I ran, fell, scrambled to my feet, ran again until I reached him. Then the shaking began. I sank to my knees, unable to support my own weight, terrified to touch him, terrified I would hurt him more, terrified he was gone.
"Paul … Paul …." I touched his face -- the side not slicked red with blood. "Paul …." With a great, shuddering sob, I hauled him into my lap. His head lolled to the side. I gripped his shirt pulling him closer, the anguish of loss like a hatchet in my throat. "Don't leave me, please, please, please. I love you, don't leave me." I held him tight in my arms and whimpered and rocked and sobbed. Dan would have to shoot me too. I would not leave my love.
Then Paul moved. His hand came to rest on my arm, his fingers tightening for a moment.
"Paul?" I stared at his face, inches away, daring to hope.
His eyes squeezed tight then opened a fraction. "What …?" His voice was a graveled whisper.
Relief kept the tears coming. "You're hurt, shot, we need to get you help. Dan shot you." I raised my head and glared at Dan.
He stood by the Escalade, gun still pointed at us, but a look of shock on his face. Rage ignited in my belly, stopping my tears with its heat. Gently, slowly, I lowered Paul to the ground. I'd had enough of my own helplessness lately in dreams. This was real life. At last I could act. I strode to Dan.
"Give me that, you fucking bastard!" I grabbed the gun by the barrel and yanked it from his hand. He offered no resistance. "I ought to shoot you in the knees and leave you out here for the buzzards and coyotes, but you deserve worse. You fucking shot Paul just like you shot Andrew and Nick! You're a goddam, fucking serial killer. Believe me, I'm going to make sure you hang!"
I stalked back to Paul. He was trying to sit up. I knelt beside him.
Dan roused from his shocky silence. "What are you talking about? I didn't shoot Andrew!"
I ignored him. I had the gun. It was my ball game now. "Don't move," I soothed, trying to lower Paul to the ground.
"It's a head wound." His words were panted. "Got to elevate my head."
He sagged into my lap and I pressed his head against my body, trying to staunch the flow of blood from the long gash above his ear. I had to get help.
"I said, I didn't shoot Andrew," Dan said again.
"Sorry," I spat at him, "that's one lie you won't get away with!" God, oh God, I had to stop the bleeding before Paul died in my arms.
He swallowed and cleared his throat. "Andrew wasn't shot." His voice shook only a little.
"Shh … shh …." There was nothing in the Jeep I could use. First aid supplies were stored in the Suburban. I picked up the gun and aimed at Dan. "A first aid kit. Do you have one in the Escalade?"
He raised both hands and shook his head. "No, sorry."
"You're lying."
"No, I swear. I'm not lying about Andrew either. He was hit over the head with that damn fossilized jaw bone he kept in his office."
I laid the gun down. "Fucking liar," I muttered, easing back from Paul.
I yanked my shirt off, not caring I now wore only my bra above my jeans. I held Paul's bleeding head against my stomach while I folded the shirt, one handed, into a compress. He winced as I pressed it against his head.
"Dan's right," he said. His eyes squeezed shut, the edges trembling. "I thought … you knew."
That's when everything that had happened clicked into neat order. I hadn't known, of course, that Andrew wasn't shot. I was allowed to believe otherwise. However, right then it didn't matter to me who killed Andrew. Getting help for Paul eclipsed everything else.
I pointed the gun at Dan again. "Help me get him into the Jeep," I said.
"You don't need that thing, I'll help you," Dan growled.
I kept it aimed in his general direction, anyway. Between the two of us we got Paul to his feet and strapped into the Jeep's passenger seat. Then I leveled the gun at Dan.
"Now you," I said. "Get in."
He shook his head. "I told you, I'm not turning myself in."
He backed away from me, favoring the leg I'd kicked.
"Damn it! I said, get in the Jeep!"
"Rebecca."
"What?" Oh my God, he'd flipped out. He thought I was my mother.
He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. "You. You're Rebecca's daughter. I should have known. The woman with the titanium spine." He shook his head. "How old are you?"
"What?"
"Your age. What's your age?"
I barely whispered my answer. "Twenty-nine."
The silence hanging between us was so fraught with astonishment I could neither speak nor look away.
Dan closed his mouth and swallowed. "I loved her, you know." Then he turned and limped back toward the Escalade.
He was climbing in to the SUV before I found my voice. "Get in the Jeep. Damn it! I mean it!" The gun hung at my side in my hand. Paul teetered in his seat jerking me back to reality. I chucked the gun into the Jeep and got behind the wheel. Paul was more important than Dan ever could be.
I hit the accelerator, spinning gravel up behind. The steering wheel jerked in my grip, and the Jeep bounced as if it wanted to be airborne, but I didn't slow. A glance at Paul, limp against the seatbelt, kept my foot pressed into the accelerator. He had to be conscious. He was managing to hold my T-shirt against his head. As I battled the Jeep and the road I struck multiple bargains with God to hold the ambulance that had surely been called for Nick.
I roared into the parking area and spotted the ambulance close to the lake. The paramedics were loading a gurney. One of the men held an IV bag aloft. Relief surged through me. You don't attach an IV to a dead man. I laid on the horn and slammed to a stop.
"Help! I need help! Paul's been shot!" I yanked off my seatbelt and twisted toward Paul to relieve him of keeping the makeshift compress pressed against his bleeding head. His hand dropped to his side. He was ashen.
One of the paramedics sprinted over. I allowed him to lift the compress and look at Paul's wound.
"Hey, buddy, you trying to stop a bullet with your head?" His tone was casual.
Paul muttered something.
"No, not so bad. It almost missed you. Going to need to stitch it up, though." He looked toward the ambulance. "Hey, Jim, Ron, give me a hand here."
One of the other paramedics came over followed by the sheriff. The sheriff had a familiar look about him. All at once I made the connection.
"Ron," I said as the two paramedics eased Paul from the Jeep. "You're Ron Bradley."
He looked at me and nodded.
"You gave me a ride in your boat, um, Saturday -- yesterday." I was making a huge effort to be calm, to hang on to the smallest bit of the mundane.
He looked at me again and his eyes widened.
"Yeah, of course. It's Thea, right? Didn't recognize you without the mud."
I nodded.
"You relax now. We'll take him from here." The three men turned their attention to moving Paul toward the ambulance, keeping him upright. I trotted along for the short distance, wanting to help, chewing my lip as they maneuvered him into the back of the vehicle, and blowing out a long breath of relief as they got him settled. Then I remembered.
"Ron?" I looked around. He was standing next to me. "Ron, Dan Whitaker is still out there on the dirt road past the dig site." I was calm, in control, my mind was working. "His SUV's broken down. I took his gun. It's on the floor in the Jeep."
He nodded and called over to two of the other deputies. They conferred briefly, then the two deputies got in their patrol cars, and left in a cloud of dust, lights flashing. I moved to step into the ambulance. His large calloused hand on my arm delayed my step.
"You might want to put some clothes on and get cleaned up. We'll take care of him. You meet us at the hospital."
I looked down at myself. Oh. All I had on were my jeans, plain-vanilla bra and blood. A lot of blood. Paul's blood.
Little black dots swam in front of my eyes and a loud roaring sound blotted out other noise. Damn.
"Miss Campbell? I see they didn't keep you long in the ER."
I stopped my pacing, and closed my eyes. Thank you very much for the announcement. Then I turned to look at a man in green scrubs holding a clipboard. A doctor, I guessed. I crossed the waiting room.
"They said I was fine. Do you know how Paul Hudson is? Can I see him?"
"I'm Dr. Griffith," he said. "Paul's doing fine. I put a few stitches in his head. He's lost a little blood, so we'd like to keep him overnight, just to keep an eye on him. Yeah, you can go see him. Room …" he checked the clipboard, "twenty-seven."
"Thank you, Doctor." I glanced at Jennifer, who sat hunched on one of the waiting room's sofas, her eyes wide and her face very pale. Claudia sat close beside her with an arm around her shoulders. "Do you have any word about Nick Dawson?"
"He's still in surgery." His expression gave no clues to Nick's condition. "Dr. Harris will be out when they're done in there."
Nick's parents were on their way. I had called them before I left the camp, after I'd cleaned up. The kids and I took the Suburban into Great Falls. Dwayne drove.
I hurried down the hospital corridor. The door to room twenty-seven was open, although a curtain hid most of Paul's bed. I hesitated at the door for a moment, tried to calm my pounding heart, and walked quietly inside.
The head of the bed was slightly elevated and Paul's eyes were closed, dark lashes lying lightly against waxen skin. The stubble of his beard was so dark in contrast it looked fake. White bandages swathed his head, and IV tubing snaked from his left arm to a bag of saline hanging from a stand at the head of the bed. I choked on the lump in my throat. My legs shook. Even his faded hospital gown looked more vital
It was my fault he was here. If I hadn't kicked Whitaker he wouldn't have fired the gun. Paul could have disarmed him, could have talked him into giving himself up. Instead I had to rush in, be the hero, take charge. And very nearly kill the one person on this planet I couldn't live without.
The automatic blood pressure cuff fastened around his upper right arm kicked into action, startling me. His eyes fluttered open.
"Hey." His voice was sleepy, his smile tired.
I cleared my throat. "Hey, yourself," I said and walked the two steps to the head of the bed. I laid my hand gingerly on his shoulder.
"How about a hug? I won't break."
I slid my arms carefully around him, touched my face to his neck and, against every intention, was racked with sobs. He held me, stroking the back of my head, until I gained control.
"How are you feeling?" I asked at last, straightening and wiping tears away with the back of my hand.
"Sleepy. Sore. They gave me something to knock me out. Seems to be working." He reached for my hand. I held on fast.
"Nick's folks are coming."
He nodded, slightly. "You called. Good. How is he?"
"Still in surgery."
"And Dan?"
"I don't know. I haven't talked to Ron yet."
"Ron? Same Ron as before?"
"Yeah. Evidently he's the sheriff."
Paul nodded again.
"Paul, I'm . . ."
"Shh . . ." he squeezed my hand.
"No. I have to tell you. I'm sorry, about this," I gestured to his bandages. "And everything." More tears flowed. I didn't try to stop them.
"Nothing to be sorry for."
"Yes there is. I've been so awful. I love you so much, I'm so sorry."
A soft knock on the door interrupted my crying-jag. I scrubbed at my tear-stained face and cleared my throat.
Paul waited for me to pull myself together. "Come on in."
Soft footsteps approached, then Pat peeked around the curtain. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her nose would have given Rudolph a run for lead sleigh-deer. She hugged her sides as if she were cold while her gaze darted from Paul to me and back to Paul.
"How are you?" Her voice lacked its usual confidence.
"Okay," Paul answered.
Her gaze went to me. Oh! She was asking me, too.
"Fine. I'm fine."
"Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Sure," Paul said.
I smiled at him and squeezed his hand. He'd just risked his life for me. I'd been ready to die for him. Pat wasn't even a blip on the radar screen anymore. I had no problem leaving her alone with him.
"You too," Pat said, as I moved to leave. "Can you stay, too? Please?"
Surprised, I returned to Paul's side.
She swallowed and looked down. "I'm sorry." Then she squared her shoulders and looked steadily at Paul, then me. "I want to apologize to both of you. This is my fault. All of it. If I could talk to Nick right now I'd apologize to him, too."
Paul was watching Pat.
"Nick and I have been working for Dan -- Dr. Whitaker -- since last fall stealing fossils from the archives and then this spring, on break, from the dig site."
"Why?" I asked, startled by her confession.
She took a deep breath and broke eye-contact with Paul. "He -- Dan -- caught me helping Nick cheat on an exam. It was for your course," she said to Paul. "Dan told us we'd both be expelled, then offered us his silence in exchange for some 'chores,' he called them."
"I wondered," Paul said. "Go on."
"I told him I'd do it -- I had so much to lose. I've almost got my Masters. I couldn't throw it all away. Nick didn't care much, except Jennifer had been on him about his grades. That's why I agreed to help him with the exam in the first place. Jennifer and I are -- were -- friends. Our families have known each other for ages. Nick needed to do well for Jennifer, but we never told her about the cheating or what we'd agreed to do for Dan. We told her I was tutoring Nick. Then she got suspicious, thought Nick was cheating on her so he told her, right after we all got here, what was going on. That's why Jennifer's been so unhappy. That's why we've all been fighting. When Dan showed up I tried to tell him I didn't want to do his 'chores' anymore, but he wouldn't hear it. He wanted me to stay close to you, Paul, so I could let him know if you were on to him. You shook him up by being here, Thea. He wanted me to scare you so you'd go home. I decided to do what he asked, but get you to find out it was me so I'd be the one sent home. I didn't mean for you to get hurt so badly. I'm really sorry."
She looked sincere. I believed her, and nodded an acceptance of her apology.
"My plan didn't work -- just made you two mad at each other -- so, Nick and I decided to tell him we'd had enough, we wanted out. Nick told him last night we wanted to meet with him, and this morning brought the gun he'd found in Dan's suitcase. The idiot he thought he might need it to convince him, or at least keep him from threatening us. We're pretty sure he's the one who killed Dr. Fogel --"
"He didn't," I said. Both Pat and Paul snapped their attention to me. "But go on. I don't mean to interrupt."
Paul scrutinized me before turning back to Pat.
"Anyway, things went bad awfully fast. Jennifer showed up, Nick got macho and threatened Dan, Dan tried to take the gun away, they struggled and the gun went off. I ran up to the men's cabin to get you, but I'd forgotten you weren't there, and … I guess you know the rest."
I had to get to a phone and call Detective Ross. But first I had to tell Paul the rest -- without Pat here -- and he needed to settle with her before she'd leave. I waited. He stared into a middle space, frowning, one finger tapped the blanket. He usually scrunched his eyebrows together when deep in thought, but his head must have hurt too much.
After a long moment he sighed and looked at Pat. "When we get back to Seattle you'll want to talk to Detective Ross and tell him what you've told us. In the meantime, the class is over, so I'll need your help breaking up camp. Can I count on you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Right now there's other things we need to take care of." He glanced at me. "And I'm a bit too groggy to be making any other decisions at the moment."
She sniffled. "I'm sorry --"
He waved a hand, but it barely made it off the blanket. "I appreciate you coming in and telling me what was going on. We both appreciate it." Another glance in my direction. I nodded. "Don't tell any of the other students, all right? Not just yet anyway."
"Okay. Can I go back to the waiting room? I want to be here when they have news about Nick."
Paul's expression softened to an almost-smile. "Of course. We're all anxious."
She left quietly. Paul's eyelids sagged and closed. Exhaustion leaked more color from his face and deepened the gray smudges under his eyes. He needed to rest. I turned to go, thinking he would drift off to sleep.
"No," he said. "Don't go." He held out his hand, eyes still shut. "Just give me a minute."
Pulling the bedside chair closer, I sat, took his hand and rested my head on the bed. I drew his hand to my lips and kissed his fingers. He squeezed my hand, released it and stroked my hair.
"I should have believed you," he said.
"No --"
"Yes." His voice was sure.
I raised my head from the bed and looked at him through a blur of tears.
His hand tightened on mine. "Pat's not the only one who needs to apologize. I should have believed what you said about her and believed in you enough to tell you what was going on. I am deeply sorry for what I've put you through. I don't deserve your devotion."
Tiny wet lines made their way down the sides of his face. I touched one with a finger tip and shook my head. "You're wrong. You're my life. My heart doesn't beat without you."
He reached for me and we held each other in silence, my face pressed against the stubble of his cheek, our tears mingling. Finally, he took a long breath, and kissed my cheek.
I sat again in the chair, and twined my fingers in his. "Before I go call Detective Ross, I need to tell you --"
"Oh, here it is, Malcolm. Room twenty-seven."
I stood so fast only Paul's grip on my hand kept me from falling over. Determined footsteps clicked on the floor.
"Hellooo, knock, knock! Theodora?" The curtain was swept aside with a rattle of hardware. "There you are!" She turned to my father, two steps behind. "Here she is, Malcolm!" Mother advanced on me, crushed me in a fast hug, then turned to Paul. "And you must be Paul. How nice to meet you, although not under these circumstances, of course. The deputy out at your cute lodge wouldn't tell us anything but where to find you. My, you look like you've had a bad accident. And Theodora, you've looked better. Have you been crying? Your nose is all red. Oh, and look, you've got some band-aids, too." She brushed at the bandage on my shoulder.
Was she on speed? I turned to my father, who hadn't been able to get a word in. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mother beat him to it. Again.
"Are you going to tell me what happened, or just stand there with your mouth hanging open? That's not very attractive, dear. Didn't you know -- ?"
"Enough, Rebecca."
I blinked at my father. Go Dad. Mother ran her hands through her hair and gave Dad a contrite look.
"Oh, you're right, dear. I've just been so worried, what with Vi calling and telling us about Blackie --"
"What's wrong with Blackie?" I was shocked out of my shock.
Mother gave me a patient look. "He's been telling us you were in trouble."
Oh, that.
"He's fine now. Vi called an hour or so ago and said he'd settled down, and we shouldn't worry. But of course we did." She smiled at Paul, who'd been following the conversation like a tennis match. "Theodora didn't tell us you were Delores' nephew." She tsked at me. "I knew your mother years ago. How is she? It's been ages since we've spoken. And your family? I've forgotten your father's name. You don't say much, do you, dear?"
"Mother, he's been shot in the head."
"Oh my. Someone shot you?"
Oh no. No, no, no. Don't say who.
"Grazed," Paul corrected, his gaze easing from me to Mother. "Just grazed. Lost some blood. I'll be fine."
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
"Good." She patted his knee and turned to me. "Have you been shot, too?"
Her polite, how's-your-aunt-Gertrude tone alarmed me. "No. I fell down a bank." I edged toward my father and grabbed his arm. "Dad, do something."
He pulled out the chair I'd been sitting in and put a hand on mother's shoulder. "Sit, Rebecca. Catch your breath before you pass out."
She did. Sit, that is. More remarkable was she'd done what my father had told her.
Dad leaned over to me and kissed me on the forehead. "We're just glad you're both okay -- within reason. Paul, I'm sure you've figured out we're Thea's parents. We spoke on the phone last week."
"Yes, sir. Good to meet you."
Mother sniffed. She was dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue.
"Oh Mother." I put my arms around her and looked up at my father in desperation. Playground equipment didn't swing as much as Mother's mood.
He patted her back. "She's been pretty frantic this morning. I'm afraid she believes your Aunt Vi about Blackie having psychic powers."
"It is not a coincidence, Malcolm." She straightened, extracting herself from my embrace.
Paul and I exchanged a brief look. Maybe I could talk Paul's doctor into prescribing something potent for Mother. Dad glanced around uncomfortably, as though he'd just announced to a room full of Democrats that he was a Republican. He obviously thought we bought the whole psychic-thing, too. "Well, uh, Paul, uh, I didn't realize guarding our little girl was going to be so dangerous." His accompanying chuckle sounded cued.
A knock on the door cut Paul's response. Ron Bradley stood in the doorway, his sheriff's hat in a hand. He raised it in greeting as we all turned to him.
"Howdy, folks. Sorry to interrupt."
Our general murmur greeted and forgave him.
"Good to see you conscious, Paul, I --"
"These are my parents, Ron." I said, gritting a smile. "Rebecca and Malcolm Campbell."
He nodded. "Nice to meet you. Say, Thea, I was --"
"Yes, I'd be happy to talk to you. Maybe we could get a cup of coffee." Before I'd finished my sentence I'd scooted past my parents, had Ron by the arm, and was marching him out the door. I don't think the wild smile I cast over my shoulder cleared up any of Paul's confusion -- at least I couldn't tell by the look on his face. Mother and Dad looked equally bemused. Well, it couldn't be helped. Ron was about to give me news about having captured Dan. I could not have his name mentioned in front of my parents. They'd been shocked enough for one day.
"I was about to tell you --"
"Yes, yes, I know," I said, dragging Ron along. It became a little more difficult when he stopped.
"How could you know?" He tried to extract his arm from my grasp, but I held on.
"Not here," I whispered. "Privacy, we need privacy."
He consented to being dragged farther down the hallway.
"Okay." He stopped and took hold of my shoulders. "Far enough. Now, tell me how you know we didn't find Whitaker."
"Oh!" My hands shot to my mouth. "No. That's not good. Didn't you look where I told you to?"
Ron half closed his eyes and scratched the side of his nose. "I'm gonna start thinking maybe Paul stepped in front of that bullet, if you boss him around like this very much."
"I -- well, no. I -- sorry." I cleared my throat. "I didn't know about Dan. I assumed you were going to tell me you had him in custody and I couldn't have you mentioning his name in front of my parents."
"Why's that?"
"He and my mother were -- they dated. Back in college. And she's pretty upset about what's happened today -- they were coming out for a visit and didn't know anything about what's been going on and showed up this morning and well …." I gnawed my lip. "Please don't mention him to my Mother and Dad."
Ron spun his hat a couple of turns in his hand. "What I was going to tell you was that we looked, found where his SUV had been, but it was gone. I was also going to tell you that I spoke with your Detective Ross in Seattle like you asked, and he wants you and Paul back there pronto."
"But --"
Ron raised his hand. I swallowed my objection and listened. "He said first thing in the morning will be fine. They'll have someone meeting you at the airport. Now, what was your question?"
"The kids, the camp, all the rented equipment … we can't just walk away from everything."
"I realize that. We'll give you a hand, talk to Paul to see what he needs done. But you're going to be on that plane. Are we clear?"
"Yes."
"Good." He patted my arm. "Can we go back now and discuss this with Paul?"
"Do not mention Dan Whitaker," I cautioned.
Ron raised both hands in surrender, fanning me with his hat in the process. "Don't worry about me."
I expected Paul to look a bit wall-eyed from being left alone with my parents, but if anything he looked more relaxed. Mother looked slightly more frantic, however.
"Nick's surgeon was just in," Paul said before I could start drawing artsy conclusions. "They're finishing up and Nick will be fine. They're getting in touch with his parents."
I completed the exhale I'd forestalled with the word "surgeon" and took another breath.
"That's mighty good news," Ron said.
"Are there any more gunshot victims I should know about, Theodora?" Mother asked, her voice traveling up my spine like squeaking chalk.
"No." I steeled myself before I announced, "But Paul and I have to leave tomorrow morning."