“I said no hospitals.” The strength of her voice and the
intensity of her response surprised him, and he raised his eyebrows. “What are you
talking about? You were in an airplane crash —of course you’re going to
the hospital. Where else would I bring you?”
“Anywhere,” she
said. Her voice had returned to its previous weak volume, barely more than a
strong whisper. “This hick town have a bus station?”
“Of course.”
“Then you can drop
me there.”
Maybe this young
woman’s problem wasn’t a head injury. Maybe she was just plain batshit crazy.
“You think any bus driver’s going to let you board? Your leg is awash in your
own blood and you look like you just lost a gunfight. Besides, if you try to
stand on your own right now, you’re going to drop like a felled tree. I’m
sorry,” he said, “but you’re going straight to the hospital.”
The young woman
leaned forward, reaching down to her right ankle and fumbling around. What she
was looking for, he had no idea. The longer he rode with her, the more Shane
was beginning to believe she really was crazy. He glanced forward onto the
deserted road and when he looked back, he found himself staring straight into
the barrel of a handgun.
“No hospitals,”
she said.
***
May 31, 1987
12:10 a.m.
Bangor, Maine
Tracie concentrated on not puking.
Her head pounded relentlessly and unless she focused hard her vision insisted
on wavering, sometimes disappearing entirely. She knew she had suffered a
concussion—hopefully it was only a concussion—and the gash in her leg
throbbed with every beat of her heart.
She needed
stitches.
She needed sleep.
She wasn’t going
to get either.
She forced herself
to hold the gun steady on her rescuer. “No hospitals,” she said, and to his
credit, the guy didn’t even blink.
“O-kay,” he said.
“Then where to?”
“You’re right
about one thing; I can’t take a bus looking like this.”
“Tell me something
I don’t know,” he said drily.
“But they’ll be
watching the bus terminal before long,” she muttered, thinking out loud,
struggling to concentrate through the haze of pain and confusion. “They
probably don’t have any operatives in this tiny nowhere town—”
“Thanks, on behalf
of all Bangor residents.”
“—but they will
very soon, and then I’ll be trapped. Dammit,” she said, punching the
seat in frustration.
“What kind of
trouble are you in?” her rescuer asked. “And what were you doing on a military
plane out of uniform? You’re not in the military, are you?”
Tracie gazed at
the young man, thinking. He had reacted much differently to having a gun shoved
in his face than she had expected him to—much differently than most civilians
would—and she liked that. And he had risked his life by climbing inside
a burning B-52 in the middle of nowhere to haul her ass out of the fire.
Literally. She had been semi-conscious in the aftermath of the crash and
thought she was seeing things when his body tumbled through the smashed wind
screen, dropping like an angel from heaven as the fire worked its way through
the cabin.
And he seemed
genuinely concerned about her condition. She decided to take a chance.
“You’re right,”
she said. “I’m not in the military. My father is a State Department bigwig and
he’s dying. I was on an emergency flight home because he only has a few days
left, and I want to say goodbye.” She teared up, mentally congratulating
herself on her acting skills, even after a plane crash and with injuries.
“Bullshit,” he
said, and that was when she saw the sign approaching rapidly on the right.
NORTHERN MAINE MEDICAL CENTER.
“I told you, no
hospitals,” she said sharply, leaning forward to jam the barrel of the Beretta
under his chin, ignoring the resulting pain.
“We’re not going
to the hospital,” he said in annoyance, “although I think you’re making a
mistake. You’ve lost a lot of blood, that gash in your leg
intensity of her response surprised him, and he raised his eyebrows. “What are you
talking about? You were in an airplane crash —of course you’re going to
the hospital. Where else would I bring you?”
“Anywhere,” she
said. Her voice had returned to its previous weak volume, barely more than a
strong whisper. “This hick town have a bus station?”
“Of course.”
“Then you can drop
me there.”
Maybe this young
woman’s problem wasn’t a head injury. Maybe she was just plain batshit crazy.
“You think any bus driver’s going to let you board? Your leg is awash in your
own blood and you look like you just lost a gunfight. Besides, if you try to
stand on your own right now, you’re going to drop like a felled tree. I’m
sorry,” he said, “but you’re going straight to the hospital.”
The young woman
leaned forward, reaching down to her right ankle and fumbling around. What she
was looking for, he had no idea. The longer he rode with her, the more Shane
was beginning to believe she really was crazy. He glanced forward onto the
deserted road and when he looked back, he found himself staring straight into
the barrel of a handgun.
“No hospitals,”
she said.
***
May 31, 1987
12:10 a.m.
Bangor, Maine
Tracie concentrated on not puking.
Her head pounded relentlessly and unless she focused hard her vision insisted
on wavering, sometimes disappearing entirely. She knew she had suffered a
concussion—hopefully it was only a concussion—and the gash in her leg
throbbed with every beat of her heart.
She needed
stitches.
She needed sleep.
She wasn’t going
to get either.
She forced herself
to hold the gun steady on her rescuer. “No hospitals,” she said, and to his
credit, the guy didn’t even blink.
“O-kay,” he said.
“Then where to?”
“You’re right
about one thing; I can’t take a bus looking like this.”
“Tell me something
I don’t know,” he said drily.
“But they’ll be
watching the bus terminal before long,” she muttered, thinking out loud,
struggling to concentrate through the haze of pain and confusion. “They
probably don’t have any operatives in this tiny nowhere town—”
“Thanks, on behalf
of all Bangor residents.”
“—but they will
very soon, and then I’ll be trapped. Dammit,” she said, punching the
seat in frustration.
“What kind of
trouble are you in?” her rescuer asked. “And what were you doing on a military
plane out of uniform? You’re not in the military, are you?”
Tracie gazed at
the young man, thinking. He had reacted much differently to having a gun shoved
in his face than she had expected him to—much differently than most civilians
would—and she liked that. And he had risked his life by climbing inside
a burning B-52 in the middle of nowhere to haul her ass out of the fire.
Literally. She had been semi-conscious in the aftermath of the crash and
thought she was seeing things when his body tumbled through the smashed wind
screen, dropping like an angel from heaven as the fire worked its way through
the cabin.
And he seemed
genuinely concerned about her condition. She decided to take a chance.
“You’re right,”
she said. “I’m not in the military. My father is a State Department bigwig and
he’s dying. I was on an emergency flight home because he only has a few days
left, and I want to say goodbye.” She teared up, mentally congratulating
herself on her acting skills, even after a plane crash and with injuries.
“Bullshit,” he
said, and that was when she saw the sign approaching rapidly on the right.
NORTHERN MAINE MEDICAL CENTER.
“I told you, no
hospitals,” she said sharply, leaning forward to jam the barrel of the Beretta
under his chin, ignoring the resulting pain.
“We’re not going
to the hospital,” he said in annoyance, “although I think you’re making a
mistake. You’ve lost a lot of blood, that gash in your leg
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