by J. Reichman
“Radio got washed away,” Nick said. “No electricity. No phones. Highway’s gone.”
“We’re not in charge of evacuations, but I’ll pass the message on. The National Guard’s helicopters have been grounded by low cloud cover, especially in the higher elevations. May clear tomorrow.”
“That’s good news,” Nick said, “but we have another situation. One of our residents has been murdered.”
“Hold on a minute.”
Nick heard voices in the background, then the dispatcher returned. “I’ve made a note of it. We’re spread awfully thin. We’ll get to you when we can.”
“We also have a child with a compound fracture and a man who’s suffered a stroke.”
“I’ve got it noted. We’ll try to get medical help in as soon as it clears.” He clicked off.
Nick turned to Brett and Wade.
“Not much help there,” Brett said.
At dinner that evening, Lyn elbowed Nick. “Look.”
Nick followed her nod. Darren’s hand rested on Dana’s thigh. “That’ll cause trouble.” He looked for Chuck who moved from table to table as though campaigning.
“Wade has a front loader,” Steve said. “We can use it to clean up.”
“Why bother?” Stella said. “We can’t stay here.”
“They’ll fix the road,” Steve said.
“May take years,” Stella said.
Lyn elbowed Nick again and nodded toward the door. Dana Hardin, a pack of cigarettes in her hand, left with Darren Hall.
"After dinner smoke," Nick said, though he suspected it was more than that.
“Look at that.”
Nick noticed the door close after Chuck Hardin. Uh, oh. We don’t need conflict.
The hallway echoed with raised voices. Heads turned and conversation ceased. Dana Hardin burst through the door, marched to her table, grabbed her purse, and marched back out again. The door clanged behind her.
Chuck entered quietly and stood in front of the group. "Sorry about that … that … little domestic dispute." He blew his nose. "Let's get this meeting over with. Shannon, I believe you had something."
Shannon wanted to space out the showers so her hot water heater could keep up. Prissy announced breakfast. Cooper said classes would be held as usual Monday morning. Herb wanted a larger gas can and more pet food. Nick was encouraged. Everyone’s keeping busy. I hope Stella’s negativity doesn’t catch on.
"We'll need to check houses again in the morning," Chuck said.
Nick rose. "I have something to say in regard to that. Brett and I discovered evidence this morning that the man spent last night in Brook's house."
"So he is here."
"My God. We're all in danger."
"Why didn't you tell us?"
"You let us go out knowing he might—"
"I know. I know." Nick held up his hands. "It was a judgment call."
"Poor judgment, in my opinion," Henri said.
“It was my call,” Brett said.
"How do you know he spent the night? What did you find?" Steve asked.
Nick recounted what they observed in Brook's house, the footprints outside the Red Rooster, the beer missing from the truck. "So be extra cautious tonight. He'll need food and shelter again, and he has to know we're onto him."
"He's been into the beer truck," Jeff said. "He may be back for more."
“We’ve been on our own for three days, but we’ve contacted the sheriff’s office, as you know.” Nick said, “There are stars in the west. Help will come tomorrow.”
“You’ve said that before,” Stella said.
TWENTY
A honking horn woke Nick. Oh, God. What now? Maybe they caught the killer. As it drew closer, he reached for the flashlight on the nightstand. Almost one o'clock. He heard the vehicle pull into his driveway, its horn blaring, and reached for his jeans.
"Good God Almighty." Lyn lit the candle on her nightstand. "He'll wake the whole town."
Someone pounded on the front door. Nick hopped around on one foot, trying to aim his other foot at the pants leg. Lyn picked up her sweatpants, put them on and threw a T-shirt over her head. Nick opened the bedroom door. Andy stood in the hallway, his eyes wide, his face bloodless. He ran to Lyn.
Zenia came from her room. "What's going on?"
"I'll see." Nick thundered down the stairs, the flashlight in his hand. He fumbled with the lock and threw open the door.
"Chuck shot him!" Jeff said.
Darren Hall, his arms over Jeff's and Red's shoulders, slumped between them. The men brushed by Nick. "Where should we put him?"
"Dining room table." Gunshot wound, Nick thought. Haven’t treated one since I was an intern. He led the way with his flashlight and moved the chairs away from the table.
The men lifted Darren to the table, the front of his shirt covered in blood. Nick heard another vehicle pull up. Zenia, holding a candle, came down the stairs.
"I'll need Lyn," Nick said. "If you can watch the boys."
"I'll get her." Zenia retreated up the stairs.
Nick lit candles in the living room. He put water in a pan and placed it on the pellet stove. Hearing raised voices out front, he opened the door. Brett stood on the doorstep with Chuck.
"It was an accident, Nick." Chuck tried to push into the house.
"You shouldn't be here." Nick shoved Chuck back. "Brett, I need light. You have hurricane lanterns in the cabins. Could you bring three or four? And get this menace to society out of here." He slammed the door.
Lyn hurried downstairs with a candle. "Chuck shot who?"
"Darren."
Lyn grimaced. "What do you want me to do?"
"You've worked trauma. I haven't."
"Let's check the damage." Lyn followed Nick into the dining room.
His eyes closed, Darren lay on his back, biting his lip.
"Fuckin' idiot," Jeff said.
"You two keep quiet." Lyn pointed to Jeff and Red. She leaned over Darren. "We'll see what we can do." She put the candle on the sideboard. "I'll need scissors and bring that other flashlight."
Nick hurried to the kitchen. Thank God for a trauma nurse. "Here." He handed the scissors to Lyn and gave the flashlight to Red. "Hold that."
Lyn cut Darren's shirt from him. "Did the bullet go through?"
"Don't know," Jeff said.
"Was there blood on his back?"
"No," Red said.
"Bullet in the right shoulder, Nicky." Lyn bit her lip.
"We need to talk." Nick took Lyn's arm and led her into the living room. "Brett's bringing lanterns. What else do we need?"
"Anesthetic."
"I've got that bottle of Talisker your brother gave me for Christmas. It's potent."
"Instruments." Lyn counted them off on her fingers. "A scalpel, something like tweezers to grab the bullet, cotton swabs, a needle and thread."
"Hmmm." Nick rubbed his hands together. "Got any sharp knives in the kitchen?"
Lyn nodded. "I've one in mind."
"I've got this thing in the garage I use when I drop something in a small, hard-to-reach place."
"We'll see."
"Cotton swabs, a needle and thread are no problem. You get those. I'll get my doohickey and meet you in the kitchen."
Nick located the scotch and stepped into the dining room. "Okay, boys, your job is to anesthetize the patient." He opened the bottle. "It's for Darren, not you."
He found the doohickey in the garage and placed it on the kitchen countertop. He considered for a few seconds. What else? Water. He filled a soup pot with bottled water.
"Have another." Red held the bottle out to Darren who was sitting up on the dining room table. "We're making progress, Doc."
Nick put the soup pot on the pellet stove. He tested the water in the little pan he put there earlier, jerked his finger out and stuck it in his mouth. Lyn came downstairs and he joined her in the kitchen.
"Water's heating on the stove." He picked up his doohickey and
demonstrated it. "What do you think?"
Lyn looked for her sharpest, thin-bladed knife. "Here it is." She turned to him. "Let me see that." She tested it. "Interesting.”
"You plan to do this?"
"I have the experience." She looked steadily at him. "I can do it."
"What about sterilizing these things? The water will be hot but it won't boil."
Lyn shrugged. "We do the best we can. We need a basin. I have to wash the area."
"We'll sterilize things in the pan, add some cool water, and use the pan as a basin."
Lyn selected a freshly washed dishcloth. "This will do. I'll wash and sanitize my hands. Get the pan."
Nick stopped in the dining room. Darren weaved around on the table.
"This must be fuckin' good stuff, Doc. He's already on his ass." Jeff laughed.
"Fuckin' A," Red said.
While Lyn and Nick prepared, Brett hung hurricane lanterns over the dining table.
Lyn raised her quasi-sterilized hands. "Use a clean dish towel. Put the instruments in it. Add water to the pan. Put the dishcloth in it. Bring everything." She moved purposefully to the dining room.
Nick gathered the surgical equipment and followed. Silence fell.
"She's gonna do it?" Red looked uneasy.
"My wife was a trauma nurse for years," Nick said. "She's an expert."
"Wa goin' on?" Darren mumbled.
"I'll need your help." Lyn pointed to Red. "You hold that arm. Nick, beside Red with the instruments. Jeff, over here beside me. Hold this arm and Brett, you've got the legs."
"'Nother drink," Darren whimpered as they assumed their appointed positions.
"Okay." Lyn looked at her team. "Let's clean the wound."
Nick twisted most water out of the dishcloth and handed it to Lyn who wiped the blood from Darren's chest and inspected the wound.
Lyn put her hand out. "Scotch, please." Red handed the bottle to her and she splashed a bit of the liquid on the area.
"Okay, boys." She glanced up. "Looks like a small caliber. Grab hold." She picked up the knife. "Let's do it."
"I'm so proud of you," Nick called to his wife. "You were masterful."
Lyn came from the bathroom, a toothbrush in her mouth. "What'd you say?"
Nick motioned her away. "Finish and come to bed." He propped his pillow against the headboard and used it as a backrest. The candle on the nightstand flickered. How’d I get so lucky? She could’ve married a dozen other guys but choose me.
Lyn slipped into her nightgown and joined her husband. "I'm so keyed up, I'll never sleep."
"I'm proud of you, Buttercup."
Lyn chuckled. "You haven't called me that in ages."
"You were a pro." Nick hugged his wife.
"We did it together. If you hadn't been there, the bullet would still be in Darren."
"Well, I have more experience working that doohickey." Nick sighed. "Seems I'm forever dropping nuts or washers into tight places where I have to fish them out with that thing."
Lyn arranged her pillow against the headboard and leaned back. "What'd you find out while Brett and I were putting Darren to bed?"
"Seems Dana went back to the cabins with Darren. Chuck gets there after dinner, goes to Darren's cabin and drags Dana out."
"I've always found that marriage . . . well, not unusual, but confusing. Chuck's what? Forty-five, maybe? And he's no chick magnet. He's got a daughter a little younger than Dana."
"As their son's pediatrician, I happen to know that Chuck's forty-six and Dana's twenty-two. Their son Denver will be three in November."
"Dana seems to need more excitement than the marriage offers." Lyn shifted her weight to look at Nick. "But what about the shooting?"
"Jeff said they were drinking beer—"
"Who's they?"
"Jeff, Darren, Red and Cheyenne. So Darren leaves for the outhouse. They hear a shot and find Chuck standing there with a gun."
"I thought Chuck didn't own a gun."
"He doesn't. He took one of Brett's stored in cabin six. But the kicker is that Dana was there, too."
"She was meeting Darren?"
Nick shrugged. "It's possible. Chuck swears he thought Darren was the murderer. That he saw only a shadow sneaking around and didn't mean to shoot. The gun just went off."
Lyn shook her head. "Really a twisted tale." She fluffed her pillow and lay down.
Nick lay beside her. "What's your take?"
"Hmmm." Lyn turned onto her left side. "I'll leave it to law enforcement to interrogate them all when help arrives."
Nick put his arm around his wife and spooned against her. "Good decision."
TWENTY-ONE
An early-riser, Wade opened his back door and stepped to the ground. He tended his horses at dawn. A few low clouds skimmed to the east in a mostly clear sky. His bum knee predicted the weather fairly accurately. A beautiful Monday was in store. He hummed an old tune under his breath as he strolled toward the barn. Huge rolls of the summer's hay lined the pasture fence, and the shadowy forms of the horses in the distance caught his eye. He whistled for them to come to the barn and waited patiently. Combing and brushing the horses gave him pleasure. He considered the problem of wintering them now that supplies would be difficult to acquire. His old friend Sam Hauptmann, owner of a company in Longmont, might help. He owned a helicopter.
In the barn, he located the brushes as the first horse padded through the door, snorting a welcome to him. Noting the horse's hooves, he decided to call in a farrier before winter set in. Another problem to solve. He bent to lift the horse's foot. Something hit him in the back. He staggered and fell forward to his knees. What the hell? Which horse did that?
"Get up, old man." The voice was hard and deep.
Wade looked up into a stranger's cold eyes.
"I said get up."
Wade felt a stab at his back. Gun. He’s got a gun. He struggled to his feet and rubbed his knees.
"To the house." The killer gestured with his gun.
The gun at his back, Wade moved slowly, thinking of his options. He’s younger. Bigger. An armed killer. Difficult to take. An expert in man-to-man combat during the Vietnam era, Wade realized it would be futile to try now. He opened the back door.
"Forget something?" Nora, fixing breakfast on the old cast iron wood-burning range, focused on her skillet.
"We got company." Wade eyed the rifle leaning against the doorjamb. Maybe I could ...
"I'll take that," the man growled. "Get on in there."
Wade stood uncertainly in the middle of the kitchen looking at Nora whose eyes were wide, her mouth open. He wanted to reassure her.
"Sit at the table."
Nora moved to follow his command.
"Not you." The man motioned to the stove. "You cook."
Feeling helpless despair, Wade sat at the table, his hands clasped together. What’s he want? What’s he gonna do? The man took a chair opposite him.
"We'll eat. Then you're leading me out of here."
Wade studied the man. Unshaven, square face, deep furrow between his brows, icy blue eyes that contrasted with his olive skin. A nice-looking forty-something male in different circumstances. About six-foot two with muscular shoulders covered by an ill-fitting coat. A sweatshirt with the neck cut out to fit.
Lead him? Help him escape? How can I do that? "What makes you think I can do that?" Wade was surprised that he could speak so calmly.
"Horses. We'll go for a ride."
"You ride?"
"I can."
Wade looked at the man’s hands. Soft. His claim sounded ambiguous. Anyone can, but is he experienced? Wade doubted it. Wonder if he’s familiar with the area.
"Where do you want to go?" Wade asked.
"Where I was headed." The man watched Nora at the stove. "Food ready yet?"
"Almost." Nora opened the oven and removed a pan of biscuits.
"Where were you headed?" Wade wanted the man's attention on him, not Nora.
/> "Away from here."
Wade kept his voice steady and low. "So you ain't got any particular direction in mind?"
Nora placed strips of bacon onto a paper towel. "How would you like your eggs?"
"Three, over-easy."
"I don't believe we can go east," Wade said.
"Why not?" The killer glared at Wade.
"No way to get through the rift." Receiving a blank look, Wade continued. "It's a buckle in the earth between the North Fork and the Big Butte Rivers. Forms a cliff on this side. Can't get around it except by road and the road's out."
Nora placed a plate of biscuits onto the table.
"Two biscuits," the man said. "Split and butter them, old man." He shoved a small plate toward Wade.
Wade reached for a biscuit. "We'll have to go south over Jones Peak and then west through Rosburg Valley to reach the Big Butte. Maybe the highway will still be passable."
"Eat up, old man. We'll be on our way."
Wade picked up his fork. "My name's Wade. What's yours?"
The man chewed his biscuit and frowned. "Call me . . . uh . . . Carl's fine."
Wade nodded. He ate his breakfast slowly. The clattering of forks on plates was the only sound for several minutes.
"Better finish up. We got to go."
"You don't realize what you're askin'," Wade said, his eyes on his food. "It's a three-day ride. We don't just jump on a horse and get there by noon."
"Three days?" Carl sounded shocked.
"We need food." Wade ate the last of his biscuit. "A tent, sleeping bags. Water and other supplies."
"But . . . three days? It can't be that far."
Wade shrugged. "We gotta go up, down and around. It ain't a straight line. Then there are streams—"
"Alright. Alright, I get it." Carl fingered his gun. "If it takes three days, it takes three days." He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "You hunt, right?"
Wade nodded. "Every fall."
Carl looked at Nora. "You know what to pack?"
Nora looked at Wade who nodded. "Yes."
"Okay, then. You pack. And you, old man Wade, you get the horses ready. I'll stay here with your missus, so don't try to get cute."
Wade again walked to the barn, but whistling was far from his mind. That killer with Nora. He looked back at the house. If he . . . Don’t think that, he told himself. The horses patiently waited for their daily brushing. Wade looked them over. He needed sturdy mounts for the trek. He haltered two for packhorses and tied them to the rail. He checked his saddlebag and put his hunting knife in the bottom of it. He saddled Roman, his regular mount and selected Tipsy, a gentle mare with an exaggerated, swaying gait, for Carl. Riding Tipsy, a great horse for a half-day trail ride, required extensive use of the back muscles resulting in soreness and fatigue after a full day's ride. Perfect for Carl. He led the four horses to the house and tied them to porch posts.
