Colorado's Finest

by Lynn, Sheryl

  First one deputy, then another, and a state policeman left their vehicles. No gunfire greeted them.

  Diana worked feverishly to stop Gil’s bleeding. His eyes were open, but glazed with shock. His walnut complexion had turned ashen. Diana applied pressure to the wound.

  “We need paramedics!” Tate stepped over the fallen criminals. “Get a chopper! Move!”

  “HEY, TATE IS IT?”

  Tate blinked stupidly at Bernadette. Tension, adrenaline, terror and rage had drained from his system, leaving him thick and slow. The chup-chup-chup of the Flight for Life helicopter was fading fast, flying Gil Vance and one of the shooters to the hospital. Another shooter had been loaded into the coroner’s van. The man Diana had smashed in the face with her prayer bowl had a broken nose, two broken teeth and a knot the size of a baseball on his forehead. He’d pay a visit to the local medical clinic. Tate had seen to sorting out the bad guys and organizing a search for the man who’d escaped.

  He slumped on a chair and stared at Bernadette. She was still huddled in a corner between kitchen cabinets. A few shards of glass glittered in her dirty hair, but she didn’t have a mark on her.

  “Tate?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think Diana is hurt.”

  Diana had administered first aid to Gil until the helicopter arrived. Then in the confusion he’d lost sight of her. “What?”

  She pointed her chin at the ruined bedroom door. “She just went in there. I think she’s bleeding.”

  He launched off the chair and ran into the bedroom. Through the bathroom door he saw Diana with her shirt off. She had her face close to the mirror and used tweezers to pluck splinters out of her cheek. In the mirror, her reflection was ghostly pale.

  “Honey?”

  She turned around. His mind briefly registered that her sports bra revealed the ravages of cancer. He focused on the bloody welts and furrows that marked her upper chest, shoulder, neck and cheek. Blood seeped in thin trickles. Splinters stuck out of her face and neck like porcupine quills.

  When the shooter burst into the house and Tate fired the shotgun through the door, Diana had been in the line of fire.

  “Oh my God, I shot you. I’m so sorry. Oh, honey, I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Yeah,” she sighed. “I didn’t notice…thought it was someone else’s blood…” A wan smile pulled her mouth.

  He held out both hands. “Come on, let’s get you to a doctor. You’re full of buckshot.”

  “I’m okay. It’s just that shallow wounds always hurt more than deep ones. I want to get the splinters out before I go anywhere.”

  “Sit.” He pointed at the toilet. “I’ll get them.”

  She loosed a long sigh and sat. She handed him the tweezers and turned her face upward. A few splinters were close to her eye. He extracted those first. She flinched, but didn’t cry out.

  “Were you scared?” she asked.

  “Terrified. You?”

  She grinned. “I was fine until you shot me.”

  He winced. “It was an accident.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find some nice way to make it up to me, right? Ow!”

  “Sorry.” He fully intended to make it up to her, every which way he could imagine. He’d start with repairing her house. Scrubbing blood off the hardwood floors and shampooing it out of the rugs. New windows and doors. Patching the bullet holes, replacing the destroyed art work. He’d even buy her a new leather couch and kitchen table.

  “Tate?” It was Deputy Bill Yarrow.

  “Back here,” he replied. He tipped Diana’s head and pulled a splinter from her neck. He could see the bluish shadow of pellets embedded under her skin. She was shaking and her teeth were clenched, but she sat still for his clumsy ministrations.

  Bill appeared in the bathroom doorway. “We caught him.” Then he noticed Diana and started. “What happened?”

  She pulled a bath towel over her chest. “Tate shot me.” She was shivering.

  At least she was having a good old time with this. He gave her a dark look, earning a wink in reply, then turned to Bill. “Did you catch the shooter?”

  Bill’s face creased with merriment. “He was trying to escape in your Bronco.”

  Everything happens for a purpose, Diana liked to say. Tate marveled at the way things worked out. “Do you have an ID on him? Is he Montgomery?”

  “Albright has all the details.” His amusement faded. “I searched the Navigator top to bottom. No sign of a scanner or any kind of radio that could have intercepted our transmissions. Albright and others claim it was the Navigator that ran them off the road. Good thing the perps didn’t open fire on the feds. They were sitting ducks.”

  “Find out where they were staying in town. There might have been more than four of them. How bad are Albright’s partners injured?”

  “One has a concussion, the other has possible internal injuries. Albright has a busted nose, but he refused treatment.” He leaned to the side so he could see around Tate. “Paramedics said you saved Gil’s life. We owe you big, Red. You’re an incredible lady.”

  Faint color blossomed on her cheeks.

  Just wait, Tate thought, until they heard how Diana had risked her life pulling Gil out of the line of fire. She might get herself a medal, or even a parade.

  “Tell Albright I’ll get to him after I finish here. Take care of O’Malley. Don’t let her sweet talk you into removing the handcuffs.”

  “Roger that.”

  After the deputy left, Tate asked, “Are you going to tell everybody in the whole world that I shot you?”

  “There are ways to shut me up, you know.”

  He pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. She tasted faintly of gun smoke. “Like that?”

  “It’s a good start.” Her grin faded and her beautiful eyes darkened. Her shivering increased. Goosebumps covered her exposed skin. “I was so scared I was going to lose you.”

  “Did you pray?”

  “Of course.”

  “It worked. We’re okay now.”

  She placed a hand flat against his chest. “Yes. I think we are.”

  Feeling better, Tate removed as many splinters as he could with the tweezers. The deeper splinters and embedded buckshot would have to wait for a doctor.

  When Tate walked out of the bedroom, Agent Albright was walking into the house. The agent’s dress shirt was blood splattered, his nose was plastered and both eyes were bruised. His shoes crunched glass and he looked around at the damage as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. “Your methods are messy, but effective. How is Sheriff Vance?”

  Pain arced through Tate’s gut. “We don’t know yet.”

  “He’s a good man. Hope he makes it.”

  “The man you caught. Is he Douglas Montgomery?”

  A flicker of surprise brightened his bruised eyes. “How do you know about him?”

  Tate rubbed at his temple. A world-class headache was forming. “I’m sick to death of your spook games. I know you suspect O’Malley of kidnapping Farrah Montgomery and that you’ve been hoping Douglas Montgomery would come after her. So do you have Montgomery in custody?”

  Albright drew himself ramrod straight. His lips thinned. “Making a positive identification is a bit of a problem,” he said stiffly. “Douglas Montgomery has never been arrested. We don’t have his fingerprints on file. His only living relative is his daughter. And she’s missing. Until we find her, we can’t run DNA tests. The man we have in custody is carrying what looks like valid paper identifying him as Victor Morales, an Ecuadoran citizen.”

  “O’Malley claims Farrah introduced her to Montgomery. That she had sex with him.”

  If looks could kill…Tate rubbed his mouth and chin to keep from braying laughter.

  “She claims a lot of things.”

  Tate grinned. “She seems to be a clever little thing. What are you going to do with her?”

  “That’s up to the federal prosecutor.”

  Tate caught a strained note
he could only interpret as disgust. Pure orneriness made him ask, “So what are you going to charge her with?”

  “At the moment, interstate transport of a stolen vehicle.”

  Tate got it then. Without Farrah Montgomery’s body, the feds couldn’t prove murder; it was highly unlikely that any of Farrah’s people would accuse Bernadette of kidnapping because that would mean incriminating themselves in a string of shootouts and murders. The feds wanted Montgomery and only Bernadette could give him up. She had them by the shorts.

  If the situation in the Maya Valley weren’t so tragic at the moment, Tate would be laughing his head off.

  Buttoning a clean shirt, her movements now stiff and pained, Diana came out of the bedroom. An angry rash covered the left side of her face. She eyed the agent warily.

  Albright did a double take. “You really are twins.”

  “I’m certain you were informed of that, sir.”

  The agent gave himself a shake. He gingerly fingered his plastered nose. “I would like your permission to search this property.”

  “Why?” She looked around at the damage, her eyes skimming over pools of blood. “You already have the money Bernie stashed under the hive. I also turned over the clothes she was wearing when Montgomery’s people shot her.”

  “I can get a warrant.”

  Diana rolled her eyes. “I’m not being obstinate, sir, and I’m not refusing. Excuse me, but I am very tired and I’m not making myself clear. What I mean is, if you are looking for something specific, perhaps I can point you in the right direction.”

  Tate caught his lower lip in his teeth to keep from grinning when the agent glared at him. Albright might as well be wearing a sign that said I hate being shown up by hicks!

  “Your sister hinted that she might have something juicy she can bargain with.”

  “Hmm. She’s probably lying.”

  “Searching this property will show if she is or not.”

  “Go ahead.” She toed a shard of pottery. “It’s not like you can damage anything.”

  Albright left the house. Diana bent to pick up a broken bowl, but Tate stopped her. “We need to get you to a doctor.”

  “I hate going to the doctor.”

  “Funny. Come on.” He guided her out the door. Even more officials had arrived. Men in black Kevlar vests and hats with FBI emblazoned on the front, guarded a sedan. A tow truck backed up to the blackened, fire-foam covered sheriff’s SUV. Crime scene techs gathered shell casings and swarmed over the shot up Navigator. Bernadette was in the sedan’s back seat. She threw her head back as if delighted all this fuss was over her.

  “Oh look at that face,” Diana murmured. “She thinks this is funny.” As if in reply, Bernadette laughed, drawing frowns from her guards.

  Wondering who he could hit up for a ride into town, Tate held Diana’s elbow to help her down the steps. She sounded okay, but she was shaky.

  She stopped short. “Wait a minute. She’s laughing at the FBI. That means she’s sent Albright on a wild goose chase, or she’s hidden her juicy item where she’s convinced he can’t find it.”

  “The beehives.”

  Diana shrugged. “Only way to find out is to look. I’ll get my smoker.”

  “Can this wait?” Tate asked. “You need a doctor.”

  “It’s all right,” she said, waving off his concern. “I was getting very negative vibes off Agent Albright. That is one man who could benefit from some anger management, or a good massage. It wouldn’t surprise me if he turned a fire hose on my poor little bees.”

  Armed with a veil and smoker, Diana calmed the bees enough to run her hand beneath the hives. She gathered quite a crowd of men and women who watched with interest, but stayed far back. Under the last hive, farthest from the gate, her fingers closed over a handle. She puffed smoke at the hive entrance, then gently worked a slim portfolio free. Gold initials, FKM, were affixed to the fastening strap.

  Diana had to smile at her sister’s cleverness. If not for the transmitter that had led Montgomery’s people to the hives, this portfolio and the case of money would have never been found.

  Leaving the enclosure, making sure the gate was securely latched, Diana handed the portfolio over to Albright. He unlocked it with the small key Tate had taken from Bernie. He opened it and peered inside.

  “Holy mother of God,” he breathed. He snapped the portfolio closed.

  “What have you got?” Tate asked.

  “If it’s what I think it is,” the agent replied, “it’s the Rosetta stone that will bring down an empire.” Gesturing for other agents to follow him, he hurried away.

  Tate and Diana watched him go, then looked at each other. In unison they shrugged. Agent Albright and his Rosetta stone were out there, in the world beyond Mc-Clintock. All that mattered to Tate and Diana were each other, their friends and the mountain valley they called home.

  DIANA DOZED ON THE FUTON in Tate’s apartment. Tippy lay beside her, his muzzle on her hip. The normally exuberant puppy was being very quiet today, as if he recognized Diana didn’t feel well.

  A doctor had dug twenty-two pellets out of her skin. Digging them out and stitching up the tiny wounds hurt worse than leaving them in. What hurt even more was extracting splinters that had been driven so deeply into her body a few had pierced muscle. Her entire left shoulder felt sore and hot. Her right arm ached from a tetanus shot. Her stomach was upset from antibiotics. Overall, she felt lousy.

  Light tapping on the door preceded Tate. With the door open the sound of the Track Shack’s busy kitchen and crowded dining room filtered inside the apartment. If business kept up the way it was, Tate might not have to sell. Tippy pricked his ears and his tail whapped against the cushion.

  “Hey, honey, how are you doing?”

  “I’ll live.” She struggled to sit upright, and he was at her side in a flash. He eased her upright. Then he placed the back of his hand against her forehead. She chuckled at his mother henning.

  “No temperature,” he said.

  “Oh my, that means I’m dead.”

  “No fever then.” He stared into her eyes for a long moment, then kissed her, sweetly. She wouldn’t have minded a not-so-sweet make out session, but he showed some restraint. “I’ll get you some water.” He filled a glass then shook two antibiotic tablets into her hand.

  “Ick.”

  “Take them. Consuela is making you some soup. It’ll settle your stomach.”

  She swallowed the pills and drank the entire glass of water.

  “Need to check your dressings.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Doctors make lousy patients. Why is that?” He gestured with his fingertips. “Let’s see how high you can raise your arms.” She couldn’t raise her elbows above her rib cage. She glowered in reply. “I thought so. Unbutton your shirt.”

  She wasn’t wearing a bra. She glanced at the photograph of a pretty, blond woman she guessed was his late wife. It hadn’t been on display when she’d been in this apartment previously. That it occupied a prominent place now told her Tate was on the road to recovery. Still, the last thing she wanted was to give him a panic attack over the cancer reminder. “You don’t have to do this, Tate. I can manage. You don’t really feel guilty that I caught a few pellets? I was only teasing. You saved our lives.”

  He frowned, his eyes downcast. “I feel bad that you got hurt. But that’s not why I want to do this. It’s because you need me.”

  His call. She fumbled open her shirt. He eased fabric off her shoulders. His jaw tightened and his eyes went steely and determined, but he kept his attention on her chest. He peeled tape off her skin and peeked beneath a large pad of gauze. “The doc said to change the dressings if they seep. Everything looks clean. It’s not too inflamed. No bleeding.”

  “Then I’ll just change them later after I shower. Are you okay?”

  “It’s…not so bad.” He touched the thin white mastectomy scar, a butterfly caress. “You have nice skin. Smooth.”

/>   His struggle choked her throat with emotion. This was so difficult for him, he was trying so hard to overcome the fear. For this moment alone she’d love him forever. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out tea packets. “I’ll fix you some tea.”

  She buttoned the shirt, an awkward task considering how poor her range of motion was at the moment. “Is there any news about Gil?”

  Strain left his handsome face. “Great news. He came out of surgery just fine. I even talked to him on the phone for a few minutes. There won’t be any lasting damage. He should be home by Saturday. He told me to tell you that you’re invited to a Ute-Mexican feast.”

  The universe was being very good to them all. Thank you, dear God, thank you so very much.

  “More interesting news.” He adjusted the flame under the teapot. “You know that reporter?”

  “Coles, yes.” She frowned, realizing he’d never shown up at the farm, despite being promised a scoop. “Oh, gosh, is he all right?”

  “I doubt if he thinks so. The state patrol picked him up before he could cross the border.” He grinned and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he’d seen. “We found where the shooters were staying. No sign of any equipment that could have intercepted our phone calls. So I followed up on a hunch. Turns out Coles made a call from his motel room to the shooters.”

  “He was working for Montgomery?” She remembered the scene at Ric’s trailer. What might have happened if she’d taken the reporter at his word? A shudder rippled through her body. “I thought he was a real reporter.”

  “He is. But Montgomery managed to buy him. I checked out the list of numbers I took off his cell phone. One of them matches the number written on the match-book found in your sister’s pocket.”

  “Whose number is it?”

  “Don’t know yet. The FBI is checking it out. I suspect it was Bernadette’s contact in the kidnapping. And do you remember the orderly at the hospital? On the night we were there, a call was made from a payphone in the hospital to Coles’s motel room. The FBI questioned the orderly. Turns out Coles spread a lot of cash around local medical facilities for tips about your sister.”