by DiAnn Mills
A hand shook me. My eyes flew open.
“Get on the floor and stay there,” Aaron said. “We have company.”
“Maybe they’re locals,” I whispered.
“Night-vision goggles show two men, and local folks aren’t armed like these two. Ike’s about thirty minutes out. So are the cops.”
He closed the door, and I lay flat on the floor. The stench of mold with a heavy dose of bleach sent me scrambling for the inhaler. But it was empty, not even fumes helped.
God, help me. Help Aaron.
Unless I calmed myself, my breathing would worsen. Who was out there? Did they think I had access to the money? I hadn’t given up on the stalker driven by Travis’s death, but if that were the case, why hadn’t a contract for my death been issued in prison? These two wanted a payoff now. Listening hard while the silence seemed to roar in my ears, I counted the moments ticking by.
The crack of a gun broke a window.
Aaron returned fire.
A repeating weapon of some sort rippled along the trailer side, shattering glass. Had it penetrated the metal siding? Did the shooters have night-vision goggles too?
Two shots fired from inside. Then another.
Another round of bullets tore into the side of the mobile home.
Then silence.
An engine roared to life. Gunfire from inside broke the night air. Spitting gravel led me to believe the shooters had left.
“Aaron, are you okay?” I called out.
Nothing.
“Aaron, say something.”
A moan met my ears. I stumbled down the narrow hallway to the kitchen. Glass crunched beneath my feet. Aaron’s form slumped on the floor. Without a light, it was impossible to tell where he’d been hurt. I bent, not knowing where to touch or how to help.
“My side and leg. I let them know we’re armed.”
I stole a glimpse at the outside through a broken window. Only darkness and silence greeted me. But the shooters could be ready to pull the trigger.
“One jerk got away. But I know I hit the other one, and he’s still out there.” He groaned. “Get the first aid kit in the bathroom. Towel too.”
I hurried back down the hall and felt my way into the bathroom for the items. In seconds I returned to Aaron. I knelt by his side and flipped open the kit, but in the darkness I couldn’t see much. Dare I turn on a light?
My lungs fought for air.
“Use the flashlight on my phone.” He managed to reach into his pocket, anguish sounding through each excruciating move.
I shone the light on him, a mass of blood and mangled flesh. I pressed a towel onto his right side and leg. How did he stay conscious?
“Call Ike.”
Isaac’s name was the last number he’d called, and I pressed it in. “This is Shelby. Aaron’s been shot. He needs an ambulance.”
“How bad?”
Aaron’s eyes were closed, and when I spoke his name, he didn’t respond. “He’s unconscious. I don’t think it hit his femoral artery, but I’m applying pressure.”
“And you?”
“Struggling for air.”
“Take his gun. Use it if necessary.”
“I don’t know how,” I whispered through painful wheezing. I couldn’t pass out and leave Aaron to bleed out.
“Better get over that real fast if you want to live.”
37
Time dragged like a ball and chain while I fretted over every outside sound and Aaron’s wounds. He hadn’t regained consciousness, which worried me. With both hands, I applied steady pressure over the gunshots using a bloody towel. He’d lost a tremendous amount of blood, too much in my estimation. My strength dwindled, while my lungs strained to give me life.
I fought for him. I fought for myself.
If the shooter had survived, he’d have broken in and finished Aaron and me off by now. Not that I wouldn’t have given him a good fight. The truck had sped away, but what was the likelihood of him or them returning to finish the job?
The day had punched me with one crisis after another. Seeing Mom and telling her goodbye. Facing Dad’s hatred. Feeling pity for Marissa and her plight in raising a daughter alone. But someone had learned exactly where I’d been tucked away. Now a good man bled out because of an effort to keep me safe, a man who should be spending his days playing golf or fishing.
Tears stung my eyes for all the people who’d suffered over the years. My lungs burned, and I struggled to breathe. Did all of this really matter? I ached for the truth to surface. It seemed like I’d endured enough, but my longing mirrored selfishness. Love for Marissa had sealed my future, and I had no regrets there. Coming forward with the truth held no purpose, except to hurt my sister and her daughter. Locating the stolen money meant Denton’s case was closed and Travis’s legacy was established. Nothing I could do about Dad’s bitterness. But I would go to my death to find who stole the money for the African orphans.
Mom’s words flooded into my senses, the one thing she begged me to do. She suspected I’d sacrificed my life for my sister. “Bring the truth to light. Your dad’s blinded by too many things, and sweet Aria is confused. . . . Justice is light.” If only they could have talked longer, to find out if Mom really knew the truth. She used to say she knew her girls inside and out.
Hadn’t I already concluded that Mom’s medicine must have altered her thinking?
Sirens grew closer, and I prayed an ambulance was with them. Not sure I could handle anything happening to Aaron.
His phone lit up showing Isaac calling, and I released my pressure on Aaron’s wound long enough to press Speaker and answer.
“We’re about there. Any more problems?”
“Only my concern for Aaron.” My lungs were on fire. My head pounded. “Is an ambulance with you?”
“There’s two. Are you shot?”
“No.”
“You need medical help for the asthma.”
Instead of responding and using what little breath I had left, I collapsed over Aaron’s lanky body. He couldn’t die because of me.
I must have drifted into a fog because someone lifted me off Aaron and leaned me against the fridge. The person inserted a mouthpiece in my mouth. No need for instructions. I sucked in blessed air, a mist with some kind of beta-agonists, probably albuterol. I swept my gaze over the four paramedics in the small kitchen. Two positioned Aaron onto a stretcher while a third balanced an IV pole. I had dozed while they worked on him.
“Are you okay now?” The female paramedic knelt beside me. “We can transport you to the hospital.”
I shook my head and held up five fingers indicating five more minutes. An ambulance left with Aaron. The siren screeched and faded into the distance. Nearly an hour later, the female paramedic removed the nebulizer tube and checked my vitals. The second paramedic jotted down notes.
“She shouldn’t be left alone for any length of time,” the female paramedic said to Isaac.
“I’ve talked to a doctor and picked up some meds.”
Too weak to respond to their conversation, I mouthed a thank-you to both paramedics, and they left.
Isaac sat on the floor beside me. He opened a Walmart bag. “Here you go. I phoned the FBI doc, and he obtained your medical records. You have the real deal here, two filled prescriptions. One is a reliever inhaler, and another is a corticosteroid for long term. If the reliever doesn’t work, your lips or nails turn blue, or you can’t speak or breathe, we’re headed to the hospital. He recommends you see a doctor when this is over.” He opened the prescriptions and showed me the healing mists.
“I’d like to hug you,” I said.
He frowned. “You already have but my wife will understand.”
“You’ve saved my life more than once.”
“Just doin’ my job.”
“Shouldn’t we follow the ambulances?”
“We’re staying right here. If you promise me you won’t move, I’ll talk to the law enforcement officers outside.”
“Go. I
’m fine. This floor’s clean. I washed it, remember?” My intent to make light of the situation miserably failed.
“Want a pillow behind your back?”
“Yes, please.”
Isaac retrieved one from my bed, and I allowed the hum of the old fridge to soothe me. Exhaustion won out, and I drifted off to sleep.
The sound of the tank’s door squeaking prompted me to open my eyes. Isaac gave me a thin-lipped smile, a rarity in our hours together.
“Highway patrol officers are still here, but we’ve finished for the moment. Aaron’s being life-flighted to Houston.”
“Good. What about his family?”
“I talked to his wife, and she and their son are on their way to the hospital.”
“I prayed for him,” I said.
He squinted. “Not my thing. But if it comforts you, go for it.”
I wouldn’t push the subject. “What about the shooters?”
“One is dead of multiple gunshot wounds. Doesn’t look like all were Aaron’s.”
“You mean the man who drove off shot him too?”
“Dead men don’t talk. Fingerprint records show he has past convictions for robbery and assault.”
“Hired assassins?”
“I’m thinking so. But we have a leg up. This old trailer house had a tiny upgrade—a security camera.”
“You got his face on camera?”
“Yep. Because I’m retired, my access to info is normally on a need-to-know basis. But we now have a bonus.”
“When can we take a look?”
“We?” He tossed his familiar frown at me.
“I’m part of the Three Musketeers.”
“In that case, right now.” He rubbed his face. For sure the day had aged him. “Our position’s been compromised. Highway patrol is parked outside until we leave. But they know I’ll review the security camera first, then send a link to Houston FBI.”
“Where are we headed then?”
“Hotel near Valleysburg. One more thing. I have bad news.”
From the haggard look on Isaac’s face, I weighed one critical issue after another. My mother had passed? Another crime surfaced with my name on it? Denton got pulled back to Houston? What about Edie or Amy-Jo?
“Please—” I struggled from the kitchen floor to my feet—“what’s happened?”
“Denton’s been in an accident.”
I gasped.
Isaac shook his head. “Whoa. He’s at a hospital in Austin and in surgery. Initial report is a concussion and broken bones. Have no clue if there are internal injuries or if the medical procedure is to set a bone.”
I blinked back tears, which solved nothing. “Is he conscious?”
“No idea. If he gave a statement, I don’t have it. Most likely, an agent will take one when he’s out of surgery.”
“Forget this protection detail. Take me to see Denton.”
“Stupid idea. Then the bad guys will have both of you in the same place.”
I stepped into Isaac’s personal space. “My nonconfrontational days that helped me survive in prison are over. Got my rear kicked anyway. Seems to me the hospital would be the best place to be. Are you taking me, or do I talk to the highway patrol?”
“If you don’t follow directions, I can’t be responsible.”
“Drive me to the hospital and then head on home. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Denton thought otherwise.”
The mention of his name shook me. Denton is hurt because of me. “And just look at the condition he and Aaron are in.”
“Shelby, you’d drive a man to drink.”
“I saw you down two beers at dinner.”
“All right. I learned a long time ago the futility of arguing with a woman who has her mind made up. But first, let’s check out the security camera.”
38
DENTON
I welcomed the serene place in my sleep world where I didn’t hurt. I heard my name, but the blissful numbness drew me closer . . .
The sound of my name pulled me upward again, and I climbed slowly. The moment I surfaced, pain wrapped me in a tight cocoon. Not yet. Sleep was my new world . . .
Someone called my name. My eyes fluttered open, and I clamped them shut.
“Mr. McClure, stay with me. It’s time to wake up.” The voice was a woman. A nurse?
I remembered driving back toward Valleysburg alone. Shelby was in good hands with Isaac and Aaron. Then a pickup rear-ended me. The driver fired shots. I lost control.
“Mr. McClure?”
I forced myself to gaze up at a brown-eyed nurse. Wide smile. White teeth.
“You’re awake. How are you feeling?” She checked my vitals.
“Like—” I swore.
“I expect so. You were in a nasty accident.”
“Is any part of me not broken?”
She laughed, or rather giggled, allowing my worry to dissipate. “Oh yes. But from the looks of the photos of your truck, not sure how you survived.”
I glimpsed the machines hooked up to me. At least they weren’t simply keeping me alive. “Have I been unconscious because my mind’s zilch?”
“You’re in recovery. You had surgery on your right thigh.” She feather-touched my shoulder. “You’ll be fine.” She told me about a metal pin in my leg, a broken collarbone, broken ribs, stitches, and a concussion. “Two police officers are standing guard outside your door. Are you a good guy or bad?”
“Depends on who’s asking. FBI.”
“I get it. On a scale of one to ten, what’s your pain level?”
“Eight and a half.” I closed my eyes, weary from talking.
“The doctor ordered pain medication.”
“Double dose.”
“Spoken like a man in need. This is fast acting and will make you sleep.” She picked up an injection from a tray and stood ready to insert it into my IV. “I’ll be checking on you periodically. Sheriff Wendall is in the waiting room.”
“Tell him I’ll live. Have him come in. I’ll take the pain meds when we’re done.” He’d have questions about the jerk who tried to kill me. So did I. At least Shelby was safe.
When I reopened my eyes, Sheriff Wendall stood above me with his arms crossed over his chest. He reminded me of Cowboy Ant-Man. Not sure he’d appreciate the nickname. I must be getting my mojo back.
“You gonna live, Denton? You look like you kissed a semi.”
“Feel like it too.”
“Ready to tell me what happened? A couple of FBI agents are on their way to take your statement, but I’m here first.”
How many times had I done the same thing to a victim? “Trade my story for a few ice chips.”
He nodded and disappeared, then soon returned with Nurse Giggle, who carried a cup of ice. She spooned a few cold chips into my mouth and told me I was one handsome man. I laughed but it hurt. Everything hurt. Ah, a taste of heaven’s springs quenched my desert-dry mouth.
Sheriff Wendall reached inside his pocket for a pad and a pen. A bit of old-school going on. I preferred using my phone to record interviews.
“Start at the beginnin’.” He set his Stetson on the nightstand. “Don’t leave out one thing. It’s all important.”
“I drove Shelby to Sharp’s Creek. Met her dad, Clay Pearce . . .”
When I finished, the sheriff paced the floor, pad in hand and the pen behind his ear. He turned to me. “Now that you’ve given me the textbook version, what’s your gut say?”
Apprehension seized control. Whatever I said might be used against me by someone. “I’m still in a brain fog.”
“No, you’re not. You’re avoidin’ my question.”
I glared. “The Pearce family practices dysfunction like you probe for answers. Shelby, her mom, dad, and sister have secrets. I need to analyze each person’s words and body language.”
“Fair enough.”
I searched for signs of my cell phone. “Shelby will be worried I haven’t contacted her.”
&n
bsp; “No, she won’t.”
I peered into his face. “You called her?”
“She had her own problems last night. They were at the safe house.” He quickly sketched out the details. “Aaron is recovering in a Houston hospital, and Isaac is driving her here. She refused to stay in protective custody.”
I hated what the three of them had gone through. “Sounds like her. You say one shooter was killed and another got away?”
“Yep. Isaac and Shelby will be here shortly. I want her story about what happened too.”
I loaded my mental Glock with my own questions for Shelby and Isaac. But I needed the pain meds first to process anything.
39
SHELBY
I sat in a chair beside Denton’s bed and watched him sleep. Or rather I tried without cringing. His face looked like someone had hit him with a sledgehammer. I’d seen worse in prison, revolting really, but Denton received this because of me. The swelling, bruising, and stitches would take a while to heal. The broken bones a little longer. My memory of it—a lifetime.
I longed to touch his face and run my fingers through his thick, nearly white hair. I’d sworn never to trust a man again . . . Prison had scarred me. But Denton’s gentleness and sacrificial giving had chiseled away at my heart, crumbling the self-imposed wall.
Isaac and Sheriff Wendall chatted in low tones across the room. I listened for something that would give me a clue about Denton’s and my shooter experiences. They were either conscious of my eavesdropping or deliberately keeping details from me. Probably both.
Aaron had survived surgery to remove bullets from his stomach and thigh. Though listed in critical condition, each hour increased his chances of survival.
Edie texted me on my burner phone with a request to call. Denton still slept, so I stepped into the hallway.
“I’m at an Austin hospital with Denton,” I said.
“Is he sick? Hurt?”
“He wrecked his truck.” Rats, I despised lying, but ignorance kept her safe. “He’s going to be okay. Banged up pretty bad. Broken leg that now has pins, cracked ribs, a concussion. He’ll be here at least until tomorrow.”