Aftershock. Jill Sorenson

wipes. Her face was filthy. After cleaning every inch of exposed skin above her neck, she went to work on her chest, determined to remove the stain of Mickey’s touch.

      Garrett stayed silent, and kept his eyes averted, but she noticed his concerned expression. Her hands stilled. If she scrubbed any harder, she’d bleed.

      Clearing her throat, she trashed the soiled wipes and zipped up her jacket. More comfortable treating patients other than herself, she turned to Garrett. He didn’t appear injured. Mickey must not have landed any blows.

      Maybe he only hit women.

      “Let me see your knuckles,” she said.

      With obvious reluctance, Garrett sat down across from her and showed her his bloody fists. They looked awful. She hadn’t ever treated the cuts from the safety glass. Old wounds mixed with new ones, creating a crosshatch of dark slashes.

      They needed to be soaked, but she couldn’t waste water. After cleaning his hands with antibacterial foam, she placed them on a surgical towel and took out her suture kit. One of the lacerations was long and deep.

      “I can give you a local anesthetic.”

      “Just do it,” he replied.

      The first time the needle punctured his skin, he sucked in a sharp breath. After that, he endured the short procedure in silence, showing no reaction. She made five neat stitches and bandaged his knuckles.

      His skin was darkly tanned, as if he worked outdoors, and his palms were callused. Ropey veins stood out on the backs of his hands in harsh relief. He had good blood pressure, like an endurance athlete.

      “Are you in the military?” she asked when she was finished.

      He thanked her, flexing his hand. “I was.”

      “Which branch?”

      “The Marines.”

      “Did you go to Iraq?”

      “Twice.”

      “How was it?”

      “Kind of like this.”

      His answers were curt and honest, which suited her fine. The fact that he had combat experience was a plus, given Jeb and Mickey’s presence.

      “I’m going to stay right beside you today,” he announced. “I’ll carry a tire iron, and see if I can find any other weapons. Cadence and Penny should hang out inside the RV. No one goes anywhere alone.”

      “Agreed.”

      “We should do something with the bodies before it heats up.”

      Her stomach did a queasy flip-flop. He was right. The corpses would begin to smell and attract flies.

      Lauren wasn’t squeamish about death, but she didn’t usually have to deal with decomposition. Transporting bodies wasn’t part of her job. The coroner’s office or the police department took care of the dead. Emergency services focused on the living.

      Taking a flashlight, they looked for a place to stack the corpses, avoiding the north edge, where Jeb and Mickey were holed up. The rubble at the southwest corner offered the best possible burial site. In addition to car-size chunks of concrete, there were a lot of small, loose rocks to work with.

      The corner also had the lowest elevation in the cavern, another plus. Decomposition fluids would not creep uphill.

      When she pointed this out to Garrett, he dragged a hand down his face, deliberating. “Let’s eat breakfast first.”

      She murmured her assent. They might not have an appetite after.

      * * *

      GARRETT FOLLOWED LAUREN back to the RV, surveying the edges of the cavern with dark anticipation.

      He’d love to take another crack at Mickey. If Jeb hadn’t shown up, Garrett wouldn’t have let him off so easy. He’d wanted to keep hitting him, and hitting him, and hitting him. Maybe even until Mickey stopped breathing.

      Garrett had killed a man with his bare hands before.

      The monster inside him had been chained too long. Garrett thought he’d conquered his anger issues, and he didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of his past. But he’d been enraged by the attempted rape. He was furious with Lauren’s attackers, and with himself.

      Don had risen early, like them. He made instant coffee and scrambled eggs. Garrett helped himself to both and took a seat in a folded camp chair.

      “How are the girls?” Lauren asked Don.

      “Sleeping,” he said, with a tense smile. “Cadence had a rough night. She kept calling out for her parents.”

      “Are they here in San Diego?”

      “No, they live up north. She was visiting me and my wife for spring break. We live in La Mesa.”

      “I have an apartment near there. Balboa Park.” Sipping her coffee, she turned to Garrett. “How about you?”

      “What about me?”

      “Where do you live?”

      “Santee,” he said, shoveling eggs into his mouth. He didn’t want to continue this conversation.

      To his relief, Penny came outside to join them, and Lauren’s attention was diverted. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

      “Okay,” the pregnant girl mumbled.

      “Did you sleep?”

      “A little.”

      Shuffling forward, Penny lowered herself into a lawn chair. Her long hair was tangled, her stomach huge and her eyes puffy. She looked miserable, but unharmed, her skin free from any serious cuts or burns.

      Garrett moved his gaze back to Lauren, noting that the mark of Mickey’s hand on her cheek had already begun to fade. Like Penny, she wasn’t badly injured. Garrett felt some of his tension ease. In order to assist her, he had to control his emotions. Going on a murderous rampage wouldn’t be helpful.

      Protecting her was his number one mission, and he couldn’t fail. Not this time.

      After he finished his breakfast, he took Don aside for a man-to-man. He’d learned yesterday that Don was a Vietnam vet. He had the stoicism and work ethic of career military. Though retired, he was fit and strong.

      “Something happened last night,” Garrett said.

      “What’s that?”

      He’d already told Don about the busted-up convict van. He should have notified Lauren, but she’d been busy with her patients. He hadn’t wanted to worry her.

      That was his mistake—and she’d paid for it.

      “One of the convicts tried to rape Lauren,” Garrett said.

      Don’s brow furrowed with concern. “Did he get to her?”

      “No. I woke up and...interrupted. Then his buddy showed up and pulled a gun on me. They both got away.”

      Don let out a low whistle. “What should we do?”

      “What can we do?”

      “I don’t know, son.”

      Garrett understood that Don was using the expression in an offhand way, but it had been years since anyone had called him “son.” He cleared his throat, awash with memories. “I’m just telling you what went down.”

      “Do you think they’ll come back?”

      “They might.”

      “We have to be careful.”

      “Yes.”

      Don glanced down at the crowbar Garrett held, his eyes narrowing. He didn’t ask what Garrett’s intentions were, and didn’t seem to disapprove of the weapon. Even