Out of Character (34 page)

She plummeted to the grass and lay there paralyzed, waiting for the initial shock to fade and the pain of her wound to register. Over her reverberating eardrums, she heard shots—one, then another, then more. She thought she heard other noises, voices, helicopters. It must be an audio mirage, if they existed. Or maybe she was dead and hearing angels’ wings, since she still didn’t feel any pain.

“Are you all right?” Ryan rested a hand on her back. She wasn’t dead.

Paul.
She bolted up against Ryan’s arm. Paul was lying motionless on his back on the ground. Blood covered his left upper chest.

“Paul!” She ran over and kneeled beside him. “Can you hear me?”

His eyes flickered open. “I’m okay. How are you?”

“Fine. Any trouble breathing?” She ripped open his shirt, the buttons flying.

“From this flesh wound?”

Blood poured from a bullet hole just below his shoulder. The location didn’t appear that serious, but the bleeding might be. Jillian pulled off her T-shirt and gathered it into a thick ball.

“How is he?” Ryan asked.

“I’m good,” Paul said. “Thanks to you.”

“My pleasure,” Ryan said. “But it was thanks to Jillian. If she hadn’t moved when she did and knocked Taurino’s arm, his shot would have killed you. Jillian?”

“What?” She pressed her wadded T-shirt against Paul’s wound.

“How did you know Taurino was going to cheat and shoot Paul early?” Ryan asked.

“I didn’t. Ryan, press on this.” When Ryan’s hands had replaced hers, Jillian took Paul’s wrist and found his pulse. She looked at her watch, realizing belatedly she wasn’t wearing one. His pulse felt strong, maybe a little fast, but not racing dangerously.

Ryan chuckled. “If the sight of you in that bikini top hasn’t sped up his pulse, he’s hurt worse than he looks.”

Actually, Paul’s pulse was slower than hers was at the moment. Jillian dropped his wrist. “Do you hurt anywhere else? On your back?”

“Only my shoulder, which didn’t hurt much at all until Ryan pushed on it.”

“Sorry, but we have to stop the bleeding.” Jillian said. “Keep pressing, Ryan.”

Mac strode toward them. “Taurino and Sam are both dead. Unlike Sam, I’m thorough about making sure.”

“How’s your wound?” Paul asked.

Jillian stood. “Let me check it.” Paul didn’t seem to need her help, and she was having trouble sitting still.

“Don’t bother,” Mac said. “I can barely feel it.”

“That won’t last,” Paul said. “As long as the adrenaline’s flowing, why don’t you go meet the copters. Help them locate Harry and get some help for yourself.”

“There are helicopters?” Jillian knelt down again, moved Ryan’s hands away, and carefully lifted the T-shirt. The bleeding had slowed.

“Behind the house. With probably a hospitalful of supplies and enough blood to transfuse everyone on the island, if I know Martin.” Ryan resumed pressing on the shirt while Jillian checked Paul’s pulse again.

“You waited,” Paul said.

“Until she hit the ground,” Ryan answered.

“So I don’t have to kill you. Good.”

“It was your call,” Ryan said. “Don’t make me sorry by dying on me.”

She’d been right. Paul had planned to let Taurino kill him to save her. At the moment, she couldn’t seem to work up any righteous anger about it. She was so happy to see Paul alive and know medical help was nearly here. She dropped his wrist then stroked his cheek, his lips. He smiled up at her.

Ryan cleared his throat. “If you’ll take over T-shirt duty, Jillian, I’ll make sure Mac didn’t collapse before he got to the copters.”

“Good idea,” Paul said.

The instant Ryan was gone, Paul clasped his hand around Jillian’s wrist. “What the hell were you doing moving like that? Taurino could have killed you.”

Her temper flared, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “It seemed like the right thing to do. Obviously it was.”

“You didn’t know that. You were risking your life—”

“But I didn’t die, so you don’t have to feel guilty. You also didn’t fail your assignment to protect me.”

“You think that’s what I care about?” Paul closed his eyes and let out a breath.

She rested her palm on his forehead. Not febrile or clammy, thank God.

He opened his eyes again. “I’m sorry, but when I think about what might have happened to you…”

She removed the wadded T-shirt and inspected his wound once more. The bleeding had slowed to an ooze.

“I love you,” Paul said.

She replaced the wadded cloth. “Don’t talk. You need to save your strength.”

“I need to say this now,” Paul said. “What I told Taurino. I wasn’t lying. I really do love you.”

“Quiet.” She pressed her fingers over his lips.

He pushed her fingers away. “I’ll be quiet on one condition. You promise we’ll discuss this on a sailboat off the coast of Italy. As soon as I get out of the hospital.”

“You need—”

“If you won’t promise to go sailing with me, I won’t shut up. What kind of doctor are you to jeopardize my recovery like that?”

“Okay, I promise I’ll go sailing if you’ll be quiet,” Jillian said.

Paul reached up, pulled her head down, and kissed her, his lips and tongue caressing her mouth. Medically it probably wasn’t a good idea, but Jillian couldn’t make herself break away. When he finally released her, she tried to glare at him. “You’re supposed to be quiet.”

He grinned. “I did that quietly. I’ll demonstrate again how quiet I can be.”

He raised his hand but she dodged it. “Later.” She felt the pulse on his neck. Faster, but still strong.

Two men carrying a stretcher raced toward them.

“We’ll take over now,” one man said as the other checked Paul’s vitals.

“He has a gunshot wound to the left shoulder,” Jillian said. “The bullet’s still inside. I slowed the bleeding, but he lost quite a bit—”

“We’ve got this. Wait over there.” The two men expertly moved Paul onto the stretcher.

“I’m a doctor. I can help.”

“You can’t. Government policy.”

“I’ll be fine,” Paul said. “Ryan, take care of her.”

She hadn’t even noticed Ryan’s return. He slipped an arm around her shoulders as the men lifted the stretcher and carried it across the grass. Jillian and Ryan followed them to a pair of whirring helicopters on the expansive lawn behind the house, to the left of the office. The medics took Paul into the larger one. She tried to follow, but another man stopped her. “Sorry. Only injured people in this one. You and Ryan have to take the other copter.”

It was probably another one of those non-negotiable government policies. Resigned, Jillian stepped away.

“You’ll be more comfortable in mine anyway,” a familiar voice murmured in her ear.

“Billy!” She whirled and hugged him. Even though she’d only met him once, circumstances made him feel like a good friend.

“It’s damn good to see you.” Billy’s arms tightened.

“It’s damn good to see you, too.”

“So you finally met Travis.” Billy pointed at the helicopter that was lifting off.

“I assume Travis is the one who kept me off that plane.”

“He didn’t have a choice—government policy, you know. Try not to hold it against him.”

Jillian smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

Billy returned her smile. “Although I bet it was tough turning you away.” He unbuttoned his faded denim shirt. “Much as I hate to suggest it, I think you’d better wear this. You might get a little chilly in the copter.”

“What about you?” Jillian asked.

He flexed his arm. “Hell, I’ve got my impressive biceps to keep me warm.”

Jillian laughed, suddenly giddy. She slipped Billy’s shirt on over her bikini top, enjoying the well-washed soft cotton against her skin, the faintly masculine scent of it. Everything around her seemed more intense, the colors, the smells, the sounds. This was over, and she and Paul had both survived. She couldn’t believe how wonderful she felt.

She buttoned the shirt, rolled up the sleeves, and tied the tails around her waist. Then she turned to Ryan and hugged him. “I forgot to thank you for shooting Taurino.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “You would wait until you put a shirt on to do that. Like I told Paul, it was definitely my pleasure.”

He released her. “We can talk about it in the copter. I don’t know about you, but I am sick as hell of this island.”

It was over.

Jillian and Ryan were on the fifth floor of a nondescript government building in Honolulu, meeting with Les Winston, an FBI official who’d be taking their videotaped statements.

Paul’s bullet had been removed during the flight by one of the medics, who happened to be a surgeon. Paul was now in a military hospital in Honolulu, expected to make a full recovery. According to Ryan, he wouldn’t have to go back into protective custody. This close to the trial, a judge would let him give an immediate taped deposition to be used if he were unable to testify, not that Taurino’s associates would dare hurt him now.

“Let’s get this over with, since I’m certain this is the last thing you want to be doing at this moment,” Les said with a strong Southern drawl. “What I need are your full statements of what happened on the island since I hear we’ve got a few dead bodies to explain. Not that Vince Taurino is any loss, but we gotta’ cover our asses.”

Les looked at Jillian. “I’d normally question you separately, but given that you’re a civilian and been through so much, we thought you’d be more comfortable with Ryan here.”

“Since we could have coordinated our stories on the flight here, anyway,” Ryan added.

Les flashed a smile. “True.”

“Why don’t you start with Jillian?” Ryan said. “I’ve also got a lot of background info to give you, including why I was on the island in the first place.”

“That’s a good idea, although Deputy Director Worthington already briefed me on your unofficial assignment. You ready Jillian?”

“For this whole thing to be over? Definitely.”

Les nodded to the man operating the video camera, then returned his attention to Jillian. “Please state your full name, spelling your last name…”

* * * *

“I told you it wouldn’t take long,” Ryan said when they recessed half an hour later. Les had gone to take a phone call and the video operator a five-minute cigarette break, so they were alone in the office. “All that’s left is for you to tell them what a hero you were, since you left out that part.”

Jillian sniffed. “Some hero. I was scared to death.”

“That’s the dirty little secret about heroes. Even though most like to pretend it’s all in a day’s work, they’re usually terrified.” Ryan sipped a soda and rocked back in his gray vinyl chair. “As soon as we’re done, I’ll get you a cab to the hospital.”

“Won’t people figure out Paul and I were personally involved if I rush to the hospital without you?” At Ryan’s suggestion, she’d characterized their relationship as friendly yet professional.

“After what you and Paul have been through together, it’s only natural you’d want to see him, even if you were barely cordial,” Ryan said. “Besides, what people may suspect unofficially is irrelevant.”

Les walked back into the room, followed by the video operator.

In no time at all, she’d be on her way to see Paul. Provided she could sit still long enough to finish her statement—Jillian was getting an overpowering urge to pace.

“Ready?” she asked Les.

He stood beside Ryan’s chair, looked down at Ryan, and cleared his throat. “I regret to inform you that Paul Devlin died fifteen minutes ago. He had a blood clot and died during emergency surgery. I’m very sorry.”

And the bullet Jillian had braced herself for on the island finally hit, the pain more excruciating than she’d ever imagined.

It was truly over.

July 19

“Someone’s trying to kill me.”

“No one’s trying to kill you, Mr. Anderson.” Jillian lowered her stethoscope and Max Anderson’s shirt. For being eighty-eight, he had an amazingly strong heartbeat and pair of lungs. “You’ve got to lay off the Big Macs and fries. You know they always set off your gall bladder.”

“My father lived to be ninety-six and ate at McDonald’s all the time. It’s arsenic. Do more tests.” The man glowered at Jillian, further wrinkling his raisinish face.

Jillian met Mr. Anderson’s demanding gaze. “We’ve already done every relevant test, which is how we know your problem is a bad gallbladder. That means you need to lay off the high fat food. In the meantime, I’ll give you something for the pain. I’ll be right back.”

“Mr. Anderson’s been reading too many murder mysteries.” Sarah intercepted Jillian before she reached the central desk.

“Although thank God he’s quit with the science fiction. I was getting tired of hearing about aliens trying to steal his liver and spleen,” Jillian said. “The liver I can understand, but what would aliens want with a spleen?”

“I assume he needs the usual,” Sarah said. Mr. Anderson’s appearance in the ER was as predictable as the full moon. Once a month he ate something he knew he shouldn’t, which sent him rushing to Denver County Hospital with yet another theory about the real cause of his discomfort.

“Thanks.” Jillian handed Sarah the chart. “I’d better get something to eat. If my stomach growls any louder, it’ll drown out my stethoscope. Is there any pizza left?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I hear the vending machine beckoning me to a lunch of stale cookies.”

“If you’d listen closer, you’d hear your purse beckoning you to the two pieces of pizza I wrapped up and stuck inside a couple hours ago.” Sarah rested a hand on Jillian’s arm. “How are you doing?”

“Better. I haven’t needed a sleeping pill in almost three weeks, and today I actually noticed it was a beautiful day.” Jillian took a deep breath, let it out. “They always say life goes on. I’m finally starting to believe it.”

Sarah squeezed Jillian’s arm. “Good. Now I’d better get to Mr. Anderson.”

Jillian headed for the lounge to retrieve her purse. After more than three months, she honestly was doing much better. She barely remembered that first day anymore, other than that she’d never have gotten through it without Ryan. He’d helped her finish her statement then taken her to a nearby bar to drink a toast to Paul. He’d ended up spending the entire evening with her, even though she’d started crying midway into her first glass of wine and hadn’t been able to stop.