by BJ Bourg
“What happened in here?” Rachael asked.
“When the shooting started, I couldn’t see Murray because London was in the way, so I couldn’t back him up,” he explained. “I tried to move into position to get a bead on Murray, but that was when London went down and Murray fired into the doorway, hitting me in the arm”—he held up his bandaged left arm—“and taking me out of the fight for a second.”
“What happened afterward?” Rachael had distanced herself from the scene because of her relationship with Murray and hadn’t gotten the lowdown from anyone yet. “I just heard that London was critical and Murray had coded.”
Andrew pointed to the side of the door. “I ducked behind the door for cover and that was when Murray came around the desk and stood over London.” He shook his head. “I thought London was a goner. I brought my gun to bear as fast as I could, but I would’ve never gotten there in time because Murray was too fast.” He paused to sigh and wipe his own face. “Thank God London was faster. I’ve never seen anything like it. He snatched his pistol up with his left hand and, in one smooth motion, fired a single shot that went through Murray’s right eye. Murray just stood there looking stunned. I fired a couple of shots just in case he was still a threat, but he was dead on his feet.”
Rachael frowned. While she had mixed feelings about Murray, she was glad London had outgunned him. The last she’d heard, London was going into surgery. She turned to Andrew. “Any word on London’s condition?”
“He’s still in surgery.” Andrew frowned. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a long night. He lost a lot of blood and he was having problems moving his right arm, so we weren’t sure how much damage the bullet had done.”
Tears welled up in Rachael’s eyes as she stared down at the pool of blood near the doorway that was obviously from London’s wound. There’s so much of it! she thought. His vest and shirt were on the ground next to the blood and they were saturated. “This is my fault,” she said, the tears falling free. “I did this to him.”
“Come now, it’s nobody’s fault but Murray’s.” Andrew pulled Rachael to him and held her tight. “It was his decision to do this—no one else’s.”
“But you don’t understand. I called him and questioned him about my rifle. I gave up the element of surprise.” She buried her face in Andrew’s chest and, in a muffled voice, said, “I’m such an idiot!”
She continued crying for what seemed like forever, impervious to Andrew’s attempt at consolation. Finally, when she felt like her tear ducts had run dry, she pulled away and wiped at her face. “I want to see him, or at least be there when he gets out of surgery.”
Andrew nodded and led the way to his car. Rachael followed close behind him, shielding her swollen face from the deputy standing guard at the door and from Karla, who was on the phone with what sounded like the sheriff. Karla was providing an update of her findings at the scene and asking about London’s condition. Rachael slowed and lifted her head inquisitively, but Karla only frowned and mouthed the words, “Still in surgery.”
Rachael didn’t say anything on the drive to the hospital. She was lost in thought. While she wished she could go back and redo everything, she began to accept the fact that she couldn’t, and she was left hoping and praying that London would make a full recovery.
She was still praying when Andrew pulled into the parking lot of Magnolia General Hospital. There were no open spaces, so they had to park along the highway. Rachael was out the door and hurrying across the parking lot before Andrew shut off the engine. She barreled through the emergency room door and immediately spotted the sheriff standing in the doorway to the waiting room. Uma stood beside him and was weeping quietly, her hands plastered over her mouth. There were dozens of deputies milling about, all looking lost and despondent. Melvin was sitting on the ground in the lobby, his forehead resting on his knees.
Panic gripped at Rachael’s chest and made it difficult to breathe as she rushed to the sheriff’s side. “Has there been word? Is he going to be okay?”
Sheriff Chiasson shook his head solemnly, his own eyes filled with tears. “We just don’t know. He’s been in surgery for over an hour and we haven’t heard a peep.”
“He’d better not die,” Uma said softly, her voice cracking. “He’d just better not.”
Rachael turned and walked on weak legs to where Melvin sat. She sank to the floor beside him, exhausted and hopeless. She heard him mumbling and was about to ask what he was saying when she realized he was praying. Without thought, she wrapped her arm around him and began to pray with him. She couldn’t hear what he was saying and she didn’t know exactly what she should say, so she just called out to God and begged him to spare London’s life and help him make a full recovery.
She didn’t know how long she remained in that position and she didn’t care—she was willing to stay there as long as it took. Finally, sometime after the sun began to rise over the distant trees toward the east, the door to the surgery hall opened and a team of doctors walked out. Their scrubs were a mess and they looked haggard, but the light in their eyes was as bright as the sun rising behind them.
“How is he?” the sheriff asked. He tried to sound sure of himself, but the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him.
“The good news—he’s going to make it,” said one of the surgeons. “He’ll pull through.”
There was a brief moment of joyous chatter and then a deathly silence fell over the deputies who had crowded around as they realized there was a second part to his announcement.
“And the bad news?” asked the sheriff hesitantly.
The doctor began speaking rapidly, spouting off medical terms that didn’t make much sense to them. The sheriff finally asked him to give it to them in layman’s terms. “What’s the skinny, Doc? Will he make a full recovery?”
The doctor frowned. “It’s too early to tell, but he did sustain significant damage to the cervical nerve on the right side. Will he make a full recovery? Let me put it this way…he’ll be fighting an uphill battle, and he’ll be pushing a heavy cart along the way.”
“What’s worst case?” Rachael asked, her voice quivering.
“The worst case is the most likely scenario.” The doctor sighed. “Permanent paralysis in his right hand.”
CHAPTER 50
Two hours later
I opened my eyes, but everything around me was blurry. The lights in the room were dim, which made it hard to make out the shadows moving around. I reached for my eyes with both hands, but only my left hand made it. Using my thumb and index finger, I rubbed away the blurriness and tried looking around the room again. It was still blurry, but the room finally began to come into view.
The first face I saw was Dawn’s. I was confused. “Why are you here?”
She gasped. “Are you kidding me? You got shot. There’s no way I wouldn’t be here.”
Things started to come back to me…Murray’s confession, the initial shootout, getting hit in the neck, Murray standing over me, him going down with a bullet in the eye—right where I’d intended.
I grinned. “It’s just a scratch. I’ll be fine. You should see the other guy.”
There were worry lines in Dawn’s face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is your mom okay?”
She forced a smile. “She’s fine. They let her go back home today.”
“Great news, so why the long face?”
Her eyes shifted subtly toward my right side and then down at her hands. “I’m worried about you.”
I started to turn my head toward my right, but stopped when I felt a tearing pain in my neck. I suddenly remembered getting hit in the neck and my right hand going numb. I tried to jerk my right hand up to look at it, but nothing happened. “What the hell?”
Ignoring the ripping pain in my neck, I turned so I could see if my arm was still there. It was, but it wouldn’t move when I told it to. I reached around with my left hand and lifted my right arm. When I let it go, it plopped to the bed
like a dead fish.
“What’s going on?” I looked toward Dawn and there were tears in her eyes. “What’s wrong with my arm?”
“The bullet damaged some nerves in your neck.” Dawn took a breath and blew it out, wiping the tears from her eyes. “There’s a chance your right arm might be…um…there’s a chance you won’t be able to use your right arm anymore.”
I simply stared at her as the words moved from her lips, down my ear canals, and into my brain, where I fought to process what I’d just heard. If I couldn’t use my right arm anymore, that meant I couldn’t be a sniper anymore. It meant there were a lot of things I wouldn’t be able to do anymore.
I rested my head on the pillow, stared up at the ceiling. Although Dawn was right beside me, I felt very alone at that moment. Sniping and law enforcement work were my life. I’d never considered giving it up and I’d never imagined life without it.
I felt Dawn’s hand on my chest as she bent forward and kissed my lips. I kissed her back, but then pulled away abruptly.
“I don’t accept this.” I pushed myself upright in the bed and stared down at my right hand, straining with everything in me to make it move. It didn’t. I closed my eyes and concentrated, trying to will it to life. Still nothing.
Dawn wept silently beside me. “London, I’m so sorry about this, but please know that I’ll be by your side through it all. I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
I stopped and turned slowly to stare at her. It was at that moment I realized I didn’t ever want anyone else by my side—I just wanted her. “I love you, too, Dawn Luke.”
She sucked in her breath and leaned into me, kissing me like she’d never kissed me before—
“I hate to ruin the party,” called Sheriff Chiasson from the doorway, “but there are a lot of people out here waiting to see Mr. Carter.”
Dawn quickly pulled away and wiped her eyes, her face the color of fresh roses. “Sorry, sheriff, we were just—”
“No need to apologize.” Although the sheriff tried to be positive and cheery, I could tell he was concerned.
“Don’t worry about a thing, sheriff,” I said. “I’ll be up and at ‘em in no time. I won’t let a little thing like nerve damage slow me down.”
The sheriff smiled and nodded his agreement, but his eyes revealed the doubt he felt. Having always been honest with myself, I was worried and felt a tremendous amount of doubt, too, but I was not going to let it stop me from trying. Even if it took years, I was determined to get my arm back.
CHAPTER 51
Eight months later…
Magnolia Parish Shooting Range
I stood over my rifle and stared downrange at the target that was two hundred yards away. I had set the alarm on my phone to go off at random times, and, when it did, I’d drop to a prone position and pull the trigger as soon as the crosshairs would sweep the sweet spot between the suspect’s eyes. Moving like a well-oiled piston, I bolted a second round and fired, and then repeated the sequence three more times.
When I was done, I removed the bolt, shoved it in my pocket, and walked to the target. I nodded my approval. All five bullets had made a jagged hole that could easily be covered by a dime. I flexed my right hand as I walked toward the firing line and squinted against the rising sun when a car approached the overhang. I saw a figure get out of the car and walk to my rifle, but I couldn’t make out who it was because of the blinding sunlight.
“It had better be a friendly,” I said under my breath, gently touching my Beretta with a finger. I was just getting over one gunshot wound and I certainly didn’t need another—especially considering the time it took to return to near-one-hundred-percent.
When I had awakened from my second surgery a week after the shooting, there had still been no feeling in my right hand, but the mobility had improved to a single twitch every now and again—but only after intense struggling and concentrating on my part. The doctors said it would take nothing short of a true miracle to regain normal use of my right hand, and their prognosis was that I would suffer permanent paralysis from the elbow down. While their news was bleak, Dawn’s presence had a profoundly positive impact on my mood. It also helped set the tone for my rehabilitation efforts.
Tackling recovery with the same passion and commitment I applied to sniper work, I spent nearly every waking minute trying to move my right hand. When I wasn’t trying to force it back to life, I was learning to shoot as proficiently with my left hand as I’d had with my right. It was difficult setting everything up with one hand, but I managed to make it work and Dawn helped out when she was around.
Her mom had responded well to the cancer treatments, so she was staying in Magnolia during the week and going back to Arkansas for the weekends, and she stayed at my place while she was here. She would spend several hours per day massaging my hand and trying to stimulate the muscles and nerves into movement. Little by little, after weeks of trying, the feeling started to return. It was a burning and prickling sensation at first, but that eventually subsided and I was able to feel extremely hot and cold temperatures. With more time and lots of work, the feeling in most of my hand returned to normal and I was able to start moving it a little at a time. Eventually, I was able to form a fist—it was a weak fist, but a fist nonetheless—and eventually began to pick up objects.
As my movement returned a little at a time, Dawn got me lifting light dumbbells and squeezing a rubber ball to increase my strength. It was a frustrating process and the improvements were barely noticeable, but I stuck to it. Now, many months later, I was finally getting close to my pre-injury shooting speeds and my accuracy was as good as—or better than—it had ever been. I’d certainly healed up a lot more than the doctors had expected, and for that I was grateful and they were surprised. But there was stopping. I came out here every chance I got to continue to healing.
I was about halfway to my rifle when I realized my visitor was Rachael. I smiled and waved to her.
“Hey, London, how are you?” she asked when I reached her.
I walked to my rifle and reinserted the bolt. “I’m well. What brings you out here?”
“I was in the neighborhood and saw your truck when I drove by.” She watched as I pulled several cartridges from the box of bullets on the shooting table. She pointed to my right hand. “I can’t believe how far you’ve come. I remember the first training after your surgery…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes watered over, and I knew she was remembering how I couldn’t even move my hand to grip my rifle for many weeks after the shooting. “It was so scary. Thank God you’re back to your old self.”
I nodded and flexed my hand. “I still have a bit of numbness in my pinky, but the rest of my hand is back to normal.”
“Who needs a pinky anyway, right?” Rachael asked, and we both laughed. She then grew sober. “Is it true a federal grand jury brought back an indictment against Buster for murder?”
“Yeah…after a six-month investigation and three weeks of grand jury testimony, they finally rendered a decision.” I shook my head. “It’s going to be a long trial, whenever they decide to have it, and I think they’re going to make an example out of him. I’m just glad it’ll be held in New Orleans and not here, because we’d have to run ‘round-the-clock security, and we don’t have enough snipers for that.”
“Did anyone else get indicted?”
I shook my head. “From what I heard, the buck stopped with him.”
We spoke briefly about the shootout in November and then I looked toward her cruiser. “Why are you working so early on a Saturday morning?”
“I had to contact Dudley Wilson and let him know his son’s girlfriend disappeared in the Blue Summit Mountains of Tennessee.”
“I heard about that.” I remembered watching a news story about a Mathport girl who had disappeared while vacationing with her parents. “They never found her?”
Rachael shook her head. “I spoke to one of the park rangers and he said they suspected she might
have voluntarily left the mountains, so they needed me to find out if she had been in contact with her boyfriend.”
“Dudley’s boy is Abraham Wilson, isn’t he?”
Rachael nodded.
“I met that kid,” I said. “He’s the one who identified Denny’s bicycle.”
She was about to say something more when my phone rang. I checked the display screen and saw that it was Dawn, who had driven back to Arkansas last night. “Oh, I have to take this.”
Rachael nodded her understanding and mouthed that she was going to head home.
I turned away and answered the call. “Hey, Dawn, how’s it going?”
“Oh, my God, London, it worked!”
“What worked?”
“The treatment—it worked!” Her voice was trembling with excitement. “Doctor Ginger didn’t even wait for Monday to tell us. She called first thing this morning to let my mom know that the PET scans came back clean—she’s cancer free!”
“That’s so good to hear.” I leaned against a nearby post and let out a long sigh of relief. Priscilla Luke had fought such a courageous battle and this was so much more than she had expected from the experimental treatments. At best, she thought it might extend her life by a year, or so, but she never dreamed she’d achieve full remission.
“I had to call you as soon as I found out,” Dawn said. After talking excitedly for a few more minutes, she told me she’d be home late Sunday night. “I want you to come up here with me next weekend, if you don’t mind. My mom says she misses you.”
I’d gone up for Christmas and met her family. I didn’t like wife-beaters, no matter how much they claimed to have changed, but I’d tried to be cordial to Evan Luke for Dawn’s sake. As for her mom and brother, we hit it off right away. They were good people and they told some funny stories about Dawn’s childhood.
“I can’t wait to see her again,” I said. “Maybe she can tell me more embarrassing stories about you.”