Cold Sweat (13 page)

Worryland was her least favorite destination. To make matters worse, it didn’t sound like Thompson had made any progress identifying the inside man—or woman.

“Did you tell him to sit tight until dawn?”

If anyone understood River’s predicament, it was Amelia, but right now, she didn’t have the resources to deal with any more missing or misplaced persons. Sometimes, doing nothing was the best thing to do—and the hardest.

“I told him the sheriff was a cautious man. That he probably decided to weather the storm inside the lodge instead of riding back blind. Not sure how much that reassured him.”

Probably not much.
“It was a good answer, Thompson. Until we can check the lodge, there’s no point making conjectures.”

Richmond’s training matched his survival instincts. Thompson’s explanation was sound. In the unlikely event that he and the young River were victims of an ambush, she favored Richmond over Elliot and his accomplice.

“I told Wayne we’d meet him at dawn.” Gil looked over her shoulder toward the door. “I figured you and I could go, and let Eve hold the fort. You didn’t see her on the road, did you? She’d gone home for a quick supper with her hubby. She was supposed to be right back.”

“She just met with me. Sly Serpent is Charles Sylvester Elliot. My missing military doctor.”

***

A bowl of hot water. A bar of soap. Some old raggedy towels. A rusty fishing knife. Three different types of pliers. A tackle box stocked with all the supplies a fisherman would ever need. And a bottle of vodka. Half empty.

The extent of the makeshift medical instruments supplied by Slimy critically limited Quest’s chances of performing a successful operation. “Don’t you have a first aid kit?”

“This isn’t a hospital. Get to work.”

The metal band rubbed against her ankle. “Can’t you remove my chains so I can move more easily?”

Not only did her captor refuse, but he also handcuffed the sheriff’s left wrist to the bedpost.

“Where do you think he’ll go?” The patient wasn’t even conscious, which worried her.

“Nowhere. That’s the point. Now stop stalling, or he’ll be dead before you start.”

I could have used a pair of gloves.
Any chance of preserving the DNA she’d collected under her fingernails when she scratched Slimy had washed away with the scrubbing of her hands.

Taking a deep breath, she unzipped the sheriff’s winter jacket. The bullet had entered his upper chest on the right side just below his shoulder bone.

This is strange.
The bloodstain on his shirt wasn’t as widespread as the one on his jacket. Baffled by the inconsistency, she searched for a second bullet to account for the large blotch on the front of the jacket.
There’s no other hole.

Oddly enough, the inside lining didn’t show any more blood than the shirt. It was like the bubbles stitched on the outer fabric of the jacket allowed for small amount of liquid to disperse more readily. Whatever caused the weird phenomenon, Quest was glad the sheriff hadn’t lost as much blood as she’d feared.

I can do this.
Years of biathlon training had taught her to stay calm and focused on the task. She was no stranger to performing under pressure. It was her way of life.

A rush of adrenaline surged inside her body.
Just keep it smooth, Quest.
She unbuttoned the shirt and carefully cut the undershirt. Blood had thickened and dried at the edge of the wound. To cleanse the area, she poured some vodka on the injury.

The sheriff’s chest rose abruptly, startling her.

Silently admonishing herself for flinching while holding a knife, she checked the pulse in his neck. Slow, but steady.

No more jerking, Quest.
This was just like shooting at a target, and she was good at shooting.

His eyelids fluttered.

Quest’s heart missed a beat, but she didn’t twitch. Now wasn’t a good time for him to wake. Not when she was about to cut him up.

“Go back to sleep.” To appease him, she whispered softly—like her mother taught her. “Everything will be fine.”

Dazed blue-grey eyes gazed at her. “Phoenix...”

No...he couldn’t have mouthed Phoenix. The bird was her mom’s moniker. It must have been a mistake. He must have mumbled something else, and she’d misinterpreted it.

“You were shot. I need to remove the bullet from your chest. Do you understand me?”

He gave a slight nod of the head.

“It’s going to hurt, but you can’t grab my hand.” Maybe handcuffing his other hand wouldn’t have been such a bad idea either. As she searched the tackle box for something he could hold on to, she caught movement from his lips. “I’m deaf, Sheriff. I missed what you said.”

The light from the ceiling had to be playing tricks on her patient’s face because a smile couldn’t possibly tug at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m giving you a floater.” Her grandfather called it a bobber. Quest preferred the term floater since the red and white plastic globe floated at the surface of the lake. “You squeeze on it. Okay?”

The floater secured in the palm of his glove, he blinked twice.

“Hold on tight.” Using her bare fingers, Quest pushed the skin around the entry point apart. Blood trickled out.
No gushing. That’s good.
The bullet hadn’t torn through any major vessels that she could see. Hoping she wouldn’t nick any either, she gently inserted the tip of the long-nose pliers inside the wound.
Smooth and steady.

The sheriff’s chest heaved up and down rapidly, jeopardizing the extraction.

“Stay still, Sheriff.” Quest didn’t look at his face. To see the pain she undoubtedly inflicted was more than she could bear at this instant. She was relieved beyond reason not to be able to hear him moan or scream. “We’re almost there...”

About an inch deep, the tip of the pliers encountered something solid. It was either a bone or the bullet. She found herself breathing as erratically as the man in her care.
Deep breath, Quest. Deep breath.

She slowly opened the jaws of the pliers.
If I grip a bone, the sheriff will scream in agony.
Sweat dripped down her forehead onto her eyebrows. Under her gentle guidance, the pliers cradled the hard objet. It shifted, ever so slightly. A bone wouldn’t have budged at all.
Thank you, Ducky Lima.

From the time she was a little girl, ducks had been her guardian angels. Her mother had told her she could always count on them. Ducky Lima was her L-Duck, the one upon which Quest called when she needed luck.

She dropped the bullet in the water. Fine threads of fabric unraveled from the slug sunk at the bottom, floating in the reddened water. The projectile had travelled through a winter jacket, a shirt, and an undershirt. That was four layers of fabric without counting the filling.

Stitching the wound without removing the foreign materials stuck inside would lead to an infection.
How am I going to do this?
She couldn’t see through blood, and there was no instrument at her disposal with the tactile ability to feel for fabric. Only a finger could...

No. Not a finger. I’m not sticking a finger in there.
That was a bad idea. A very bad idea...except she had no better idea.

This is so not happening.
Against the advice of her rebelling stomach, Quest probed the inside of the wound with her index finger.
I’m never becoming a doctor.
Bits and pieces of fabric lodged under her fingernails.
Never a doctor. Not in a million years.

After cleaning the wound to the best of her abilities, Quest gathered the courage to look at her patient’s face.

Jaw clenched, the sheriff stared at her through two narrow slits that didn’t conceal the tears glistening in his eyes.

“A few stitches and we’re done.” She wished she knew his name. “I promise.”

With the pliers, she crimped the bard at the tip of a fishing hook transforming it into a needle
. I hate needles...and sewing.
After washing it with water and soap, she threaded a green nylon fishing line through the eye of her makeshift needle.

“I suck at sewing.” The sheriff would be scarred for life—and so would she. “It’s gonna hurt again. I’m sorry.”

To clear the blood, she rinsed the wound with a shot of Vodka.
I need a shot too.
She pushed the needle through the skin.

The sheriff tensed, and his head drooped against his shoulder.

Chapter Fifteen

Crushed and cracked, the red and white plastic bobber slipped from the sheriff’s limp hand and fell on the floor. He’d either lost consciousness or died while the girl stitched him up.

Sly favored the second explanation.

After checking her patient’s pulse, the girl gave the wound another rinse of vodka.

It appeared the sheriff had survived the impromptu surgery.
What a pity.

She tucked a towel underneath the sheriff’s shirt. Once she was done buttoning him up, she washed her hands in the bowl of bloody water.

Impressed that she’d managed to save him, Sly extended his arm. “Bullet.”

Had she been allowed to enroll in the military and follow in her mother’s footstep, she would have made a terrific surgeon and a remarkable officer.

“It’s at the bottom of the water.”

The defiance she showed amused him.

“Very well.” He took the bowl from her and gave it to Vince. “Take your bullet and wait for me in the kitchen.”

Frowning, Vince flung his rifle over his shoulder. “She hid the knife behind her back.”

“I’ll deal with her. Take the bowl and go.”

As Sly expected, she raised the weapon as soon as Vince left the room. “Let me go, or I’ll kill you.”

“If you stab me, Vince will have lots of fun killing you and the sheriff.” With a sweep of his hand, Sly encompassed the bed and the man lying injured. “All this would have been for nothing. You get that?”

Her nostrils flared, her eyes narrowed, and her body tensed.

Considering the dedication with which she performed the surgery, he counted on her sense of duty to stop her from making a foolish decision.

She wacked the tackle box onto the floor and kicked it, spilling its content.

Her frustration pleased him. “Knife. Now.”

After a short hesitation, she tossed it at his feet.

“Pick up the mess.”

She glared as she squatted down. After making sure she hadn’t kept any tools that could be turned into makeshift weapons, Sly left the room with the tackle box.

Two latches, one at waist level and the other one at eye level, locked the door from the outside. Grinning, he slid both bolts into position.

Sly chucked the tackle box under the kitchen sink and cast the knife, pliers, and keys for the handcuffs and the shackles on the counter. The bowl was in the sink, empty. And the bullet was gone.
That’s one problem solved.
The next one was to get rid of Vince before nightfall.

“Go home, Vince.” With the girl’s death to orchestrate, Sly didn’t want to be disturbed.

His accomplice had removed his mask and boots, and slouched on the couch. “You owe me another two thousand bucks for the trouble.”

“You what?” He’d already paid them three grand each. With all the damage Vince had caused, Sly wasn’t spending another penny on the greedy and careless thug. The time had come to permanently terminate their association. “Fine. Go home, and I’ll make the transfer tomorrow.”

“Not going anywhere. It’s a white-out outside.”

“Listen, Vince. You...” The outline of a better plan formed into Sly’s mind. “Make yourself comfortable. And don’t snore.”

***

Had Todd not halted his search, darkness would have engulfed him before he had a chance to retrieve the emergency kit from under the seat of his snowmobile.

He lit two candles, placed one of them on a bench and the other on the window ledge to act as a beacon in case the sheriff was out there.

Shadows danced on the plain walls of the lodge. To his dismay, the door didn’t lock from the inside. Afraid the shooter might return, he wedged the other bench against the door before balancing the garbage can on top. It wouldn’t stop an intruder from barging in, but the noise, as the garbage can tumbled down, would alert Todd and give him time to draw his gun.

He swallowed two painkillers and a granola bar. An hour later, the medicine hadn’t brought any more relief to his throbbing head than the food to his grumbling stomach.

Draped in a thermal blanket, he sat on the floor with the gun tucked into his belt. He was injured and weary. As he tried to make sense of the events that had unfolded in the clearing, his mind slowly shut down.

A wail pierced the haze surrounding his brain. Todd crawled to the door and pricked up his ears. The wind roared, muffling the sound of the night. He set aside the garbage can and pushed the bench a few inches away. The pounding in his chest increased as he pulled the gun and peeked outside.

Amidst the raging storm, yellow eyes glowed in the dark.

***

Slimy’s arrogance and overconfidence worked in Quest’s favor.

To pull the wool over his eyes, she’d needed him to buy her futile knife attack and sudden calculated outburst. She so loved it when the competition underestimated her. Slimy had checked the tackle box for the presence of the bigger tools but had ignored the little bits and pieces she’d kicked under the bed.

Now that he left, Quest crawled on her hands and knees to gather the picks, lures, and hooks dispersed in the dust. She tucked them between the mattress and box spring for later use. In order to make a successful escape, she needed to wait for the right opportunity.

While removing the bullet, she’d noticed the empty holster looped into the sheriff’s belt. His winter jacket had been zipped when Itchy—

Another memory superposed to that one, interrupting her line of thought.

Slimy had introduced him as Mr. Invisible, but when he laid down his threat, he slipped. He’d called Itchy something else. In her mind, Quest recalled Slimy’s lips. It’d looked like...Vence...Vince.