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Before I can stop him, Damon strides across the room, while I wait by the door, like a chicken. He removes the red book, setting the wall into motion.
The passageway is dark, and when he peers in, before glancing back at me with a frown, I have to believe it’s empty. I pad across to his side and stare down at the alcove.
“There’s no one in here,” he says.
“Give me your phone.” When he does, I point the flashlight to the left, where a gap in the wall reveals the entrance to another passage, one that appears to extend well beyond the light’s reach. “This must be some kind of Underground Railroad, or something.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought that tunnel was used for smuggling drugs. I can deal with refugees.”
“Yeah, except, if this operation gets busted, it’s going to look like you run the show.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I’ve got bigger fish to fry right now. Like trying to figure out how the hell you got here.”
“Bus? There’s a stop right out in front of the church. Runs until midnight. And where have you been at this hour?”
“A party.”
I raise my brows at that, and a blossom of red snags my attention. I didn’t notice the stain before, set against his black shirt, but up close, I can see where it looks darker, wet. I reach out a hand to touch it, and a sticky redness coats my fingertips. “Damon? Is this your blood?”
“Saw a robbery and followed the thieves to a party, where I proceeded to stop a rape from happening and pistol-whipped a gang member, who happens to be associated with the Sinoloa cartel. Got stabbed somewhere along the way. You see? Bigger fish.”
“Um. Shit.” I drop down to a knee, lifting his shirt to see a good-sized wound still oozing blood. “We have to clean this up. Jesus, Damon, you might need stitches.”
“I pulled the knife myself. Wasn’t as deep as I thought.”
“Well, it’s certainly not shallow.” I take his hand and force him to press into the wound to staunch the blood. “Into the bathroom. Let’s clean this up.” Leading the way, I glance back to see he’s half-heartedly holding his wound. “Pressure, Damon.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I may not look the part, but I’m a bit more hard core than this.”
“How so?”
“It’s not the first time I’ve been stabbed.”
Over the last couple of weeks, he’s revealed bits and pieces of his former life. Small little anecdotes that serve as a major contrast to the man I know now. “I know that. You don’t think I know that?”
“Let me grab something. I’ll meet you in the bathroom.”
With a nod, I keep on, and rummage through his cupboards for alcohol, swabs, and butterfly band-aids, which I can’t find. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the man is probably going to have to make a trip to the ER, because that wound needs sealing, and there’s no way in hell I can stomach it.
When he returns, I immediately get to work, cleaning up the wound, praying it won’t be as deep as I thought just moments ago. It is. I can see the deep red meat of his viscera that tickles the back of my throat, begging me to toss my last meal.
“Damon, this is pretty deep.”
“It’s not. Trust me. I’ve seen deep wounds before.” From his pocket, he pulls a white bottle, with Gorilla Glue on the label. “I’ll show you a neat trick.”
Mouth gaping, I watch as he presses the edges of his wound together and runs the glue down the seam, fingers set apart to avoid touching it.
“It’s not perfect, but it avoids stitches.”
“How many times, exactly, have you been stabbed?”
“Enough that I’m pretty confident about the glue.” When he releases his skin, the wound remains stuck together. “Voila!All good.”
Bending forward, I examine the thin shiny layer over his skin and run my finger down the seam to see it’s already dry. “Wow. Now, what if it gets infected? All the bacteria is sealed in there.”
