Shouts rose. “On the roof, up there. Next door!”
Fletcher whirled, gun raised, saw the muzzle flash—and was blown instantly backward, his thigh exploding in pain. He collapsed onto the driveway, blood gushing beneath him.
“Officer down!”
Another crack. The cement pulverized mere inches away.
“94-Boy . . . I’ve been shot. . . .” Fletcher groaned and rolled to his side, slipping in pooled blood as he positioned himself to take aim again. His heart was as loud as gunfire in his ears. He risked a glance at his leg. Too much blood. Pumping, red . . . an artery? He was dizzy, faint . . . Couldn’t pass out. Had to stop the shooter before he killed someone else. God . . . help me do this.
It was an effort to lift his gun. . . . Weak, too weak. And the pain . . . Fletcher held his breath, searched the roof—there. He’s there. He fought a surge of nausea as the man met his gaze directly, lowered the rifle a few inches, and continued to stare. Fletcher blinked as his vision dimmed. Sweat dripped down his face; he was cold, dizzy. Bleeding out . . . got to stop it. Get a shot, before . . .
The shooter began to raise his rifle again.
Fletcher snatched at his bloody pant leg, found the bullet hole. Gritted his teeth and jammed his thumb in, burying it deep enough to feel the weak pulsing of his severed vessel. He pressed down hard, sucked in a breath, then aimed his weapon and fired until the slide locked back—clip emptied.
41
SIRENS . . . Did they need so many sirens?
Fletcher’s head pounded . . . then floated. He wanted to vomit. He needed to sit up. It felt like there was a block of cement sitting on his leg. And what was this thing tied over his—?
“Easy, Deputy Holt. That’s an oxygen mask. In the ambulance, remember?” A man’s face loomed over his. Young, stethoscope around his neck. “Your heart’s pumping more IV fluids than blood right now. You need all the oxygen you can get. Trust me.” He shook his head. “That bullet got some major vessels.”
Bullet. Fletcher’s groan fogged the mask as the images rushed back. The house fire, the Buick . . . “The shooter?”
“You got him.” The medic leaned over him again. “Someday you’re gonna show me how you did that with one thumb buried in your femoral artery. But right now I just want to keep your BP over 70 until I can hand you over to a trauma surgeon.” He steadied the IV bags as the ambulance jolted around a turn. “We’re taking you to Sacramento Hope.”
Macy. Fletcher closed his eyes, saw her beautiful face. An ache crowded his heart. The oxygen mask wasn’t giving him enough air.
“Almost to the ER,” the paramedic reported, frowning at the numbers on the monitor displays. “You hang in there. Don’t let me down now, hear?”
Fletcher nodded, tried to lift his hand for a thumbs-up, but it was more than he could do. Even breathing was sapping his strength. His head was floating, bobbing like a buoy out on Galveston Bay. The pain was hardly there anymore. Was that a good thing or—? Fletcher’s vision went fuzzy dim as he tried to sit up.
“What’s wrong?” The paramedic loomed overhead again.
“My parents . . .” Fletcher swallowed, mouth dry. “They’ve had a lot to deal with. If I die—”
“No way.” The paramedic clamped a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. “We’re pulling up to the ER now, buddy. No dying on my watch.”
Please, Lord, don’t take me . . . not yet.
“Do you believe Mr. Rush’s intent was to rape you?”
Macy’s stomach lurched. If she had anything left in it, she’d probably heave again. Even close to two hours afterward, it was still impossible to accept. “I’m not sure.”
The older female deputy leaned forward in the clinic’s chair, her tone gentle but firm. “You told the doctor that Mr. Rush tore your blouse and touched your breast.”
Macy nodded, glanced down at her left arm—in a purple fiberglass cast. Elliot had twisted her wrist hard enough to fracture it. Her voice emerged in a hoarse whisper. “I was afraid he might . . . force it further. He wouldn’t let go of me. That’s why I hit him.”
“With that brass . . .” The deputy scanned her notes.
“Door set. I was hoping to have it installed on the house.” Nonni’s door set. In a police evidence locker now. Macy shivered despite the warmed blanket the nurse had given her. She’d driven to an urgent care a few blocks from the hospital, too embarrassed to go to the ER where everyone knew her. And where they knew—“How badly did I hurt Elliot?”
“I can’t really answer that. I mean I don’t know,” the deputy amended. “I only know that he’s in custody. His arrest was without incident.”
Arrested. Macy struggled to take it in. How could all of this be possible? It was a nightmare. A new thought made her breath catch. “Will I need a lawyer? Will there be—?”
The deputy’s cell phone buzzed and she held up a finger. “Excuse me one minute.” She stood and walked a few steps away.
Macy took a sip of water, hiked up the blanket. She wouldn’t confide any of this to Leah. It would be such an unwelcome reminder of—
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” the deputy said, taking her chair again. “Crazy out there after we took down the freeway sniper.”
Macy’s jaw sagged. “I didn’t hear. I haven’t seen the TV or . . . You got him?”
“About forty-five minutes ago. He was pronounced dead on scene. The media’s having a field day trying to ferret out the details, of course.” The deputy’s brows puckered. “That call was an update on our deputy who was shot in the confrontation. He’s in surgery. Such a great guy. And his mother’s a Crisis Care chaplain.”
Macy’s heart stalled. “Wait . . . Fletcher Holt?”
“That’s right. You know him?”
Taylor pressed Charly’s doorbell a second time, glanced at Seth. She was still reeling. The shooter was Ned Archer. She and Charly had attempted a chaplain visit at that house—Seth too. The man had been a patient at the ER; Taylor had talked to him. And now . . . Her stomach knotted. “Charly hasn’t answered our calls either. Maybe—”
“Ring it again.” Seth’s expression said he knew what she was thinking: chaplains on the doorstep meant bad news. They were bringing it to a friend this time. “Charly could have been showering, having quiet time with her Bible,” he explained. “She should hear this from us first.”
Taylor pressed the doorbell again. Took a slow breath—and it stuck in her chest as Charly opened the door.
“Oh, my goodness, what a treat,” she said, her lovely eyes lighting. She wore an apron and a spongy set of vintage earphones draped around her neck. “I hope you weren’t standing there long. I was cooking venison spaghetti and listening to music on my—” Her gaze met Taylor’s, and the light went out of her eyes. Charly pressed a hand over her heart. “Is something wrong? Oh, dear God . . . is it Fletcher?”
Macy stood outside the ICU doors, trying to work up the nerve to phone the unit’s clinical coordinator. She’d changed into scrubs, hung her hospital ID badge around her neck, and made her way into Sacramento Hope, satisfying security. Though she had no official reason to be here. And no credible relational reason either. Would Fletcher even want me here?
He’d been out of surgery for five hours. Macy had waited—watching TV news, pacing the house—until the hospital night shift arrived. The nurse in charge was a friend. She’d confided that Fletcher’s condition was critical but stable; his initial lab work was . . . so bad. Macy’s heart cramped. They were infusing blood.
She tapped her phone.
“You’re here?” the nurse asked her.
“Right outside—in scrubs. Okay to come in?”
“There’s family in there. His father just got in from Alaska.”
“I won’t even go to the bedside. I . . . need to see him with my own eyes. That’s all.”
“You know the door code. He’s in 15.”
Macy stepped inside, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The f
amiliar whoosh-sigh of ventilators and dinging of alarms welcomed her. Staff hustled in all directions. Her friend, desk phone to her ear, gave Macy a discreet nod. Room 15 was right over there. She told herself he’d probably be asleep, certainly in no shape to converse. Not that she would even try to . . .
Macy stopped a few feet from the door, shocked as she caught sight of Fletcher through the glass. Eyes closed, oxygen mask over his face, skin so sallow and pale that . . . he looks dead. Macy forced herself to remember that critical blood loss always looked that way. Fletcher was still under the effects of anesthesia, and he was receiving transfusions. Her gaze swept the IV poles: near-empty blood bag, a fresh one at the ready. Liters of normal saline and Ringer’s solution . . . Macy took a slow breath. It was only then that her tunnel vision widened enough to see Fletcher’s visitors.
His father—she’d have known it without the charge nurse’s remark. Tall, darker hair than his son’s, but the same angular jaw and wide shoulders, hunched over now as he sat in a chair pulled close to the bed. Near him was a woman who looked something like Fletcher’s mother, same coloring but shorter probably. She had a spiral notebook in her lap. Macy’s gaze shifted to the other side of the bed. Someone there, too. She took a few steps closer to see better.
The young woman, pale blonde, slid her chair forward, angling it to bring herself as close as possible to the bed. She stretched out a bare, willowy arm to smooth the sheet over Fletcher’s chest. Then she grasped his hand and kissed it lightly. She tipped her head, saying something to the family on the other side of the bed.
A piece of rolling equipment clattered behind Macy, and the blonde glanced up. Spotted her standing there.
“Did y’all need to get in here?” she asked, stunning gray eyes connecting with Macy’s. “Just say the word and we’ll scoot out of the—”
“No,” Macy muttered quickly. “No problem. You’re fine there. I . . . I have the wrong room.” She made herself smile, backed away, and then forced herself to walk, not run, out the ICU doors.
She leaned against the corridor wall and closed her eyes.
Jessica. Of course she would come. It was clear she was incredibly close to the Holt family. A childhood neighbor to Fletcher, a dear friend. Macy tried to push the image aside: the beautiful woman clasping his hand. Kissing it. There had been concern on her face. And love. Anyone could see that. Even . . . a fool like me.
Macy lifted her cast, supported it with her other hand. Her fingers were swollen; she’d left it hanging down too long. It ached. Like everything else today. She needed to find some ice. And get away from here.
She approached the ICU waiting room on her way down the corridor—and caught a glimpse of someone in there: Charly Holt, alone, hands clasped and head bowed. The poor woman. Macy told herself she should go in there, see if there was anything Charly needed. She should tell Fletcher’s mother how very sorry she was that this awful, incomprehensible thing had happened and . . .
Apologize for my part in sending that viatical brochure? For trying to “profit” from her cancer? Did Fletcher say that to Charly, too? Would she really believe I’m capable of that?
Macy hugged her cast to her chest and jogged toward the exit to the parking lot.
42
“YOU OKAY IN THERE?”
What? Where . . . ? I’m in the car?
“Everything okay?” There was another tap on the darkened window.
“Yes, we . . .” Macy fumbled with the ignition, confused, wrist throbbing. She lowered the window halfway and found a smile. “Fine, Officer. We were just—” She stopped, stared. Not a police officer. Hospital security.
“Macy Wynn?” The elderly guard smiled back at her. “I thought that was your car. But I told myself you don’t usually work nights.” He chuckled. “We’ve been friends how many years now? You don’t have to call me officer.”
Macy managed a laugh; she’d almost told him her uncle Bob was a police officer in Wyoming. The clinic’s pain pill had made her fuzzy. She’d been waiting to peek in on Fletcher one more time, but . . . “I had a little accident,” she told him, lifting her cast. “I thought I shouldn’t drive until the medication wore off.”
“Well, my goodness. Sorry to see that.” He glanced toward the hospital doors, his heavy ring of keys jingling with the movement. “You don’t want to come inside? The surgeons’ lounge is empty. I could grab you some coffee while you wait.”
“Thank you,” Macy told him, touched by the kindness. “But no. I’ll just sit here a little longer. If that’s okay.”
“More than okay.” The guard winked. “Take as long as you like—sleep if you need to. Make yourself at home, Macy. I’ll look out for you.”
Fletcher shifted in the bed, prompting a flash of pain that seared deep into his thigh. He groaned, opened his eyes.
Jessica raised her head from where she’d been resting it on the edge of the mattress. The blanket had left a small imprint on her cheek.
“You’re still here?” he asked her.
“Of course.” Her hair was sleep tossed, smile as warm as Houston. “Where else would I be? Neiman Marcus?”
Fletcher shook his head. “I won’t kid myself—it’s closed.” Her fingers found his. “Hey, seriously. Thanks for being here.”
“Least I could do. You always gave me half your Halloween candy.” Her eyes rolled. “Okay. You never gave me a hard time for stealing all the good stuff.”
“You’re . . . the good stuff,” Fletcher told her, embarrassed by a rush of emotion. Too much medication . . . too much of everything. He glanced toward the door. “Mom and Dad?”
“I made them go get some sleep. Aunt Thena’s been here too.” Jessica smiled. “The reporters will have their hands full if they try to get past her. By the way, you should expect a ‘Sorry You Got Shot’ poem.”
Fletcher chuckled. “Lots of news coverage?”
“To put it mildly. You’re a national hero. Promise you’ll let me pick out your clothes for the White House lunch—I can’t trust you with something that critical.” Her eyes filled with sudden tears. “Thank God you’re okay, Fletcher. Don’t ever do this to me again.”
“I won’t.” He squeezed her hand. “Any more word on the firefighter?”
“Holding his own, last I heard. They said fifty firemen volunteered to donate blood—almost as many as the cops who rolled up sleeves for you.” Her lips quirked. “Of course, we’d have twice as many in H-Town.”
Fletcher glanced up at the IV poles and the blood transfusion bag. It all seemed surreal. Seeing the Buick, hearing the shot. The shooter up on the roof. And the way he stared at me. Like he was daring me to kill him.
“I guess he left a note—more of a book, sounds like.” Jessica met Fletcher’s gaze. “That sniper, Ned Archer. He wrote one of those manifestos. About how he didn’t trust the US government. Or this city. How they caused his father’s dementia, poisoned his dog, stole their house. He said it was all a plot involving the Chinese . . . Pretty crazy stuff.”
“Sounds crazy.” Fletcher grimaced against a wave of pain. “Aagh.”
“Hurting?” Jessica leaned close. “Want me to push the button on the med pump?”
Fletcher nodded. “Thanks.”
“There.”
He glanced toward the door again, squinting at the distant blur of scrubs. “Has anybody else come to visit?”
“A guy name Seth. But you were asleep. I think they’re limiting visitors. He’s a chaplain?”
“Yeah.” Fletcher blinked, feeling the medication’s effects.
“You were expecting another visitor?”
“Not really, I guess.”
“A gorgeous dark-haired nurse . . . sort of exotic-looking?”
His breath stalled. “Why are you asking that?”
“Because she’s peeked into this room at least three times and said she had the wrong room when I asked. But she doesn’t look like someone who gets lost.” Jessica smiled. “She looks like she could
lead a trek across the Andes without a map. Who is she?”
“Sounds like Macy Wynn.”
Jessica was quiet for a moment. “And who is she to you?”
“We were sort of seeing each other. But not anymore.”
She tilted her head. “I don’t believe you, Fletcher.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that look on your face just now. When you said her name. Like even if you’ve taken a bullet to a major artery, you could trust everything will be okay as long as you have her.”
“It’s . . . complicated.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
No. He tried to shake his head, but the morphine whispered, “Relax. It’s all good now . . .”
“You don’t want to tell me about Macy?”
“No. But I think . . .” He told himself it was the narcotic effect, that after twenty years there was no point in—“I think we should talk about us, Jessica. You and me.”
The best part of this day—yesterday now; it was after midnight—was that Macy arrived home to a mercifully empty house. Sally was working nights at UCD Medical Center, and her other roommate had left a note to say she was bunking with her sister tonight. And not to worry; she’d taken Dood with her. Worrying about the goofy Labradoodle would have been comparative bliss.
Macy shifted the ice-filled ziplock on her wrist, and a frigid rivulet found her stomach. She sighed. In a single day, she’d been lasered, assaulted by a longtime friend, and told that the man she’d come to care for had been felled by a sniper—only to land in another woman’s arms. Macy squeezed her eyes shut against an image of Jessica’s lips brushing Fletcher’s hand. That incredible-looking blonde. With stunning eyes, a sugary drawl, and a heart-level connection to Fletcher that . . . I’ll never have a chance at now. The shooting incident—its role in bringing Jessica from Houston—had been horrifically dramatic, but it was only a final blow. Macy’s relationship with Fletcher had already been fatally wounded. Even without a rifle. Elliot had seen to that.
By Your Side Page 27
