The Target

She cocked her head to one side. She was thinking, he knew that look. He wore one remarkably like it on occasion. Finally, she shook her head, but he could tell she wasn't completely certain. Well, that was good enough for now.

Maybe it hadn't been just one man who'd taken her. Maybe it had been two men. Maybe it was the men who'd just shown up pretending to be drunk to get him out of the cabin, then shooting. Maybe they'd both stayed masked when they'd had her. That meant they hadn't planned to kill her. What was their plan then? Keep her a prisoner and play with her until they were tired of her?

It made the blood pound in his temple. They'd been willing to kill him to get her back? But this time they weren't wearing masks. They wanted her dead now?

That first shot they'd fired hadn't been at him, had it? He couldn't remember. He'd think about it later, go over his memories second by second. Still, it was weird. What was going on? How the devil had they found him?

He'd been a fool. He should have left her in the Jeep in town and told her to keep hidden. Well, he'd done it and there was no undoing it now. It was likely they'd seen him with her in Dillinger the day he'd bought her clothes, the day he'd had her with him, holding her hand while walking to the store, carrying her. He felt the aspirin kick in.

About time.

At the end of it, they'd been shooting to kill. He took her hand in his. "We've got to be really careful now. Okay? I want you to stay close to me." As if she'd stray six inches from him, he thought.

She nodded solemnly.

"We'll get out of this, sweetheart. I promise you that."

Again, she nodded, her little face so serious, so pale and tight that he wanted to cry.

5

THE ASPIRIN HADN'T worked worth a damn. His thigh was throbbing big time. He couldn't get comfortable and he couldn't get back to sleep. He knew he had a low-grade fever. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. He got up finally, listened for her breathing, heard it, and knew she was deeply asleep because he was used to the rhythms of her breathing now. He walked as quietly as he could to the kitchen and sat down at the kitchen table, balancing the flashlight so it shone on his leg. He knew he had to get that tape and gauze off to see if the wound was infected. If it was, he would be in the Jeep on his way to the hospital within five minutes. And that would mean the cops since it was a gunshot wound. No hope for it. And he would have to bring her into it, giving her over to the authorities, relinquishing all his protection of her.

He was wearing loose sweats. He pulled down the pants and looked at his swelled thigh. It felt warm to the touch, but that seemed normal to him under the circumstances.

It hurt like hell to pull off the tape and lift the gauze, that had, naturally, stuck to the wound, but he took a long swig of vodka, gritted his teeth, and did it. He stared down at his leg. It was swelled and warm, but there was no redness, no pus, thank God. He poured more vodka over the gash, hissing between his teeth.

He felt her presence, then her small hand on his shoulder. He prayed he didn't look as bad as the wound looked when he said, turning slowly, "Hi, sweetheart. I'm sorry I woke you up. I just had to check my leg. It isn't bad, just swelled a bit, and warm, but nothing scary. I'm just being really careful. Now, let me bandage it up again."

She carefully took a thick pad of gauze, then waited. With both hands, he pushed the flesh tightly together on the exit wound, then nodded to her. She laid the gauze over it. Then she pulled out a length of tape, laid it over the gauze and his flesh, and pulled it taut. Then she flattened it down with her palm. He couldn't have done it better himself.

"Maybe you're going to be a doctor," he said, wanting to howl from the pain. He felt sticky sweat on his face, imagined he was as gray as one of his old nightshirts. He took several quick deep breaths. "Thanks, sweetheart. I'm okay, really. Let me get some more tape over this to make sure it holds." He pressed down four more strips.

She stood back, but kept her hand on his shoulder. Every once in a while, she patted him. He appreciated it.

When it was done, he pulled his sweats back up again. "I'd say tomorrow night my leg's going to be all black and blue. Hopefully the swelling will go down a bit by then. Now, let me take some more aspirin." He took three this time.

"You want to go back to bed now?"

She shook her head.

"Me either. You want me to read you a story?"

She shook her head, then mimicked talking.

"You want me to tell you a story?"

She nodded, then, to his delight, she took his hand. He stretched out on the sofa, with her beside him on top of the blanket that covered him, and pulled two more blankets and the afghan over them. The pistol was right beside him on the floor. He settled her against him, feeling the warmth of her against his side, her cheek against his neck. "Once upon a time there was a little princess named Sonya who knew how to fly kites better than anyone in her father's kingdom. One year, her father decided that he would have a contest. He knew no one could beat her. She had a special kite, you see, a dragon-tailed kite that could fly higher and make more figures than an ice-skater. There was just one competitor her father worried about. It was Prince Luther from a neighboring kingdom. But he knew she could beat anyone, even Luther, who was a bully and a loudmouth. Do you know what happened at the contest?"