Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [56]
“Stay down.”
“It’s okay.” He watched her pull another magazine out of her jacket pocket. He stared at her as she slowly, calmly shoved it into the Coonan.
“Go get your gun,” she said, looking out the window, her back to him. “If I didn’t hit him, I can at least keep him away from the house.”
He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He was up the stairs and to the bedroom in three seconds flat. When he came back downstairs, his pistol in his hand, Becca hadn’t moved. “I haven’t seen a thing,” she called out. “Do you think maybe I was lucky enough to hit him?”
“I plan to find out. Keep a sharp lookout. And don’t shoot me.”
And then he was gone before she could draw a breath. She heard him walk quickly through the kitchen, then the back door opened and closed very quietly. She prayed she’d hit him. Maybe right in his throat, where he’d hit the governor. Or in the gut. He deserved that for killing that poor old bag lady. She waited, waited, not moving, watching for Adam, for his shadow, anything to show her he was all right.
Time passed so slowly she thought it would become night before anything more happened. Suddenly, she heard a shout.
“Come on out, Becca!”
Adam. It was Adam and he sounded all right. She was through the front door like a shot, her hair tangling in her face, realizing only then that she was sweating and cold at the same time, and laughing. Yes, she was laughing because they were safe. They’d beaten the monster. This time.
Adam was standing at the edge of the woods, waving toward her. It was in the exact same direction where she’d fired off all seven rounds. He waited until she was right in front of him. He smiled down at her, then wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her hard. “You got him, Becca. Come take a look.”
Blood on fallen leaves. Like Christmas decorations—rich dark red on deep green.
“I got him,” she whispered. “I really got him.”
“You sure did. I’ve looked but I can’t find a trail because once he realized he was out of the game, he stanched the wound and carefully brushed ground cover over his tracks so he wouldn’t leave any kind of a trail.”
“I got him,” she said again, and she was smiling. “Oh Adam, no!”
“What is it?”
“Your arm.” She dropped her Coonan back into her jacket pocket and grabbed his hand. “Don’t move. Look, this splinter of wood is stuck in you like a knife. Come back to the house and let me get it out. Does it hurt bad?”
He looked down at the shard of wood sticking like a crude knife out of his upper arm. He hadn’t even felt it. “It didn’t hurt before I knew about it. Now it hurts like fire.”
Thirty minutes later, they were arguing. “No, I’m not going to a doctor. The first thing the doctor would do is call Sheriff Gaffney. You don’t want that, Becca. I’m fine. You’ve disinfected me and bandaged me up. You did a great job. No problem. Let it go. You even pushed three aspirin down my gullet. Now, how about a big jigger of brandy and I’ll be ready to sing opera.”
She thought of Sheriff Gaffney coming here and asking questions about a guy who shot at them. “My my, who’d want to do that, folks?”
She gave him another aspirin for good measure, and since she had no brandy, she gave him a diet Dr Pepper.
“Close,” he said and downed a huge drink.
They both froze when there was a knock on the front door.
Then they heard the front door slam open, voices low and muffled.
Becca grabbed her Coonan and crept toward the kitchen door. “Stay put, Adam. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
“Becca, I’ll be all right. Hold it a second.” Adam was right on her heels, his voice low, his hand on her gun arm.
“Who is it?” he called out.
A man yelled, “You guys all right? This door looks like an army tried to shoot its way in.”
“I don’t know who it is,” Adam said. “Do you recognize his voice?”
She shook her head.
“Who is out there? What are your names? Tell me or I’ll blow your heads off. We’re a bit on the cautious side here.”
“I’m Savich.”
“I’m Sherlock. Thomas sent us. He said we needed to meet Adam and Becca, talk to