The further they drove, the more Adams’ leg throbbed. He’d spent the last several decades in law enforcement and had never once pulled his gun on a suspect, let alone been involved in a shootout. He’d taken a bullet to the leg and was still trying to wrap his head around it.
The image of Professor Jury’s brain matter splattering the road kept popping in his mind. As much as the pain bothered him, he couldn’t keep the guilt of abandoning the professor out of his thoughts. Adams was the law in Arthur’s Creek.
If he wouldn’t stand up to those men, then who would?
Of course, there wasn’t much he could do if he was suffering from a heart attack and his leg was threatening to bleed him dry.
He pried his eyes from the road for a moment and glanced down.
The fabric of his pants had turned a dark crimson atop his thigh. Rivulets of blood ran down his hamstring and stained the seat underneath him. The seat of his pants had grown warm and sticky.
“What are we going to do?” Allison asked. She sat ramrod straight in the seat, her eyes glued to the road in front of them.
“We’re going back to the station to get the medkit before I lose too much blood.” Adams gritted his teeth against the pain. “Then we’re going to call in the cavalry.”
“Your deputies?”
“Hell no. They couldn’t protect a warm cup o’ piss. We’re going to call the Staties, the FBI, hell, the National Guard. Those guys had a rocket launcher in that van.”
“They what?” Allison spun around and looked through the shattered windshield behind them, even though they were far enough away that she wouldn’t be able to see them anymore.
“I don’t know what’s going on around here, but it’s way beyond my call of duty. I’m too old to be getting shot.”
The stabbing agony in his leg got worse.
And the pain in his arm returned.
His eyes blurred.
Shook his head.
“Ahh, damn.” He took a deep breath through his nose, hoping it would steady him. It didn’t.
They were only a half-mile from the station. If he could just make it there, Allison could patch him up enough to staunch the bleeding.
Or so he hoped.
“What?” Allison turned her attention back to him. “Is the bleeding getting worse?”
“Sure ain’t getting any better. Starting to feel lightheaded.”
“Pull over and let me drive.”
“We’re almost—”
Black spots formed in Adams’ vision. He blinked rapidly, but the darkness spread. His thoughts lost cohesion, his panic sliding away. The pain in his leg remained, but the edge of it blunted.
Fatigue settled in.
Eyelids drooped.
Allison screamed from the seat beside him, but he couldn’t make out her words. His senses came through a sieve, everything strained and incomprehensible. The whine of the engine quieted.
And then, much too slowly, his vision returned. Colors saturated, objects came into focus.
Allison’s shoulder was pressed against his, their hips almost touching. Her hands were on the steering wheel, attempting to wrangle it from his grasp. His foot had the accelerator pressed to the floor.
Dust plumed around the car as it swerved onto the shoulder, the tires inches from sliding into the drainage ditch.
“Stop!” Allison kicked at Adams’ calf in a frantic attempt to dislodge his foot from the pedal.
The heft of his leg made it feel as if he’d fallen into quicksand. With an effort that almost made him fade out again, George took pressure off the accelerator. He tried to hit the brake, but his foot fumbled against the side of the pedal. The strength in his arms failed, his grip sliding down.
As he released the wheel, Allison took control of it and yanked them back to the road. The car drifted along, still doing forty. Through the trees ahead, the police station came into view. The old house still had all the first-floor lights on.
The ambulance hadn’t arrived yet.
George focused on forming his words correctly. His lips felt plump and immobile, giving him a slight slur. “Losing too much blood. Need the medkit.”
“You almost killed us.” Allison kept her eyes straight ahead as she steered the car toward the gravel parking lot of the station. “Can you hit the brake?”
“I think so.” George waited until they were almost into the parking lot to slow them down even more. They coasted onto the gravel, tiny rocks kicking up into the underbelly of the cruiser.
The heat indicator beside the speedometer had maxed out.
They’d made it back, but his car was officially toast. If they needed to go any further, they would have to get through to someone and hitch a ride. The sheriff wouldn’t be able to walk anywhere.
With the car still going almost ten miles an hour, Allison grabbed the gear shifter and slammed it into park. The transmission locked with a loud thunk in front of the dash, and the entire car bucked forward.
Allison twisted the keys, putting the engine out of its misery. “Where’s the kit?”
“In the storage room, top shelf on the left.” Adams looked down at the flowing stream of crimson running to the floor. “Better hurry.”
Now that he wasn’t driving or dodging bullets, the sheriff needed to get a better look at the wound. He grabbed the fabric of his pants around the hole where the bullet had entered and tried to tear it open. The weakness that had spread to his limbs was worse than he thought.
The fabric didn’t rip.
“I’ll be right back.”
Allison opened her door and jumped out of the car.
Glass fell to the parking lot from her seat.
She ran through the door to the office and disappeared inside.
George tried to tear his pants one more time, but he just didn’t have the strength left. His labored breathing wasn’t helping. He put his left palm over the wound and pressed down, hoping to stymie the blood flow.
As he sat there and waited, wondering if today would be the day the reaper punched his ticket, George watched as a pillar of smoke rose above the trees leading into town.