The lock clicked and the door grudgingly opened. Roberta glared up at her. “Okay, come in, but you’re not staying long and I’m not pressing charges.”
“Okay,” Sarah said, stepping into the small room.
Roberta was five-foot-six-inches tall, skinny as a proverbial rail, her straight brown hair lying across her hunched shoulder, uncombed and framing her pale face. Sarah knew she was a chronic heroin user. She’d seen twenty or thirty track scars on each of her lower arms last year, when they’d been called out once again to this place for Brian beating her.
Tonight, Roberta was wearing a black cardigan sweater over a pink T-shirt, and jeans. Sarah saw the stress in her brown eyes as she sat on the edge of the full-size brass bed, her arms crossed, a defiant expression on her face. Her nose was dripping blood and Sarah could see her left cheek was badly swollen, the first purpling colors beginning to appear from Brian’s fist striking her. Roberta kept swiping at her nose with her hand and then wiping it across her jeans, refusing to look up at Sarah.
Shutting the door quietly behind her, Sarah gazed around the place. It was a habit to ensure no one else was lurking in the room. She returned her attention to Roberta, who was sitting hunched, her shoulders up and tight, her gaze focused on the floor in front of her. Pulling her white linen handkerchief from her back pocket, Sarah shook it open and walked over to her. She gently pressed the cloth into Roberta’s hand. The woman wouldn’t look at her but quickly took it and pressed the handkerchief against her bleeding nose.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Sarah asked quietly, taking a chair from the corner, sitting down about six feet away from Roberta.
“The usual,” Roberta said in a low tone. “Brian drinks. That’s it.”
Sarah stood, went to the bathroom, poured water into a glass and brought it back to her. “Here,” she said, slipping it into Roberta’s other hand, “take some water.”
“Thanks . . .” Roberta drank thirstily. She put the nearly empty glass on the bed stand, her hand none too steady.
Sarah sat down. “Did Brian punch you in the stomach?” That’s what he usually did because that way no one would see the bruises. Sarah could feel nothing but compassion for this woman. She was Brian’s whipping post when drunk or high on meth or cocaine, just as his sons were targets of opportunity for him as well. He was a violent, angry, mentally unstable man.
“No . . . he just pushed me around, was all.” Lifting her head, Roberta’s eyes narrowed. “Now? Are you satisfied? You’ve seen me. I’m okay. Leave us alone, Sarah. There’s nothing I can do. And I’m not pressing charges against Brian, so don’t even ask.”
“Were you two taking drugs before he started hitting you?”
Hitching one thin shoulder, Roberta said, “Like I’d admit anything to you.”
“Brian has taken cocaine. That makes him dangerous and unpredictable, Roberta. Usually he drinks, but that’s not what happened this time around.”
Roberta sat there, her mouth moving into a hard line, staring straight ahead, hanky pressed firmly to her nose.
“Look, I need your help here,” Sarah urged quietly. “I’ve got two of my deputies out there and there’s only four of them on duty to cover the entire county. We all know Brian took coke. I don’t feel good about leaving you here alone with him, Roberta. Depending upon how much of the drug he took and when, he could come after you again. People on coke kill other people.” She reached out, gently smoothing the fabric of the cardigan along her shoulder. “I don’t want you hurt any more than you already are, Roberta. Let me help you this one time?” She saw the woman’s face thaw momentarily and cut her a quick glance.
Sarah saw terror in her eyes. Roberta didn’t scare easily. She made her hand firmer on her shoulder, feeling a sliver of an opening. “Please? Let us help you. If nothing else, I can take you to the county Red Cross shelter. Just for the night, until Brian comes down off that cliff he’s on. I’ll have one of my deputy’s drive you home whenever you want. By then, Brian will be off the effects of the coke. He’ll be more stable.”
Roberta hung her head, her hands gripped in her lap. Her voice was rough with fear. “You know what he’d do, Sarah. He’d come after me. He’d kill anyone who stood in the way of gettin’ to me.”
“We wouldn’t tell him where you were being taken. I promise. But I can’t continue to protect you here, Roberta. There are other people in this county who might have life-and-death emergencies, too. I can’t park Craig and Jeff out there to watch him all night.” What Sarah wanted to do was handcuff the sick bastard and haul his ass to jail. With forty-eight hours of incarceration, he would no longer be on coke, and then he wouldn’t try killing Roberta. Probably beat her up again, though.
“In order to do that?” Roberta rasped, putting her hand against her eyes, “I’d have to press charges. I’d have to tell you that yes, I saw him take cocaine.” Her hand dropping away, she stared up at Sarah. “Wouldn’t I?”
With a slow nod of her head, Sarah said, “Yes, you would. I can’t haul him out of here otherwise. You know the law pretty well. My hands are tied if you don’t tell me Brian took cocaine. I can arrest him for forty-eight hours, but legally, by the end of that time, I have to release him, and he’ll walk free unless I can charge him with a crime.” She held her breath, wanting so badly to help Roberta, to protect her. One day, Sarah knew Brian would kill this woman. She didn’t want that to happen. Roberta was a victim of continuous, nonstop violence, too afraid to protect herself by turning over evidence of Brian’s abusiveness to her or her sons.
“I-I’m so tired, Sarah. . . .”
Wincing at the sudden, raw emotion in Roberta’s voice, Sarah came around and crouched in front of her, holding her weary gaze. “Then let me help you.”
“Why would you?” she whispered, tears beginning to dribble down her taut face. “Jethro kidnapped your sister. He sold her . . . how could I trust you? I’m sure you hate us for what happened.”
It felt as if a nest of angry bees had gotten loose inside her gut. Sarah quelled them, focusing on Roberta. “I don’t hate you or your sons, Roberta. Jethro was the one who kidnapped my sister.” She halted, scrambling inwardly to halt the rise of her rage and grief over Lane’s eventual death at the hands of a kidnapper.
Putting a tight grip on her feelings, she added, “I care what happens to you, Roberta. I don’t blame you for what happened to my sister. I never did and never will.” Reaching out, Sarah laid her hand lightly on Roberta’s. Her skin was so cold, so paper thin, obviously from malnutrition. The woman didn’t eat right, just junk food. “I’m here. I’ll help you, but you have to say those words, Roberta. Let me cuff Brian and take him in.” Her voice turned rough with emotion. “You and I both know what will happen when we leave. Brian’s going to come in here and beat you. Only this time, he may kill you. Is that really what you want? Is it?”
Giving her a sad look, Roberta whispered brokenly, “You know, at this age, I’m so tired, so worn out that death looks pretty good to me on some days. At least I would be out of pain and suffering, wondering when Brian was going to stalk me and jump me again. But then, I pull myself out of it because my sons would miss me, and I love them.”
Wincing, Sarah’s hand tightened on hers. “Please, Roberta, let me help.... I’m begging you . . .”
There was a sudden commotion outside the door. Sarah jerked her head up toward the sound. She could hear a scuffle going on out in the dining room. Straightening, she whispered as she drew her pistol, “Roberta, stay here. Don’t leave this room . . .” and she ran to the door.
Shots were fired.
Grabbing the doorknob, Sarah was suddenly thrown off her feet.
Brian leaped inside, gun in hand, breathing like an angry bull.
Sarah landed on her back with a crash into the chair, stunning her for a moment.
Roberta shrieked.
“You bitch!” Elson roared.
Muscle memory took over for Sarah. She rolled o
ver on her back once she hit the floor, both hands on the pistol, taking aim at Brian.
The deafening roar of the pistol echoed, hurting her ears. Sarah saw Elson halt, change his mind, whip his pistol in her direction, to where she lay on the floor.
He fired at the same time she did.
Sarah let out a gasp, slammed back into the floor. Her whole chest ballooned with burning fire. She saw Brian staggering backward, a surprised look on his face. She had shot him in the left shoulder, spinning him around. He windmilled backward, slammed into the wall, but still held on to the gun.
Roberta was screaming, scrambling off the bed, trying to hide from him.
It was milliseconds for Sarah. Gasping for air, stunned by the bullet striking her Kevlar vest, she tried to focus. Brian scrambled upward, once more on his feet, teeth bared, eyes wild as he lifted the gun in her direction.
Sarah fired.
Her whole left leg suddenly went numb.
She watched her bullet strike Brian in the center of his chest. It flung him backward as he fell out of the doorway to the hall, his gun listlessly tumbling out of his fingers.
Hit! I’m hit!
Where were Jeff and Craig? Gasping for air, feeling a tsunami of pain spreading across her chest, Sarah jerkily rolled to her side, trying to reach the radio on her shoulder to call for help.
Jeff Robson, his left arm covered with blood, staggered to the bedroom and leaned heavily on the doorjamb. “I,” he gasped, “called for backup and an ambulance.”
Sarah’s gaze never left the unmoving Brian Elson. “Check Elson. Where’s Craig?”
“Got hit in the head with Elson’s bullet. He’s unconscious,” he rasped, holding his hand against his shoulder, leaning down, making sure Brian was down for good. His hand shook badly. Looking up, he said, “No pulse. What about you? Your leg is bleeding, Sarah.”
Stunned, her mind feeling as if it were stuck in neutral, Sarah pushed herself into a sitting position. Roberta had leaped off the bed, crouched and hidden on the other side of it. Her head popped up, her eyes wide with terror, gripping the edge of the covers.
“Okay,” Sarah whispered, feeling as if her voice were hundreds of miles away in an echo chamber, “okay . . .” Help was on the way. The other two deputies would arrive at some point. So would the paramedics and ambulance. Glancing down at her numb left leg, Sarah saw the entire thigh of her trousers was blood-soaked. There was no feeling in that leg. She put her gun aside, reaching out, seeing a pool of blood gathering beneath it.
“You’re bleeding bad,” Jeff muttered, stepping inside. He lifted his right hand away from his own wound, grabbing the tourniquet that was in his belt. “Lay down, Sarah. Let me get this around your leg. You’re bleeding out.”
Feeling woozy, Sarah nodded and flopped down on the floor. The room spun. She felt weak and helpless, two things she never did. Jeff had been trained in emergency medicine, an EMT in his own right. She saw the pain and tightness in his square face as he came to her side, kneeling down, floundering to put the tourniquet around her thigh above the bullet wound. He was injured himself, his left arm barely working at his commands.
“This is going to hurt,” he warned her, and he tightened the loop around her thigh, yanking it tight, trying to stop the loss of blood.
Pain ran up her leg. Sarah grunted, a small cry tearing out of her. Black dots danced in front of her eyes. She felt Jeff tightening the tourniquet even more, the agony racing upward into the trunk of her body. A black veil descended over her eyes. She could hear Jeff’s heavy, sporadic breathing, hear Roberta sobbing loudly. And then she fell into an abyss.
* * *
The phone rang at Reese and Shay’s home. Dawson was helping to clean up the kitchen, putting dishes into the dishwasher. He shut the door and punched the Start button, hearing the water begin to fill inside it.
“Hello,” Shay answered.
Dawson heard her gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes were huge with terror. A terrible sensation ripped through him. Reese saw and heard his wife’s gasp, going instantly to her side, standing next to the wall phone, close to her, worried looking.
“Oh . . . no! No! Are they all right? Please, tell me they’re all right,” Shay cried.
A feeling of dread came over Dawson. Shay’s voice was shattered with disbelief. She stared at Reese, and then over at him. Her hand was pressed against her throat, as if to stop another cry.
“Y-yes, tell me where they’re taking them? Oh, okay. Have Sarah’s parents been called? Good . . . good. We’re on our way . . . thank you. . . .” And she hung up.
“Oh, God, Reese, Sarah, Jeff and Craig were all shot at the Elson compound!” and she burst into tears.
Dawson felt an icy coldness coat the inside of him. He moved over to Shay, who was being comforted by Reese. “Are they alive?” he demanded hoarsely.
“Y-yes. . . . Craig has a head wound and is unconscious, Jeff has a left shoulder wound. Sarah . . . she got hit in the chest with a bullet fired by Elson and her vest saved her, but he shot her a second time, in her left thigh. She nearly bled out. She’s still alive, but in critical condition. The ambulance is on its way to Wind River Hospital. It’s the nearest place they can get to stabilize them.”
Reese turned to him. “Can you get our truck ready? Go down to the barn and bring it around front? The three of us will leave immediately.”
“Yes, I’ll get it,” Dawson said, quickly moving to the door after pulling down the keys from a hook in the kitchen. His mind spun. Sarah was critical. His mouth grew dry, he wanted to scream, but he funneled all those emotions into focusing on the job at hand. Running down the hall for the front door, his heart beat in time with each footfall.
Get the truck. Get to the Wind River Hospital. Sarah was there.
Could they save her? Or not?
It hurt to even think those words as he jerked open the door, ran out, slamming it behind him and heading swiftly for the barn below which the vehicles were kept. It was dark, but the huge floodlights from the houses and the arena lit his way so he could race down the wooden walk toward the second red barn, where all the vehicles were kept. The air was coolish. Above him, he could see stars winking back at him. Everything seemed so quiet and peaceful as the wind tore past him, his stride long and cadenced.
Hurry! Hurry!
Sliding into the ramp of the barn, he quickly pushed open the tall, heavy sliding doors. His emotions were going to swamp him any second. He had to focus! Running for the silver Ford three-quarter-ton, extended cab pickup, Dawson leaped inside, jamming the key into the slot. Instantly, the engine turned over, a deep growl.
Turn on the headlights.
He was forcing himself to slow down, to think moment by moment, to concentrate on what had to be done. Jerking the truck into gear, the vehicle roared out of the barn, up the road, kicking up thick plumes of dust behind him. By the time he’d swung into the gravel parking lot in front of Reese and Shay’s home, they were standing there, waiting for him. Shay was distraught-looking. Reese was grim.
Throwing it into park, he waited impatiently for them to climb in.
“We just got a second phone call from Dispatch,” Reese told Dawson. “Sarah is AB Positive. The hospital has none of that blood type on hand.”
He stared at Reese’s shadowed face as he helped Shay into the cab and then hopped into the passenger-side seat. “AB Positive? Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” he grunted. “They’re gonna give her Type O. It’s the only thing they can do. She’s lost too much blood—”
“Get on the phone,” Dawson instructed, jerking the truck into gear, slamming his boot down on the accelerator. “Call Emergency and tell them that I have AB Positive blood. Tell them to get ready to take whatever they need once we get there. And then let’s get hold of the Teton sheriff’s department, speak to whoever is on duty. Ask the sheriff’s department to fly any AB blood that’s at their hospital in Jackson Hole.”
“Good idea,�
�� Reese said, some relief in his tone.
Gasping, Shay cried, “You have the same blood type?”
“Yeah,” Dawson ground out, swinging the truck out from the dirt road and onto the highway, heading for Wind River.
“Oh, thank God!” Shay whispered. “How many units can you give? Do you know?”
“An adult has anywhere between eight to twelve pints of blood in them,” Dawson told her. “The larger and taller you are, the more blood you have. Normally, when you give blood, they only take a pint. But in my case, they can easily take two or three pints.”
But would it be too late?
Chapter Ten
June 19
A nurse was waiting for Dawson at the entrance to the Wind River Hospital ER. He told her his name and she quickly escorted him into a room to begin the life-saving transfusion.
“I’m Nurse Karen Siebold, Mr. Callahan,” she said, gesturing for him to sit in a comfortable chair and roll up the sleeve on his left arm.
“Call me, Dawson. Have you heard how Sarah Carter is doing?”
“She’s in surgery,” she said, quickly swabbing the inside of his arm. “We’re really lucky. We have the best ortho surgeon from Jackson Hole, John Martin, who was giving a talk to a group of our doctors this evening. I heard she took a bullet to her Kevlar vest high on her chest. That’s going to cause a lot of bruising, but that’s all. The X-rays didn’t show any broken ribs or sternum.”
“What about her leg? They say she was shot in the leg.”
“The left midthigh,” the nurse said. “The bullet cut her femoral artery and she almost bled to death. It also nicked the femur itself and, according to what I heard, she’s got a Greenstick fracture to it.”
“Greenstick,” Dawson said, his brows moving upward. “You’re talking a lateral fracture of the femur, then?”
“That’s right. But it’s a closed fracture, not an open one. Greensticks never are.”
A closed fracture meant the bones had not broken in two and torn the skin open, a much more serious break. Dawson’s mind clicked through his medical training. “That means the fracture is going to weaken her femur, but the bone isn’t broken. Right?”
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