Her Amish Protectors

by Janice Kay Johnson

  A few people clustered on the sidewalk to stare, even though all they could see was the ambulance parked at the curb. From their nightclothes, he guessed them to be apartment dwellers on this block. Lights shone in several apartments above stores.

  Ackley waited for him just inside. “The EMTs are with her.”

  Ben kept going.

  Until he was well down the hall, he couldn’t see much but the broad back of a man crouched, looking down at someone. A turn of the head allowed Ben to identify Marty McClun.

  Marty glanced up at his approach. “Déjà vu.”

  From that moment, all Ben saw was Nadia, lying on the floor, eyes closed, blood staining her shoulder and arm. The same woman paired with McClun last time, Rhonda Foster, was using scissors to cut away Nadia’s shirt.

  McClun got out of Ben’s way.

  He crouched beside her and took her good hand. “Hey.”

  Her lashes fluttered and her eyes opened. “You came.”

  “You called.”

  Her mouth curved just a little. “So much for vows.”

  “Yeah.” His voice had been scraped over asphalt. “You hanging in there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We gave her something for pain,” Marty said behind him.

  No wonder she seemed to have trouble focusing on his face. Ben squeezed her hand. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I got shot.” She sounded both perplexed and indignant.

  “Yeah, I can see that.” A woman who didn’t hold a high-risk job had been shot twice now. How could that be?

  Foster was wiping away blood to give her a better look at the wound. She pressed a thick gauze pad to it. Marty sidled around to help her ease Nadia onto her side so they could clean up her back, too.

  “Exit wound?” Ben asked.

  Marty nodded. “Looks like. Saw a nick in the wallboard. Bet you find the bullet there.”

  It had punched through her and into the wall. Ben bet on a hunting rifle. Seemed everyone in these parts owned one or more. Kids around here learned to shoot and hunt before they were old enough to get behind the wheel of a car. Many of the families depended on the meat to supplement their incomes.

  Nadia’s eyes had started to drift closed again, but he went to his knees and bent forward to lock gazes with her. “Talk to me. Why were you going out back?”

  She shook her head. “Not. Coming home. Parked. Wished I’d left an outside light on.”

  “Did you park in the same place as always?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He wormed the story out of her. There wasn’t much to it. If she hadn’t heard something—she thought the shooter bumped the Dumpster—there wouldn’t have been any warning at all. As it was, she’d managed to make herself a smaller target, the first and maybe a second shot missing her. She was pretty sure there’d been at least three and possibly four shots fired. They ought to be able to find bullets that had ricocheted off the door or brick wall in the alley. If the shooter was cool enough, he might have picked up the shells before fleeing.

  When he asked Nadia if she had heard footsteps, she mumbled, “Uh-uh. Hit my head.”

  McClun made an exclamation and began exploring her head. When Nadia winced, he said, “Yep. You have a goose egg, all right.”

  “When you hit your head, was the door still open?”

  “I think so. I sort of fell inside. There wasn’t anybody here when I woke up. I called you.” She frowned. “You weren’t here first.”

  Door open, Nadia unconscious, completely vulnerable. The realization felt like a gut punch to Ben. He couldn’t forget she’d been shot before, and lay waiting for medical assistance for hours, unable to so much as twitch or whimper without drawing the attention of the man who’d believed she and the little girl she protected were dead.

  Not relevant, he told himself. Think about tonight.

  Something had scared away the shooter. A passing car? The neighbors’ voices? He could get some of the sequence from Ackley as first responder.

  “You didn’t call 911?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Then someone else did. Gunshots have a way of grabbing attention.”

  “Good thing,” Rhonda said. “Brought us here quick.” Her eyes met Ben’s. “We’re ready to transport.”

  “Okay.” He gently placed Nadia’s hand on her stomach, then let himself cup her cheek. “I need to get things started here, then I’ll follow you to the hospital, okay?” He had an idea. “I’ll call Lucy. Unless there’s someone you’d rather have with you?”

  “No, but if she’s in bed—”

  He skated his thumb over her lips. “No, she heard me talking to you.”

  “’Kay.” Her eyes closed, her dark lashes forming fans above her too pale cheeks.

  Ben made himself release her, stand and step back. She groaned as she was rolled again to allow a stretcher to be slid beneath her. McClun raced off to bring a gurney, and Ben retreated to the shop, where he called Lucy.

  He told her Nadia had been shot and was on her way to the hospital. “I know you don’t like to go out at night—”

  “You have to stay to search for whoever shot her, don’t you?”

  The shooter was long gone, but he would have left traces of his presence. Those were what Ben would be looking for.

  Not necessarily a he, he reminded himself. Plenty of women hunted, too, and had equal expertise with a rifle.

  “We’ll block off the alley until daylight so we can get a better look,” he said, “but yes. I want to find the bullets and where the shooter set up.”

  “I’ll go to the hospital. She should have someone with her,” his sister said sturdily.

  “Thanks.” He had to clear his throat. “I’ll see you when I get there.”

  Time to shut down the emotions and focus on the details that would tell him how and why this crime had been committed.

  * * *

  NADIA AWAKENED TO a sharp, throbbing pain in her shoulder and a headache that made her reluctant to open her eyes or move a single muscle.

  But the antiseptic smell and the sounds of far-off beeps told her she wasn’t home.

  She slitted her eyes open enough to see gray light seeping between the slats of window blinds. And she saw something else: a man sprawled in a chair right beside the bed. Ben, slouched low, asleep.

  The hospital—yes, she did remember that, but it was Lucy who had been with her, asking questions, smoothing hair back from her forehead, reminding her how to use the pump that supplied the painkiller through an IV.

  Not that she’d needed the lesson, given her previous hospital stay. The first time she’d had a GSW. Never having been a fan of murder mysteries or thrillers, she’d had to ask a cop interviewing her what that meant after he used the acronym. He’d appeared a little embarrassed and said, “Gunshot wound.”

  How unlucky was she to have a second GSW in her life?

  She really hurt, and she was procrastinating. Nadia opened her eyes the rest of the way and groped for the button. To find it, she had to turn her head, which made her gasp.

  When she pressed the button, relief spread through her.

  “You’re awake.” Ben, but his voice a rasp.

  “I woke you.” Very, very carefully, she rolled her head on the pillow. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’ve dozed on and off.”

  Exhaustion or something else carved lines in his face she was sure hadn’t been there before. Furrows in his forehead, others between his nose and mouth. Dark stubble covered his jaw and throat. His hair stuck out every which way. He wore a gray T-shirt and worn, faded jeans instead of his usual uniform. Even tired and disheveled, he was sexy.

  Oh, heavens, what did her hair look like? The throbbing inside her sku
ll didn’t let her cling to the worry. “Wasn’t Lucy here?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Yeah. I sent her home when I arrived.”

  “Oh.” Nadia thought about that. “It was dark. Wasn’t she scared to go out?”

  “Maybe, but she did it anyway. And no, don’t even start feeling guilty. She offered, and she did it. I walked her to her car, and I’m betting she had left on every light inside and outside the house. She texted to let me know she’d made it, safe and sound.”

  “Okay.”

  He moved from the chair to sit beside her on the bed. His hand lifted to her face, his fingertips gentle and somehow knowing. He stroked her forehead and applied just the right amount of pressure to her temples. His touch felt so good, Nadia moaned.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “I’ve been better.” She searched his face. If anyone would have answers, it was Ben. “Somebody shot me.”

  He smiled crookedly. “Yep.”

  “I could have been killed.”

  The smile disappeared, leaving him grim. “I’m guessing that was the idea. This wasn’t meant to scare you in hopes you’d sell out and move. Your death wouldn’t bring the money back. It’s hard to figure what anyone had to gain.”

  Reluctantly, she said, “Leonard Hixson?”

  “A county sheriff’s deputy drove out to where Hixson and his family are staying with the wife’s relatives. He was there. He and the brother-in-law had watched the same Cardinal game I had on when you called me. Both their wives were home, half a dozen kids. They couldn’t have all been lying when they said he’d been there all day and evening. The deputy told me he said, After what I did, I can see why she’d think—And then he got all choked up. His wife fired up and said Leonard would never do anything like that.”

  “Oh.” She relaxed. “I’m glad.”

  “Someone else in the same boat he is could be holding a grudge, though. We’ll need to take a look at other people who lost everything and are still waiting for help.”

  The fingers softly caressing her face went away. She would have protested, except that suddenly his large, warm hand had slid between her neck and the pillow, and now he was kneading aching muscles. Her mind hazed with pleasure, making it hard to think. But what he’d said...

  “If it was a million dollars, I could sort of see it. But the seventy-eight thousand dollars that’s still missing wouldn’t go very far. Is it really enough to make someone kill?”

  Ben shook his head, but she didn’t see the same disbelief she felt on his face. Bleak knowledge infused his voice. “A punk will kill a convenience store clerk for twenty-five bucks. Abusive men have beaten their wives to death because dinner wasn’t ready. Normal people, no. These farmers who lost everything could see you as a scapegoat, though. A symbol. From their point of view, they’ve been screwed over by everyone, from insurance companies to FEMA and every aid organization that hasn’t done anything for them. But you, you’re an individual, easy to find, a convenient focus for hate.” His expression altered at whatever he saw on her face. “I’m sorry. I was thinking out loud, and I shouldn’t have been. What I said—that’s unlikely. You know that, don’t you?”

  It was as if some small insect had stung her all over. Her skin prickled, burned. She found the bed controls, and raised the head of it. Ben’s hand dropped away from her.

  The focus for hate. Me.

  “Who else could it be?”

  They looked at each other, his conflict showing. She could almost, but not quite, see all the things he didn’t want to say there on his face. There were only the two of them, existing in a bubble.

  “I don’t know,” Ben admitted finally. “I can’t help wondering whether this really has anything to do with the auction or the money.”

  Breathing became a struggle. “You mean, someone else hates me?”

  He frowned at her. “I want you to come home with me. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  She ached to agree, but knew she shouldn’t. “I have a dead bolt lock at the foot of the stairs,” she argued. “There’s no other access to my apartment.”

  “Someone could shoot through a window.”

  She tried to hide her flinch. “I’ll keep the curtains and blinds drawn.”

  Frustration thinned his lips. “You want to be alone?”

  “You can’t be the investigator if I’m living with you. Right?”

  “I could explain—”

  “And what if me being there endangers your sister?”

  “Crap!” he said explosively. Clearly, he hadn’t thought of that, and Lucy came first. He ran a hand over his face. “I’ll think of something else.”

  Right. He thought he could unload her on one of his officers? She could imagine it—awkward conversation, trying to sleep in a guest room while she listened for any sound outside the window, or even in the hall. With the new locks and the sturdy chair braced under the doorknob, getting to her in her aerie wouldn’t be easy.

  What about a fire? She’d be trapped.

  With a sort of fatalism, she knew she wouldn’t feel safe anywhere. She might as well toss and turn in her own bed as anyplace.

  “The doctor might not even release you today,” Ben said. And wouldn’t, if he had anything to say about it, Nadia suspected.

  “I’ll be fine with pain meds.” She hesitated. “Hannah will show up. She has a key. Can you make sure someone lets her know what happened?”

  “Of course I will. No reason she can’t tend shop until you’re back, is there?”

  “I suppose not.” Of course there wasn’t. Hannah could teach this afternoon’s class as well as she could. With business so slow, Nadia knew she wasn’t needed at all, a thought that left her feeling hollow. Or maybe that came from facing the harsh truth that some faceless, unknown person wanted her dead. “Did you find anything last night?”

  “Bullets. They’re thirty-five caliber, common as dirt. Both we found last night are in bad shape.” His teeth could be heard grinding. “One bounced off the metal door. The other is the one that went through your shoulder. We were able to dig it out of the wall.”

  “Common?” she said uncertainly.

  “It’s a caliber used for hunting everything from coyotes to deer. Works in the most popular rifles, like the Remington 700. I’m hoping in daylight we can find a casing, because there could be a fingerprint. Looks like the shooter picked them up, but in better light I’m hoping we spot one he or she missed. Both you and your neighbors think there were four shots taken, so we’ll be looking for a less damaged bullet, too, with rifling that could be matched to a particular weapon.”

  Nadia latched on to one word. “She?”

  “Women hunt, too,” Ben said simply. “Didn’t it cross your mind that the attacker might be a woman?”

  Well, yes, it had. But her, she’d never so much as picked up a gun of any kind. Neither her parents nor brother-in-law owned one. The men she’d been involved with in the past were hikers, skiers or mountain climbers, not hunters. Until she met Ben, the closest she’d ever come to a gun was looking down the barrel of the ugly black pistol Paige’s husband had used in his rampage. No wonder she’d been startled when she felt the hard bulk of the grip of Ben’s holstered gun when he kissed her. In fact, it should have been more of a mood-killer than it was, considering how literally gun-shy she was.

  Without any advance warning, the overhead light came on and a woman in purple scrubs appeared at the foot of the bed. She pushed back the curtains and smiled approvingly. “Good morning! My name is Nancy Jones. I’ll be your nurse today. Time for me to take your temp and check your blood pressure so you’re ready for breakfast. The carts will be here in no time. If you need to get up...” She looked inquiring.

  “Yes.” And, oh, Nadia didn’t look forward to the trek.

  Of cou
rse, Ben took the nurse’s arrival as his cue to leave. He made Nadia promise to let him know what the doctor had to say, and insisted he’d pick her up if she was released.

  Once he disappeared around the curtain, she couldn’t hear his departing footsteps any more than she’d heard the nurse’s approach. He was just gone. She became more aware of her pain...and that he would be scouring the alley for the most minute of evidence that might identify the person who had come so close to killing her.

  * * *

  THE DAY WAS as maddening as Ben had expected it to be. Of all crime scenes, he thought he hated alleys the most. At best, they were filthy. At worst...well, he didn’t have to worry about that in Byrum. There wasn’t a lot of homelessness in a town this size, and garbage service was reliable. Since taking the job here, he’d yet to go Dumpster diving. Today, he’d have volunteered, if Terry Uhrich thought there was any chance the shooter had tossed something in.

  He didn’t. “Sounds like there would have been a window of only a few minutes when Ms. Markovic was unconscious and wouldn’t have heard the clang of someone lifting that metal lid and letting it fall,” he said, contemplating the bin. “We’ll take a quick look, but I don’t believe this assailant was stupid enough to dump shell casings or anything else right behind her building.”

  Another officer was currently fingerprinting the trunk, back fenders and bumper of Nadia’s car. The shooter had almost had to be standing or crouching in the four feet or so between the rear of her car and the side of the Dumpster. Terry himself was presently flat on his belly, peering beneath the garbage bin.

  Ben’s phone rang, and he turned away. It was Nadia letting him know the doctor wanted to keep her one more night. She grumbled about missing the meeting to plan a fund-raising strategy for the Hixson family’s benefit. Even so, Ben couldn’t decide if she sounded genuinely unhappy about being stuck in the hospital, or relieved. He knew which he was. The hospital administrator had agreed to have a security guard patrol her hall today, until Ben was able to return. Damned if he’d have been able to drop her off at her apartment and head home to a good meal and his own bed. She might not like it, but no matter where she stayed tonight, he intended to be there, too. She’d find it harder to ban him from her hospital room than from her apartment.