Part 3
Paul's mind swam through the pain and darkness that surrounded him. It had been a long time since he had been shot. The pain was not going away, the dark though started to turn gray. The slam of a door caused his body to jerk, opening his eyes making the pain more intense. "Peter?"
Peter came into the bedroom where Paul lay. "I'm right here." Peter knelt beside the bed, reaching for Paul's hand. "How do you feel?" He had helped Paul off with the wet clothes before going out to the car.
Paul attempted to smile, failing after a split second. "Not…not too good. I'm c-cold. Not used to being shot anymore…been behind a desk too long." Paul explained as he examined Peter's face, noting the worried lines on the younger man's face. "What's wrong?"
He would have to tell Paul what he had found. Maybe Paul would know who this Morgan was and why he wanted to kill them. Peter was sure that Paul had accumulated his share of enemies, both as a mercenary and police officer.
Peter hesitated as he took a deep breath. "The radio's gone, Paul. It wasn't an accident -- the shooting, that is." Peter turned around and looked into the dark eyes, seeing the pain that wracked Paul's body. "A man named Morgan left a note. We have to get out of here before dawn, or he'll come in here and kill us."
"M-Morgan?" Paul's bushy eyebrows came together as he concentrated on the name, then remembered just who the man was.
"Who is he, Paul?"
Paul looked at the worry and concern on Peters face, "A man…from my…past. He…he's ruthless, Peter." Resting only briefly, he added, "You…you have to get out of here."
"Now you just listen to me, Paul. I will NOT leave you here, so you just get that out of your head. Do you understand me?" Peter's raised voice startled both men. He had never yelled at Paul, except the one time Peter came home drunk from a party when he was still a teenager. "I'm sorry, but I will not leave you."
Paul nodded his head. Another shiver from cold and pain wracked his body.
Peter gently brushed a few errant hairs off Paul's forehead, then began massaging Paul's temples. Peter felt the heat and perspiration that emanated from Paul's body. A grim smile touched Peter's lips. "We need to take care of that bullet wound first."
"Got a hospital in your pocket?" Paul whispered, smiling and closing his eyes to the rhythmic massage. His mind wandered to the change in his and Peter's positions. Usually it was Paul comforting his son, not vice versa.
Peter listened to Paul's uneasy breathing. Paul had started wheezing only moments ago.
The sound of footsteps on the porch caused Peter to grab for his gun, to find only the bare material of his pants. Both his and Paul's guns were in the tackle box, still in the boat. Paul noticed the fear in Peter's eyes, it was echoed in his own.
"Don't suppose we have a weapon," Paul asked.
Peter looked at Paul and smiled, "And what would you do with it? Hit me? You have a bullet in your shoulder, Paul."
Moving stealthily in the shadows, Peter moved the front door, listening to the lock being picked, then watched as the door slowly opened. Peter positioned himself in a fighting stance, ready to defend his dad and himself.
"Paul? Peter?" a familiar voice asked in a harsh whisper.
Relief flooded Peter's body, the tension that had built up so quickly, subsided. "Kermit, what are you doing here?"
"I came to tell you about an escaped prisoner. Looks like you already know," Kermit surmised, seeing the steel rod clutched in his co-worker's hands. "Started getting suspicious when I found a tree lying across the road. I heard some shots." Looking around, Kermit didn't see his old friend. "Where's Paul?"
Peter nodded, then lead the way to Paul. "One of the shots got him in the shoulder. He's in the bedroom." Peter stopped at the fireplace and handed Kermit the note. "I found this in the car. You know this guy?"
Kermit read the note and replied, "Oh, yeah. That gives us about twelve hours to devise a plan," Kermit stated as Peter motioned for them to go to the kitchen.
"Paul can't go through the woods with a bullet in his shoulder, Kermit. He also got some water in his lungs." Peter leaned against the table, barely able to control the anger he felt toward the man responsible for Paul's injury. "I worry about him, Kermit. He needs to rest, not think about some crazy man trying to kill us."
A thud caused them to run to the living room, where they found Paul lying in a pile on the floor. Raising his head, he whispered, "Ker-mit, wh-what are you…?" His question ended with several hard coughs.
Peter knelt beside Paul, cradling his head for a moment. "Where were you going? I told you to stay in bed," he gently scolded. In the back of his mind, he heard the same words said to him only a week earlier. Peter turned around and set the kindling in the dog irons. The cabin had central heat but Paul always said he felt warmer in front of a fire.
Kermit helped put Paul on the couch. Kermit smiled briefly. "I came for supper."
"Oh," Paul breathed out, squeezing his eyes tightly against the pain in his shoulder. "I-I heard y-you talk-ing."
Kermit took off his sunglasses and removed the cloth Peter had pressed up against Paul's shoulder wound. The fall had caused the wound to start bleeding again. "The bullet needs to come out."
Peter's breath caught as the meaning of Kermit's words sunk in. Peter looked into Paul's steel blue eyes, seeing the pain Paul was feeling, but not admitting too.
Paul closed his eyes, not wanting Peter to know how bad the pain was. He could feel the bullet grating against the bone with each breath or slight movement. "It's been…a long…time, Kermit."
The grim smile on Kermit's face set Peter even more on edge. "Yeah, it has. You ready?"
Paul nodded as Kermit gave orders to Peter. "Look in the first aid kit and find some clean bandages. The rolled gauze would be helpful also. Oh, see if you can find something to make a sling out of also."
"It's down in the boat. I'll be back in a flash." Peter stated, laying a hand on Paul's, then looking at Kermit.
"Be careful…Peter." Paul requested.
Kermit pulled two knives from the knife rack in the kitchen and put them in a pot of water to boil. He then pulled out the whetstone rod, putting it in the coals of the fireplace.
Peter returned to the kitchen with the kit and what was left of the tackle box. "Looks like Morgan wasn't going to leave anything to chance. He ransacked the box. Part of the boat is sunk." Walking into the living room, he looked at Paul's eyes, noting his pupils were dilated and his eyes had a slightly glazed look. "How do you feel?"
"Not so bad." Paul's breathing quickened as he saw Kermit pull the knives from the pot of hot water he had brought over and set on the coffee table. "I guess…I could get…worse."
"Peter, hold his hands. Paul, I really need you to be as still as possible, OK?" Nervousness tinged Kermit's voice. He had done this in the field years ago when he was a mercenary, when doctors and hospitals were not readily available, but it had been on people he worked with, not on those few people who Kermit held in high esteem.
Paul closed his eyes, squeezing them tight. His jaw clenched against the inevitable pain.
Peter stood on his knees beside the couch holding Paul's hands.
Kermit picked up the longest knife, the one with the serrated blade, and inserted it into the bullet hole, slowly allowing it to follow the same course as the bullet. He dismissed the red face of his friend and mentor, ignoring the sweat that was beading up on the man's face. "I got it," he stated coolly, hooking the metal object with the knife and gently pulled the bullet out.
Opening his eyes briefly when the digging stopped, Paul watched as Kermit pointed the red-hot whetstone rod toward the bleeding wound. He smelled the scent of searing flesh just before his brain registered the pain. He couldn't hold back the cry of pain. His brain couldn't take any more and sent him into the dark void of unconsciousness.
Feeling Paul's carotid pulse, Kermit then cleaned around the wound and applied the clean gauze.
"We'll let him sleep for an hour. That'll give us time to think about where to go," Kermit said as they put up the surgical tools that had once been kitchen utensils.