Trail of Dead (Scarlett Bernard #2)(67)

“Is she gonna live?” I asked, panicked.

“I think so,” he said, using his professional cop voice. “But you need to stay calm. You did everything you could.”

“I should have come running around the outside of the house instead of running through it.”

Jesse gave me a sharp look. “And you were supposed to know that how? Olivia shot Kirsten, Scarlett. Not you. You took a bullet for her.”

I managed to roll myself over, onto all fours. I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and checked the screen. The little LCD face had a crack through it, but when I started pushing buttons everything else seemed to work fine. Beside me, Jesse was applying pressure to the bullet hole on Kirsten’s side. Blood covered his hands and stained the torso of her beautiful gown. It seemed like a really good time to call Dashiell.

He picked up immediately. “What’s happened? Did you get them?”

“No.” I told him about Olivia showing up at the party instead of the witch. “She brought a gun; she was prepared in case I showed up. Dashiell, you’ve gotta get people over here to press minds,” I said. “There’s a dead body, and Kirsten’s been shot, and some other witches may have been hurt, and the police are gonna be here in a second—”

“Scarlett, you’re babbling,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Don’t worry about Kirsten. I’ll come myself.”

I sighed with relief. That was kind of what I’d been hoping for. Dashiell was arrogant, pushy, and controlling, but this was exactly the kind of situation that made me glad to have him around. “Thank you.”

“I’ll talk to you more when I arrive. For now, just don’t say anything to the police.” He hung up.

I looked over at Jesse. “Dashiell’s on his way,” I said—thus speaking to the police. Then I groaned. “Oh, shit.”

He looked up from Kirsten in alarm. “What? Are you hurt somewhere else?”

“She shot Molly’s sweater. Molly is gonna kill me.”

He looked at me, and we both sort of…giggled. Before I could say anything else, though, three police cars came screaming up to the house, and I froze. I’d seen this in the movies a thousand times, but it was still kind of terrifying when you were the one lit up in the headlights. “Just be still,” Jesse murmured. “Keep your hands visible.”

I’d just been shot in the back. What was I gonna do, run a five-minute mile? “No problem.”

The cops from the first squad car, a man and a woman, came boiling out of the car with their guns drawn, just like in the movies. They began to shout at us, but Jesse shook his head and yelled, “Detective Jesse Cruz, Southwest Homicide. My badge is in my inside jacket pocket. I don’t want to move my hands from this wound.”

The uniformed officers exchanged a glance, and then the female cop holstered her gun while the male kept his trained on us. Jesse and I held perfectly still while she approached and reached into the pocket of Jesse’s leather jacket, pulling out his identification. She nodded at the male officer, and they both relaxed visibly. “She’s with me,” Jesse said, tilting his head my way. I waved limply.

The three of them began to chatter at each other in cop codes, which I made no effort to sort out. After a few minutes, the other cops went inside to check the rest of the house. The ambulance arrived and two female EMTs jumped out, beelining straight for Kirsten. One of them was older, maybe sixty, with gray hair cropped short. The one who’d been driving was younger and moved with more energy. She had a ponytail pulled through a baseball cap with the name of the ambulance service printed on it. I scooted back a few feet so they could work, and Jesse was finally able to lift his bloody hands off Kirsten’s side. I looked away. I could handle the sight of blood, but there was no point in giving myself this memory of Kirsten.

“She’s waking up,” the older EMT reported. She leaned forward with a little flashlight, checking Kirsten’s pupil dilation. “Ma’am, please try not to move. Do you know where you are?”

Kirsten blinked against the light. “Yes.”

There was a wave of bustling activity, and Jesse helped the two EMTs get Kirsten onto one of those backboard thingies, and then a gurney. I managed to get to my feet while they were folding the wheels and getting her in the ambulance, although it probably didn’t look very graceful. By the time Kirsten was settled in the ambulance, she was out again. “Her too,” Jesse ordered, pointing at me. “She needs to go along and get checked out.”

I don’t know why I was surprised. “Me? I’m fine. The vest caught it.”

“She got shot in the back,” Jesse explained to the younger EMT.

The woman with the ponytail went around to my back and unceremoniously lifted the sweater. “Hey,” I protested mildly. At least it was a woman.

“I’ve got a bullet here,” the ponytailed woman yelled to her colleague. To me, she said, “He’s right, Miss. You need to come with us. There could be internal bleeding or cracked ribs.”

One of the uniformed cops opened a downstairs window and stuck his head out. “We’ve got a few more injuries in here. You guys want to take a look now or call for another bus?”

The younger EMT raised her eyebrows at the older woman, who said, “She’ll be stable for a few minutes. Run and look quick so we can at least give them a heads-up.”