Phoenix Heart (16 page)

“Believe me; it’s not as bad as it looks.”

Kneeling in his own blood, trying to reassure me while I was
falling the hell apart. “If you tell me it’s only a flesh wound, I’ll strike
you.”

He laughed and winced. “Ouch, don’t do that.”

“Oh, first it’s only a flesh wound, and then, it only hurts
when I laugh?” I bit my lip. “Andrew, you won’t let me call an ambulance?”

His head came up and he winced at the sudden movement. “No! No
ambulance. Doctors have to report gunshot wounds.”

“Okay. But I promise you, if you get worse, I’m calling.” I
gingerly took hold at the ragged hole through his shirt and ripped the
material.

“Owww.”

I dropped the cloth and flinched back. “Oh, god! Did I hurt
you?”

“Yeah. This is my favorite shirt,” he said.

“Damn it Andrew! Cut the lousy jokes. This isn’t funny!”

“I bet it would have been if you’d said it,” he whispered.

I gently pulled at some wadded up, blood soaked material
stuck to the wounds. “What is this?”

He stared at the wall, breathing quickly and shallowly. “Paper
towels,” he said. “Was all I could find.”

The paper towels did it. I could see him then, see him
running for his life down some dark street, bleeding, finding some dirty gas
station bathroom, grabbing at anything he could find to try to keep his life
from leaking out his side. And then, instead of finding somewhere to hide, to
rest, to be safe, he comes to warn me.

My hands stopped shaking. I wiped the blood away as gently
and quickly as I could. There was an ugly black and red puncture wound in his
back below his rib cage. Pulling the paper towels off had started blood oozing
from it. It didn’t, though, worry me as much as the exit wound in front. Just
in from his side a nasty, larger, tattered hole bled profusely. I pressed a
washcloth to it, but within seconds, I could feel the wet warmth of his blood
seeping through my fingers.

“Here,” I said. I folded a hand towel, pressed it on top of
the washcloth, then picked up Andrew’s hand and pressed it over the cloth. “Hold
that. Tight.” He did. Without expression.

I quickly tore a bath towel into strips, placed another
folded hand towel on the back wound and tied the strips as tightly as I could
around his middle. He paid no attention whatsoever to what I did. Rather, he
stared at the carpet as if the secret of life were somewhere in the pattern of
green and black vines woven through the blue pile.

I sat back when I finished and looked at him doubtfully. “Florence
Nightingale, I’m not.”

“What?” He blinked. “Oh. Yeah. No, it feels better. Really.”

“Liar. But, look, Andrew. You might be right about it not
being too bad. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but from what I remember about
anatomy, I think it’s missed anything vital. And I think this bandage will stop
the bleeding.”

“Ah,” he croaked, “then it
is
just a flesh wound.”

I laughed, but I could feel the tears burning my eyes. “Idiot.”

He kind of half-grinned, but then his face contorted and a
groan escaped his lips.

I put an arm across his shoulder. “Do you think you can make
it to the bedroom?”

“Melanie, those men might be coming.”

“I know. But you’ve got to lie down and keep warm.”

“Look,” he said, his voice growing more hoarse and weak by
the minute. “I’ll lie down if you leave. I just need to rest a bit, then I’ll
follow. There is no use in both of us being found. Please, for my sake, please
go.”

“No,” I whispered. “I will not leave you and that’s final.”

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

More and more, the truth of why was coming to me, but I
pushed it away. Instead, I turned his words back on him. “Why did you come back
here to warn me?”

“Had to.”

“No you didn’t. You could have gotten completely away. But
you came back here, knowing you might run into those men. Why?”

He shook his head angrily. “Different.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes. Got you in this trouble. My fault.”

“You still could have left me to fend for myself. You didn’t.
I’m not leaving you either.”

“Melanie.”

“Besides, I told you,” I said lightly. “It’s the second Friday
of the month. Now come on, let me help you.”

“But”

“No buts.” I got both arms around him and twisted my hands
through his belt. “Count of three?”

He nodded and put his arm across my shoulders.

I lifted with everything I had as he struggled to his feet. This
time he made it upright, but when he’d reached his feet, he had to cling to me
to keep from swaying. His face was ashen. “Just second. ‘ll pass.” He lowered
his head to my shoulder and I held him to me, straining under his weight, straining
also to keep the tears from falling.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s better. I” A knock on the door
interrupted him. I’d felt too many blushes in my life; this was the first time
I ever felt the color drain from my face. For a second there, Andrew and I must
have looked like twins.

“Melanie,” he croaked. “Why didn’t you leave? Should have
never gotten you involved.” His head hung down as he tried to breathe. His damp
hair fell forward, shadowing his face.

I bent down, twisting around so that I could look up into
his eyes. “Look, you,” I whispered fiercely, “I am involved because I chose to
be. I could have left you at the airport if I’d wanted out of this. And I’m
tired of having to tell you to shut up. Now come on, I’m going to hide you.”

Andrew shook his head. “You hide.”

“No, and I said shut up!”

There was another knock on the door and I swallowed firmly. “Who
is it?”

“Room service, ma’am.”

“Just a moment,” I called. “See? It’s my dinner. Now come
on. You can hide in the closet.”

“Anybody can say room service,” he said.

“Stop arguing with me!” I pulled him toward the closet. He
stopped fighting me and we stumbled across the room. I eased him to the floor
of the closet, and then grabbed a couple of pillows and a blanket off the
shelf. I tucked them around him and gave him a look. “Now, just keep quiet.”

Andrew sank back against the pillows, pulled the blanket
closer, and looked up at me. “Extraordinary,” he whispered.

“What do you know,” I whispered back. I pushed the damp hair
from his forehead, then quickly stepped from the closet and closed the door.

I peered through the spyhole in the door. A moon-faced boy
in a bellboy’s outfit stood on the other side. I set the chain, took a deep
breath, and opened the door a crack. Just the boy and a dinner cart near him.

“Oh,” I said. “Oh.”

He stood for a moment, and then looked down at the cart and
back to me. “Uh, Ma’am? It’s your dinner.”

“Yes.” I stared at him. “Oh, sorry, yes, dinner.”

“Could you sign this please?”

“Yes, of course.” I started to reach for the ticket, saw the
blood on my hand and sleeve, reached through instead with my left hand, snagged
the check, scribbled my name on it, and thrust it back at him. “Thank you.”

“If you’ll open the door, I’ll set it up, ma’am.”

“No thanks. Just leave it there.”

“Really, Ma’am, it’s my job.”

“No thank you! Really.” I pulled a wad of dollars from my
pocket and shoved them at him. “Please, just go.”

“Well, uh, fine. Thanks.” He backed away. When he had moved
far enough down the hall, I swung the door just wide enough, jerked the cart in
over the blood-stained carpet, and slammed the door closed.

I looked down at the cart and began to laugh weakly as I
crossed to the closet.

Andrew stood within, the blanket pooled around his feet. He
was swaying unsteadily, grimly clutching a clothes hanger in his hand as if he
were D’Artagnan and the wood was a polished steel dueling saber. His other hand
was reaching for the door knob. His face was pale as death.

I felt that sideways beat of my heart again. “What were you
going to do with that?” I whispered.

He looked at the hanger in his hand. “Don’t know,” he
whispered. He swayed, fell back a step, then his eyes rolled up and he fell
against the wall and began to slide downward.

“Andrew?” I jumped forward and eased him to the floor. “Andrew?
Andrew, please. Answer me.”

His eyelids fluttered.

“Andrew?”

He blinked and opened his eyes.

“Jesus, Andrew! Don’t scare me like that!”

He blinked, tried to smile.

I pulled the blanket up around him and then, worried by his
flushed cheeks in an otherwise deathly pale face, I pressed a hand to his
forehead. It felt warm, but when I touched him, he shivered as if with a chill.
“You idiot.” I pulled the hanger from his hand. I smoothed back his hair, then
kept stroking it.

“Melanie?”

“Hmmm?”

“It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.”

“I know. I wish...”
I wish I
could take the pain from you. I wish I knew how to help you. I wish...
I
smoothed back the hair at his temple. “I know,” I said.

He opened his eyes and stared across at the closet wall. “I’m
sorry about LA, the limo, that line I fed you.”

My hand stopped for a moment, then kept stroking. “It’s
past. You should just rest now.”

“After J.P. said... what he did. Then the police. I knew I
had to get out, get here...”

“Shhh, it’s all right.”

He shook his head. “Called Caren. She wouldn’t… she couldn’t
come. I had no money, and I remembered you, waited, saw the limo and I thought
it was going to be all right, but I didn’t know you, really, couldn’t take the
chance.”

I stopped stroking his hair because my hand had begun to
tremble.

“You deserved better.”

The hotel phone in the bedroom rang, making us both jump. We
stared at each other. It rang again.

“Wait,” I said breathlessly. “It’s okay. It’s got to be
Cheryl again, or Maggie, my sister.”

He looked a question at me.

“Really.” I backed out of the closet.

“Okay,” he whispered and his eyes closed again.

I pushed the door to, ran to the phone, and caught it on the
fourth ring.
Maggie, that’s who it is. Thank God!
She’ll know what to do.

I picked up the phone eagerly. “Hello?”

There was silence for several seconds and then a soft click.
I pulled the receiver away and stared at it, frozen, seeing on the other end a
bony hand attached to a short, thin, blond man hanging up one of the white
house phones in the lobby. A tall man with a large gut stood behind him.

I carefully placed the receiver back in its cradle and wiped
my hand on my skirt.

Andrew’s voice came from the closet. “Who was it?”

I looked at the phone, at the door, over at the window. “A
wrong number. It was a wrong number.”

There was no response.

I stared at the closet door.
Say
something, damn it! What am I supposed to do?
I pulled at my
sweater; it felt hot suddenly, suffocating, confining.
They’re coming. Those two men are coming.

I spun, looking around the room, but there was no Safe
Place.

They’re killers. They tried to
kill him. They’ll kill me. I can’t fight them! Damn him! Why did he have to
come along? I can’t handle this. I’m just a stupid little girl from Glendale,
for Christ’s sake! Cheryl was right. He uses people like me, homely little
girls who fall for his stupid line and his pretty looks. He doesn’t care. He’s
going to get me killed!

I ran from the living room into the bedroom and stopped in
the middle of the floor. There was no answer there. No hiding place. Nowhere to
go.

I spun around and stopped dead. There, across the bedroom,
across the living room: the front door.

I can just leave. Walk out the
door, down the hall, out of the hotel, away. He’s right. There’s no use both of
us getting killed. If they have him, they’ll leave me alone. I’ll leave.

I grabbed my purse and headed out into the living room,
crossed the floor, put my hand on the knob.

It’s the only way.

Stopped. Dropped the knob. Grabbed it again.

Leave him. You need to get out
of here.
My mother’s voice. And then, my father’s:
Nothing but bad luck. Nothing. Nothing.

“No,” I whispered.

No. I won’t.

I dropped the knob as if it was suddenly flaming hot. I
shook my head and backed up a step.

You won’t live in me. You won’t.
I won’t be a coward like you were.

“Melanie, go!”

I spun around. When I’d left him, I hadn’t shut the closet door
completely. It was open just enough for Andrew to have a direct line of sight
to the front door.

“Just get out! Now!” He tried to shout, but he had lost the
strength.

“No,” I said.

“Please go!”

“No!” I cried.

“Then call the police.”

“What?”

He kicked open the door and glared at me from the shadows. “I’m
not going to see you hurt. Call them!”

“No!”

I threw my purse on the table near the door and turned to
look at the room.

What can I do? What?

I couldn’t fight them physically, but I wouldn’t call the
police. We hadn’t needed the police at the airport anyway.

The airport! Yes!

I scanned the room again and my eyes fell on the dinner
cart.

Yes! It’ll work.

I ran across, picked up the receiver, ran a finger down the
card near the phone, and started punching in numbers. “Room Service? This is
Melanie Brenner in room 1702. I just received my dinner. There is a cockroach
in the salad. Yes a cockroach. I want someone up here
right
now
,
understand me? Good!”

“Front Desk? I just went to turn on the shower and the damn
thing practically exploded in my face! There’s water squirting everywhere
flooding out into the room and the faucet won’t turn off. Get somebody up here!”