At the Edge of a Dark Forest Page 5

  “Call 911.” Joe struggled to speak.

  Carly pulled out her cell, punched in the numbers and described the scene.

  Cole’s growls seemed to rumble from the bowels of Hades, laced with fire, singeing all they touched.

  She ran to the foyer, opened the door, and waited for the rescue team. The sirens finally grew in volume, preceding the flashing lights and emergency medical team. Carly didn’t know if it had taken five minutes or forty-five, but they were late as far as she was concerned.

  The gurney appeared from the living room an unconscious, though still seizing, Cole lay atop it. Joe followed.

  “I want to go with you.” Carly couldn’t just wait for word.

  Joe hesitated.

  “I want to be there. Make sure he’s all right.”

  He nodded. “Come. I’ll drive us.”

  They’d waited outside the emergency room until a woman in scrubs approached them. “He’s stable and sedated for now. We’ll need to admit him for several days to make sure he’s safe.”

  Joe nodded. Carly fell into a waiting room chair.

  “Carly, go back to the house and get some sleep. I’ll call Manny.”

  “I want to be here when he wakes.”

  “That might not be for days, but someone should be here for him. I’ll take tonight.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “You get some rest and come back in the morning.”

  “It’s my fault,” she said over a sob.

  “You did the right thing challenging him, Carly. It’s been a long-time coming. If he didn’t stop soon, the end result would have been death. Unfortunately, the longer he took to climb this particular cliff the deeper the drop.”

  Chapter Six

  AT THE EDGE OF A DARK FOREST

  by Connie Almony

  Cole awoke to find himself in a hospital room. Through bleary eyes he scanned the space—light blue curtains, windows, sterile walls, beeping machines.

  But no people. The room’s emptiness echoed the sound of his heart monitor.

  Why would anyone be here? He had no one who really cared.

  The sun poured through the window, showering the space with a milky haze. The blood pressure cuff hummed and filled with air, strangling his left arm, then released. Cole watched the LED display numbers he couldn’t read.

  Someone cleared his throat. Cole’s attention swung to the chair in front of his bed and the Marine who sat in full gear.

  Beckett.

  The heart monitor beeped a higher pace.

  Beckett held his helmet in his lap. “How are you, sir?”

  Cole scrubbed his face with his hand. “Fine.” What else could he say?

  Beckett stood and walked over to the bed. “I hear it’s been rough since you got home.” His face had a fierce sunburn that seemed too recent for the climate.

  “Yeah.”

  “You always told us we could do anything if we put our minds to it.” Was that a blister on his forehead?

  Cole grunted. “After I called you a sack of sorry slugs.” Most of his squad didn’t like Cole’s demeaning rages, but no matter what Cole did or said, Beckett strove to be better.”

  Beckett laughed. A scab on his lip cracked and bled.

  Cole joined the laugh, but stopped. He needed to tell Beckett. “I owe you my life.”

  Was the blister on his head bubbling?

  Beckett ran his palm across his cheek. A blood-red smear trailed its wake. His eyes intense. “I never wanted your life, sir.”

  Did his skin begin to sizzle? And the smell. Not that smell. Cole could not bear the smell of burning flesh.

  Beckett leaned in close, his breath hot on Cole’s face. “ … I wanted your soul.”

  Beckett’s form burst into flames that extinguished into black smoke. As the smoke cleared, blue ash rained over Cole’s hospital blanket. Cole struggled to push the covers off, but he was tangled in them—one arm a useless stump, the other hung by a blood-pressure cuff.

  Why couldn’t he scream?

  “BECKETT, NO!”

  Carly startled awake in the chair she’d spent much of the past few days in. “Cole.” She ran to the thrashing form and pushed the nurse’s button. She held him down so he wouldn’t hurt himself.

  A nurse entered, taking his left side.

  “He must be having a nightmare.”

  The nursed nodded. “Or hallucinations.” She flexed to control him better.

  Carly held Cole’s right residual arm in both hands. She rubbed the limb, massaging it, hoping to calm him. She took in the landscape she’d come to know while making a plaster impression of it for the socket—where the muscle began and where it tapered off, the length of the bony structure below the elbow and the scar tissue at the end. She moved her fingers gently along the skin and into his soft tissue, then moved over his shoulder and messaged near his neck. His breathing relaxed and his heart monitor slowed.

  Manny appeared in the doorway, eyes widening in horror as he took in the scene. An orderly ushered him from the entry. Carly’s mind traveled to the conversations she’d had with Cole’s unlikely chauffeur. Not quite the type one saw on TV, donned in a black uniform. Manny wore a t-shirt and holey jeans that contrasted the gleaming ebony vehicle he polished on a regular basis.

  On the drives to and from the hospital each day, Manny had shared how Cole had taken him in after Manny’s father died. Manny’s gaze, in the rearview mirror of the limo, held a warmth, but humor, as he spoke of the curmudgeon who seemed to hide his acts of kindness as though they made him vulnerable. Carly’s heart ached for the orphaned young man who’d lost his mother at six.

  But what of the grouch who’d taken him in?

  Carly turned to the man on the bed and brushed at the new growth of hair on his scalp. Cole’s chest rose and fell, sucking in a large gulp of air through his nose. His eyes opened hard. He looked first to the nurse, then to Carly.

  His features softened. “Beauty.” The whispered words held none of the sarcasm she’d come to expect. She almost believed he meant it.

  “I think he’s stable now.” The nurse patted his shoulder and turned. “Let me know if you need me again.”

  Cole’s gaze fell to Carly’s hands still running along his residual limb.

  Feeling self-conscious, she removed them and stepped back.

  “You smell like coconut.”

  He’d noticed her lotion?

  “A welcome change.”

  Change from what?

  His features pinched as if to stave off a horrific nightmare. He closed his eyes and drew in another breath. “Yes, coconut.”

  She didn’t want to leave him there, but thought of the two men who’d been sitting in the waiting room each day hoping for the least bit of information. “I’ll get Joe and Manny. They’ll be glad you’re awake.”

  Chapter Seven

  AT THE EDGE OF A DARK FOREST

  by Connie Almony

  The limp to the gym seemed longer than normal to Cole. It was the first time he’d taken that hall sober since he was a kid.

  Man, he wanted a drink right now. His tongue itched for the burn, and his mind thirsted for the reprieve. He worked to stave off the agitation as if he needed to be alert to any danger. No danger here. At least not the kind that housed insurgents with machine guns, RPGs and cloaked IEDs.

  The images of explosions in his brain only gave way to the constant harangue from Joe that he needed a real rehab program. Cole had fought well-trained terrorists. He could resist Johnny Walker.

  He wet his lips with his tongue. Thirsty.

  Today Cole would face Carly for the first time since the hospital. Over the past few days he’d watched her from the window of his suite, walking the grounds, reading a book on the patio. She read for hours at a time. What was in that book?

  Thinking back on the dark brown eyes he’d woken to in the hospital, he suddenly wanted to know more about the woman who possessed them. But he’d stayed in his suite from the moment he’d gotten
back from the hospital. It was too hard to face anyone in his weakened condition.

  Carly.

  Her name came to mind more easily these days even if it took a slight delay. Still, he liked the moniker, Beauty, better. He’d loved the self-conscious posture she’d displayed that first day he used it—the humility, endearing. He’d loved the ire it drew, on later dates, causing her brown eyes to burn. But most of all he thought of the smile she’d given him on hearing it in the hospital. He longed to touch her face as her expression registered relief on seeing him conscious—like he was important to her.

  Of course he was. His investment in her prosthetics would be prodigious. He needed Jurvis to investigate her, just in case. But why had he kept delaying?

  He thumped down the hall, his scalp still smarting from the close shave he’d given his head to rid it of the growth of the past few days, then entered the gym.

  Carly stood near the sink and turned. Her eyes grew wide with the gasp. “Cole, you’re bleeding.” She grabbed a tissue and ran to him. Reaching up, she patted the left side of his bald head. “What happened?”

  He took the tissue from her and held it to the spot. “Cut myself shaving.”

  “That’s one nasty cut.”

  “I had to do a few passes to get it close enough. The scar sometimes gets in the way.” And his hands still weren’t that steady.

  Carly searched through the cabinet and pulled out the first aid kit. “Sit, Cole. Let me put a bandage on it.”

  He sat on the chair by the sink. She opened a tube of gel and applied some to the wound. He drew in the scent of coconut, thoughts of a rum-filled Pina Colada working through him, and peeked up at her. “Will I live?”

  Her face was tense as she smoothed the bandage and opened another tube. Why didn’t she answer him? His situation couldn’t be that dire. She smoothed some cream around the area, her warm fingers so gentle on his skin. He wondered what the extra cream was for, but didn’t dare ask as it might halt her ministrations. Cole closed his eyes and relaxed his muscles. Her fingers trailed the side of his head, a line down his face to his lip. Her voice a whisper. “Who’s Beckett?”

  Cole grabbed her wrist. “What are you doing?”

  Her breath caught.

  “What are you putting on my scar?”

  Carly showed him the tube. “It’s to soften the tissue.”

  He jerked her hand away. “Who says I want it softened?”

  She turned from him and replaced the first-aid items.

  “Am I too ugly to work with?”

  Her gaze met his. “You’re not too ugly, Cole.” Her voice firm. “Just too hurt.”

  He banged his left fist into his thigh, his eye catching the rubbing alcohol bottle on the counter. Thirsty. He swallowed bile. “What’s that supposed to mean.”

  “Why do you shave your head every day? To remind us of your disfigurement?”

  “You’ve been talking to Joe too much.”

  “What is it you want us to know about you? That you’re too bad, untouchable, less than whole?”

  All of the above. “Can you leave any part of me alone? I thought you came to give me arms and legs, not re-invent me.” If he could pace he’d do it now, but his body would not cooperate, so he thumped his crutch and growled, feeling the deep lack of his silver thermos.

  Carly knelt in front of him, eyes beseeching his. Her lips tilted in that funny smile of hers. “Your head is so shiny I can almost see my reflection.”

  He almost laughed at the distorted view of herself she’d have around the awful scar. His muscles released.

  “Why must you make your scars the first things people see in you, when there’s so much more to know?”

  More to know? “That’s not my intention.”

  “But Joe says—”

  “Joes thinks he knows everything.” In fact, he knew too much. “I just don’t like the way the hair puckers around the wound.” He shrugged. “It gives me a cowlick.”

  By the amused look in her eyes, he didn’t expect she believed him. Her right hand traveled toward his temple. He closed his eyes at her oh, so gentle touch, his mouth completely dry.

  “If you grew your hair a little long, it’d lay down.” Her fingers trailed the line. “Longer hair might suit you.”

  He caught her fingers in his hand and opened his eyes to meet hers. Her shoulders rose and fell on a breath as she withdrew them. Carly gathered the check sockets, liners and fitting stand, placing them near the parallel bars. She picked up the gel liner and touched it to the end of his residual leg. “And if you ever want to tell me about Beckett,” she rolled the liner over his thigh, “I’m a good listener.”

  THE MEAL STARTED off quiet. Mrs. Rivera served chicken … and milk. The thought of the white, phlegmy beverage made Cole shudder. How much longer must he abstain? Oh yeah, forever, according to Joe and Carly. A sigh escaped. He couldn’t fathom it.

  The chicken wasn’t as hard to cut as steak, but Mrs. Rivera had cut both of theirs just the same. Still, Carly forked her meat and ate as though she didn’t know the housekeeper did it to protect his pride.

  Pride in what? Cole had nothing to be proud of. All he owned had been given to him by someone else. He couldn’t even be proud of the ones who’d given it to him since they’d received the same from their parents. It had been many generations since the Harrisons had built their empire, and Cole didn’t even know what it had been built on. He was only taught how to invest it and enjoy its fruits.

  He took a sip of the milk and unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Thirsty.

  “Now you’re staring at me.”

  Cole loved the pucker between Carly’s brows when she was annoyed. He smirked. “Yes I am.”

  She dropped her fork. “What are you thinking about?”

  His mind ran through ideas, not believing the answer of “you” would go over too well. “I was thinking about how well those sockets fit today—like they were a part of me. You really know your business.”

  “Remember, those are only the check-sockets, used to help us get the best fit. The real sockets will be made from the shapes we created today.”

  He sipped his milk again, dreaming of a rum chaser. “It was exciting watching you wield a blow torch.” She’d looked so intent on her work, heating the mold and adjusting it accordingly.

  Her eyes lit with humor. “Did I scare you?”

  “Impressed me.” He watched the color rise to her cheeks. “You take a lot of pride in what you do.”

  Carly shrugged. “It’s important to me. My father’s dream of helping amputees is a good one.”

  “Your father’s dream.” Why did Cole sense something missing? “Is it your dream too?”

  “Yes.” She drew a stray hair behind her ear. “It’s the least I can do for the vets who’ve sacrificed everything for my country.”

  Something in her hesitation made Cole wonder if the father-daughter dream of starting a new company was so perfectly matched.

  “My father also taught me to do everything as if for God.”

  “God.” The word came from Cole like a curse. Unbidden, thoughts of Beckett flooded his mind.

  Thirsty.

  Beckett had done things for God too. Carly said she’d like to hear about Beckett. Did she really? Maybe she should know what this God had done to one of His most faithful.

  Her gaze searched him. “How are you doing?”

  Not this question. She wouldn’t like the answer.

  “I mean,” she twirled the rice around in her dish, “with the … drinking?” The last word barely audible.

  “Are you asking do I crave it?” Thirsty.

  She pressed her lips, then, “Yes.”

  His jaw grew ridged. “Every stinkin’ second.”

  Her attention landed in her plate.

  He drew a breath. “But that’s to be expected.”

  She swirled the rice around some more. “Can you tell me about it? Combat?” She peeked up. “Maybe it
would help to talk about it.”

  Talk, talk, talk. Why is it everyone thought talk was the cure? “You don’t want to hear about war. Believe me.”

  “I want to hear about whatever you need to tell me.”

  Why was she being so open, so kind? He’d never been anything but unruly to her.

  Her fingers found their way to the cross at her neck as her posture seemed to deflate. “How about Beckett?”

  “What do you know about Beckett?”

  Thirsty.

  He hadn’t mentioned Beckett to anyone. Why did she keep saying that name as though it were as meaningful to her as it was to him?

  “I only know you scr—I mean—said his name in the hospital and that every time I mention him, something unfathomable passes through your eyes.”

  Curse that Joe, letting her near as Cole thrashed like a wild animal, deep in his hallucinations. Why had Joe allowed her to see him so weak?

  Her gaze met his. “Like now.”

  “Like now, what?”

  “Your eyes. They’re intense. Something about Beckett causes you pain.”

  Thirsty.

  He swiped at his chin with the linen napkin from his lap and moved to stand. Carly reached toward him. “Please, Cole. Tell me.” She grabbed the cross again. “Something tells me you need to speak.”

  Did he?

  He sat.

  “Fine.” He’d tell her how this God of hers failed His most faithful human.

  HE SAID “FINE,” BUT sat in silence. Was that an agreement to tell her or something else? Carly remained quiet, knowing he needed time to process and move at his own pace. She’d worked with veterans before. Many very bitter. Many emotionally scarred. She knew God could heal all wounds, but didn’t know how to get the soldiers to accept Him or what it looked like when they did. Only that God could heal anything.

  Couldn’t He?

  “Beckett joined my platoon fresh out of Basic.” He shook his head, eyelids falling in a heavy blink. “He’d come to Basic straight from high school. Still had all the pimples to prove it.”