed him so much, more than it was possible to repay. Every time she thought about his being shot, saving her from Carlos, her chest tightened with emotion.

She was afraid he'd die.

She was afraid she'd killed Carlos. And afraid she hadn't.

She was afraid she'd gotten them so lost even Jack would never find the way back and they'd die at sea. If
someone did manage to rescue her, she feared no one would believe in her innocence and she'd spend years rotting in a Mexican prison.

Throughout the storm, Lorraine was constantly at Jack's side, refusing to leave him as they drifted aimlessly out to sea.

For a few hours she entertained herself by trying to remember the plots of her favorite classic movies, scene by scene.
Brief Encounter. It Happened One Night. The Bishop's Wife. Sabrina.
And of course
The African Queen.
Movies she and her mother had loved.

She thought about her mother, too, and tried to hate her, then discovered she couldn't. She went over what she knew of her parents' marriage again and again until it made a crazy kind of sense. Her parents had loved each other, but unchangeable circumstances had led to their separation. From what her father had told her, he'd been in touch through the years, yet after a while Virginia had stopped responding. Stopped visiting. Lorraine remembered her mother taking what she said were business trips. Lorraine had stayed with Aunt Elaine for as long as a week. These trips seemed to make her mother sad, she recalled. She herself had been so young.