Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) by Joseph Badal Page B

and helped George to his feet, leaning him against the wall. He then picked up the squalling baby, holding her against his chest, letting her suck on his little finger, something he’d done with Michael. She quieted down. Then Bob wrapped his other arm around George and struggled to the front entrance. After descending the steps, keeping to the trees along the driveway, he slowly made his way to the main gate.
    Before reaching the road beyond the gate, Bob heard the sickening sounds of sirens coming from somewhere across the valley.
    Five minutes passed and then flashing strobe lights on the roofs of police cars illuminated the night sky as they raced up the road toward the orphanage gate. Bob helped George into the cover of bushes one hundred yards up the road from the gate. Two white police cars, followed by an unmarked black sedan, careened off the road onto the orphanage’s drive.
    Having tucked the infant inside his zippered jacket, Bob said, “Come on, George.” He took George’s arm and helped him to stand. They weaved down the side of the road like two drunks, Bob’s leg wound causing him to limp. George was barely able to support himself, and Bob was bearing much of his weight, staggering under the combined burden of the two packs, the baby, and George. They moved deeper into the forest and rested behind the dense screen of the trees. The baby had dropped off into a fitful sleep. Probably so exhausted she’s past the point of hunger, Bob thought. He placed her on a bed of pine needles and then pulled up his right pant leg to check his leg wound. The bullet had entered his lower left calf, thankfully missing bone and artery. The calf muscle was cramping and the wound was seeping blood. He quickly ripped off a strip of cloth from the bottom of his shirt and wrapped it tightly around his calf. Then he stuffed everything from the two backpacks he thought he wouldn’t need into one of the packs. He used a flat stone to dig a depression in the earth beneath the low branches of a fir tree and buried the pack.
    Bob checked his calf wound again and knew he had to keep moving or it would seize up on him. He hefted the remaining pack onto his back.
    Even in the muted moonlight barely filtering through the treetops, Bob could see George’s face was terribly pale. He checked the bandages on George’s side and back and found the exit wound in George’s back bleeding again. While he fixed the dressing, he realized George hadn’t made a sound since they’d stopped to rest. After propping him up against a tree trunk, Bob pushed up one of George’s eyelids and shined a flashlight into his eye. George moaned and slapped at Bob’s hand.
     

CHAPTER FORTY
    Early on the morning after Liz and Meers arrived in Sofia, an American Embassy Chevrolet sedan sped down Sofia’s rain-dampened, time-worn cobblestones. Franklin Meers sat in the front seat, across from the driver. Liz sat in the backseat with Andrew Morton, staring at the depressingly-gray buildings lining the streets. She felt numb, drained of emotion. Until I have Michael in my arms, none of this will be real, she thought.
    “We’re going to the Bulgarian Premier’s office,” Morton said. “After your papers are checked, you’ll be reunited with your son Michael. Then the Premier will make a speech at a press conference you will attend. His people have notified the press agencies. They’ve nicely orchestrated the whole thing to make themselves look good.”
    “I don’t care, as long as I get Michael back.”
    “I want you to understand,” Meers added, “the Bulgarian government will use this press conference for propaganda purposes. And they’ll condemn the people who kidnapped Michael.”
    “Nice twist,” Liz said, exhaling a stream of air. “The Bulgarian Government was behind my son’s kidnapping all along.”
    “Probably right, Mrs. Danforth,” Morton said. “But I warn you, say nothing about that. It won’t do the other kidnapped children