The Runaway Pastor's Wife (28 page)

“Mister? Can you hear me?” She leaned closer,
firmly tapping his right shoulder. He screamed, recoiling from her touch. He
curled into a ball, his head tucked deep into his shoulder so that she couldn’t
see his face. His whole body jerked and trembled as he groaned in obvious,
horrible pain.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you! Please,
can you hear me? I need to get help for you—”

The left arm shot out, searching for her.
“Christine—don’t!” his whisper, hoarse. “No help . . .” The
stranger shivered in spasms, curling tighter.

“I’m not—” Annie began, then paused.
This
must be a friend of Christine’s. Obviously not a criminal, just a friend who’s
come looking for help from Christine.
“Look, I just want to help you. We’ve
got to get you inside. Can you help me get you up the steps?”

She got up, moving closer to him, hoping for a
better angle to help lift him. “C’mon, now—try to crawl your knees up under you
so we can stand you up. Take it slow and easy—that’s good. Try to get your feet
underneath you.”

Their progress was slow but sure. Annie put his
left arm around her shoulder as she balanced on her good foot. “Okay now, just
lean as much of your weight on me as you need to. I’ll try to pull you up.
That’s good. Here we go . . . take it slow.

“Whoa!” His weight overwhelmed her as he
gradually stretched to stand beside her. Even doubled over with pain, she could
tell he was a big man, tall and muscular. The trip up the steps would not be
easy. Her foot protested with every step.

“That’s it—we’re almost to the first step. We’ll
take it slow. Just don’t give up on me, okay?” She grimaced from the sharp pain
in her ankle feeling woozy each time she had to put the slightest weight on it.
She forced as much of their shared weight onto her other foot as possible.

The stranger lifted his head, resting it in the
crook of Annie’s neck. She still couldn’t see his face. He was struggling to
say something.

“Christine, don’t . . . call . . .” His
breath was warm against her ear. “No police, Christine.
Promise . . . they’re trying . . . he shot me. ”

Annie’s eyes flew wide. A shot of adrenaline
coursed through her veins, moving both of them up the remaining steps at a much
faster pace.

She tried to keep her voice calm. “Just don’t
talk. We’re almost inside. Just a few more steps now, here we are. ” Her mind
raced.
Should I call the police? Should I even be taking this man inside?
Are there people out there even now coming to kill this stranger?
They
crossed the threshold and Annie reached back to slam the door and bolt it.

He tried to speak again, his words escaping in
short, breathy gasps now. “Please, Christine . . .
don’t . . . tell anyone I’m . . . he’ll kill
me . . .” And with that he passed out, collapsing onto the floor
and throwing Annie off balance. She landed awkwardly, sprawled across him, the
wind knocked out of her.

Carefully lifting herself off him, she realized
his clothes were soaked all the way through. She could only see the back of his
head, but his hair was drenched as well. Tiny drops of water dripped off the
ends of the dark brown tendrils covering his head.

Annie sat back, panting hard but relieved to be
off her injured foot. She peeled the wet sock off her other foot and rubbed her
ankle, closing her eyes.
I need to wake up. This has to be another bad
dream. Has to be.
She massaged her neck and shoulders and tried to make
some sense of it all.

She opened her eyes and looked at this lump of a
predicament before her. She felt something sticky on her hands and was startled
to find his blood on her palms. The sight of it put her back in motion. There
was no time to lose. Crawling across the floor to the kitchen, she pulled open
a drawer full of wash rags and hand towels. She pulled herself up on the
cabinets and threw the linens into the sink under running water. After quickly
squeezing out the excess water, she hopped across the floor, grabbing a pillow
and quilt off the sofa. She worked quickly trying to pull off his saturated
jacket. She gasped, seeing the large patch of blood clinging to his sleeve.

No wonder he screamed when I tapped his
shoulder!
Oh God, tell me what to do here!

She had to get him onto his back. He obviously
had another wound that was seeping all over the floor. “Okay, mister—I’m going
to roll you over on your back now. Just take it easy.”

Annie stood beside him, carefully turning him
over while lodging the pillow beneath his head. Her eyes locked on the
grotesque blood stain covering his entire right side.

“Oh God! What do I do?” Instinctively, she began
peeling the sweat shirt away from his skin to find the wound. She discovered a
massive bandage soaked with blood. Easing her fingers gently along its edge,
she began to take it off. A hideous black wound festered with infection.

She scrambled backwards at the sight of it,
gagging against the bile filling her mouth.

Burying her face in her hands, she leaned back
against the wall.

God, what am I going to do? This man needs a
doctor or he’s going to die!

The thought slammed into her mind
.
Maybe
he was already dead.

Annie sobbed, her hands knotted against her
mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut as tears cascaded down her face.

Please, Lord, help me!

Slowly, she sucked in enough breath to quell the
involuntary sobs. Still trembling, she leaned over to take a good look at this
stranger. His head was turned away from her.
Who are you?
Gently pushing
the wet hair from the side of his face, she felt a burning fever on his skin.
Shaking her head with the helplessness of it all, she reached for a clean rag
to wipe his face. Turning his head slightly toward her, she finally got a
better look at his face.

Annie froze.

It can’t be . . .

She felt a vacuum suck the air from her lungs.
She threw herself back up against the wall, ignoring the pain in her foot, her
eyes glued to this face of a thousand memories. And even as she stared at
features once so familiar, he uttered an unconscious groan, his head slowly
falling in her direction.

Her heart stood still. She slid down the wall
behind her. A single tear escaped her eyes as his name fell silently from her
lips.

Michael . . .

CHAPTER 18

Eagle’s Nest

Dr.
Wilkins?”

“Yes? Who’s calling?”

“This is Annie McGregor,” she answered, her
voice catching.

“What’s the matter, Annie? What’s wrong?”

Annie paused, cupping the end of the receiver in
her other hand. She couldn’t control the trembling of her hands, much less her
voice. “I . . . he—”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

She couldn’t speak.

“Annie, are you all right? Has someone come up
there? Who’s ‘he’?”

“It’s . . . he’s hurt. Hurt
really bad. I think . . . I think he’s been shot.”

“Shot!? Who’s been shot?”

Annie turned around, afraid to look at the still
form splayed on the hard wood floor of the entry way.
“It’s . . . please, Dr. Wilkins! You have to come quickly! I
don’t know if he’ll make it if you don’t.”

“Annie, are
you
all right? Are you in any
danger, dear? Should I call Sheriff—”

“No! No, don’t call anyone! I’m okay. It’s
someone I know. Just please
hurry,
Dr. Wilkins!”

“I’ll be right there, Annie. Now, just calm
down. I’ll be right there.”

Annie limped carefully on one of her crutches,
backing up to the wall again. She could hardly breathe, her eyes riveted to the
body stretched out before her. Were it not for the uneven rising and falling of
his chest, she would have thought he was surely dead.

“Michael, what happened to you?” she whispered.

As if in response, he jerked, screaming out in
pain. “Don’t tell them! Please!” he cried, coiling once again to cradle his
injured side. “He’s trying to kill me . . .”

Annie was at his side, reaching out to touch his
forehead. Finally, she laid her palm against his brow, frightened by the
ravaging heat she felt there. “Michael, you’re burning up with fever. Oh God,
help me—I don’t know what to do!”

He wagged his head in delirium, haunted by
whatever nightmare he was living. The moaning wore on, staggered only by his
effort to breathe. “You’ve got to hide me. Don’t let
them . . . ” But he was again incoherent, his lips moving
silently.

His torment broke her heart. Overwhelmed with
helplessness, she forced herself to gather the blood-soaked towels and hobble
over to the kitchen. She rinsed out the cloths, sickened by the crimson trails
of water swirling in the sink. After filling the dishpan with cold water, she
headed back to her patient. She wrung out a wash rag and began gently patting
his troubled face. She continued, hoping the cool cloth would relieve at least
part of his suffering. With her other hand, she carefully pushed his hair back
out of his face, her fingers combing through his thick dark hair.

A strange mix of sadness and fear etched
Michael’s  face. She paused, pulling back her hand, uneasy with the odd
feelings accosting her.
This can’t be happening. After all these
years .
She tried to dismiss the thoughts, rinsing the washcloth
again. Folding it lengthwise, she laid it gently across his forehead, then sat
back, her eyes wide in disbelief.

Moments passed until she heard a car pull up
outside.  She pulled herself up, making her way to the door. Rushed footsteps
clomped up the steps followed by a rapid knocking. “Annie! Where are you?”

She threw open the door. “Oh, Dr. Wilkins, thank
God you’re here!”

He stepped inside then stopped abruptly. “Good
heavens, what happened?” He dropped down beside the still figure.

Annie shook as she cried. “You have to save him,
Dr. Wilkins! Please don’t let him die. You can’t let him die— ”

“Now, listen to me.” He grabbed her arms. “I
don’t know who this is, but it’s obvious he’s lost a lot of blood. His color is
bad. I need your help. You’ve got to pull yourself together and help me if
we’re going to save him. Can you do that?”

She pulled in a ragged breath and wiped her
tears with the back of her hand. “Yes, yes I’ll help you. I will—just tell me
what to do.”

“Good girl. Now, we must work very quickly. Our
first job is to get him up on that kitchen table.”

“What’s the matter?” Annie asked, disturbed by
the troubled sigh of the doctor. He stood over Michael after making a thorough
examination. It had been no easy job for them to move him from the floor to the
long, pine table in the kitchen. The jostling aroused some weakened moans from
Michael, but nothing more.

“The bullet I can remove. But my concern at this
point is his loss of blood. We’ve got to get some fresh blood into him. You
wouldn’t happen to know his blood type, would you?” he mused out loud.

Annie looked up, her eyes widening. “Yes, I do.
He’s O-negative. The same as me—O-negative.”

“Are you absolutely sure? How could you possibly
know that?”

“Michael is—he’s an old friend from college. And
I remember once going together to one of those blood drives on campus. We
thought it was odd that we were both O-negative. Everyone teased us about being
sister and brother instead of—” She paused. “The thing is, Michael and I were
engaged. A long time ago.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything more. If
you’re absolutely sure he’s the same blood type as you are, we can get this
started right now. We don’t have much time.”

“I’m positive. I mean, negative. Oh, you know
what I mean.”

Doc Wilkins smiled briefly at her unintentional
humor. “All right, I want you to have a seat. When was the last time you had
anything to eat?”

“I don’t even remember, to tell you the truth,
but I’m really not hungry—”