The dispatcher tried to keep her on the line, but Ann hung up. She needed all her energy to take care of herself until the ambulance arrived. Her arm and back hurt like hell. She crawled into the master bathroom, dragging the cordless phone. Gingerly, she slipped her robe off her left shoulder and surveyed the damage. Her arm was covered with blood and the entire left side of her favorite nightgown was also soaked. She couldn’t find a bullet hole but she did find a huge piece of glass sticking out of her upper arm. On closer inspection she found it had gone clear through her arm.
She sank down on the edge of the tub and leaned her uninjured right side against the wall. She heard the telephone ring but ignored it. Her options were to take the glass out herself or wait until she got to the hospital. Living in Mason County wasn’t like living in the city in the middle of an episode of 911. The county’s volunteer emergency medical technicians were probably at home, sound asleep. Ann was hurting like hell and sure she had a greater chance of moving around and injuring herself with the glass left in. She decided the glass had to go.
She stood in front of the mirror over the bathroom sinks. The sight stopped her dead in her tracks. Her face was white as a sheet and there was blood everywhere, including smudges all over her face. She looked like an extra from Friday the 13th.
Shaking off her mounting fear, she grabbed the largest end of the glass shard, took a deep breath, and pulled it out. When she heard the sound of glass breaking, she looked down and realized she’d dropped the shard on the counter, where it had shattered into smaller pieces. A bloody five-inch wound gaped open in her arm. She mentally thanked her guardian angel, knowing she could have lost half her arm, or even worse, had she been in a different place when the gunshots went off.
The bleeding from her arm increased dramatically. She folded a towel over the wound and wrapped the tie from her bathrobe around it. The pressure she applied hurt like hell and she started crying. Dizzy and nauseated, she sat down on the bathroom floor.
Ann didn’t know how long she waited for help, but she remembered soaking through several towels and being grateful that she’d had enough sense to sit down underneath the towel rack. She was rewrapping her arm when she heard the doorbell and the dogs barking. She dialed the operator, who put her through to the dispatcher, who told her the police had arrived.
THURSDAY MORNING
NOVEMBER 23—SWENSON
Lark was sleeping soundly when the phone rang. He rolled over and grabbed the receiver as he swung his feet over the side of the bed. As he listened to the dispatcher, he pulled on jeans and maneuvered a sweater over his head. He hung up as he fished a pair of socks out of his drawer and yelled at Lacey to get up as he pulled them on. By the time he hit the hall, she was coming out of her room.
“I heard your phone,” she said, following him downstairs. She had jumped into jeans and a sweater and pulled her hair up in a ponytail. Smudges of last night’s mascara were still under her eyes. As they put on their winter gear, he filled her in. “Jim, Paul, and our ambulance crew are out on Highway 70, dealing with an accident. Our other unit is thirty-five miles away on a domestic dispute call. Ann Ranson called asking for an ambulance for one gunshot victim. She refused to stay on the phone.”
“Jesus Christ,” Lacey said as they raced out to the garage and hopped in the Jeep.
Lark backed out into a swirling mass of snow and gunned it down the drive. It was six-twenty and just beginning to lighten up. The road was drifted heavily in some spots and blown bare with an icy sheen in others. Lark slid the Jeep into four-wheel drive and worked the police radio. He asked Mary Lou to put the helicopter in Marshfield on standby and call out an EMS crew from Park Falls for mutual aid. She told him Park Falls was out on a call and she was already going through the township lists trying to find first responders who weren’t busy.
Lark swore and pushed his speed up past sixty. It took them eight minutes to get to the Ransons’. The house was dark. It looked so peaceful that he hoped the call was a hoax. He rang the doorbell and heard barking and growling on the other side of the front door. The door was locked.
Lark shined his flashlight through the living-room window. Nothing seemed out of place, but the goldens were milling around, their tails up in alarm.
“How about if I check the other entrances,” Lacey suggested, moving off the porch.
“Fine, radio me if you can get in.”
He rang the doorbell again and debated on how long to wait before breaking in. He pulled up the porch mat, no key. He brushed his hand across the door lintel—no such luck. He did the same thing with the picture window. No key there either.
Just when he’d decided to break in, Mary Lou called. “Mrs. Ranson says there’s a key in the left porch light globe. She’s in the master bathroom. Someone shot out the bedroom window and there’s glass all over the floor. She wants you to keep the dogs out.”
“Who’s hurt?” Lark asked, retrieving the key.
“Don’t know, she hung up again.”
“Shit.” He unlocked the door just as Lacey came back.
“There’s a huge hole in the upstairs west window. All the doors were locked.”
“The window was shot out,” Lark said, opening the door. The goldens greeted them, barking and wagging their tails. They galloped up the stairs, Sheba at their heels. Lacey and Lark pulled their guns, and after shouting police, followed them.
“These dogs have got to go,” Lacey said. They dragged them into the bedroom at the end of the hall. The minute they shut the door, the dogs began barking.
Trying to ignore the cacophony, Lark eased open the masterbedroom door. “Ann, it’s Sheriff Swenson,” he yelled.
“I’m in the bathroom,” she said in a shaky voice.
Lark raced through the bedroom, glass crunching under his feet. He entered the bathroom with Lacey on his heels. Ann was curled up on the floor by the tub. The countertop and the floor were smeared with blood and blood-soaked towels lay all around her. She had a bloody towel wrapped around her upper arm.
“Sweet mother of God,” Lacey muttered, stooping down in front of her. Ann’s eyes were enormous. Lacey gently pried Ann’s hand from the death grip she held on her wound.
Ann glanced up at Lark. “I need another towel, it’s really been bleeding, but not spurting, so I don’t think there’s arterial damage.”
He gave Lacey a towel and took a look at Ann’s wound.
“I thought I was shot but a big piece of glass went through my arm. I pulled it out.”
“Judas Priest, you pulled it out yourself?” he said in disbelief.
“Somebody had to do it.”
“You could have hurt yourself,” he said angrily.
Ann ignored his outburst. “Either that hunter hasn’t slept it off yet or he was firing at a deer the size of Godzilla.” She glanced at Lacey, working away on her arm. “Since the ambulance isn’t here yet, can I assume they’re out on another call?”
“Auto accident on Highway 70,” Lark said.
“Cancel them. I can move everything and I can breathe OK, so the glass didn’t hit anything critical.” She winced as Lacey tightened the new towel around her arm. “As soon as you pull the big pieces out of my back, you can drive me to the ER.” She looked up at Lark. “Can you please call John and let him know what happened?”
“I’ll call John and take you to the hospital, but we’re not taking any glass out of your back,” Lark said as Lacey gathered up the blood-soaked towels.
“Let’s get you up off this cold floor,” Lacey said, noting that Ann was shivering.
“I’d rather sit here and conserve my energy,” Ann replied, leaning her head against the wall and closing her eyes. “Can you please get me a blanket?”
“I think we’d better get you to the hospital right now,” Lark said. He took her wrist to check her pulse while Lacey rushed to get a blanket.
“What is it?” Ann asked.
“Ninety-six.”
“I’ll liv
e. You don’t have to worry until it hits about one-fifty, which won’t happen unless some of this glass gets pushed into my back.”
“We’re going to the hospital right now. We’re not going to piss around pulling out glass,” Lark snapped.
Lacey brushed Lark out of the way and tucked a blanket around Ann’s legs. Lacey pulled her forward, resting Ann’s head on her shoulder to survey her back. Three shards of glass ranging from silver-dollar-to playing-card-size were imbedded in her upper shoulders.
“Lean against me and we’ll get them out,” Lacey murmured, holding Ann against her. She looked sternly at Lark. “Pull them out and be quick about it.”
He frowned and stooped down. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“I’m the medical professional here and I say they need to come out,” Ann said, her voice muffled against Lacey’s shoulder.
Lark took a deep breath and pulled out the glass. Ann moaned and clung to Lacey as each piece was removed. Tears were running down Ann’s face by the time they were done. Lacey pressed a towel against Ann’s back and Lark stalked over to the other side of the bathroom. He placed the three glass shards on the counter and watched the women on the floor. Ann leaned back against the tub. Sweat had broken out on her forehead and upper lip, despite the room’s plummeting temperature.
“Would one of you get me a Diet Coke?” she asked, wiping away tears.
Lark headed for the door but Lacey jumped up, saying she’d go. He started to protest but saw that she was crying. He let her go, realizing she needed time to compose herself.
“That hurt like hell, but it had to be done,” Ann said.
Lark pulled a couple of towels out of the linen closet and knelt down in front of her. “I need to take a look at your back,” he said, gently pulling her forward. The towel Lacey had just put there was soaked with blood. “I’m going to cut your robe and nightgown off your shoulders so we can see how bad this,” he said, digging his knife out of his jeans pocket.
“Sure, go ahead and ruin John’s favorite nightgown,” Ann said, resting her head against his chest.
Lacey walked in as Lark finished cutting the back out of Ann’s robe. “The ambulance will be here as soon as they drop their patient off at the ED.” She opened a can of Diet Coke. “The helicopter is grounded because of weather.”
Lark surveyed Ann’s upper back. Three ugly gashes oozed blood. He put a towel against the wounds and leaned Ann back against the tub.
Lacey squatted down and gave her a drink of soda. Ann shuddered as she drank the cold liquid. She slumped back, holding the remains of her robe against her chest.
“Jesus, we’ve got to get her out of here. How long will that ambulance be?” Lark asked.
“Cancel the damn ambulance. How many times do I have to tell you, we don’t need it,” Ann yelled, her eyes settling on Lacey. “Sorry I’m so irritable. If you’ll help me get dressed, I think we can get to the hospital on our own.”
“We’re not waiting for you to get dressed. You’re going to the ER now,” Lark snapped.
Lacey stepped in front of him. “Call off the ambulance and I’ll help Ann get dressed.”
When Lark protested, Lacey pointed her finger at him. “I wouldn’t go to the hospital where I’m the boss in a sexy, blood-soaked nightgown unless I was half dead.”
Lark protested again but Lacey cut him off. “We can stand here and fight or take that time and help Ann get dressed.” Not waiting for an answer, she strode past him into the closet.
Lark walked out of the bathroom and sat down on the bed. He barely had time to call off the ambulance and direct Mary Lou to send Paul and Jim out to the Ransons’ to start the scene work before Ann and Lacey came out of the bathroom.
The blood splatters had been washed off Ann’s ghost-white face. She was dressed in a gray sweatsuit. Her blood-streaked hair was pulled back with a headband.
Lark and Lacey got on either side of her to make sure she didn’t fall.
“I’m sorry I’m moving so slowly,” Ann said, navigating the last step and flopping down on the bench in the foyer.
While she rested, Lark got her coat out of the closet. When she stood up, he draped it around her shoulders and noticed she was weaving on her feet.
“Lacey’s going to pull the Jeep up and I’m going to carry you to the car,” Lark said, tossing his keys to Lacey as he picked Ann up. She didn’t protest, other than to groan in pain as his arm went across her shoulders. Lark called the hospital to notify them they were on their way, and the ER staff were waiting when they pulled into the ambulance garage ten minutes later.
THURSDAY MORNING-
NOVEMBER 23—JOHN RANSON
Lark and Lacey drove to John’s office. John’s truck was parked on the street out front. The blinds were open and they could see him hunched over a drafting table. A small donut box from the Big Oak Diner lay open on his desk and a half full coffeepot sat on the credenza against the back wall of the office. John looked up at the sound of the door opening and his face broke into a smile. He glanced down at his watch, noting that it was only seven-fifteen.
“You’re out early,” he said. “Your invitation for Thanksgiving dinner is still open. Ann should already have the turkey in the oven.”
“We just dropped Ann off at the emergency room,” Lark said, studying the reaction on his face. “Someone shot out your bedroom window and she caught some glass in her arm and back.”
John carefully put down his drawing pencil. “Is she all right?” he asked, scanning Lacey’s blank face. He shrugged into his coat and snatched his truck keys off the desk.
“She’s OK,” Lark said. “I’ll drive you over and Lacey can follow in your truck.”
“That won’t be necessary,” John said, rushing for the door.
“I’ll fill you in on the details on the way over,” Lark said, right behind him.
“Fine,” John snapped, lobbing his truck keys to Lacey. He slouched against the passenger door of the Jeep, his face a mask of despair, as Lark told him about the shooting.
“It must have happened right after I left. I stopped at the diner to get donuts and got to the office at six-fifteen. I was watching the time because I wanted to be home by nine to keep dinner on schedule. Ann makes the turkey and dressing, but the rest of the meal is mine.”
Lark made a mental note to check the time of John’s visit to the Big Oak Diner.
When they pulled into the ER, Lacey was already in the waiting room. “Ann’s in X-ray. The doctor wants to admit her but she refused.”
“Dammit,” John muttered, rubbing his hand across his chin. “I don’t know anyone as stubborn as Ann.”
“We’re going out to your house. Here’s the number for my cellular.” Lark handed John one of his cards. “Call me if you need anything. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call you at home, or here, if she ends up staying.”
“Yeah, right, like she’s gonna stay here unless they tie her to the bed,” he said, getting his keys from Lacey.
The ER staff assured him they would come and get him as soon as Ann was back from X-ray. John settled in to watch the fish in the waitingroom aquarium and figure out how to convince her to be admitted. She was back fifteen minutes later. John had never seen her so pale. She was sitting on a cart in a hospital gown, her left arm bandaged from shoulder to elbow. She had bandages on her back and an IV in her right arm.
“I hear they want to admit you.”
“That’s ridiculous. I can be here in less than fifteen minutes if I have a problem, and all I’d be staying for is IV antibiotics and fluids. I’m getting a fluid bolus and my first dose of antibiotic right now. They can cap this IV off,” she said, lifting up her arm, “and reuse it when I come in for my antibiotic.”
“Well, if the doctor’s OK with your plan, then I guess I’m fine with it, too. If not, you’re staying.”
“Fine with me,” Ann said. While they waited for the physician, she told him what had happened. She was conv
inced that she had seen something, or someone, by the deer feeder right before the gunshot went off. She couldn’t remember if she told the police and asked him to call Lark.
When he got back, Dr. Kingsley was in Ann’s cubicle. He discharged her and told her to come back at 9 P.M. He confirmed that her blood count was low, and warned her that she had a lot of muscle and soft-tissue damage that could give her trouble if she didn’t take it easy. Ann nodded away like one of those dolls bobbing its head in the back window of a car. The nurse capped off her IV and gave her a bottle of pain pills.
They arrived home at nine. Two sheriff’s department vehicles were in the driveway and the dogs were barking in the garage. The painkillers had kicked in and Ann could hardly keep her eyes open. She staggered into the house, leaning heavily on John, and curled up on the family-room sofa. He covered her with a quilt and went upstairs.
The master bedroom was freezing. He made a mental note to get plywood to cover the window. The rose-colored carpet had four platter-sized blood-soaked spots and was covered with glass shards. There were two holes in the wall above the bed. The bathroom was a bloody disaster. He left before he fainted.
He sat on the bed in the spare bedroom for several minutes, trying to calm down, and then went back to the master bathroom. Lacey walked in while he was surveying the damage.
“How about if I help you with this mess,” she said, noting his terrified eyes. “We’ve already gone over this area, so it can be cleaned up.” They had confirmed the time of his visit to the Big Oak Diner. He was in the clear for the shooting.
“We’ve been out behind the deer feeder and Ann was right. There are boot tracks, cigarette butts, and a snowmobile trail leading to the road. We lost the trail in a muddle of tire tracks out on the road. Paul and Jim are canvassing your neighbors to find out if they saw anything.”
John stood mute as Lacey talked, his eyes scanning the room. Even in the movies, he’d never seen this much blood.
“Are you OK?” she asked, concerned by how pale his face had become.
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