WHERE TIGERS PROWL Read online

  A loud bang in the backyard jolted her from her thoughts.

  Oh for God's sake. What now? She tiptoed to the back door and peered out into the blackness.

  A few seconds later, a flash of lightning lit up the sky, and she realized what she'd heard. Bang! The wooden gate had blown open again.

  "Never a dull moment in the 'house of gloom.'" If the gate kept whacking against the fence, one or the other of them was going to break. She slipped her feet into her shoes and pulled her damp jacket back on. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and aimed the beam of her flashlight toward the back fence.

  The cold rain beat against her face as she dashed out to the gate and wrestled it shut once more. She was positive she'd latched it properly when she came in from her run, but maybe the wind had worked it loose.

  She turned and headed back toward the house, but it was slower going than it had been earlier. The wind had picked up, and it was blowing against her. She kept her flashlight trained toward the back porch, and focused on the flicker of firelight she could see through the living room window.

  Something that sounded distinctly like a moan sent a shiver through her.

  "Just the tree in the wind," she said aloud.

  But her senses slipped into fine-tune mode and her hand brushed uneasily against her knife. Nothing appeared out of place in the yard. All she heard was the sound of the rain lashing against the house, the wind torturing the old tree…and the drumming of her heart in her ears.

  It's just the wind.

  Her body suddenly jarred so hard it caused her teeth to ache.

  "Jesus!" She whipped the beam of her flashlight toward the ground to see what she'd tripped over.

  The gnarled root of the old maple jutted up from the path.

  A shaky laugh escaped her. "Get a grip, girl!" Yeah, she was some kind of tough, outdoor, adventurous-type now, wasn't she? Still chuckling, she swung the beam of her light back toward the porch.

  Her laugh died mid-breath.

  "Holy—!"

  She scrambled backward and nearly tripped over the root again.

  Slowly, her heart throbbing in her chest, she moved the light back down to the ground.

  There, in the wet grass, not six inches from where she had stood, lay a stiff, white hand. The fingers were curled slightly upward and rain puddled in the palm.

  Swallowing hard, she arced the light until she could make out the arm, and finally the body it was attached to.

  Oh, God, please don't let this be a dead person.

  But a sick dread settled in the pit of her stomach. During college and for several years afterward, she'd done search and rescue work in the Rocky Mountains. It was her first love, before her grandmother had manipulated her into staying here at Yale. During those Colorado years, she'd learned to trust her instincts, and right now they were screaming on full alert.

  The body was curled almost into a fetal position facing her. One long, outstretched arm pointed toward her. She couldn't make out the face in the shadows, but from the broad shoulders and angular build, she was sure it was a man. He lay a couple of feet from her porch steps as if he'd been about to climb them, maybe seeking help, and had collapsed before he got there. How she'd missed him on her way out, she didn't know. It was probably some kind of miracle, and the fact that he lay off to one side, that had saved her from stumbling over him on her trip to the gate.

  As she stepped closer to get a better look, her muscles stretched taut with tension. Women had been attacked after being lured this way.

  While her instincts indicated this man's dilemma was real, and she was trained to help if he needed it, her personal safety took precedence until she got a better feel for the situation. Rather than doing the usual airway check first, she knelt a cautious few feet away and reached a hand toward his neck to feel for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  Nothing but cold, clammy skin under her touch.

  Another flicker of dread shot through her veins like ice. Please don't let this be a dead guy.

  Quickly, she breathed on her fingers and rubbed them on her jacket a few times to get the circulation flowing. Then, she touched his neck again, praying for some kind of movement.

  This time she felt his pulse thrumming slowly beneath her fingers. "Thank you," she said aloud.

  Leaning closer, she saw his chest rising and falling rapidly.

  Okay, one live human being. This was good.

  She ran a quick glance over him, checking for injuries as best she could. But in the dark, with him lying on his side, and nothing but a flashlight for illumination, it was hard to tell what was what. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt, and…jeez! He was barefoot. In this cold, if he wasn't already suffering from hypothermia, he was going to be soon.

  She started to unzip her jacket to put over him, but he stirred and moaned, then rolled himself onto his back.

  What she saw brought a hard knot of fear to her stomach.

  In the beam of her light, there was no mistaking the stains of blood on his shirt and pants. Holding the flashlight under her chin, she ran her hands over him, trying to locate the source of the blood. His shirt stubbornly clung to him from the rain, and it didn't help that her fingers were cold and unmanageable.

  She needed to evaluate the bleeding, see if it was old or fresh, but she also needed to get help. He might have internal injuries as well. In the middle of a storm, however, there was no telling how long it would take to get an ambulance out here from New Haven. She stared at the back door, gauging the distance. She was going to have to get him in the house somehow and out of this weather.

  Icy fingers suddenly closed around her hand.

  Maris yelped and tried to scoot backward, but her running shoes slipped in the grass and she found herself caught in the surprisingly strong grip of the now conscious man.

  Damn, damn, damn! So much for being prepared for the unexpected.

  He stared at her, his gaze penetrating, almost predatory. Then he whispered something. Something that sounded more desperate than threatening.

  Unable to resist the odd, magnetic pull of his gaze, she leaned closer until her face was inches from his. "What did you say?"

  He squeezed her hand and whispered again. "Please."

  The softly-voiced word, so unexpected in light of his fierce stare, tugged at all her protective instincts. "Hang on. I'm going to get you inside and call for help."

  He shook his head and tried to draw her back to him, but his hand suddenly went limp. His eyes closed.

  "Come on now, don't do this." She shook his shoulder. "Stay with me."

  His eyes fluttered open again.

  "I need to get you in the house, but I don't know if I can do it by myself. Can you help?"

  The eyes closed, then flickered open again. A barely perceptible nod followed.

  "Good, okay." She hated to move him, but since he'd gotten into her yard this far, and he'd just turned himself over, she decided to assume he didn't have any spinal or neck injuries. Assumption wasn't exactly the best way to practice emergency medical care, but sometimes you just had to go with your gut.

  She scrambled to her feet and straddled his legs, then leaned down and grabbed his arms under the elbows. He groaned and pulled his left hand protectively against his chest.

  "Oh, God. Sorry." She knelt next to him once more. "Let me look."

  His middle and ring fingers bent at odd angles, and his entire hand was swollen. Damn. He had a good break here. "Okay, keep it still against you and we'll manage."

  She crawled to his other side, gripped his right elbow, and managed to lever him into a sitting position. Then she worked her shoulder under his arm and grabbed him around the waist.

  "Okay, ready? One, two, three…"

  With a grunt, she slowly lifted and pulled him to his feet. He leaned on her heavily, causing her to stagger until she got her balance. He was a tall man, probably well over six feet, and solidly built. But her years of running and climbing had blessed her
with a fair share of muscle, so she was able to stay on her feet and support him.

  They edged their way up onto the porch, one agonizing step at a time. She kicked the door open so they could squeeze through.

  Stumbling a few steps into the living room, they almost made it to the fireplace before his legs gave out. She managed to ease him onto the hardwood floor with some finesse and not too much jostling. He sank into a heap, his breathing coming out in ragged, uneven gasps.

  She slammed and locked the back door, dug her old medical pack out of the hall closet, then grabbed a couple of pillows off the couch and eased them under his head. Dropping to her knees next to him, she yanked off her jacket. "Hey, are you still with me here?"

  God, this did not look good. His sculpted cheekbones cast shadows on his gaunt cheeks in the firelight, and he was much paler than she'd prefer to see anyone. Pulling on the stethoscope she hadn't used in nearly three years, she checked his pulse again. Thready, but still beating.

  His eyes slowly fluttered open and he stared at her with a glassy, far-away gaze.

  "It's okay, we're inside now," she said in a soothing voice as she brushed his longish, wet hair back off his forehead. It appeared dark now from the rain, but she suspected it was light brown or blond. "I'm going to look at your injuries, then call for an ambulance."

  He shook his head fiercely, and his gaze nearly burned a hole in her. "No," he whispered.

  "It's going to be okay. They'll take good care of you at the hospital."

  She draped her stethoscope around her neck and started to push his sweatshirt up to do a closer assessment of his condition.

  With a grip like steel, he grabbed her hand with his good one. "No," he barked in a hoarse voice. "No ambulance."

  She patted his shoulder, and tried to calm the frantic beating of her own heart at his insistence and the way his big hand squeezed hers almost painfully. It wasn't unusual for a trauma victim to get panicky. "It's okay. I just want to help you."

  He jerked her down against him with a strength that caught her off guard. She could feel the power of his chest pressing wet and solid against hers as he stared into her eyes. Her training fled and she heard her own breathing come out in small, erratic pants.

  "No—ambulance. No—hospital." His voice was a whisper punctuated by wheezing gasps that gave her reason to believe it hurt him to breath. But there was no mistaking the authority.

  Or, once again, the underlying sense of desperation.

  "Okay…" She nodded slowly, trying not to think too much about why his tone twisted her insides into a confusing knot of compassion and something much more visceral. "For now. But I have to look at what we're dealing with here, and you're going to have to give me my hand back so I can work."

  Almost as if he'd forgotten he was holding it, his grip let up. His gaze, however, never left her.

  And the feel of that gaze burned into her as if it were seeing all the way to the depths of her soul. She tried to regain her presence of mind, and avoided looking into his eyes. In the firelight, she could see several days worth of golden stubble glinting on his face. She guessed him to be her age or maybe a little older—probably early to mid thirties.

  Taking a deep breath, she set to work again on his shirt. But it was wet and stuck to his skin. It'd probably be easier to cut it off him.

  "What's your name," she asked as she pulled scissors out of her medical pack.

  He blinked and a frown creased his brow. Those odd, probing eyes stared at her for an eternity, alight with confusion…and suspicion.

  "Well…my name is Maris."

  Another frown.

  "El Tigre," he said suddenly, in a barely audible voice. Then his eyes closed again, and this time, his whole body went limp.

  "Hey, stay with me." She shook his shoulder, but got no response. Damn. She had a feeling he was going to be out for a while this time. A quick check eased her mind that at least his vitals were stable. His heart and respiration were still in an acceptable range.

  El tigre?

  Spanish for tiger. What had he meant by that? Was El Tigre supposed to be his name? She thought she'd heard the softly rolled Spanish r—a perfect Spanish accent, in fact. None of his other brief words had been accented, though.

  She made quick work of his sweatshirt, slitting it straight up the front from waist to neckline, then cutting down the sleeves. Slowly, she pushed it back and eased his broken hand out of it.

  His chest was covered in streaks of blood, and it looked to be coming from cuts of some sort. None of them individually seemed life threatening, but all together they made him look like he'd had a run-in with a meat cleaver.

  Maris pulled her T-shirt over her head, which left her clad in her sports bra, and used the soft fabric of her shirt to staunch the trickling blood. As she pressed against his chest, even in his unconscious state, he groaned and tried to jerk away. Uh oh…that wasn't good. After more careful probing, she determined he probably had a couple of broken ribs.

  What had happened to this poor guy?

  She hesitated over whether or not to cut off his jeans, too, but decided she'd have to touch him less intimately if she just pulled them off. Gently, she worked them over his hips, revealing navy blue knit boxer shorts and muscular legs covered with rough golden hair that even a seasoned caregiver couldn't help but admire.

  Carefully, she began easing the wet denim down his thighs. The sticky heat of blood suddenly covered her left hand. With a new sense of urgency, she pulled his jeans out of the way. The sight that greeted her sent her on full alert.

  She sprang to her feet and did the only thing a sensible, trained medical professional could do.

  She called 911.

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  Damn. The cavalry wasn't coming to the rescue.

  Maris stared at the man on her floor and her heart flip-flopped.

  The 911 operator had been sympathetic and apologetic, but with the storm and a major storm-related Amtrak derailing down the coast, emergency services were understaffed and overworked right now. They simply couldn't provide immediate help unless it was a life or death emergency. And they were recommending no one travel the roads themselves.

  Having worked in the field of emergency services for many years, Maris respected and understood the situation. The man was battered and bloody, and had symptoms of suffering from cold exposure, but even with the nasty wound on his leg, his life wasn't in any immediate danger. His vital signs were stable. She'd do what she could for him, and hope that if his condition grew worse, help would be available.

  The old familiar surge of protectiveness welled up inside her again. Who was he and how had he come to be in her backyard? And more important to her peace of mind, how had he gotten shot in the leg?

  Taking a deep breath to ground herself, she twisted her unruly, damp curls into a knot at the back of her head, then went in search of more lighting, some towels, blankets and clean sheets, and more first aid supplies.

  With candles burning on every available tabletop, and out of the way on the floor, she forced herself into a purely clinical mindset and got to work.

  An hour later, exhausted, but feeling for the first time in a long time like she'd done something that actually mattered, she leaned back against the hearth and rubbed her aching neck.

  The man lay nearby, still on the floor, but she'd managed to get a couple of blankets underneath him and had fashioned a soft pallet for him to lie on. He was covered with a clean sheet and one of Grandma Sophie's quilts. His breathing was slow and steady.

  He hadn't awakened the entire time she'd worked on him, although he had moaned and flinched as she'd cleaned his wounds and set the broken bones in his left hand. She'd hated that, hated watching his body wracked with pain, and had felt guilty for putting him through it. It was probably a blessing he was unconscious.

  The gunshot wound on his leg was clean, thank God, and the bullet had gone straight through. It was probably going to give
him some ugly pain for a while, but it could have been much worse.

  Rescuing stranded climbers and hikers, and hunting for backcountry skiers and avalanche survivors over the years had given her plenty of experience dealing with trauma. And even, on occasion, death. But she'd never seen anything like this man's injuries before. Street trauma wasn't her forte; that was Jerry's department. Still, as she'd cleaned up the blood and had an opportunity to really study all his injuries, there seemed to be almost a precision to them that she'd never seen before in trauma cases.

  The wounds on his chest and back for example. There must have been twenty of them, and not one of them looked as if it had occurred in the heat of a fight. They were all clean, almost surgical, in appearance, as if someone had very carefully made them.

  The word "torture" kept niggling at the back of her mind. The only way for bones in a hand to break like his were was for his fingers to have been hyperextended backward. It could happen by accident, sure, but again, it seemed too exactingly done. A sudden jolt from a fall would likely have impacted other parts of the hand, but on his, the breaks were clean—as if there'd been slow, steady pressure until the bones snapped.

  Even the gunshot wound seemed odd. She was hardly a forensics expert, but he'd been shot from behind, and it looked like it had been from very close range. The gaping, bloody sight she'd seen on the front of his thigh was the exit wound. Always larger and messier than the entry.

  Although not new, he also had patches of smooth, white scar tissue that covered his abdomen and part of his chest. Burn scars. They looked to be years old, but they covered a large area. At some point in his life, he'd experienced serious trauma before.

  Whatever had happened to this mystery man before he arrived in her backyard seemed to have been done deliberately. And his insistence she not call for help further disturbed her. Why wouldn't he want anyone to know what had happened to him? Unless…