Time to Control (30 page)

The adrenaline was wearing off of
Eddie by this time, and he was starting to look pale and piqued.
 
A knife from the kitchen sliced through
his shirt easily, making it so that he wouldn't have to move to take the shirt
off.
 
I dumped some of the water into
a pitcher and wet a cloth, and mopped the blood up around his wound so I could
see it.

It wasn't as bad as I had thought
earlier.
 
The bullet had gone
cleanly through the fleshy part of his shoulder above the armpit, and he could
squeeze my hand, albeit weakly, with his right arm.
 
Good, no nerve damage, I thought.

"What do I do with all this
water?"
 
I wondered out loud,
and Eddie chuckled, then winced in pain.
 
"Seriously," I ranted to keep him occupied, "everyone
always says in the movies, 'bring me boiling water'.
 
But you never see them actually use the
boiling water.
 
It's a dilemma, I
tell you."

I poured a large goblet of
wine.
 
"Eddie, I'm going to sit
you up a bit, okay?
 
You need to
drink this.
 
I don't have any
painkillers, so drunk is as good as you're going to get."
 
He nodded, and I crawled onto the bed
behind him, and hauled him up to lean against me.

After he drank three glasses full,
he waved off a fourth.
 
"Enough.
 
If I drink any
more right now, I'll throw up.
 
I still
might do that anyway."

Worried, I made sure I grabbed an
extra basin before I continued.
 
The
iodine had disappated in a small amount of water by this time, and I made sure
that I rubbed it all over my hands before doing the same to the entry and exit
holes.
 

What other options did I have, I
wondered.
 
Since I knew we could
only stay until the evening, it wasn't like I could sew him up – I'd
still want him to go to the hospital once we got back to the future.
 
Sterilizing and pressure, I realized,
and just stop the bleeding.
 
Anything else would be suspicious.
 
I tried to ignore his grunts, and just kept pressure on the wounds until
the bleeding eventually stopped.

"Okay, babe, we're done,"
I whispered, in case he had fallen asleep.
 
Or passed out.
 
Probably
closer to the later, I thought.
 
It
took a few tries, but I figured out a good way to wrap bandages around him so
they stayed on.
 
After much grunting
(mine, not his) I got him undressed and under the covers.
 
I kissed his furrowed brow, wrinkled in
pain.

Eddie finally all seen to, I
bustled around the cottage cleaning up the mess.
 
As much as I wanted to wash the blood
off of me, I paused.
 
When we went
back, blood would be anticipated to be everywhere.
 
The same concepts that kept me from
stitching the bullet hole up dictated that I keep Eddie's shirt, and that I
don't change out of my bloody clothes.
 
We didn't need anyone asking questions that we wouldn't want to answer.

But what do I – we – do
now?
 
Great, I got us to the past so
that he can heal.
 
Would it all be
in vain?
 
Would we come back to
modern time only to have Alan kill us with the next shot(s)?

Alan wouldn't be expecting Eddie to
have had some time to recuperate, though.
 
He'd known that he hit Eddie; I had seen the smug smirk before we
traveled.
 
If Alex anticipates Eddie
being down for the count, maybe Eddie could surprise him by immediately regaining
his feet and rushing Alan?
 
I didn't
remember if anyone else was nearby that would also serve as a distraction for
Alan.
 
As nice as it would be if the
FBI was there, we had to get ourselves out of this situation.

Eddie was sleeping more comfortably,
and so I stripped down and curled up next to my husband on the bed and cried
myself to sleep.

“You agree with me?”
 
I blinked at my husband as he leaned
against the wall at the head of the bed.

“Don't sound so surprised,” he
answered, sarcastically.
 

“You just generally have a better
head for strategy.”

“I've taught you well, young
Padawan.”

I blushed, and went back to
removing the bandages on his shoulder.
 
I wasn't a medic or anything, but it certainly looked better after a
long day's sleep.
 
As much as I
wanted to keep the bandages on to keep the wound clean, I knew we had to
“reset” ourselves.

Eddie flexed his hand, and I
slapped it to stop him.
 
“Hey!
 
I'm not feeling too bad.
 
We can go now, as far as I'm concerned.”

“Well, I'm concerned, and I'm in
control.”
 
I covered the ring with
my opposite hand.
 
“And moving your
fingers is one thing – although it is great.
 
I don't see you stretching above your
head – no!”
 
Again, I slapped
at him as he tried raising his right arm up.
 
“Seriously, stop that.
 
It'll start bleeding again.
 
Besides, we need to plan this out
better.
 
Like, what happens when we
get back and you have a partially healed gunshot wound?”

My husband scowled at me, but the
crinkles at the corners of his eyes belied his lighter (although pained)
mood.
 
“You said you had my
sweatshirt, right?
 
I stick that on
after taking Alan out.
 
Get through
the police interview, then go back home and call a doctor to make a house
call.”

I nodded approval.
 
For once, I'd be a fan of him throwing
money at a problem.
 
We could buy a
doctor's silence, if it even came to that.
  

“We've practiced enough?
 
You're good with what to do?”
 
I had let Eddie out of bed a few times
to slowly, and gently, resume the positions we had left from and coordinate
getting up and moving.
 
We had time
to practice and get it right, and I was going to take it.

“Schroeder, yes.
 
It'll be okay.”
 
My husband gave me a kiss on the
forehead.
 
“And worse comes to
worse, we hightail it back here.”
 

I bit back the horrid thoughts that
had come to me over the past hours.
 
What if Alan was quicker than we expected, and had better aim the second
time? What if this time, the ring didn't work?
 
What if....what if.
 
I was losing control, and took some deep
breaths to center myself again.
 
My
hand poised over my ring finger, I raised an eyebrow to check that he was
ready, then slid the metal off.

*
* *

It worked, just not as planned
,
I thought, cradling my left hand with the obviously dislocated ring
finger.
 
Eddie finished slipping on
the sweatshirt, and gave the belt-trussed up Alan another kick.

“That's for breaking my wife's
hand, you bastard.”

Honestly, I was more worried about
the ring.
 
My hand had swollen up
seconds after the ricocheting bullet shattered the ruby and knocked my finger
out of the joint.
 
There was no way
the ring was getting off intact, if the remains would even be called that.
 
I hoped the ER had ring cutters,
otherwise I was in for a world of hurt once the adrenaline wore off.
 
I knew deep down, though, that there was
no more time travel from the ring.
 
It was done.

Eddie put his arm around me
protectively, both of me and of his hidden injured shoulder.
 
My former coworkers were now crowding
around us, slapping Eddie on the back for the flying tackle that took down Alan.
 
I turned into the hug as sirens sounded
down the street.

“You did it, hon,” I whispered into
his neck.

“
We
did it, Schroeder,”
 
He replied.
 
“The ring's a goner?”

“Yeah, but it served its
purpose.
 
It brought me you.”

THE END.