Seeing Red(21)

“Hospital.”

“That’s right. You recognize me?”

“Of course.”

“And you’ve met Trapper here.”

“Yes.”

Trapper didn’t move or speak.

“How long have I been here?”

“Few hours. It’s going on four a.m. Monday.” The sheriff’s voice was gentle, but he got down to business. “Do you remember last evening? The TV interview and what happened after?”

Tears collected in her eyes, and she had difficulty swallowing. She managed to nod, but the head movement made her dizzy.

“Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”

“I’m still muzzy.” All she felt like doing was closing her eyes and seeking oblivion, and that was very uncharacteristic of her. Struck by a frightening thought, she asked, “Do I have a brain injury?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” the sheriff replied. “Nothing serious. You’re just doped up,” he said and gestured toward the IV. “You took quite a tumble and landed like a rag doll. You recall that?”

“Somebody came down on a rope.”

“A fireman. We weren’t sure until he got down there that you were still alive. We’d been searching for almost an hour, shouting your name.”

As after the hotel bombing, memories of the previous night came back to her in snatches with wide gaps in between. Some were vivid, like how badly her shoulder had hurt, how cold she’d been, while others were foggier.

She remembered lying on her back on the hard ground, the fierce wind, sprinkles of cold rain. She recalled trying to respond to the people shouting her name, but she couldn’t find the strength to raise her voice.

She’d also been afraid that if she signaled her whereabouts, it would seal her doom, that whoever had killed The Major would appear at the top of the ravine and finish her off from that vantage point.

She remembered fearing that she would die in one manner or another, from internal injuries, exposure. Her mother had died catastrophically. Her father’s death was all too recent. The longer she lay there, the greater the possibility she would die. Surely she wouldn’t cheat death a second time.

She was so convinced of that, she became hysterical with relief and thankfulness when rescuers arrived. As they strapped her to a stretcher, she’d begged for repeated reassurance that she had survived. A consoling EMT had pushed a tranquilizing drug into her vein to stop her hysteria.

But now, she felt the scald of fresh tears. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Sheriff Addison said.

Just then a man dressed in scrubs came through the door into the room. He looked surprised to see Trapper and the sheriff there. “What are you doing in here?”

Sheriff Addison replied, “I need to talk to the witness.”

“Not now, sheriff. Who’s he?”

“John Trapper.”

“Oh, well … Sorry, Mr. Trapper.” He glanced at Kerra before going back to them. “She’ll be going in and out for a while yet. You couldn’t trust anything she told you to be sequential, accurate, or thorough. It’ll be at least several more hours before she’s up to being questioned. I’ll have the deputy outside call you when I feel she’s ready.”

“But—”

“With all due respect, gentlemen, I need to examine my patient.” The doctor stood firm.

Glenn Addison didn’t look happy about getting the boot, but he bobbed his head toward her and said good night, then used his hat to motion Trapper toward the door.

Trapper remained motionless, staring at her in that silent and predatory way of his, then turned abruptly and followed the sheriff out without uttering a word. Kerra followed his exit until the door whispered closed behind him. Had that cold and remote man really kissed her? Or had she dreamed it?

“I’m sorry about that.” The doctor moved to the bedside, consulted her chart, then smiled at her through a neatly clipped door-knocker, and introduced himself. “How are you feeling?”

“Was I shot?”

“No. No spinal cord injury, broken bones, or internal bleeding, which is just short of a miracle. You were close to hypothermia, but the EMTs had you back to normal temp by the time you got to the ER. Your left shoulder was dislocated. I hope you don’t remember us popping it back in.”

“No. Thank God.”

“We sent the MRI to an ortho specialist, but several of us here looked at it and didn’t see any damage to the rotator. You have a hairline fracture on your left clavicle. Take it easy with that, no strenuous workouts for six weeks, and it’ll heal on its own.

“You sustained a lot of scrapes and cuts, and we had to dig out some bits of rock and wood splinters. Most were superficial wounds, but one on your right thigh required two stitches. You’re getting IV antibiotics to prevent infection. The worst of it, you took a whack on your head, which gave you a concussion. Is your vision blurry?”

“Yes.”

“It’s temporary. Do you know what month it is?”

“February.”

“Nausea?”

“It comes and goes. As long as I’m lying still, it’s okay.”

“How’s the pain?”