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Chapter Seven




The Pad was bustling that night; as soon as they got Davy through the door lights were lit, phone calls were made, and the couch was quickly transformed into a makeshift hospital bed. Davy only made one sound of protest—a harsh cry when his ribs ground together.

“Don’t anybody touch him until the doctor gets here,” Mike said. Peter placed a pillow beneath Davy’s head, wincing when he saw the dried blood that matted his hair near his temple. Davy smiled at him.

“Nice to have you back, Davy.”

“Nice . . . t’be . . . back.” Davy held up a hand. “Forgive . . . me?”

Peter took it, holding it gently. “Forgiven and forgotten. Right, guys?”

Mike smiled. “I think our Tiger’s learned his lesson.”

Micky grinned, leaning over the couch. “We gotta learn ‘em the hard way, huh, Dan?”

“I thought . . . I was right. But I wasn’t,” Davy said, his eyes closing. “M’sorry . . . “

“Forgiven.” Micky straightened, his smile disappearing. “What’s takin’ that doctor so damned long?”

“I just called him five minutes ago, Micky,” Mike said. “Relax.”

“I can’t, Mike. They hurt one of us.”

“Yeah, and he’s home safe and he’ll get help real soon.”

Micky took a deep breath. Another. “Mike . . . I gotta run.”

“Go on, then. We’ll call you when the doc gets here.”

He nodded and with a last look at Davy, headed out to the beach.


~~~~~



Mike walked out onto the beach half an hour later. “Micky?” The drummer was standing at the water’s edge, hurling shells as if they were shuriken. Mike approached him slowly. “Feelin’ better?”

“Is the doctor here?”

“Just arrived. Davy was startin’ to slide into healing sleep, and he forced himself awake so he could talk to the doc.”

“Good.” Micky threw another shell.

“He’s gonna be fine, Mick.”

“I know.”

Mike looked at him. “You mad?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“Nothing.”

“Micky—” Mike began.

“I’m okay. Davy’s home safe, and if we’re lucky that creep left town.”

“Ready to go in?”

“Yeah.” Micky tossed the last shell and followed Mike back into the house.

Davy was staring bleary-eyed up at the doctor. Peter stood nearby, An-mei at his side. While An-mei went over to Micky, Micky embracing her without a word, Peter and the doctor carefully eased Davy up into a sitting position. Davy groaned as the elderly man’s fingers deftly touched his side.

“Three broken ribs,” the doctor said in soft, unaccented English.

“And the lash marks?”

“I’m not sure,” the doctor said. “A belt, perhaps, or—”

“Riding crop,” Davy murmured.

“Riding cr—” Peter sighed and looked over at Mike. “That would do it.”

“I need light, clean towels, hot water, and space,” the doctor said, cutting away the tattered remnants of Davy’s shirt and removing the sodden bandages. “These cuts are very deep. Whoever bound them probably saved his life.”

“Who put them on?” Micky asked as Peter and An-Mei scattered to find what was requested.

“Rob Roy, probably,” Davy said. “He was the one who found me, and I don’t think that woman would have helped me.” He shuddered.

“Mistress?” Mike asked with a growl.

“Yeah.”

“What in the world has she got against us?” Mike growled again.

“I don’t know, Mike, but she wants us to die . . . and wants us to suffer before we get there.” There was a barely detectable note of fear in his voice.

“And we don’t even know who she is,” Micky snarled.

“She’s someone we’ve crossed in past . . . or the friend of someone we’ve crossed in the past,” Mike said.

Davy’s eyes were starting to droop again. “And she . . . she called me Dan.”

“That means she knows about us,” Mike mused as Peter and An-mei returned to the chaise with their burdens.

Peter sighed. “Things just got a hell of a lot more complicated.”


~~~~~



A week later found Davy curled up on the couch, the crop lashes on his face and arms faded into barely visible marks. The bandages around his torso kept his healing ribs in place. The others were outside exercising and Davy wished he was out there with them.

“You’ll be with us soon enough,” Mike had said. “When you’re healed.”

It hadn’t been easy, but if Micky had been able to do it, then Davy could too. He puttered around the house as much as he was able, doing the dishes when asked and even sweeping a little, at least until Mike caught him and took the broom away.

The others hadn’t mentioned his departure since his apology. It wasn’t that they were pretending that it hadn’t happened, but more that it was a matter that had been dealt with and was finished.

It wasn’t finished, of course. It had been a mistake, a bad one, and one that Davy could have easily avoided if he’d stayed put. Perhaps it was the lesson he’d had to learn—the hard way, as Micky had said.

He sighed, carefully pushing himself up. His healing bones gave a slight murmur of protest as he stood, slowly shaking his foot, which had fallen asleep. He was halfway across the room when something slid under the door.

Another manila envelope.

He tensed; for a moment the insane thought crossed his mind that maybe Rob Roy had returned, that he and Mistress had managed to kidnap one of the others and now they’d start torturing him they the way they’d tortured Micky and Mike and Peter, just to pay him back . . .

A glance out the window confirmed that the others were still out on the beach, and he breathed a sigh of relief. So what was in the envelope? He approached it cautiously, as if it were something with claws and fangs, his hands shaking as he picked it up. He wondered if he should get the guys first, but then he saw that the envelope was addressed to him. With no idea what to expect, he opened it and pulled out the contents.

It was indeed another bundle of photographs, but nothing like what he’d been dreading. The top one was a closeup of a large pink flower. The next was a sunset. Each one, generic in subject matter, was pretty enough to warrant a frame. Davy had no doubt who’d taken them; doubt was made even more unlikely when he saw the signature on the back of one of them: Rob Roy Fingerhead.

He was about to toss them onto the table for the others to see when the last one caught his eye. He held it up, a trembling smile on his face. It had obviously been taken at the house where he’d been held prisoner, from an angle that meant the photographer had been standing well behind the couch.

Mike was standing facing the couch, gazing off to the left and looking very much the leader. Peter was supporting Davy, his expression one of relief and concern. Micky was on Davy’s other side, one hand supporting Davy’s elbow while looking in the opposite direction, the same guard-dog expression on his face. It was the three Winds accepting the fourth back into the fold.

On the back was written one word. “Reunited.”


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