“Please don’t do this. I can’t help you if I can’t move around.”

“Right now you can help me by lying still and being quiet.”

“Be reasonable, Shaw. It’s over. You have a serious, possibly mortal wound. We have no way of knowing the extent of the internal injuries.” She went on like that for at least a full minute, pleading and arguing with him before she realized that he wasn’t arguing back.

When Shaw woke up, rain was beating against the tin roof like a shower of ball bearings. But it was pain not dulled by ibuprofen that had awakened him. Jordie had placed the spotlight even with his waistline, the beam directed onto his wound. She was palpating the area around it.

“Will you please stop that? It hurts like a son of a bitch.”

Her brow was furrowed. “Shaw, listen to me, you’re—”

“What time is it?” He crooked his left arm and blinked the numerals on his wristwatch into focus. It wasn’t too long till dawn which was why the darkness was no longer absolute black, but a dark gray. There wouldn’t be a sunrise, however. Not the way the rain was coming down.

“Are you lucid?” Jordie asked.

He looked at her and nodded.

“This is worse. It’s getting infected.”

Although he had to clench his jaw to keep from moaning, he struggled up so he could check for himself. Jordie had untied the makeshift binding and removed the blood-soaked bandana, exposing the torn, raw flesh. The area surrounding the wound had become puffy and red.

“You’re burning up,” she said.

Yes, he realized that he had a fever. His skin felt itchy and too tight; his eyes were stinging; he had a raging thirst. “Pass me that water bottle.”

She was quick to do so, reaching for it with her right hand, since her left was still shackled to his. As he raised the bottle to his mouth, he halted it midway. “What was that?”

“What?” She followed the direction of his gaze to the door. “Lightning. It’s been flashing off and on for at least an hour.” Coming back around, she said, “Shaw, you’ve got to give up. Let me cut myself free. Tell me where the phone battery is. Or the car keys. I’ll drive you—”

“Shh!”

“Don’t shush me. You’ve got—”

He pulled her down beside him and rolled partially on top of her so he could reach the spotlight with his left hand. He clicked it off.

“What are you doing?” She tried to throw him off, but he kept her pinned down, his left thigh thrown across her.

He trained his feverish eyes on the door where he saw another flicker of light, but the rumble he detected above the racket of the rain on the roof wasn’t thunder.

“Shaw—”

“Be quiet!”

“Let me up!”

Instead he clamped his left hand over her mouth. “Car,” he said. “If you say a word, if you even breathe hard, whoever is in it will likely die. His or her blood will be on your hands. Got it?”

She hesitated for only a second, then bobbed her head as much as his restraining hand would allow.

He removed his hand from her mouth and blinked hard to keep from passing out from the pain as he struggled to sit. He drew his right knee up and with his free left hand reached beneath the stringy hem of his jeans and into his boot, and pulled out the Bobcat.

When Jordie saw the palm pistol, she gasped.

He said, “What kind of hit man would carry only one gun?”

“Is that one loaded?”

“Always.”

The headlights that he’d seen approaching cut an arc across the front of the building, then remained stationary, but on. For the longest time, nothing happened. Which signaled to Shaw that it was a cop. A curiosity seeker would be less cautious. A cop on a manhunt would be calling in his position before coming to explore further.

Beside him, Jordie remained tense as she, too, kept her eyes on the closed door.

Shaw strained to catch the sounds of a car door opening, approaching footsteps, but the noise of the rain striking the roof drowned out everything else, until a voice with a noticeable Louisiana accent called out, “I’m Deputy Clint Morrow, Terrebonne Parish Sheriff’s Office. Identify yourself, please.”

Beside Shaw, Jordie was trembling, but she didn’t speak.

“I know you’re in there,” the deputy said. “A fisherman saw the light going on and off.”

Shaw looked at Jordie with reproach, but she didn’t make eye contact, just kept staring at the door.

It was slowly pulled open, the creak of the hinges distinct despite the rainfall. A man, crouched with pistol drawn, appeared in the opening, silhouetted against his car’s headlights, a tall form beneath a cowboy hat. He took one step into the building, but Shaw ordered, “Far enough.”

He halted. “Shaw Kinnard?”

“The pleasure’s all mine. You have a family, Deputy Morrow?”

“What?”

“You heard me. If you want to see your loved ones again, back away. Otherwise I’ll shoot you.”

“And then I’d see your flash and shoot you.”

“No you won’t. Because you might hit Jordie Bennett who’s handcuffed to me.”

The deputy hesitated then ducked out of sight. “Ms. Bennett,” he called from outside, “are you all right?”

She looked at Shaw, who nodded his permission for her to speak.

“Yes. But…but I am handcuffed to him, and he has a gun, and—”

“Enough!” Shaw said.

“We need an ambulance!” she shouted.

“Who’s hurt?” the deputy shouted back.

“Don’t say another word.” For emphasis Shaw yanked on her handcuffed hand. He envisioned the deputy speaking softly but urgently into the mike clipped to his shoulder, alerting a dispatch operator to the hostage situation, requesting backup and EMTs.

“He’s good,” Shaw said with grudging respect. “Took him less than the three days I allotted. Of course he had your help with the spotlight.”

Jordie looked at him with evident anxiety. “What are you going to do?”

He thought about it for a moment, keeping pain, nausea, and unconsciousness at bay by a sheer act of will. “Getting captured is one thing. It happens to the best. But being played for a fool is something else.”