Wind whistled through the rock formations above them, every few seconds gusting nearly as loud as a freight train. She pointed to a little blue coupe creeping along the highway. “He’s here.”
Eric studied the approaching vehicle. With the wind-shield reflecting the sun, he couldn’t see how many people were inside, but no cars or trucks or sheriff’s department SUVs followed. A good sign.
At least they had that much going for them.
He concentrated on breathing and composing his mind. He and Sarah would have time to work out whatever was bothering her. It would be fine. He had to believe that. Right now they needed to focus on getting some answers from the reporter. And if they could win the guy’s sympathies, all the better.
The car pulled in to the parking lot and a doughy-looking man wearing a blue polo shirt and khakis stepped out. He let himself in through the gate and walked around the trail, as Eric had instructed over the cell phone earlier.
Eric watched the car, but he detected no movement inside. From what he could tell, the reporter had kept his promise to come alone.
Prohaska ambled down the trial with a shuffling, flat-footed gait. When he finally spotted Eric and Sarah, a smile played around the corners of his thin lips, not exactly happiness, but excitement. Chasing a story.
They made the introductions brief.
“Mind if I get this on tape?” the reporter asked.
“Go ahead.” At least that way he’d have a record of what they knew… in case they were arrested, or killed before they could tell the story themselves.
“So how did it happen? How did you become a murderer?” Prohaska asked straight off.
“I didn’t do it.”
He screwed his lips to the side and shook his head as if disappointed. “All murderers say they didn’t do it. Try walking into the state pen in Rawlins sometime. That’s what they’ll all tell you.”
Eric shook his head. “We don’t have time for this. What do you know about Hodgeson?”
Prohaska’s puffy smile faded. “I think he was murdered.”
Eric nodded slowly, trying not to tip his hand, not until he learned more. “What makes you think that?”
“Like I said last night, I’m writing a book. I had one interview with the guy—kind of a dry one at that—and then he calls me out of the blue.” The reporter paused, as if trying to lend dramatic import to his words.
“And he said…” Sarah prodded.
Prohaska glanced from one to the other. “That he was planning to confess to a crime.”
“A crime?” Sarah’s eyes flew wide.
The wind was loud, swirling now. Maybe Eric hadn’t heard him. He narrowed his eyes on the reporter. “What crime?”
“Accepting bribes.”
“From who?”
“You already know the who. You mentioned him last night. One of the biggest methamphetamine producers in the area. Walter Burne.”
“So it was Burne’s fingerprints in the meth lab?” Sarah asked. “And Hodgeson just lied?”
“Lied under oath. Add perjury to the list of crimes.”
“Why take a bribe, lie on the witness stand, and then confess? There has to be a reason.”
“He was dying of emphysema. He was pretty far along. I guess he wanted to make sure his soul was prepared or something. To tell you the truth, I might jumping to conclusions about his murder. It would make a great story. But realistically, the guy might have just decided to off himself. Guess we won’t know until a body shows up.”
Emphysema. Eric remembered an offhand comment Joy Hodgeson had made about her ex-husband being sick. And that he quit his job before his retirement benefits kicked in. But even though the circumstances seemed to suggest suicide, there was one detail that proved Hodgeson had been murdered more conclusively than the bullet hole in the back of his skull. “He didn’t kill himself.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“We found his body. Bullet hole in the skull.”
“That doesn’t rule out suicide.”
“The place we found him does. At the base of Saddle Horn Ridge in the Absaroka Range. No way he could have gotten out there if he’s in the later stages of emphysema.”
Prohaska nodded. “That sounds fairly solid.”
“So Hodgeson threw Burne’s case. Did he do that with any other cases?”
“Not that I could find. And I looked, believe me. Ever since Hodgeson didn’t show up at a meeting he set, I’ve been trying to figure out what happened.”
So he’d been working on the case for months and hadn’t found anything. That didn’t bode well for them.
Sarah tilted her head. “How about Danny Gillette? What can you tell us about him?”
“The Norris County Sheriff?” Prohaska’s meaty brow creased. He lifted his shoulders in a jerky shrug. “Not much. Seems to do his job well, believes in America and apple pie and all that. Why do you ask?”
“So you don’t know of any reason he has for wanting Larry Hodgeson dead?”
His eyes rounded. “You’re saying Danny Gillette is responsible for killing Hodgeson?”
“Maybe. We’re not sure about that murder.” added Sarah.
“There are others?”
“My brother Randy. Glenn Freemont.”
Prohaska lifted a hand, palm out. “Hold it right there. The sheriff? Can you prove any of this?”
A shot cracked through the canyon.
Eric’s heart jumped to his throat. He stared at the reporter for a second as a red spot bloomed high on his shirt. Giving a low grunt, Prohaska flopped belly first into the dust.
Eric spun around, looking for where the shot had come from. He hadn’t seen anyone approach. Hadn’t heard anyone.
Walter Burne stepped around the rock formation behind them, a handgun in his fist. “Hello, Sarah Trask. Where’s my money?”
Eric’s thoughts raced. This couldn’t be happening. Where had Burne come from? How in the hell had he found them?
Sarah’s eyes flared wide, her dark hair blowing in the wind. She glanced at Eric.
The drug dealer raised the gun and pointed the barrel straight at Sarah’s face. “I said, where’s my money?”
Pure, focused anger tightened Eric’s muscles and hummed in his ears. Here he’d told Sarah that Burne wasn’t a problem, nothing to worry about next to the sheriff. But he’d never expected this. How could he have been so wrong?
He had to think. He had to stall.
Scooping in a deep breath, Eric forced conviction past shaky lips. “Put the gun down. We have the money.”
Burne lowered the gun a few inches, but still kept it pointed at Sarah. “You do, do you? Then give it to me. Now.”
Eric had to do something. But what? He couldn’t rush the scumbag. Burne wasn’t standing that far away, but he could still get a shot off before Eric tackled him. A shot that would hurt Sarah… or kill her. He had to think of something else. Anything. And he needed to buy time until an idea came. “How did you find us?”
“I told you not to mess with me.”
“The phone.” Sarah’s voice sounded choked. She wrapped her arms around her belly as if she could shield their baby from a bullet with flesh and bone.
“The lady wins a prize.”
The phone. Of course.
But it couldn’t have been the phone’s GPS. Eric had been careful. Except for the time they’d spent waiting for Prohaska’s call last night and the call to the reporter’s cell phone this morning, Eric had turned the phone off. Somehow Burne must have rigged the phone so he could listen in to any calls made. Was that possible? If it was, that last call would have led Burne right to them.
Burne held out his hand, palm up. “Speaking of the phone, I’ll take it back now.”
Eric handed it over. If it wasn’t their only link to the outside world, he’d be eager to be rid of the damn thing. “How did you know to come around the other side of the badlands? Why not just take the road?”
Burne gave hi
m a look that said he’d seen through Eric’s stalling tack. “Because I’m not an idiot. You have about two seconds to give me my money.”
“It’s on the ATV.”
“Nice try, but I checked when I parked my bike next to it. Which makes me think you don’t have the money at all.”
Eric’s throat felt drier than the badlands themselves.
“I’m tired of this. It’ll be worth twenty Ks just to watch the two of you die.” He raised the gun. A crack split the air.
Sarah jolted and fell.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GUNSHOT RINGING IN ERIC’S EARS, he threw himself at Burne. He hit the man full force. The two of them flew backward. Eric landed on top of him on the craggy ground.
The drug dealer gasped for breath.
The scum had shot Sarah. He’d shot Sarah.
Eric pulled back a fist and let it go, smashing into the man’s face. His nose popped under the blow. Blood gushed through his nostrils. Eric pulled his fist back to hit him again.
Burne lurched upward, slamming his forehead smack into Eric’s nose.
Eric reeled backward, stunned for a second, pain clanging through his head.
Burne bucked his body, shoving Eric back and to the side. He brought something up. Something he held with both fists.
The gun.
Eric lashed out with his hands. His first thought was to block the bullet from crashing into him. But once his hands were moving, they seemed to take on an intention of their own. A will that moved faster than thought.
Eric grabbed the gun, the barrel hot against his fingers. He pulled, trying to wrest it from Burne’s grip.
The scumbag’s fingers clamped down on the weapon, his fists like iron. Strong for a weasel. But not as strong as Eric.
He grabbed Burne’s wrist and twisted. Something popped. A grunt escaped Burne’s clenched teeth. Still he didn’t release the weapon.
Using all his strength, Eric twisted the gun around, still in the dealer’s fist. The piece of shit had shot Sarah. Eric would make him let go. He would make him pay.
The gun exploded between them.
At first, Eric wasn’t sure what happened. Had the bullet gone wide? Had it hit him? He couldn’t see anything but the man’s shoulder. Couldn’t feel anything but searing heat. Couldn’t smell anything but burned gunpowder.
Then he smelled blood.
Burne gurgled deep in his throat. He stared at Eric with eyes that didn’t see. Wetness oozed through a hole in the black leather duster. He shuddered and slumped to the ground.
Gasping.
Gasping.
Then limp fingers released the gun, leaving it in Eric’s hands.
Dead? Hurt? Eric didn’t know. Didn’t care. All he could think about was getting back to Sarah. Making sure she was all right.
She was all right.
She had to be.
Eric struggled to his feet and stumbled across the craggy ground, loose rock shifting under his feet. His heart thudded as if trying to break through his rib cage. She was lying fifteen feet from the reporter, crumpled in the place he’d seen her go down.
Please make her be alive. Please.
He fell to his knees beside her. She moved her head, meeting his eyes with a tight-lipped grimace.
Thank God.
“You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.” He didn’t know if he kept repeating the words for her sake or his. Either way, he couldn’t stop. “You’re going to be okay.”
A dark stain marred her jeans, the spot encompassing her whole thigh and growing. A tear marked the center of the indigo cotton.
“Burne?” Her voice was barely loud enough to hear over the wind.
“No longer a problem.”
She nodded and asked nothing further.
“I’m going to look here. I’m going to see…” He fitted his fingers into the edges of the hole and pulled. The fabric gave, only a little, but it was enough to see blood pulsing from the puncture in her skin.
“How bad?”
“Not bad. It’s going to be fine.” A leg wound. It could be worse. Unless the bullet had nicked her femoral artery. Then she would bleed out.
Fast.
Eric’s throat tightened. The thought of losing Sarah, of losing their baby… he could hardly breathe. He needed to stop the bleeding. It wasn’t the femoral artery. Couldn’t be. The blood flow wasn’t strong enough.
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t losing blood.
Way too much blood.
Eric fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. His fingers were thick, clumsy, trembling. Too big to fit buttons into holes. Grabbing each side of the fabric, he yanked, buttons popping. He slipped the shirt off, wadded it into a ball, and pressed it against Sarah’s leg. “I have to get you to a hospital.”
“Hospital? No.”
“I can’t handle this on my own.”
“You said it was fine.”
“It is. It will be. If you get to a hospital, you’ll be fine.”
“But the sheriff…” A sob shook from her chest. “The sheriff. He’ll find us.”
Sarah was right. The hospital would report a gunshot wound. The sheriff would find them.
Eric lifted the balled-up shirt from her thigh. Blood oozed out of the wound, seeping into her jeans. He clamped the cotton and fleece down tight.
This couldn’t be happening. He felt dizzy. Like he couldn’t set his mind to reality. Like he was floating outside, somehow, watching events happening to other people. People he didn’t know.
Sarah gritted her teeth. Her eyes looked shiny, glassy. The lines of her beautiful face contracted with pain. “A leg wound isn’t going to kill me.”
“It’ll be…” He closed his mouth. Who was he trying to kid? It wasn’t going to be fine. She wasn’t going to be okay. Not unless he did something. Not unless he did something now.
Heat suffused his chest. Lose her. He could lose her. To blood loss. If not that, infection. Chaos spun through his mind, turning his stomach, making him want to double over in pain.
This was what had held him back four months ago. This. Not emotion or lack of control or anything else. If he never loved her, he would never lose her.
Problem was, he loved her with everything he was.
“I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“Don’t.” She shook her head, several dark hairs sticking to the tears streaking down each cheek.
“There’s no choice.”
A groan came from behind him. Eric spun around.
The reporter moved his arm in the dust. Slowly, back and forth. He tried to lift his head but fell back against rock.
Two people in need of medical care. Two people Eric wasn’t sure he could move. Eric couldn’t handle this on his own.
He grabbed Sarah’s hand and pressed it to the shirt on her leg. The thin cotton was nearly saturated already and squished under her palm. “Hold this. Put as much pressure on it as you can stand.”
She gritted her teeth and pressed down. “What are you going to do?”
“What I have to.”
“Eric? What does that mean?”
He let out a long breath. Reaching out a hand, he brushed his fingers over her forehead, pushing back stray hair. “I’ve figured some things out, Sarah. About me. About what has been holding me back. I love you, Sarah. I love you, and I don’t care if you believe it or not. And no matter what happens, I’m not going to let you die.”
She made a small sound deep in her throat. A sigh, a whimper, he wasn’t sure.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. He’d been so stupid. He’d wasted so much time. Time he could have used making Sarah happy. Being happy himself. Time that could have meant something. Now he was nearly out of time.
They both were.
He stood and stepped over the harsh terrain, making his way to where the meth dealer lay on his back. The man stared up into the wide Wyoming sky. Already his eyes looked opaque and dull, his complexion more
like rubber than flesh.
Dead.
Good.
Eric unzipped the man’s coat. His whole chest was soaked with blood, making it impossible to tell the true color of the shirt underneath. He ran his hands over the man’s pants and inside the coat. Finding what he was looking for in a pocket in the lining, he pulled it out with a sticky hand.
He knew water would ruin a cell phone. He hoped the same wasn’t true for blood.
______
Sarah struggled to raise her head, to see what Eric was doing. Nausea claimed her stomach. She lowered her head back to the rocky ground and focused on breathing.
In and out.
In and out.
Eric’s words ran through her mind, over and over again, an endless chant.
He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.
She’d wanted so badly to hear those words. Months ago, before he’d left and nearly every day since. But now that he’d finally said them, what did they mean? What did they matter?
A chill penetrated her skin, deepening until it worked into her bones. Her leg had stopped hurting. Really since that first cold, cutting sensation, the pain hadn’t been as bad. Not as bad as her bloody jeans suggested it should be. And that had her scared more than anything.
She heard a rustling from nearby. The shuffle of footsteps over rocky soil.
Eric loomed over her, his face cloaked in shadow, blocking the sun. He took the wadded-up shirt from her hands. She could feel the pressure increase on her leg. “How are you doing?” he asked.
She shivered. “Cold.”
He gripped her hand, rubbing it between his palms. “You’re probably going into shock. Don’t worry. Layton will be here soon.”
“You called Layton?”
“I couldn’t think of anyone who could do a better job of protecting you.” He smiled, but his eyes didn’t twinkle the way they did when he was teasing or wanted to kiss her or even the time she’d caught him watching her while she slept.
“What about you?”
Eric looked away, craning his neck to stare down the road as if willing Layton’s truck to crest the hill.
Fugitive (A Rocky Mountain Thriller Book 2) Page 14
