by Terry Odell
The people wore uniforms. Jackets with reflective lettering. Police. A woman knelt at Randy's side. Her jacket said EMS. A paramedic. Sarah almost collapsed with relief.
"Help him," Sarah said. "He was shot."
"How long has he been unconscious?" the woman said.
"A few minutes. But he needs a doctor. He was shot. In the leg."
The woman nodded, her attention focused on Randy. She shrugged a backpack off her shoulders. "Light," she called.
A man came over, also in uniform. He set a battery-operated lantern beside Randy. "Do you need medical attention, ma'am?"
"No. No, I'm fine. But Randy—"
"We'll have him out of here and to the hospital in a jiffy," the woman said. She had a blood pressure cuff on Randy's arm. The man cut Randy's jeans away.
Sarah got a glimpse of Randy's wound. She swallowed back bile. She'd come this far without passing out. She wasn't going to faint now that they were being rescued. Or throw up.
"Feeling faint, ma'am?" the man said. "Put your head down." He pressed the back of her head. "Cough. It forces blood to the brain."
"I'll be fine," she insisted. "Take care of him. He might have a concussion, too."
"Wait back here, please," the man said. We need a little more room to work." He said something into a radio, then crouched beside the woman.
Their words ran together. She recognized some, like pulse and respirations, but had no idea if the numbers they called out were good or bad.
"Need a better vein," the woman said. The man cut the sleeve of Randy's shirt off. "What's the ETA on that chopper?" the woman said. Sarah detected an underlying urgency in the tone.
"Has he taken any drugs?" the man asked.
"Some aspirin, but that was hours ago. Around one, I think. Maybe a little later."
"Okay, that helps." He spoke into the radio again. Something about bleeding. "Nothing else?"
Sarah shook her head. "Wait. He said Gloria put something in his lemonade. Made him pass out. I don't know what it was."
"Thanks." He mumbled something else into the radio. "Any allergies?"
"Not that I'm aware of." The clearing was washed in light. The dogs stopped barking, and Sarah heard the whup-whup sound of a helicopter above.
"About damn time," the man muttered.
A stretcher descended from the heavens. The paramedics lifted Randy into the cage-like contraption and strapped him in. She stepped close enough to squeeze his hand before they winched him skyward. "I love you." She thought he squeezed back.
She tilted her head, shielding her eyes from the spotlight as Randy rose to the belly of the helicopter. She watched them load him inside and then the helicopter was gone.
"Why didn't you go with him?" she asked the paramedics.
"There's an EMT on board," the man said. "They'll be at the University Medical Center in ten minutes, tops."
"Will he be all right?" Sarah asked. "He seemed all right. I mean, in pain, but he was walking and talking until right before you got here."
"The doctors will check him out. Shock can set in like that. Delayed reaction. Or the loss of blood caught up with him."
"How did you find us?" she asked, finally able to consider the world beyond Randy.
"Someone reported Trent Wallace missing. The sheriffs checked into it and found a warrant for his arrest, so they brought out the sheriff's K-9s instead of our local search and rescue. My partner and I are part of the team, in case someone gets hurt. There are a lot of accidents in the mountains."
"Guess we were lucky you were here," Sarah said. "Do you know who called?"
"No, ma'am. But maybe the cops do." She gestured to Wallace and the cops surrounding him. They'd replaced her makeshift ties with handcuffs. The dogs were leashed now, but were still anxious to get at the man, who had turned remarkably docile.
"How do we get back?" Sarah asked.
One of the police officers came over. She extended a hand. "I'm Rachel Michaelis," she said. "You must be Sarah Tucker. We're about a mile from the edge of campus along a hiking trail. About three miles from where we've parked the vehicles. Or, if you want to do some mountaineering, about fifty yards that way—" she pointed up the mountain with her flashlight—"will put you on the fire road about half a mile from the cars."
Sarah stared along the beam of light at a tree-covered mountain. "I think I'll take the one-mile hike, thank you," she said. "Can we leave now? I want to get to the medical center."
Rachel called to one of the other officers. "Take my car back to campus." She tossed a key his way. "Let's go."
"What about Trent Wallace?" she asked.
"He'll be walking, too. The dogs can use the exercise."
With Rachel's flashlight as a guide, they walked along the mountain trail. To Sarah's mounting impatience, Rachel insisted on keeping the pace slow enough to avoid falling into a ditch or tripping over roots and rocks. Behind them, Sarah could hear the dogs panting and Trent Wallace shouting that none of this was his fault.
They walked in silence for about fifteen minutes. Sarah's anxiety built with each step. "What made you come looking?" Sarah asked, as much to keep her mind off Randy as to satisfy her curiosity.
"Randy missed his appointment with me. I didn't think much of it. I don't know the man, or how reliable he is. Then I got a call from one of his colleagues. Novak, or Kojac."
"Kovak," Sarah said. "He's with Pine Hills."
"Right. Kovak. Well, he said he'd been on the phone with Randy and that he'd heard what sounded like a scuffle. They were able to locate his truck from the cell phone signal. It was parked at a construction site at the edge of campus. Kovak told us what he'd found out and we started looking." Rachel pointed the beam to the left. "Turn here," she said. "We're almost back to civilization."
They walked on asphalt now. Sarah saw car headlights and red and blue flashers in the distance. She broke into a jog.
"Sarah, wait!" Rachel yelled. Gunshots filled the night.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Randy squinted into the warm brown eyes of a pale-skinned woman in hospital scrubs hovering over him. "I'm fine," he insisted. "Get someone with the right papers for me to sign so I can leave." He reached for the IV stuck in his arm. Her hand blocked his and her expression said she'd played this game before and was used to winning.
"I don't think so, Mr. Detweiler. I can release you tomorrow morning, but you've got a mild concussion, an ulcer, you've lost a lot of blood, you were in shock and there's the possibility of infection from your gunshot wound. You've had two units of blood. That IV is balancing your electrolytes and pumping you full of antibiotics. Give it time. Let's ascertain there are no serious aftereffects."
Her accent was vaguely British, but with a more musical lilt. He forced himself to pay attention. Out of everything she'd said, he zeroed in one word. "Ulcer?" He pressed his belly. "You're kidding."
She narrowed her eyes. "I never kid a patient about something like that. The ER doctors caught it when they examined you. Bet you've been having abdominal pains for a while."
"An ulcer?" he repeated.
Her expression softened. "Don't panic. You'll get some pills, be fine in two weeks."
He struggled to sit up. Her hand held him down as if he were nothing more than a rag doll. His head throbbed. He read her name tag. "Olivia du Toit, M.D."
She took his hand and directed it to the side rail of his bed. "If you want to sit up, use the buttons on this panel. There's a remote for the television, but I recommend sleep." She put a call button on his pillow beside his head. "Press that one if you want a nurse. I've okayed some pain pills. Your leg's probably going to smart once the local wears off. I'll see you in the morning." She jotted something down on a clipboard and whisked out of the room.
His brain was pea soup. He tried to put the pieces of his memory together without success. Memory loss. One of the symptoms of a concussion. Wonderful. That he remembered.
The door opened. An older gentle
man in a white lab coat came into his room carrying another metal clipboard. "Dr. du Toit said you're not satisfied with your accommodations. I'm Sebastian Jones. How about a little post-concussion trivia game? Maybe I can get you out of here sooner." He plucked a pen from behind his ear. "What do you remember?"
"About what?" Randy said. "What day it is? Who's the president? Who won the '67 world series?"
He laughed. "How about the last twenty-four hours?"
Not much, he realized, searching for more than blurred images. He bolted upright as his head cleared. "Sarah. Where's Sarah?"
The man frowned and wrote something down. "Calm down, Mr. Detweiler. Who's Sarah?"
Was this part of the memory test? "Sarah Tucker. We were together." His mental jigsaw puzzle was missing too many pieces. "How did I get here?"
"You were airlifted out of the mountains. You don't remember?"
"I remember being in the mountains. Trent Wallace shot me. Sarah tied him up and he was telling us about Hugh Garrigue." He shoved his hair off his forehead and winced with pain.
"Easy," Sebastian said. "You've got some scrapes and cuts on your head."
"You should see the tree." He remembered that much. Where was he? Why wouldn't his thoughts stay in line? Garrigue. Another piece of the puzzle slipped into place. "Damn it. Get the cops in here. Now. And find Sarah."
"Take it easy."
"No, you listen to me," he said. "There are killers out there. And one of them might have Sarah. If you don't get the cops in here in the next two minutes, I'll do it myself." He reached for the IV again.
Sebastian approached the bed and stayed Randy's hand. "Fine, fine. I'll get right on it. Leave your IV alone. It's got what you need to help you get out of here." He bent down and fiddled with the tube. "There. That's better." He stepped away from the bed, his arms folded across his chest.
Randy's arms tingled. He couldn't move them. Or his legs. "What did you—" He gasped for air. The room went black.
* * * * *
"Where is he?" Sarah demanded. She sat on the edge of a gurney in an emergency room bay, her legs swinging back and forth with impatience. A nurse swabbed her arms with antiseptic. Sarah barely acknowledged the sting on her cuts and scrapes. "Randy Detweiler. He was brought in here over an hour ago. By helicopter."
"I remember," the nurse said. "They took him upstairs as I recall. Fished a bullet out of his leg, I think."
"What room?"
She shrugged and peeled off her latex gloves. "You'd have to ask someone in admitting."
Sarah jumped off the gurney. "Which way?"
"End of the corridor, take a left."
She sped off. The sleepy-eyed clerk at the desk checked her computer screen. "Three-ten," she said. "Elevator's over there."
Sarah hurried to the elevator and pressed the button.
"Sarah?"
She turned at the voice. "Rachel. Are you all right?" The officer had an elastic wrap around her left wrist.
"Fine. Tweaked my wrist a little. Be fine in a day or so." She smiled. "Not my gun hand."
The elevator arrived. "Mind if I ride up?" Rachel said. "I've got a couple of questions for Randy. And maybe a couple of answers."
"Of course." Sarah stepped inside and pressed three. Rachel followed and leaned against the rail.
"I'm sorry you got hurt at all," Sarah said. Rachel's reflexes had brought Sarah to the ground before she'd dashed into the middle of a shootout.
"Part of the job, although we don't see much of that around here."
"This must be the season for big crime in small towns," Sarah said. "I can't believe everything that's happened."
With a ding, the doors slid open. "This way," Sarah said, reading the signs. As they neared Randy's room, a man in a lab coat came out, headed their way, his head bowed over a clipboard. "Excuse me," Sarah said, quickening her pace to intercept him. "Were you with Randy Detweiler? Can you tell me how he is?"
"Sorry," he mumbled. "Have to ask a doctor." He moved past her, apparently in a rush to get to the elevator.
Something didn't feel right. She'd seen that man before. Recognition flooded her with fear. "Rachel," she said. "Stop him. And call for backup."
She pushed Randy's door open. He lay in bed, his breathing labored. His face was the same color as the sheets. She rushed to his bed and found the call button on his pillow. She pressed it. "Help me," she called out, not knowing if anyone heard her. She raced down the hall to the nurses' station. "Help. Room three ten. Something's wrong."
In the corridor, Rachel had the man face down on the floor, her knee in his back. She pulled handcuffs off her belt and snapped them shut. She barked commands into the radio on her shoulder.
The nurse rushed to Randy's room. Seconds later, a white-coated woman sped inside after her. Sarah followed. Three other medical staff showed up pushing a cart of fancy-looking machines. Scary-looking machines.
"What's wrong?" Sarah said.
"Not now, ma'am. Please wait outside. There's a lounge behind the nurse's station."
"But—"
Sarah refused to leave the hallway outside Randy's room. Rachel and her prisoner had disappeared. She sank to the floor and leaned against the wall. Muffled voices came from behind the door. Commands were given using terms she only half understood. Milligrams. CCs. Push. A machine beeped. Something hissed.
Time stopped. A hand rested on her shoulder. "Sarah?"
She looked up. "Kovak?"
He lowered himself to the floor beside her and put his arm around her. "What happened?"
The words came out in a rush. He didn't stop her, just let her pour out everything that had happened. "There was a man. Dressed in a lab coat. But he was the man who came to my shop and asked me to ship the Garrigue mugs to Washington. He called himself Mr. Pemberton. He must have done something to Randy. Rachel caught him and then the nurses came and doctors and they won't let me in." She fought back tears. Most of them, anyway. A sob escaped.
"Hush." He pulled her head against his chest. "Your Mr. Pemberton is in custody and he told the doctors what he injected into Randy's IV. They're taking good care of him."
She looked up at him and saw the truth in his eyes. She wiped her eyes. "How come you know all this? They wouldn't tell me a thing. 'Wait in the lounge,' they said. Like this is some hotel and I'm some delicate flower."
"Helps to be a cop, I guess." He smiled. "And for the record, there's nothing delicate about you."
The door opened. A woman stood in the doorway. "I'm Dr. du Toit. Are you Sarah Tucker?"
Sarah jumped to her feet. "That's me. Is he all right? Can I see him yet?"
"He's insisting on it." She stepped aside, letting everyone out of the room. Sarah was relieved to see the cart with the machines leaving with them.
"He's going to be groggy," the doctor said. "He might not remember a lot yet. It's normal."
"But he's all right?" Sarah said.
"Yes, he's going to be fine." She smiled. "Go. He was rather adamant about seeing you. But ten minutes, no longer. You can have him tomorrow morning."
Sarah slipped around the doctor and into Randy's room. His bed was propped up at both head and foot. She stepped to his side. He was pale, but not ghost-white the way he'd been before. When he smiled at her, she grabbed the bed rail for support.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Me?" she croaked. "You could have died."
"Doctor said … you found me. Saved my life." His voice rasped. He rubbed his throat.
"Don't talk. You want some water?"
He nodded and she spotted a covered mug with a plastic straw stuck in the lid on the bedside table. It sloshed when she shook it. "Is this water?" she asked.
He hunched his shoulders. She pried the lid off and sniffed. No odor. "I guess it must be," she said. "Want me to test it?"
He gave a short laugh that turned into a cough and grabbed her hand. "I'll be brave."
She watched his Adam's apple bob as he gulped. The simp
le everyday act settled her. He reached to set the cup on the table and she intercepted him. "Let me." She set the cup down, but kept hold of his hand with her other one. As always, she marveled in the way hers disappeared in his grasp.
There was a quick rap on the door, which opened before either of them spoke. Kovak breezed in. "Hey, big guy. Not smart, using vacation days instead of sick leave. Poor planning." He came closer. "I was talking to your campus cops earlier. They said you got yourself in a bit of a pickle. I thought I'd have to see for myself. The big guy laid out flat." Sarah saw his flippant attitude for what it was. Concern for his partner—his friend. She gazed at Randy and saw he knew it, too.
He glanced at the raised foot of the bed. "How's the leg?"
"Still numb," Randy said.
"What?" Kovak said. "They gave you anesthesia to take out a bullet? I thought you would bite on a strip of leather. Wuss."
"It was a local," Randy said with mock indignation. "The other guy gave me the real stuff."
"Succinylcholine," Kovak said. He shrugged at Sarah. "Told you, it's good to be a cop. I said I needed the information for the police report."
"Is someone going to tell me what happened?" she said.
"I think you better fill her in," Randy said. "She gets testy when you don't share your day, I've found." His lids drooped.
"Tomorrow will be fine." She kissed his forehead. "The doctor said you need to sleep. I'll be back first thing in the morning." His eyes didn't open, but his lips twitched upward.
"You need a lift somewhere?" Kovak asked. "I'm staying in town. More loose ends to tie up."
Bone-weary, she accepted. It would be nice to have time to collect her thoughts.
Chapter Thirty
"I'm fine, damn it," Randy said as Kovak and Sarah virtually manhandled him into the motel room. "The doctor said not to drive, that's all. I'm not an invalid."
Kovak gave a pointed look at Randy's cane. "Yeah, right."
"And she said it might take a day or more for all the sucks stuff, whatever the guy gave you, to be out of your system," Sarah said.