A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry about the few days off, work went crazy. One of the nurses on my team is on vacation this week, the other had a personal emergency, so I've been the lone ranger for days, arg! I can't thank everyone enough for the reviews, but if it makes it up to anyone, I can post another chapter or two tonight. You all are making a kinda lousy week soooooo much better !
CHAPTER 27
Stretch. Whoever designed plane seats escaped from Santa's elf workshop. What was his name again? Oh yeah, Herbie. Herbie doesn't like to make toys. Herbie doesn't like to make toys! Heck, maybe I'll be a dentist, probably don't have to fly much. Nah... too icky... Anyway, he was like two feet tall. Joe fidgeted for the three thousandth time, then dared a glance to see if his father was watching. He couldn't believe he was actually on an aircraft twenty four hours post-op. Sure, he'd whined and wheedled and generally harassed the staff to discharge him, but it wasn't like he'd thought it would work.
Fenton had spent that time railng at Mr. Gray, first via radio and then in person. Naturally, Arthur had assigned someone else to literally plot Frank's travel itinerary, and naturally he swore they were trustworthy. When a telephone call to the States confirmed his son never reached his destination at the rehabilitation hospital, however, the Network agent absorbed Fenton's wrath and then unleashed it on his staff. Less than a day later, the search had been radically narrowed.
The elder Hardy shuffled the papers in his hand, frowning. Frank had been in Pennsylvania, and had travelled south as expected. His first urge had been to speak with the surgeon who treated Frank once he left Bayport and determine if he could shed any light on what happened next. The eight by eleven rectangle between his fingers pretty well precluded that. It was a faxed police report. Dr. Wilkins was dead, as was an EMT named Henry.
Police in the area had been blessedly cooperative, canvassing the local gas stations and the I-77 tollbooths for any signs of the stolen ambulance. The area where it went off grid was quite rural, consisting of a few small towns and Babcock State Park. Fenton was betting on the park, and he was sadly familiar with it. There'd been a well publicized murder there several years ago. Needing to return to the US as rapidly as humanely possible, he'd allowed himself to surrender to Joe's insistence that he was fit to travel.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, Joe?"
"How much longer?"
"About five hours. We have to change planes in New York anyway, and the nearest major airport to Babcock is still two hours' drive after that. It's actually going to be faster to take the hopper flight to Bayport and get Jack to fly us to West Virginia from there so we can go to a smaller airstrip."
Joe knew as worried as his father was, there was a secondary reason for this plan as well. "And you can physically escort Chet to his door."
Fenton managed a smile. "No, not me. I think you get that particular honor. You found him. You see Chet home... in a cab, mind you... you're in no shape to drive... and I'll grab what we need from the house and meet you back at the private air terminal. I figure an hour to Bayport, an hour on the ground, then two more in the air, and a thirty minute drive into the mountains."
Joe shook his head. "Ten hours is too long."
"That's the quickest route there is, believe me, I called thirty people and yelled at half of them."
"Really? You don't lose your cool much, no matter what's wrong, but you did seem pretty worked up at Dahl."
"No, not really. Elias just does that to me."
Yeah, I noticed. So did half the hospital... "Why?"
Fenton sighed. "Story for another day, Joe. Rest some, I know you don't feel as well as that line of bull you fed Sianturi. Nine and half hours now."
Joe closed his eyes, no more in the mood to rest than to move to Nepal and start a sanctuary foundation for yetis. Last time I felt like this, Frank didn't have nine and half hours... "Still too long, Dad... way too long..."
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Thud.
Frank jerked at the sound, then saw the second of the loft's twin mattresses flop over the edge above, the splintered railing no longer an impediment. It landed with another thump beside his supine form and he heard his mother rushing back down the stairs. He hadn't managed to speak again since his initial croaked call for her, and she apparently intended to be at his side when he did. Not trying to scare you, Mom, my throat is just really, really sore...
Laura pulled the blue stripped padding into place on the floor beside the heaps of broken wood and turned to her son. The deep brown eyes were surprisingly open, watching her. "I need to move you over onto the bedding."
A flash of panic darted across his pale face, quickly replaced by resignation and a tiny nod. "O-k-kay."
He felt her hands slide under his back and head, the wood frame of the chair still bound to each limb but no longer bridging across his chest. A small tug lanced pain through his spine, but didn't result in him budging from his spot on the hardwood planks. A second one didn't go any better, eliciting a sharp hiss. "You c-can't. I'm too heavy."
"I got you from the top of all that junk to here." Laura shook her head, then picked up the kitchen knife once again. "If I get your ankles loose, can you push over a bit?"
"I'll t-try." Frank wasn't at all sure he could do anything of the sort, but he'd have to find out sooner or later. May as well be sooner. The cotton rope fell away from his ankles and knees, followed by the feel of polished wood peeling away from his clammy skin. His joints had long since cramped in their flexed position and Laura was easing the foot closest to her toward the floor.
Frank braced the sole of his foot against the wide boards, ready to propel himself sideways across a monumental gulf of six and half, heck, maybe seven inches. Unfortunately, as soon as his mind formulated the weak joke to distract him from how that was actually going to feel, Laura reached for his other leg.
"Mom, n-no."
Startled by the rasped force behind the words she froze. Everything else he'd said barely passed the timbre of a whisper. "What? What's wrong?"
"Can't s-straighten that one. B-broken maybe."
Laura's hands released his limb as if they'd suddenly been scalded, then slowly edged back that direction, gently working the hem of the sweat pants upward. A reddish purple lump mid-shin was already too swollen to permit the fabric to rise over it and she ripped the cloth to get it past. "How long have you known about that?! Anywhere else I need to see?"
"P-pretty much the s-second it happened." Frank closed his eyes, choosing to ignore the almost accusatory note that slipped into his mother's shaken voice. She wasn't upset with him, he knew that. She was scared. Come to think about it, so was he. "And s-side, maybe..."
"You didn't say anything!? How could you not cry out, whether you meant to or not?"
"Um... choking, r-remember?"
"I'm sorry, honey - not sure exactly when you were supposed to tell me that, or why I hadn't looked already. I'm not good at this, you know. I don't want to be good at it. You and your brother... every time you get hurt I think I ought to be able to slap a Spiderman band aid on there, pat you on the head, and send you to the tree house to play again. It's not supposed to be something a kiss won't fix; I'm supposed to be able to take care of my babies. It's in the 'Mom Can Fix Anything Handbook' somewhere, but you're not babies anymore and there's no edition of that handbook for raising a pair of teenagers that take on things that would make most grown men cower, and..." Laura rapidly checked him over for other injuries while she talked, spotting a multitude of scrapes, but no other obvious fractures. Strangely the right arm and shoulder seemed no worse than before, oddly protected by the wood tied there. A sort of pre-emptive splint, she guessed. The aimless chatter abruptly stopped, two unwelcome facts intruding on the nervous ramble. Frank's side was already developing a black tinge around a cut from his ribs to his hip... and he hadn't opened his eyes again. "Frank? Frank?"
Her fingers flew to his pulse again, but both that and his breathing were steady if a little rapid, the tight muscles at his jaw and scrunched eyes hinting this was more pain than unconsciousness. "Frank? Honey?"
Long minutes passed before he answered, his face smoothing out somewhat, although he still didn't open his eyes. "Y-yeah?"
He wasn't seeming so grown at the present. "It's going to be ok, honey. Here, help me slide you over on the bed." Mothering instincts reasserted themselves, the momentary lapse into expressing her own fear at the situation subjugated again, at least temporarily. The transfer to the thin mattress wasn't graceful, but Frank did manage to assist some with his better foot. "There. Now we can move easier."
Frank wasn't certain exactly what that meant until he felt the bed slide beneath him, his mother stopping when she had him maneuvered in front of the fireplace. The next half hour was lost in gentle attempts to clean and bandage cuts and splint his leg. Didn't hide the shivering as well as I thought... ouch... ow... ow... ow, Mom, stop... hurts... The majority of the slash on his side was actually fairly shallow, only the lower end actively bleeding. Still, he couldn't keep from squirming when she lifted the wad of cloth plastered there to recheck it. Hurts... just need a minute... gah... please... I promise not to die if you promise not to touch that again... hurts...
The flinch wasn't lost on Laura, but neither was the growing red stain on what had been the bottom of her skirt. She folded fresh fabric into a square and pressed it against his side, wrapping another tatter around his torso to hold it firmly in place. "You ok? Need to stop a minute?"
"Nah, I'm f-fine." Not that she'd believe that, but he knew the truth wasn't going to benefit either of them. "Are y-you?"
A peculiar half laugh escaped her. "Actually, I have no idea. I think so. Let me put some more wood on this fire."
The blaze sufficiently fed, Laura rummaged the kitchen for clean towels and water. Setting that beside her son, she returned to the smashed bed frame and shelf. She hadn't told Frank that Clipboard snatched at her ankle earlier, but as vulnerable as her firstborn was she had to know about the detested soldier.
A dozen shifted boards later and it was obvious. Nearly jet eyes stared up at her, murderous, but he didn't say a word. It didn't appear that he could. A streak of blood trickled from the lower corner of his mouth and a jagged fragment of bone protruded from one arm and a thigh, provoking an odd sense of justice from the frazzled mother. Laura hesitated, some residual humanitarian snippet feeling obligated to assist the dying man, but the inherent rage at what he'd done to her sons, both of them, was nearly insurmountable.
Struggling through the tumult, she dragged him off the pile and onto the remaining mattress, finding it easier than moving Frank. The smaller colonel was somewhat lighter, plus she didn't especially care if she hurt him. She leaned over him, tying a strip of toweling above the speared bicep, when she noted the faint smile on his otherwise contorted expression. Following the line of his eyes, she became acutely aware of her torn dress. Repairing it was out of the question and she sought out anything that might be of use, finally spotting the shirt and pants the colonel had discarded on the bed earlier. The idea of wearing his clothes was distasteful, but it was certainly preferable to the letch leering at her underwear. Yanking the navy shirt over her head, she slipped the oversized pants on below her shredded skirt before pulling the remaining floral fabric down over her feet. The scraps of rope she'd cut from Frank converted into a adequate makeshift belt and she rolled up the pant legs, aware of how ridiculous she likely looked but far beyond caring.
She checked on Frank, grateful when he swallowed a few sips of water, and returned to Clipboard. She could see to it he didn't bleed to death for her own sanity, and that was more than he deserved . The dark bruises blooming on his abdomen, though, strongly suggested he was bleeding in places she couldn't see and wouldn't have been able to correct if she'd been so inclined. She wrapped another length of cloth around his leg, tying it as tightly as she could against the red seeping into the bedding below. She held a cup of water for him briefly and rose. She'd done what she could and more than she'd truly desired to. Survival now was up to him, any remaining energy she had was for her child. If the colonel died, well, she doubted very many people in the world would shed tears over that. She wouldn't.
Kneeling beside Frank again, she fussed over rechecking the smaller wounds that marred his pale skin in random hieroglyphics, gingerly peaking under the larger bandage intermittently. Every time she did the fear rooted in her heart grew a little more. Maybe she could bind the cloth more tightly somehow.
"Guhhh... Mom?"
"Hey, honey, stay still, ok?" She watched as his less than lucid countenance found hers. "You awake again?"
"Y-yeah. That bad, huh?"
"No, you'll be fine. I'm just having a trouble wrapping this right; that's all."
"Nice t-try. There's a reason J-Joe doesn't p-p-play poker - and he got it from y-you." Frank forced a dry swallow down his ravaged throat, eyes roaming the room. Not really sure how to get out of here... but I think I better figure it out... "M-more water?"
Laura was so focused on raising his head enough to drink without injuring him any further that the groaning creaks from the scattered debris didn't register as important. Small bits of the unstable stack had been settling to the cabin floor unpredictably ever since Frank crashed the bookcase from above anyway. She tucked the blankets from the loft around him, frowning at the simultaneous chills and cold sweat less the ten feet from the hearth. Deciding to elevate his leg more than the dishcloths wadded under his ankle allowed, she selected a chunk of the shelf and swathed it in the plaid comforter she extricated from the mess. The kitchen blade made short work of another section of cotton rope, securing the fabric in place.
A bloodied hand clamped on her calf before she could turn back to Frank with her invention.
"Laura." Blood burbled from his mouth as Clipboard spoke. "I shall still... kill... your traitor son before I die." He dragged himself closer, using her leg as a handle.
The petite woman lost precious seconds to sheer terror, but then the rebellion leader miscalculated. Drawing even with her knees, he fell forward, his face landing squarely on her stomach - which he bit.
Revolted, Laura scrambled from beneath him, kicking out as she worked her way free. Every instinct shouted at her to shriek, but she couldn't do that. There was a tiny chance Frank wouldn't identify the sounds of the struggle for what it was, but he would never ignore her screaming. Her heel connected with the colonel's forehead and she was loose, frantically pushing up to stand.
Clipboard tripped her, drawing out the scream she'd fought to squelch, but he never heard it.
"NO! Let me GO!" Laura finished the exclamation automatically, not yet realizing she was on the floor, the colonel motionless below. She certainly hadn't registered that she'd still held the knife in her fist when he came at her, nor had she intentionally thrust the blade as she fell. All of that was true, but irrelevant. Levering off the crumpled form she saw it.
The wide steel cutlery was sunk to the hilt in the almond colored throat, the blood surrounding it no longer pumping out, proving him dead.
"Mom?! MOM!" Frank couldn't see behind him and the silence dredged up a thousand explanations, each one worse. What happened?! Come on answer... answer... I have to get up... hurts... gotta... come on, Hardy... get your lazy butt up... gotta help her... gah... answer me... "MOM?!"
He made it up to one elbow, the scene before him halting his efforts more quickly than any pain could. His mother sat on the floor, blood smeared over her her? shirt. The Ranien militia colonel sprawled over the wooden planks, knife handle protruding from his neck and lifeless eyes rolled backward.
"M-mom? You ok?" The blank stare unnerved him. "Mom? Any of that b-blood yours?"
Laura finally scooted across the floor to her son, plopping heavily beside him and listlessly brushing back his hair. "I... ah... yes, I'm fine... He's, um, he's dead. I didn't ... I didn't try to stab him, but... he's dead... Blood's all his... The knife, I still had it... I was cutting rope... he's dead..."
Frank caught her hand, not strong enough to hold onto it if she didn't let him, and waited.
The shaking lessened slowly as the adrenaline rush waned and she finally actually saw her son. "Frank? I killed him. He was grabbing me and I killed him."
"Mom... d-doesn't matter. He d-doesn't matter." Frank gripped her hand tighter. "You need to get out of here, go f-find some help." Speaking was exhausting.
"I can't leave you here, Frank. You're hurt and your side's still bleeding. Probably more now that you sat up. And why are you sitting up?" Her palms pressed him back to the mattress.
Hardly class getting one elbow half under me as sitting up... "OK, not sitting." He weighed how much to tell her, hating to frighten her any further but surmising he wasn't fooling her anyway. "I know it's b-bleeding, that's why I need you to g-go. I'll be okay 'til you c-come back."
"I'm not leaving. If you're that sure you'll be alright for a little while, then we should wait together."
He shook his head, instantly regretting the motion. "Mom, I d-doubt Clipboard intended to live the Grizzly A-adams life for long, and he d-ditched the ambulance. His f-friends are coming to get him... get us. Y-you can't b-be here when that h-happens... and I c-can't walk out." They'll be like him... maybe exactly like him and she can't take that chance again... can't let them put their hands on Mom... if she leaves and I die... well... ...I made that decision when I flipped over that railing...
"You're absolutely sure you'll be ok until I can bring help?"
Forgive me... "Y-yeah, I'm sure."
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to be continued...
