Chapter 2: Take a Picture

Marcie Warren balanced the brown paper bag against her shoulder and slid a key into the center of the rounded doorknob, quietly announcing, "Me," as she pushed into the dim motel room. When her eyes adjusted from the outside brightness, she saw that her companion was propped up in the first bed and had apparently followed her directions to remove his sodden, tattered clothing and rest while she went in search of new clothes and first aid materials.

She supposed she should have been worried that he did not answer her, but she had enough experience with him now that she did not expect it. Instead, she let her gaze scan over him, assessing how much damage had been done – and allowing another kind of assessment as she took in his bare upper body. If she had not done her homework on him, she would have figured he was in his 50s. He obviously stayed fit. Despite the silver hair – head and chest – the body beneath remained firm and lean, the muscles those of a man who kept active and looked at least a decade younger than he actually was.

Settling the bag on a cheap bureau where the television was, she flicked on a couple of lamps so that she could see where he might need a little tending. Her eyes widened when she realized the injuries she had worried about were miniscule compared with his past. Uniform scars left by a surgeon's scalpel cut across both shoulders, random-shaped blemishes littered his abdomen and ribs, and one long, straight, angry line ran right down the center of his chest.

"You gonna take a picture?"

The hoarse voice startled her, but she had always been quick to recover her wits and shot back, "Waiting for the Playgirl photographer to get here."

He huffed a laugh, keeping his eyes closed, and she wondered about the possibility of a concussion. From the moment she helped him crawl from the watery weeds, the remnants of his beautiful boat still in flames in the middle of the lake, she worried about the nasty gash across the left side of his forehead. He had insisted he was fine – a point belied somewhat when he swayed and nearly passed out as he attempted to stand. By the time she had driven them to the motel – checking in as a single occupant – he was in obvious pain, eyes squeezed shut and hand pressed against his head.

"I got some Aleeve and Excedrine. You probably need something stronger, though."

"S'fine," he assured her, but the slur of his response did not reassure her.

Dumping the contents of the bag on the other bed, she laid out a bottle of rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, Neosporin, Silvadene, gauze pads, adhesive tape, and butterfly bandages. On closer inspection, she saw more evidence of just how close his escape from disaster was. Several blistering welts had risen on his upper back and shoulders, no doubt from burning pieces of the boat that hit him. Reddened marks that would eventually turn purple and green and yellow scattered over his arms, torso, and face. She just prayed that there was nothing internal. He had insisted they could not go to a hospital.

"Got you jeans and a couple of t-shirts," she said while she cleaned the wicked gash that was still oozing blood. "And underwear."

He squinted open one eye.

"What? You want to put back on wet underwear, go ahead."

He closed his eye and pulled the bedsheet a little higher over his stomach.

"And some tennis shoes. You realize you didn't have any shoes on when you came out of the lake, right?"

A grunt was her only answer.

"I guess they got blown off. I still do not know how you managed not to die." She applied a generous dollop of Neosporin to the gash and began pulling it closed with the butterfly bandages. "I mean, how does anyone survive being in the middle of an explosion like that?"

"Experience," he muttered.

Her hand paused. "Not your first explosion?"

"Not even close."

Placing the final closure in place, she observed, "Sounds like a good story."

"Not really."

He remained mostly silent as she tended to his burns and other lacerations, only flinching when she pressed hard against tender flesh. Finally, she sat back to observe her handiwork.

"Well," she admitted, "that's about as good as it gets without getting you to a doctor."

"No doctor," he pushed again.

"I heard you the first ten times." Shaking her head, she added, "I just hope you know what you are doing."

He dragged in a deep breath, grimacing and gritting his teeth against the pain. Marcie winced in sympathy and popped open the bottle of Aleeve, dumping three blue gels into her palm, ignoring the dosage warnings. After he had swallowed them, he eased his bandaged head back on the pillow.

"Didn't get blown up," he told her.

Marcie laughed. "Oh, yeah, sure."

"Didn't," he insisted, opening his eyes slightly to look at her.

"Well, you sure are giving a good imitation of it."

"Bailed before she went."

"What?"

"Engine blew and I took a dive overboard before the boat went up."

"That's imposs – how did you – " Realization shot through her. "You blew it up! All those years building it, all that work on the engine – you set it to – why?"

A slight smile curved his lips. "Like you said, maybe building the boat meant more than finishing the boat."

Although she was kind of pleased that he remembered her words, she still didn't believe him, and her expression made that clear.

He shrugged stiffly. "Serial killer knew I was coming after him. Easier to find him if he thinks I'm dead."

As she repacked her make-shift medicine bag, she said, "You almost were."

"Almost only counts in – "

"Horseshoes," she finished. "Maybe this isn't something you should be doing on your own."

His voice slurred slightly when he argued, "Told you it's too dangerous for you – "

"I was talking about your team." Her brow rose pointedly as she sat on the side of his bed.

He opened his mouth but her finger against his lips stopped any comment.

"You know," she said, voice softening in sympathy with the tightness of his eyes, the twinge of his jaw, and the slight tremble of his hands, "bravado only goes so far when you're as busted up as you are."

A grunt was the only response she got.

"First, you aren't in any shape to be out tracking a serial killer, even if he thinks you're dead." She eased from the bed, twisting the bag closed and setting it on the cheap coffee table. "Second, since you're still suspended, what authority do you have to go after him? I mean, if you had to…shoot him or something. And third – " As she swung back around to drive home her reasons that he should bring his team in on this, she saw his head lolled on the pillow, his mouth open slightly, breathing even and heavy.

Only taking a second to question her next steps, she slid the door key into her pocket, palmed the car keys as quietly as possible, and slipped from the room, fingers crossed that he would stay asleep – or passed out – long enough for her to take care of business.