by J. S. Marlo
Amelia grabbed her phone and dialed her office. Capt. Jackman answered on the first ring.
“It’s Matheson. Can you look up Elliot’s service record? I need his middle name.”
The frantic clicks of a keyboard traveled to her ear. After what seemed an eternity, they stopped. “Sylvester. Charles Sylvester Elliot.”
“Sly for Sylvester. Serpent for doctor. It fits.”
As a military doctor, Elliot must have gained access to her medical record—and reached the same erroneous conclusion as Ford regarding Hope’s parentage.
“Are you saying Major Elliot kidnapped your daughter?” A long sigh whistled through the line. “Ma’am, in his record it says he suffered from PTSD after he lost two of his nurses during an attack in Afghanistan.”
In combination with post-traumatic stress disorder, the death of his niece must have sent the major over the edge. The threatening email on the coffee table was a testament to his mental instability.
“Elliot is holding the senator responsible for the death of his niece and he’s seeking revenge through my daughter.” It was the only logical explanation.
“Your daughter is feisty, ma’am. Elliot wouldn’t have taken the risk of traveling too far with her. With your permission, I’m sending a team to his house to search for anything connecting him to the area.”
In his email, Serpent threatened to kill her daughter if the senator didn’t resign within three days.
Once Elliot realizes he kidnapped the wrong girl, Hope becomes expendable regardless of the deadline. “Send as many men as you need. We’re running out of time.”
Chapter Fourteen
Her nose bled, her head hurt, her socks were wet and sticky, and she was shackled like a dangerous criminal. It wasn’t the improvements Quest had counted on when she’d planned her escape.
I need to improve my hand-to-hand combat. Her mother and grandfather had taught her some moves, but she hadn’t practiced them in months. My own fault...
Crouched in the corner opposite the door, she glanced at the only window in the room. Darkness had settled outside the cabin.
Her captor had kept the ceiling light on and opened the inside shutters. Security bars mounted in the frame dashed her hope of escaping through the window.
A gaping fish hanging on the walls stared back at her with glassy eyes.
When the two goons dumped her in the snow at Slimy’s feet, she’d recognized the weirdly shaped peak of the mountain looming over the roof of the cabin. Folks in town called it Axe Peak for the deep plunge in the middle of the crest. There were caves in that mountain. She’d explored them on her days off and sent pictures of them to her mother and grandfather.
I could hide there, but I still need an escape plan.
The door opened, startling her. She fought the urge to recoil.
Looking away from her, Slimy pointed at the bed. Though she couldn’t see his mouth, from the way he gestured, she suspected he was talking to someone.
A masked man entered with a rifle strapped on his back. He carried a tall blond man in a uniform. Blood stained the front of his jacket. The goon unceremoniously discarded the injured officer on the bed.
Someone slapped Quest’s foot. She instinctively kicked back. With her gaze locked on the blond man, she’d missed Slimy’s approach. A mistake she wasn’t about to make twice.
The smirk on his face befuddled her.
“What are you smiling at?”
“I’m going to give you two choices. The man on the bed is the sheriff. He has a bullet in his chest and I want it.” He pulled a knife from behind his back. With it, he indicated the masked man scratching the front of his pants. Itchy. “This is Mr. Invisible.”
“Mr. Invisible? Sure.” With the damage she’d appeared to cause with her boot, the nickname Itchy suited him better.
“Listen mouthy brat.” Slimy’s face swelled, turning a darker shade of blood. “You can either watch Mr. Invisible gut the sheriff alive, or you can do it.”
“Me?” On her mother’s insistence, she’d taken a first aid course. That was the only medical training she’d ever received, and it hadn’t included chest surgery. “Take him to a hospital.”
“That’s not an option.” Enjoyment glistened in his eyes. “If I give that fishing knife to Mr. Invisible, he’ll remove the bullet, and the heart, and the—”
“You’re a monster.”
“Your father is the monster. I’m the one avenging his crimes.” He wielded the knife in front of her. “I’m being nicer than your father ever was to his victims. I’m giving you a chance to remove the bullet and save the sheriff’s life. What will it be? Will you be a coward and watch him die? Or will you take that knife and save him?”
Her empty stomach churned at the impossible choice given to her. Either way, the death of an innocent man would be on her conscience.
Standing by the bed, his rifle aimed at the injured man, Itchy grinned through the hole in his mask.
She stood up, approached the injured man, and took his pulse. The low but steady pulsation under her fingers surprised her considering the size of the maroon stain on his jacket.
If Slimy gave Itchy the knife, the sheriff was as good as dead. She might be his only chance of survival.
I can do this...I think.
***
Her wet hair frozen stiff on her head, Amelia entered the sheriff’s office.
“We have a problem, ma’am.”
In the last few days, she’d developed an aversion to those words when issued in that specific order. “What is it, Thompson?”
Concerns etched the deputy’s young face, aging him by the minute.
That so didn’t bode well.
“Wayne River called again. His son Todd and the sheriff haven’t returned.”
“What do you mean by haven’t returned?” The roads were slick, the temperature had dropped below frigid, the visibility neared zero, and it was dark. Driving from Richmond’s house to his office had bordered recklessness, especially in a rental car not equipped with snow tires. “Are you saying they’re still riding in the forest?”
“Morgan and Todd went to check a remote lodge along a hiking trail. When the weather worsened, Wayne radioed them. When they didn’t answer, he decided to go look for them himself. The terrain and the visibility were so bad, he was forced to turn back less than a mile later. He can’t risk sending a rescue team without placing their lives in jeopardy. And even if he could, he can’t trust any of them until we figure out who borrowed that rake. He’s stuck in Worryland.”
Worryland was her least favorite destination. To make matters worse, it didn’t sound like Thompson had made any progress identifying the inside man—or woman.
“Did you tell him to sit tight until dawn?”
If anyone understood River’s predicament, it was Amelia, but right now, she didn’t have the resources to deal with any more missing or misplaced persons. Sometimes, doing nothing was the best thing to do—and the hardest.
“I told him the sheriff was a cautious man. That he probably decided to weather the storm inside the lodge instead of riding back blind. Not sure how much that reassured him.”
Probably not much. “It was a good answer, Thompson. Until we can check the lodge, there’s no point making conjectures.”
Richmond’s training matched his survival instincts. Thompson’s explanation was sound. In the unlikely event that he and the young River were victims of an ambush, she favored Richmond over Elliot and his accomplice.
“I told Wayne we’d meet him at dawn.” Gil looked over her shoulder toward the door. “I figured you and I could go, and let Eve hold the fort. You didn’t see her on the road, did you? She’d gone home for a quick supper with her hubby. She was supposed to be right back.”
“She just met with me. Sly Serpent is Charles Sylvester Elliot. My missing military doctor.”
***
A bowl of hot water. A bar of soap. Some old raggedy towels. A rusty fishing k
nife. Three different types of pliers. A tackle box stocked with all the supplies a fisherman would ever need. And a bottle of vodka. Half empty.
The extent of the makeshift medical instruments supplied by Slimy critically limited Quest’s chances of performing a successful operation. “Don’t you have a first aid kit?”
“This isn’t a hospital. Get to work.”
The metal band rubbed against her ankle. “Can’t you remove my chains so I can move more easily?”
Not only did her captor refuse, but he also handcuffed the sheriff’s left wrist to the bedpost.
“Where do you think he’ll go?” The patient wasn’t even conscious, which worried her.
“Nowhere. That’s the point. Now stop stalling, or he’ll be dead before you start.”
I could have used a pair of gloves. Any chance of preserving the DNA she’d collected under her fingernails when she scratched Slimy had washed away with the scrubbing of her hands.
Taking a deep breath, she unzipped the sheriff’s winter jacket. The bullet had entered his upper chest on the right side just below his shoulder bone.
This is strange. The bloodstain on his shirt wasn’t as widespread as the one on his jacket. Baffled by the inconsistency, she searched for a second bullet to account for the large blotch on the front of the jacket. There’s no other hole.
Oddly enough, the inside lining didn’t show any more blood than the shirt. It was like the bubbles stitched on the outer fabric of the jacket allowed for small amount of liquid to disperse more readily. Whatever caused the weird phenomenon, Quest was glad the sheriff hadn’t lost as much blood as she’d feared.
I can do this. Years of biathlon training had taught her to stay calm and focused on the task. She was no stranger to performing under pressure. It was her way of life.
A rush of adrenaline surged inside her body. Just keep it smooth, Quest. She unbuttoned the shirt and carefully cut the undershirt. Blood had thickened and dried at the edge of the wound. To cleanse the area, she poured some vodka on the injury.
The sheriff’s chest rose abruptly, startling her.
Silently admonishing herself for flinching while holding a knife, she checked the pulse in his neck. Slow, but steady.
No more jerking, Quest. This was just like shooting at a target, and she was good at shooting.
His eyelids fluttered.
Quest’s heart missed a beat, but she didn’t twitch. Now wasn’t a good time for him to wake. Not when she was about to cut him up.
“Go back to sleep.” To appease him, she whispered softly—like her mother taught her. “Everything will be fine.”
Dazed blue-grey eyes gazed at her. “Phoenix...”
No...he couldn’t have mouthed Phoenix. The bird was her mom’s moniker. It must have been a mistake. He must have mumbled something else, and she’d misinterpreted it.
“You were shot. I need to remove the bullet from your chest. Do you understand me?”
He gave a slight nod of the head.
“It’s going to hurt, but you can’t grab my hand.” Maybe handcuffing his other hand wouldn’t have been such a bad idea either. As she searched the tackle box for something he could hold on to, she caught movement from his lips. “I’m deaf, Sheriff. I missed what you said.”
The light from the ceiling had to be playing tricks on her patient’s face because a smile couldn’t possibly tug at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m giving you a floater.” Her grandfather called it a bobber. Quest preferred the term floater since the red and white plastic globe floated at the surface of the lake. “You squeeze on it. Okay?”
The floater secured in the palm of his glove, he blinked twice.
“Hold on tight.” Using her bare fingers, Quest pushed the skin around the entry point apart. Blood trickled out. No gushing. That’s good. The bullet hadn’t torn through any major vessels that she could see. Hoping she wouldn’t nick any either, she gently inserted the tip of the long-nose pliers inside the wound. Smooth and steady.
The sheriff’s chest heaved up and down rapidly, jeopardizing the extraction.
“Stay still, Sheriff.” Quest didn’t look at his face. To see the pain she undoubtedly inflicted was more than she could bear at this instant. She was relieved beyond reason not to be able to hear him moan or scream. “We’re almost there...”
About an inch deep, the tip of the pliers encountered something solid. It was either a bone or the bullet. She found herself breathing as erratically as the man in her care. Deep breath, Quest. Deep breath.
She slowly opened the jaws of the pliers. If I grip a bone, the sheriff will scream in agony. Sweat dripped down her forehead onto her eyebrows. Under her gentle guidance, the pliers cradled the hard objet. It shifted, ever so slightly. A bone wouldn’t have budged at all. Thank you, Ducky Lima.
From the time she was a little girl, ducks had been her guardian angels. Her mother had told her she could always count on them. Ducky Lima was her L-Duck, the one upon which Quest called when she needed luck.
She dropped the bullet in the water. Fine threads of fabric unraveled from the slug sunk at the bottom, floating in the reddened water. The projectile had travelled through a winter jacket, a shirt, and an undershirt. That was four layers of fabric without counting the filling.
Stitching the wound without removing the foreign materials stuck inside would lead to an infection. How am I going to do this? She couldn’t see through blood, and there was no instrument at her disposal with the tactile ability to feel for fabric. Only a finger could...
No. Not a finger. I’m not sticking a finger in there. That was a bad idea. A very bad idea...except she had no better idea.
This is so not happening. Against the advice of her rebelling stomach, Quest probed the inside of the wound with her index finger. I’m never becoming a doctor. Bits and pieces of fabric lodged under her fingernails. Never a doctor. Not in a million years.
After cleaning the wound to the best of her abilities, Quest gathered the courage to look at her patient’s face.
Jaw clenched, the sheriff stared at her through two narrow slits that didn’t conceal the tears glistening in his eyes.
“A few stitches and we’re done.” She wished she knew his name. “I promise.”
With the pliers, she crimped the bard at the tip of a fishing hook transforming it into a needle. I hate needles...and sewing. After washing it with water and soap, she threaded a green nylon fishing line through the eye of her makeshift needle.
“I suck at sewing.” The sheriff would be scarred for life—and so would she. “It’s gonna hurt again. I’m sorry.”
To clear the blood, she rinsed the wound with a shot of Vodka. I need a shot too. She pushed the needle through the skin.
The sheriff tensed, and his head drooped against his shoulder.
Chapter Fifteen
Crushed and cracked, the red and white plastic bobber slipped from the sheriff’s limp hand and fell on the floor. He’d either lost consciousness or died while the girl stitched him up.
Sly favored the second explanation.
After checking her patient’s pulse, the girl gave the wound another rinse of vodka.
It appeared the sheriff had survived the impromptu surgery. What a pity.
She tucked a towel underneath the sheriff’s shirt. Once she was done buttoning him up, she washed her hands in the bowl of bloody water.
Impressed that she’d managed to save him, Sly extended his arm. “Bullet.”
Had she been allowed to enroll in the military and follow in her mother’s footstep, she would have made a terrific surgeon and a remarkable officer.
“It’s at the bottom of the water.”
The defiance she showed amused him.
“Very well.” He took the bowl from her and gave it to Vince. “Take your bullet and wait for me in the kitchen.”
Frowning, Vince flung his rifle over his shoulder. “She hid the knife behind her back.”
“I’ll
deal with her. Take the bowl and go.”
As Sly expected, she raised the weapon as soon as Vince left the room. “Let me go, or I’ll kill you.”
“If you stab me, Vince will have lots of fun killing you and the sheriff.” With a sweep of his hand, Sly encompassed the bed and the man lying injured. “All this would have been for nothing. You get that?”
Her nostrils flared, her eyes narrowed, and her body tensed.
Considering the dedication with which she performed the surgery, he counted on her sense of duty to stop her from making a foolish decision.
She wacked the tackle box onto the floor and kicked it, spilling its content.
Her frustration pleased him. “Knife. Now.”
After a short hesitation, she tossed it at his feet.
“Pick up the mess.”
She glared as she squatted down. After making sure she hadn’t kept any tools that could be turned into makeshift weapons, Sly left the room with the tackle box.
Two latches, one at waist level and the other one at eye level, locked the door from the outside. Grinning, he slid both bolts into position.
Sly chucked the tackle box under the kitchen sink and cast the knife, pliers, and keys for the handcuffs and the shackles on the counter. The bowl was in the sink, empty. And the bullet was gone. That’s one problem solved. The next one was to get rid of Vince before nightfall.
“Go home, Vince.” With the girl’s death to orchestrate, Sly didn’t want to be disturbed.
His accomplice had removed his mask and boots, and slouched on the couch. “You owe me another two thousand bucks for the trouble.”
“You what?” He’d already paid them three grand each. With all the damage Vince had caused, Sly wasn’t spending another penny on the greedy and careless thug. The time had come to permanently terminate their association. “Fine. Go home, and I’ll make the transfer tomorrow.”