Fracture (9 page)

     “They blew up two of the hospitals. Or tried to. Parts are unusable. Doctor Gudelj needs you at the clinic.”

     Outside? I have to leave now? My skin will shred under the stress. I’m already shaking my head and stepping back when I run into a solid human wall behind me. “But it’s already so low on supplies. There’s practically nothing left. It won’t be of any use.” There hasn’t been a medical supply truck in a couple of weeks, and my last grab–and–dash was aborted after I saw the number of guards on the truck.

     Declan’s hand is a solid, comforting weight on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Ismael, start knocking on doors. People can spare a couple of towels.” The other man gives him a narrow look, as though he’s debating whether to take his orders, then turns and starts banging on doors.

     Declan tugs me back inside and picks up my coat. “Ready?”

     “I
can't
. Do you have any idea how hard it was, not being able to leave, that day I found you? You wouldn’t let go of my fucking hand!”

     “Would you have left?”

     “Yes!” Yes, without a doubt, I would have left.

     His expression turns to stone. “So why is the doctor requesting your presence now?”

     “I steal the medical supplies for the clinic. From the transports. Not enough of the aid actually gets doled out, so I started stealing. I’ve helped out at the clinic before, when it’s open regular hours. Sick people are one thing. Injured people, no. I can’t. I can’t.” I’m babbling, backing into the corner, away from him.

     They’re almost icy, his eyes, the detached way he watches me cruel. “Sometimes seeing a pretty woman at your side makes the pain fade.”

     The statement makes no sense and has no bearing on our current dilemma.

     “The day they jumped me. You want to know why I wouldn’t let go of your hand? That’s why.” He holds out a hand and I stare at it, wanting to recoil and unable to because there’s a wall at my back. “The doctor must think you’ll be of some use if he wants you there. We know the bombs are in another part of the city. We hear anything that sounds remotely close, we turn around and come back.”

     His gaze softens ever so slightly. I won’t be alone. Someone will hear me if I scream this time. Panic bleeds out, leaving behind a strange calm. I can do this — walk through the dark streets, guns and shouts and bombs going off around me — for all the Ryans in this city, if it means I help one more person stay alive.

     “Ismael will take me. Stay here. You can’t keep walking on that leg. Doesn’t it hurt?” I tug my coat from the hook on the wall.

     He reaches over my head and grabs his coat, his weight balanced on his good leg. “I can handle the pain.” He threads his good arm through the sleeve, and I reluctantly adjust the other side over his injured shoulder. I shouldn’t find it sweet and a bit endearing that he won’t leave me to face this alone.
Sweet
is not a word I associate with Declan. I crimp my lips to keep the smile from blooming.

     “You lied,” I say, shrugging on my coat. His hand engulfs mine. He doesn’t hold it like it’s breakable. His grip is sure and says I’m stronger than I think. It adds another layer of calm. I’ll be fine.
We'll
be fine.

     “I’ve been known to on occasion. Which time was this?” Ismael waits at the head of the stairs, and Declan nods to indicate we’ll follow. He lets go of my hand to grasp the rail and hops down the steps.

     “You said you weren’t complicated.” The street isn’t as insane as I feared. A few people are hurrying toward the clinic, arms full of first aid supplies. I scan the street. I’ve yet to run into Cristian after dark, though that’s more because
I'm
not likely to be out after dark. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I point to a narrow alley across the street. “Come on.”

     I wind an arm around his waist and we hobble across the street, Declan’s weight pressing on me. I slip free to peer into the alley. It’s as black as pitch from where we’re standing, but I press forward. 

     “Shortcut?” Declan asks mildly.

     “Something like that. Put your hand on my shoulder if you need to.”

     The blocks pass in relative quiet, sirens still screaming in the distance. The shouts are getting fainter as we approach the clinic. The roundabout route takes longer, hampered by his cast, but it’s a good thing I’m being paranoid because as I creep around the corner of an alley, three blocks from our destination, I spot him.

     Cristian’s got a bag over his shoulder.

     “Shit.” I turn to Declan. “Can you get to the clinic on your own?”

     He lifts a brow. “I think I remember where it is. Why?”

     I shake my head. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with. Can you get to the clinic or not?”

     His already inscrutable face is even more difficult to read in the dark, the inky black of the alley deepening the bruising and hollows of his face. “Three blocks more, right?”

     Relief trickles through me. “Yeah. Well, four, really. Go back to the other end, turn right, then right at the corner. The clinic’s on the left, but there’ll probably be people around it.”

     He gives me one last piercing look and limps off into the gloom, one hand trailing along the brick for balance. Unable to see the other end of the alley, I count to a hundred before poking my head out onto the street. Cristian’s under a streetlight, glancing this way and that, and I wait until he’s looking the other way before I dash out into the middle of the street, curving toward him so it looks as though I came from the other side. Little things, misdirections, any trick I can think of to throw him off.

     He sees me on his next scan but doesn’t acknowledge me, moving out of the pool of light, head jerking to the side. I jog over. “Nora.” I stifle my flinch as he kisses first one cheek, then the other, such a European thing to do. “You are going to the clinic?” Cristian’s given me first aid supplies on occasion, knowing I bring them directly to the neighborhood clinic. He must approve, is all I can think. Good for him.

     “Something about a bombing at one of the hospitals.”
Be quick, you fucking bastard.

     He gives me a sober nod, in full soldier mode. No room for charm. “Two bombs at the university hospital and another at one of the bigger clinics. Two wings are destroyed, many dead. Your clinic is farther out and likely won’t see many injured, but is best to be prepared.” He hands me the small rucksack, and a quick check shows me bandages, wipes, and packets of things that must be pills. Antibiotics or painkillers. “You should go. Do not hang about.” Another peck on the cheek and he disappears into the city, toward the sirens.

     Well. For once, he didn’t push the spy thing. Maybe we’re turning over a new leaf. No more delays. Hefting the bag, I spin around and run smack into a wall of muscle.

     “I couldn’t find the clinic.”

     Declan.

     I scowl up at him, heart racing. “It’s not that hard to find.”

     He jerks his chin toward my bag. “What’ve you got?”

     “Medical supplies.” Hoping to stave off further questions, I open the bag and show him. “They’re probably starting to wonder where I am.”

     The tactic works, although from his face I can see he wants to ask more questions. I stare him down until he lets it go and we cover the remaining blocks to the clinic in silence.

     The clinic itself isn’t the hive of activity I’d thought it would be. One door is propped open for easy access, lights flickering in the reception area. The clinic’s two remaining nurses are scurrying about, cleaning up as best they can, and they barely manage a wave hello as we pass through to the rooms in the back.

     Declan finds a tall stool and sits, mouth twisting in a grimace. I toss the bag on the floor and move the shelf unit away from the wall, cringing as it screeches along the floor. With Cristian’s contribution, we should be okay on bandages and antiseptic wipes for a little while. I roll over a cart and hand him the bag. “Dump everything out and let’s see what we’ve got.”

     Declan unzips the bag and upends it over the cart, the contents spilling into a small mound. A few pill packs land on the floor, and I scoop them up. “We’ve got bandages, a couple roles of medical tape, a new pack of needles, wipes, and…” I squint at the Cyrillic writing printed on one of the packs. “I have no idea what this is. Drugs of some kind.” I sort out the packs, matching the writing, and end up with three different, tiny piles. “I’m going to find someone to translate these.”

     I pass Murat in the hall and tell him about the pills, and he goes off to translate while I track down Doctor Gudelj.

     “Ah, Nora! I do not know if you are needed, but is always good to have extra hands, yes? Just in case.” Despite the tension in the streets, he’s in remarkably good spirits, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

     “I brought more supplies. They’re in the back room. What do you need me to do?”

     He hands me a towel. “They must be sterilized. Just in case.”

     It’s a familiar process — heating the water, praying the pipes have enough to fill the pot, waiting for the water to boil, the metallic clank as the tongs and scissors and scalpels hit the sides. I leave the needles out; with the new package they won’t be necessary unless there are a lot of wounds to stitch closed.

     Leaving the tools to cleanse themselves, I hurry into the back room. “What are they?”

     Murat points at a pile. “Penicillin.” Next pile. “Doxycycline.” Last pile. “Some sort of painkiller. A…what would you call it? Common?”

     “Generic? Non–name brand?” I guess.

     “Yes, generic. Possibly. Generic of Vicodin. Or something. The doctor can tell you for sure, if you need to know.”

     “I do.” If he has me handing out pills, I need to know what to give them. “I’ll ask.” As soon as Murat leaves, I swipe a packet from the tray, giving Declan a blank stare when he raises a brow. I close the door behind Murat.

     Once it clicks shut, I hand it to him. “You’ll want these later.”

     “The painkillers?”

     “Yeah. Even if your leg doesn’t hurt so much now, it probably will later, especially if you stay on your feet for very long. They’ll help you sleep.”

     He tosses the packet from hand to hand, his gaze locked with mine. “We need to go by my flat tonight.”

     “Your flat? Why? Do you need more clothes?” His flat is even farther from the bomb sites, so there isn’t likely to be much traffic. It’s a smart idea, going when people are distracted. Whether he can make it is another question.

     “My equipment.”

     I frown. “I didn’t see anything when we were there, and Murat didn’t mention anything.” Though that means nothing; I doubt Murat would have noticed much of anything in the flat.

     “That’s why I need to go back. If they got the film and my laptop, as well as the cameras and lenses and shit, I’ll have to replace it all when I get home, and I’d rather avoid that.”

     Frankly, I’d be more worried about staying alive. “Once the doctor cuts us loose we can go.”

     He slips the packet into his back pocket and hobbles to the door, his touch gentle on the small of my back as he follows me out into the hallway. We head to the reception area to wait.

     And wait.

     And wait.

     And wait some more. Cristian was telling the truth. Only a few injured stagger through the doors, and they are in better shape than I anticipated. We are too far from the bomb site, it seems.

     Close to midnight, the doctor gives us the okay to leave, since his nurses are crashing in one of the exam rooms. If anyone else needs care tonight, they’ll get it.

     “Are you sure you’re up for this? It’s kind of a long walk.” About a half an hour’s walk, give or take, between the clinic and Declan’s trashed flat. My body already aches, and I’m not injured.

     His smile is grim. “I wait much longer, they might find it. And if any of the pictures on my computer or the film are what they’re looking for, I’m truly fucked.”

     Okay. To Dolac Malta we go.

     It’s slow, bordering on arduous. It’s clear by the time we reach his building he’s in pain, sweat glinting at his temples, tiny lines radiating from his eyes, bracketing his mouth. Hoping he’ll take it as the support it’s meant as, I slip an arm around his waist. As small as I am, I can still bear some of his weight. He jolts, surprised, then leans into me, and hops up the stairs on one foot.

     I risk flipping on a light. His flat is the same, a mess inside a disaster, and again I’m struck by the urge to put together the pieces of his photos to uncover the puzzle. Instead of searching the debris for his cameras, he limps into the bedroom and flops onto the bed with a groan, his good leg dangling over the side, foot braced on the floor. “Fuck,” he mutters.

     I wander in behind him. “Take one of the pills.”

     “Not yet. I’ll take one when we get back.”

     Sadist. “Want me to look? Where do you store everything?”

     His nod is more like a suggestion rather than a definitive movement, and when he speaks his voice is tight with pain. “Under the bed. There’s a loose floorboard. Pry it up. There’s a flashlight on the bedside table.”

     I locate the flashlight and hold it up in the dim glow of the street light filtering into the room. “Busted.” The glass is cracked and the bulb is missing. “I can find it. Any spiders under there?”

     “If there are, I’ll kill them for you.” He shuts his eyes, mouth tight with pain.

     “Gee, thanks.” My dry tone covers up the silly little flutter in my stomach at his offer. Such a male thing to do. Kill the spiders once the woman squeals. Which, of course, I would. I hate spiders.

     Getting on my knees, I grope along the floor, feeling for cracks. “You know, this kind of reminds me of that scene in
The Saint
, the movie with Val Kilmer? Where Simon and whatshername are shackled in the van and she’s on her knees, trying to get her heart pills?”

     “And he says, ‘While you’re down there…’”