The Infinity Tattoo (3 page)

So this man had to be Alex’s friend. Should she help him? Alex would have wanted her to, she knew that. Perhaps if she left him in the shed, at least until he regained consciousness, that would be okay.

With the decision made, she stood and made a mental list of the supplies she would need. She gathered a couple of blankets and an old quilt. She then made some rehydrating solution of salt and sugar that she had learned when she was in the field. She filled a bucket with warm water and gathered together soap, a washcloth, and a towel. She had to make two trips to bring everything to the shed.

When she returned the second time, he was still lying there, just where she had left him. She walked over and peeked around the bags of compost to see where he had been hiding. It seemed as good a place as any for him to stay until he recuperated. But first, she would shuffle the bags around a bit so that she could get in and out to help him. Also, she wanted to make sure that the place was thoroughly hidden.

When she was satisfied, she went over to him. She grabbed his legs and gave a tug. He moaned, and she thought maybe she should try another approach. She took one of the old blankets she had brought from the house and spread it out on the ground next to him. Then she grabbed his middle and, with a great heave, rolled him onto it. He mumbled a bit, then went silent.

“Right, whoever you are,” she said to him. “Let’s get you moved.” Luckily, in her landscaping business, she had handled some pretty heavy loads. And he was skin and bones. She was able to pull him back into the hidey-hole. Halfway through, she shed her sweatshirt, and by the time she got him where she wanted him the sweat was dripping off her brow.

She retrieved the rest of her supplies and settled down to work. First, she needed to get some fluids in him. She sponged his face with cool water until he started to come around a little. Then she lifted his head and little by little managed to get him to swallow some of the rehydration fluids. Not too much, she thought to herself. She was no nurse, but she figured she better go slowly.

Next, he needed a bath. She unbuttoned his shirt and tried to pull it over his shoulders. But that proved to be too unwieldy, so she pulled her penknife out of her pocket and cut the shirt away. Gently, she sponged away the first layer of grime from his face and torso.

As skinny as he was, his shoulders were broad and his pecs were well developed with a sprinkling of hair across his chest. He had numerous scratches on his arms and she could just imagine him getting caught in one of those obnoxious desert plants with thorns like the claws of a jealous lover. She would need to put some healing balm on them.

She pulled off his boots. His socks were bloody and stuck fast to his feet. She used the washcloth to sluice water on them until they softened enough for her to peel them off. His feet were a mess. He had blisters on top of blisters where the boots had rubbed his skin raw. And he had some pretty serious punctures on the bottoms of his feet where the cactus spines had pierced the soles. She bathed them as best she could. She hoped some antibiotic cream would be sufficient to keep infection away.

Then she worked on his pants. Unbuckling his belt, she tugged and tugged until she was able to slip them past his hips and butt. Then it was a simple matter to pull them off of his legs. She threw them on top of the ruined shirt.

She studied him as he lay there naked as a jaybird for her perusal. His legs were long and muscular. Like his arms, they were scratched up. There was a pockmarked scar on one thigh. Was it an old bullet wound? She really didn’t know much about such things.

Her eyes moved up to his crotch where his male member lay small and flaccid. Funny how something that innocent-looking could grow and harden and give a woman such immense pleasure. Under the right circumstances, of course.

Plunging the washcloth back into the water and then soaping it up, she sponged him down from waist to ankle. Lifting his legs, she washed their backs, but when she reached his buttocks, she left off. It would be too difficult to lift him so she decided his butt would just have to stay unwashed.

Now that he was clean, mostly, she draped the quilt over him. Then propped his head up on her lap and resumed the fluids, forcing down a little at a time. The drawn look began to leave his face, and she decided to let him rest for a bit.

Meanwhile, she would go to the work site and check on Julio and Manny, and bring supplies.

* * *

It was late afternoon by the time she returned. She wondered if the strange man would still be in her shed.

He was. It looked as though he hadn’t moved all day. But his color was better and he seemed to be resting peacefully.

She returned to the house to shower off the dirt and sweat of the day. She had been helping her crew, Julio and Manny, prepare for the installation of a drip irrigation system. They had marked out where they would run the underground pipes, work that they would start first thing Monday morning.

She threw on a pair of shorts and T-shirt. She liked to spend late afternoons in her office taking care of any paperwork, doing a little facebooking, and surfing the net for interesting news stories. But first, she went to the kitchen to grab a large glass of cold, filtered water from the fridge.

When she turned around, she about jumped a mile.

Her stowaway was standing at the door, the quilt she had supplied him wrapped around his waist. He was looking at her with a serious expression.

“Oh,” she said with a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”

“Thank you for taking care of me and not calling the cops,” he said.

“I . . . don’t even know why I didn’t.”

“Compassion or curiosity.”

“What do you mean?”

“You want to know more about the mysterious man who hid out in your shed.”

Meg smiled. “Perhaps I do, at that.”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat?”

“Oh, many times. Maybe I just have nine lives.”

He held tightly onto the doorjamb and she could see that he was still unsteady on his feet.

“Listen,” she said and walked over to him. “Why don’t you just take a seat. Right here,” she held his arm and helped him into the living room, guiding him to an old recliner that had been her father’s favorite.

“I don’t mind if I do,” he said and sank gratefully into it.

“Right,” Meg said, “now suppose you tell me what’s going on.”

“Someone is after me,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘after you’?”

“Someone searched my office and my house. They followed me. Then they hit me with a stun gun, grabbed me off the street, and forced me into a truck.” Seeing her skeptical look he went on, “I know it sounds crazy, like something out of a bad movie, but it’s the truth.”

“Who? Who forced you into a truck? Isn’t that kidnapping? Why didn’t you go to the authorities?”

“Because I’m not sure who to trust. See, if I went to the police, they would immediately contact the base. And I have a feeling the problem is coming from there. I need to find out who these guys are, what they think I have . . .”

“Okay, listen. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“Yeah,” he said. “The beginning. I’m not really sure where that is.”

“Then start somewhere. What’s your name?”

“Jack.”

“Do you have a last name, Jack?”

“Cunningham.”

“Hello, Jack Cunningham. My name is Meg Goodwin. I assume, based on your condition, that you have been on the run in the desert.”

“That’s right.”

“From where?”

“Phoenix. Luke Air Force Base.”

“That’s quite a trek.”

“Well, I didn’t walk the whole way here. I managed to catch a few rides as well.”

“And why did you run away from Phoenix?”

“I told you. Someone is after me.”

“Why?”

“I’m not really sure. All I can figure is that I have something that someone wants.”

“And you have no idea what?”

“None. I’ve thought about it, believe me. You get a lot of time to think when you’re walking alone at night in the desert. The only possibilities I can come up with seem so far-fetched, I don’t know what to think.”

“Try me,” Meg said.

She could see him studying her, weighing what he should say.

“Listen, I don’t think it would be a good idea. If my suspicions are right, the less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“Yeah, maybe. But look, if you could just give me a few days to recover, I would really appreciate it.”

“And then what will you do?”

“I don’t know. I have to think, try to sort through things. Then I’ll be out of your hair. I promise.”

Meg studied him for a minute. With that wild hair and the crazed look in his eyes, she wasn’t sure if he wasn’t certifiable. More to the point, whether she was safe.

He seemed to sense her thoughts. “Look, you’re safe with me. On my honor as a boy scout and my mother’s son, I won’t hurt you.” The look he gave her was open and beguiling, which she wouldn’t have thought possible coming from such a rough exterior.

“Okay,” she said. “Let me just see if I can’t find some pants around here. Yours are shot.”

He looked down at the quilt that covered him and then back at her. Suddenly she blushed. “I . . . uh . . . I’m sorry I undressed you. But you were so filthy, I just . . . well . . .”

“It’s okay. Really,” he said with a glint in his eye.

“Well, let me see what I can find for you to wear.”

* * *

While Meg went in search of clothes, Jack took the opportunity to look around the living room. It was shabby. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint. There was a threadbare carpet in the center of the room, surrounded by well-worn furniture. There were a few pictures on the walls, prints by the look of them. In the corner was a desk with many framed photographs. He went over for a closer look.

There were several pictures of a couple. They were of different vintages, starting with a wedding photo. Soon a child began to appear in the photos with the couple, now a proud mom and dad. She was a pert little girl with a cherubic face and dark hair. As she gazed into the camera lens her chocolate brown eyes were round with wonder. The girl grew older and began to take center stage in the collage of photos. She lost the rounded cheeks and a face emerged with a fine bone structure, pert nose, and full lips, but the look of wonder remained.

“Those are my parents,” Meg said, “and me.” She was standing right behind him, and when he turned his arm brushed her breast. Blushing, he stepped to the side to give them both space.

Like the girl in the pictures, the woman standing next to him had thick brown hair, cut short, and limpid brown eyes. Her face, completely devoid of makeup, was deeply tanned. She wore an old pair of jeans that hung on slim hips and legs. Under an overly large T-shirt he could make out firm, shapely breasts. Her arms were toned, muscular even.

“Where are they?”

“Who?”

“Your parents.”

“Oh, they’re both gone now. This was their house. My mother died when I was a kid. My dad died about nine months ago. I needed a place to live, so I moved in.” She looked around, then back at him. “One day, I would like to do something with this old place. But just now, I have to focus on the business.”

“Your landscaping business,” Jack said.

“Yes. My father was quite ill for a long while, before he died. He had to take it easy with the business. So now I’m trying to rebuild it. It’s a slow process and takes a lot of money. So the house will just have to wait.”

“Well,” Jack said. “At least you have a roof over your head.”

“Yes, I do. In one of the most beautiful places on earth.”

“I haven’t had much of a chance to see it, having arrived in the middle of the night.”

“Wait until you do. You will be awed. Anyway, here are some clothes,” she said offering him the pants and shirt she had found. “These belonged to . . . a friend. He was shorter than you, I think, but it’s all I have. Oh, and these slippers were my dad’s.” She nodded at his feet that she had bathed.

“Thank you,” Jack said.

“Are you hungry?”

“You’re kidding, right? I’m famished.”

Meg laughed and smiled up at him. It brightened her whole face, brought a shine to her eyes. And he was transfixed.

“Once you’ve changed, why don’t you come into the kitchen?”

* * *

When he returned to the kitchen fully clothed, he could smell the tantalizing aroma of toasting bread and fresh coffee, and his mouth watered. She flipped a couple of toasted ham and cheese sandwiches on the grill.

She looked him over. “Just as I thought. The pants are too short. But at least you’re decent now.” She grabbed a plate and loaded the sandwiches onto it. She set it at the table where there was a large glass of orange juice.

“I hope this will hold you for a while. I have some chicken thawing for tonight. Being by myself, I tend to go for whatever is easy.”