I shouldn't have agreed to go. By the time we'd driven from the camp to the highway I was ready to bail out of Paul's car. Every jostle made my head hurt, and if I wasn't nauseated before, there was no doubt I was by the time the long drive into Great Falls ended. At the hospital emergency room, a perceptive nurse handed me an emesis basin the moment she saw me. I made instant use of it. The effort I'd expended keeping the contents of my stomach in place had pushed me to the limit of my endurance. I had no patience left for anything or anyone else, and no one seemed to notice.
I waited, with Paul, in a curtained, chilly exam room until a nurse came in, took my vitals, and asked me dozens of questions I'd already answered for the admitting clerk. I waited for the doctor to arrive, then answered more questions while she poked, prodded, and stripped me of my existing bandages. I waited for my wounds to be re-cleaned and re-dressed. Blood was drawn. My ears, eyes, and nose were examined. All the while Paul stood with his arms crossed, watching. Watching with such scowling concentration you'd have thought he was going to be quizzed later on procedures. He was in the way, but no one told him to move. If I'd been the doctor in charge, I'd have put my foot on his backside and helped him to the waiting room. But she didn't. In fact it appeared as though she asked his permission to have my head CAT scanned. He nodded his consent, and I was shipped out via wheelchair. When I was returned to the ER, a nurse hooked me up to an IV and medicated me, which was a good thing because I was ready to bite someone.
Then everyone deserted me.
Except Paul.
"How are you feeling?"
"Better." Nausea, though diminished, kept a stubborn, sour grip on my stomach. The ringing in my ears and most of my headache were gone. And I was still crabby.
"Good." He brushed a lock of hair off my forehead with his fingertips and smiled in a strained way.
I relented and dredged up a return smile. He was here. He'd stuck with me. He hadn't just dropped me off trusting strangers to take care of me. I had no business being snarly with him.
Dr. Kimball, my chief poker and prodder, pushed the privacy curtain aside saving us from the incessant nattering we weren't doing. Unlike Paul, she was smiling like this was the most fun she'd ever had.
"Hi, Thea. How are you feeling?"
"Hi. Good. I'm feeling good. When can I leave?"
She flicked a pen light in each of my eyes, consulted my chart, and took a brief look at the IV before answering me. "Oh, I expect you can go in a couple of hours when you're done with the IV bag, and we've got all your lab tests back. CAT scan looked good." The last was addressed to Paul.
"Oh. So I'm okay?"
She ignored my snippy tone, turning on the dazzle and concern. If she meant for me to feel childish, it worked. "It's just a mild concussion, but we want to be sure you're rehydrated and the meds are doing their job before we let you go." She resumed her conversation with Paul. "You said you're picking your students up at eleven?"
"Right."
"I gave Thea something for pain so she can rest," she said in a low voice.
Did she think I couldn't hear? Jeez.
"The cafeteria's open with coffee and some snack stuff. You might find it more comfortable to wait in there." She turned back to me. "Why don't you rest a bit? These gurneys aren't the most comfortable things in the world, but I've napped on them before. We'll be in to check on you from time to time. No one will bother you if you want to sleep." She smiled, straightened my blanket, and gave Paul directions to the cafeteria while walking him out.
Well, phooey. I'd just been stuck on a shelf. I couldn't even wander around, look for a magazine, or visit the gift shop since I was tethered to the bed by an IV. I really hated being in hospitals. When they weren't doing something nasty to you, you were bored out of your mind.
Then I remembered: My parents.
Crap.
Not only was I going to have to do some fancy maneuvering to keep them away from Dan, but I was going to have to make up something about these injuries. There was no way I was going to be able to hide them. Mother would blame Paul -- after she blamed me for being clumsy, because there was no chance in hell I'd tell them it was Pat who deliberately started the slide.
What was with that girl, anyway? Jennifer was mad at her. I was mad at her. Paul wasn't, although he should be. Even Dan was mad at her. She acted like she wanted to be sent home. Idiot.
And cripes. Why exactly was Dan here? To check on Paul? Yeah, right. I doubted he was interested in the students' work. The only thing he did was eat and go out to the old dig site to look at the holes in the ground. That could have been a five-second tour, not the lengthy trip Claudia described. Huh. If I'd been him I'd have been looking for fossils -- fossils I'd missed from the last time I was out.
Oh my God.
That's what he was doing. Looking for fossils he'd missed. With Nick. Nick worked for Dan. So did Jennifer. Of course. Neither one of them would have had the expertise or wherewithal to rob the dig site -- or the archives. And Scott was an expert -- well, a junior expert -- who was also strong enough to do heavy work and had easy access to the archives. He was in on it, too. Well, I figured that, but I had suspected only him, and only of the thefts in the archives. All the thefts at the museum and the dig site were way too extensive to be handled by one person. And Andrew? The argument I'd overheard could have meant only one thing. Andrew was part of it, too.
Oh my God.
No wonder Paul was so closed-mouthed. He told me he had suspicions, but no proof. It would be a career-killer of mammoth proportions -- in all interpretations -- if he said anything prematurely.
And Scott's argument with Andrew meant they'd had a falling out. But if Scott worked for Dan he'd tell Dan about any problems and ….
Oh my God.
Dan killed Andrew. He tried to frame Paul for the thefts and tried to kill Mrs. Peabody -- she was the "she" Scott and Andrew were arguing about the first day I was at the archives. Now he was here. Crap. I wanted to go home. And take Paul with me. He'd never listen to me, though. He was already furious because of my accusations about Pat. As long as he kept his mouth shut he'd probably be safe. I had to pretend I hadn't figured out what was going on.
Ross needed to be told, though. Since Paul never seemed bothered by my mention of him, he was undoubtedly in league with him, although it was doubtful he'd connected all the dots like I had -- otherwise we'd be seeing some arrest action. I needed to call him. Maybe I could drive myself in to Great Falls in the morning. I'd tell Paul I wanted to run some errands. Surely he'd let me out of his sight if I was going to be away from everyone.
I closed my eyes and sank back against the pillow. I had a plan. Nothing like a plan to put one's world in order. All I had to do was pretend everything was fine, arrange to talk to Ross, then follow his instructions -- which had better be smarter than his last idea of pretending I was dead. I yawned and pulled the light blanket around my shoulders.
A gentle hand on my shoulder prodded me awake. But awake was hard to hold on to.
"Come on now, Thea." A little shake this time. "Wake up. You can go home now." Dr. Kimball smiled that chipper little smile of hers when I managed to open my eyes all the way. Then she made quick work of removing the IV catheter from the back of my hand, and slapped a Band-Aid over the site before I had a chance to look. Paul was in a chair I was certain hadn't been there when I fell asleep. He stood and stretched.
"How are you feeling?"
I struggled to sit up. He stepped over and helped. "I'm so groggy." And I wanted to go back to sleep.
"Pain meds will do that," Dr. Kimball said. "When you get dressed we'll give you a little bag with some more meds you can take tomorrow if you need them, and a sheet of instructions with things to look out for. If you start feeling dizzy or nauseated again, have Dr. Hudson bring you back in. Don't try to tough it out. It could be signs of something serious. You shouldn't be driving for a couple of days, okay?"
"Okay," I said, easing my legs over the side of the bed.
"Take care now." And she left.
"I'm sorry I was so short with you earlier," I said to Paul.
"No problem." He helped me stand. "That happens sometimes with a concussion."
I tossed the hospital gown on the chair. He handed me my shirt. I slid it over my head, then pulled on my pants, and slid my feet into my sandals. I glanced at the discharge instructions. I could eat and sleep. No restrictions. Good. A nurse came in with the items Dr. Kimball promised and a wheelchair. I declined the wheelchair, but she overrode me with hospital policy. I sat, feeling foolish, and she wheeled me out to the hallway where Claudia and Tim waited -- holding hands. At least something was going right.
I handed Paul my discharge instructions as we went down the hall. Better he read them himself than think I was making stuff up.
He scanned the paper. "Okay. This won't be a problem. I'll open up one of the other cabins and we can bunk there for the night. Then I can wake you up every couple of hours without disturbing anyone."
That wasn't exactly what I remembered reading. I looked up at him and he held my gaze. Okay. I got it. I'd play along. "Thanks," I said, doing my best to look grateful. This had nothing to do with opportunistic sex and everything to do with me still being on a leash.
Sometime in the early morning the nightmare I thought I'd left behind in Washington jolted me awake. It was worse than before. In this latest version the man I helplessly watched die was Paul.
I huddled in my sleeping bag in the dark, nauseated with horror, and silently crying. Though Paul lay on the next cot over, snoring lightly and obviously alive, the image of his blood-stained, lifeless body refused to fade.
I wanted to reach out, touch him, crawl in next to him for comfort. But all he'd said on the way back to the camp was he was glad I was feeling better. He'd said even less when we were alone in the cabin, even turned his back while I undressed for bed. There would be no sympathy for my anguish over a silly dream.
As dawn approached, and the unrelieved blackness inside the cabin turned to shades of dark grey, I got up, slipped into my clothes and, with tears still trickling down my face, made my way to the lodge.
In the women's bathroom, I turned on the shower, undressed, then stepped under the hot spray. I didn't care if the bandages got soaked. I'd replace them once I'd washed this misery down the drain. But, instead of helping me feel better, the hot water broke a dam of grief. I leaned against the shower wall and wept until I thought I would be ill. In desperation I shut off the hot water and turned the cold up full. Rational thought returned like a slap in the face. Another few seconds was all I could take.
Dried off and dressed in the same jeans and cotton top I'd had on at the hospital, I went to the kitchen, made coffee, and poured myself a bowl of cereal. Then I took it all to the porch to watch the sunrise.
The air was sweet, clear, fresh. The lake so still, the surface so reflective, it could have been a passageway to another sky. It took little effort to believe that, should I dive in, I would fall upward into the heavens of another realm.
A bird trilled. Another answered farther down the shore. Silence rushed in until another song and another response heralded its impending defeat.
I sat silent and alert in a corner of the deck, my back pressed against the lodge's log wall. By the time I raised my coffee to my lips it'd gone cold. No matter. I set it down, careful to be quiet. The horror that awakened me hours earlier with its guileless misery had not vanished. Deep within shadowy corners, inexplicably both in my mind and the air around me, I felt it feeding on the edges of my tension, felt it growing, changing with every minute that ticked by, becoming more scheming, treacherous, deadly.
I watched.
I listened.
The sound of voices and the slam of a truck's door jerked my attention in the direction of the boat ramp. A laugh and a couple of words drifted to me. Fishermen. The rattle of another vehicle's defective muffler announced its arrival at the ramp. Then came the cough of an engine -- likely an outboard motor starting up -- and closer by the squeaky bang of a cabin door. I gathered my bowl and coffee cup and returned to the kitchen. I'd get a fresh cup of coffee and one for Paul, then return to the cabin. I didn't want Paul to wake up and find me gone.
And I was afraid of being alone.
I'd barely begun to fill my cup when I heard the muffled report. The screaming that followed shocked me into motion. I flew out the kitchen door and around the corner of the lodge, desperate to locate the source. The wordless screaming continued.
I sprinted around the Suburban toward the lake. Dan had Jennifer by the arm, dragging then pushing her up the hill. She shrieked obscenities amidst a frenzied struggle. In a flurry of fists she was free and pelting back toward the lake where Nick lay by the shore, an arm stretched, as if reaching for the stillness of the water.
I flew down the hill, even while Dan raced toward the lodge.
"Call 911," I yelled.
His hand shot out and snagged my arm, spinning me into a tight circle and a stop.
"Call 911," I repeated. "Something's happened to Nick." I twisted in his grip, but he wouldn't let go. "Dan --"
"You'll do." He half ran up the hill, dragging me with him.
I pulled against his hold, but barely slowed him. "Dammit, let me go. Let go! Dan, what the hell --"
"Shut up."
Stunned at his response, my feet quit. He yanked me into motion. I tripped, looked down, and saw the gun he aimed at my chest, its barrel glinting in the morning sunlight. "Move it."
My legs obeyed. Behind us alarmed shouts joined Jennifer's hysterical sobbing. I was right about Dan. Now he'd shot Nick as well as Andrew.
And crap, oh crap, I was going to be next.
He dragged me to the Escalade and opened the driver's door.
"Get in and move over."
He shoved, and I sprawled across the seat, then scrambled over the center console. My intention was to go out the passenger door, but I pitched forward into the dash as the SUV jerked backward out of its parking place. I'd barely righted myself when Dan stomped on the gas and spun the wheel, sending me back against the seat and bouncing sideways. In the half second before we cleared the parking area Paul came around the corner of the lodge at a run. As if in slow motion, he looked directly at Dan, then at me, his expression changing from confusion to shock. In the next instant we were rocketing down the narrow dirt road at an ever-increasing speed.
"You're going to have to let me go," I said, gaining my seat and my wits. He wouldn't shoot me now, would he? The gun was nowhere in sight. Both his hands were on the steering wheel, busy dealing with the twisting road.
"I'll let you go … as soon as I know I'm out of here."
"Now." I was feeling bolder. "Why not now? Pull over. I'll jump out. Then you can go. I can't stop you."
He glanced at me. "Not until I'm sure I don't need insurance."
"But --"
We'd reached the boat-ramp road, and the flashing lights of the sheriff's car coming dead center at us stopped my voice in my throat.
Dan stood on the Escalade's brakes, and I flew into the dash. My shoulder collided with the windshield, then I bounced into him as he spun the vehicle around. I grabbed for the steering wheel, but he shoved me away even as he jammed his foot down on the accelerator. I crashed against the door and ricocheted into the seat. We were going back the way we came -- almost.
Instead of going back to the lodge, Whitaker gunned the Escalade down the narrow dirt road leading to the dig. I'd thought the road dead ended at the dig site, but I was wrong. We flew past the small canyon, bouncing and careening along the piss-ass, narrow goat-trail of a road. I hung on with both hands to the arm rest on the door.
Twice Dan glanced in the rearview mirror. Was someone following us? I craned to look. Through the dust I caught a glimpse of the Jeep. I didn't have to see the driver to know it was Paul, but I was far from rejoicing. The Jeep was ancient. Dan's Escalade was brand new. There was no doubt in my mind which vehicle was going to fare better at speed on this terrain.
I had to do something. Jumping out was not an option. There was no emergency brake on the console between the seats I could grab and yank on. The gear shift on the column. I dove for it, intending to shove it into "park." Dan thrust a hand in my face. I pushed him away, then bounced into him as the vehicle swerved. With one large hand against my throat, he sent me crashing into the passenger door. He must have incorrectly gauged the effort he would need to dislodge me because suddenly we pitched down and slammed to a stop. Airbags exploded around me. In a frenzy, I fought the airbags and yanked on the door handle. I had to get out. I shoved the door open, fell to the ground, then launched into a sprint. As I rounded the back of the Escalade I ran smack into Dan and the gun. He grabbed my shoulder and held on.
Dust rose thick around us, and several yards away was the silhouette of the Jeep. A figure materialized through the brown cloud. Paul.
"Are you all right, Thea?"
I nodded.
"Let her go, Dan," he said calmly.
"Can't do that."
"Nick's not dead," Paul said. "Don't add kidnapping to assault."
Dan still held the gun on me.
"I'm not turning myself in."
"Let Thea go. What'd you do to get those kids to cooperate with you? It was Jennifer and Nick both, wasn't it?"
I licked my lips. For God's sake, Paul, could we clear this up later? The man is about to shoot me. Tell him you'll let him go.
"Back off, Paul."
"Give me the gun, Dan. This has to stop now before it gets worse. Your car's wrecked. You can't walk out of here."
Dan shook his head, frowning. Paul took a slow step toward us and Dan swung the gun at him.
"No, but I can take the Jeep." He took aim. "And I'm taking Thea."
Paul shook his head once and took another step, holding his arms out from his sides, palms toward us.
"I can't let you do that. Give me the gun," Paul's voice was low and calm. He advanced again.
Whitaker gripped my shoulder, holding me firmly at arm's length. His finger curled around the trigger. He was going to shoot Paul. I did the only thing I could.
As I kicked him in the knee, the gun roared.
Paul spun with limp grace, and went down.