Blood on Copperhead Trail. Paula Graves

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СКАЧАТЬ Doyle’s voice was barely audible through the thunder of her pulse in her ears.

      The shelter was still occupied. A woman lay facedown over a rolled-up thermal sleeping bag, blood staining her down jacket and the flannel of the bag, as well as the leaves below. Laney recognized the sleeping bag. She’d given it to her sister for Christmas.

      Janelle.

      The paralysis in Laney’s limbs released, and she stumbled forward to where her sister lay, her heart hammering a cadence of dread.

      Please be breathing please be breathing please be breathing.

      She felt a slow but steady pulse when she touched her fingers to her sister’s bloodstained throat.

      “Laney?” Doyle’s voice was in her ear, the warmth of his body enveloping her like a hug.

      “It’s Janelle,” she said. “She’s still alive.”

      “That’s a lot of blood,” Doyle said doubtfully. He reached out and checked her pulse himself, a puzzled look on his face.

      “She’s been shot, hasn’t she?” Laney ran her hands lightly over her sister’s still body, looking for other injuries. But all the blood seemed to be coming from a long furrow that snaked a gory path across the back of her sister’s head.

      “Not sure,” he answered succinctly, pulling out his cell phone.

      “Can you get a signal?” she asked doubtfully, wondering how quickly she could run down the mountain for help.

      “It’s low, but let’s give it a try.” He dialed 911. “If I get through, what should I tell the dispatcher?”

      “Tell them it’s the first shelter on Copperhead Mountain on the southern end.” Laney’s hands shook a little as she gently pushed the hair away from her sister’s face. Janelle’s expression was peaceful, as if she were only sleeping. But even though she was still alive, there was a hell of a lot of damage a bullet could do to a brain. If even a piece of shrapnel made it through her skull—

      “They’re on the way.” Doyle put his hand on her shoulder.

      But they couldn’t be fast about it, Laney knew. Mountain rescues were tests of patience, and a victim’s endurance.

      “Hang in there, Jannie.” She looked at Doyle. “Do you think it’s safe to move this bedroll out from under her? We need to cover her up. It’s freezing out here, and she could already be going into shock.”

      She saw a brief flash of reluctance in Doyle’s expression before he nodded, helping her ease the roll out from beneath Janelle. She unzipped the roll, trying not to spill off any of the collected blood. The outside of the sleeping bag was water-resistant, so she didn’t have much luck.

      “Sorry to ruin your crime scene,” she muttered.

      “Life comes first.” He sounded distracted.

      She looked up to find him peering at a corner of something sticking out from under the edge of the bedroll. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and grasped the corner, tugging the object free.

      It was a photograph, Laney saw, partially stained by her sister’s blood. But what she could still see of the photograph sent ice rattling through her veins.

      The photo showed Janelle and her two companions, lying right here in this very shelter, fast asleep.

      Doyle turned the photograph over to the blank side. Only it wasn’t blank. There were three words written there in blocky marker.

      Good night, princesses.

      Chapter Three

      Doyle hated hospitals. He’d visited his share of them over the years, both as a cop and a patient. He hated the mysterious beeps and dings, the clatter of gurney wheels rolling across scuffed linoleum floors, the antiseptic smells and the haggard faces of both the sick and the waiting.

      He hated how quickly everything could go to hell.

      He sat a small distance from Laney Hanvey and her mother, Alice, a woman in her late fifties who, at the moment, looked a decade older. Mrs. Hanvey looked distraught and guilty as hell.

      “I shouldn’t have let her go camping. It was so stupid of me.”

      Laney squeezed her mother’s hand. “You don’t want to stifle her. Not when she’s made so much progress.”

      Doyle looked at her with narrowed eyes, wondering what she meant. But before he’d had a chance to form a theory, the door to the waiting room opened and a man in green surgical scrubs entered, looking serious but not particularly grim.

      “Mrs. Hanvey?” he greeted Laney’s mother, who had stood at his entrance. “I’m Dr. Bedford. I’ve been taking care of Janelle in the E.R. The good news is, she’s awake and relatively alert, but she’s sustained a concussion, and given her medical history, we’re going to want to be very careful with that.”

      Doyle looked from the doctor’s face to Laney’s, more curious than before.

      “So the bullet didn’t enter her brain?” Laney’s question made her mother visibly flinch.

      “The titanium plate deflected the path of the bullet. It made a bit of a mess in the soft tissue at the base of her skull, but it missed anything vital. We did have to shave a long patch of her hair. She wasn’t very happy to hear that,” Dr. Bedford added with a rueful smile, making Laney and her mother smile, as well.

      Doyle couldn’t keep silent any longer. “Does she remember what happened to her?”

      The doctor looked startled by his question. “You are—?”

      “Doyle Massey. Bitterwood chief of police. The attack on Ms. Hanvey took place in my jurisdiction.”

      The doctor gave him a thoughtful look. “She remembers hiking, but beyond that, everything’s pretty fuzzy.” He turned back to Laney and her mother. “She keeps asking about her two friends, but all we could tell her is that they weren’t with her when she was brought in. Just be warned, she’s in the repetitive stage of a concussion, so she may ask you that question or another several times without remembering you’ve already answered her.”

      “Were you able to retrieve a bullet?” Doyle asked.

      “Actually, yes,” Dr. Bedford answered. “The TBI has already put in a request for it. They’re sending a courier.”

      “How soon do you think she can go home?” Mrs. Hanvey asked.

      “Because of her medical history and the trauma of being shot, I’d really like to keep her here at least a couple of days. Even beyond her concussion, the path of the bullet wound is pretty extensive and we’re going to work hard to prevent infection. We’ll see how her injuries respond to treatment and make a decision from there.”

      “Can we see her?”

      “She’s probably on her way up to her room. Ask the nurse at the desk—she’ll СКАЧАТЬ