Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(44)

She paced back and forth in front of the kitchen phone, then picked it up and called. The next day she paced less, and when she got the A.D.A.’s secretary on the phone, she was told they hadn’t checked that day and might not have time—perhaps she could call back the next day. Suddenly, she was furious. “No!” she said. “Do you understand my life and my child’s life are in constant danger from this man? That he’s threatened to kill me, and if you take a look at my medical records, it’s obvious he tried? No. I’m not waiting until tomorrow. I’ll call back in an hour!” She hung up the phone, heart hammering, and stole a look at Preacher. She could feel the heat on her cheeks.

He lifted one eyebrow and smiled slightly. “There you go,” he said.

Her call was returned twenty minutes later by the assistant district attorney himself. He reassured her, then gave her the number of the treatment center and the name of a counselor with whom he’d been in contact, inviting her to call directly, as many times a day as it took.

Again she paced in front of the phone. “What’s wrong?” Preacher asked her.

“I don’t know. It’s like I’m afraid he’ll answer or something.”

“And what if he did?”

“I’d die!”

“No,” he said calmly. “You’d hang up, because you don’t have to talk to him ever again. Right?”

“I don’t,” she said, a little bit surprised by that reality. Her mind started spinning—what if he denied ever having touched her? What if he convinced them he was sorry? She picked up the phone immediately, punching in the numbers, though her brain twisted with possibilities. What if he wanted a message delivered to her? What if he asked to call her, to talk to Christopher? He never talked to Christopher, but she wouldn’t put it past him to act as though he cared about his son.

The phone was answered, the counselor she asked for was put on and she said, “This is Paige Lassiter. I’m just calling to be sure Wes Lassiter is still there.”

“All tucked in, ma’am,” he said, his voice calm and friendly. “Rest easy.”

“Thank you,” she said weakly.

“You try to have a nice day.”

She hung up the phone, trembling for a moment. Then she looked at John and found him smiling. “I know it’s hard,” he said, his voice soft. “But every day you take your life back a little more. That’s how it’s done, Paige.”

There was a road into Fallujah, Iraq, that held a strong reputation for mortal danger. American troops had fallen there before. When Sergeant Major Jack Sheridan led his platoon in, one of his squads, led by Gunnery Sergeant Miguel—Mike to his friends—Valenzuela, was separated from the platoon by a suicide truck bomb. They were holed up in an abandoned building with injuries, pinned down by sniper fire. Joe Benson and Paul Haggerty were bleeding dangerously, along with others wounded by sniper fire. Gunny held off snipers with an M16 he fired repeatedly for hours until the rest of the platoon—Preacher among them—could subdue the insurgents and effect a rescue. When it was over, Mike could barely move his arm and his shoulder was frozen. He was decorated for his heroic performance.

Mike, an L.A. police sergeant, had been activated for an eighteen-month tour in Iraq. He was never injured. He had saved lives.

And now he lay in an L.A. hospital bed, comatose, with three bullet holes in him. The shots were fired by a fourteen-year-old gangbanger. The one place the kid hadn’t hit was square in Mike’s bulletproof vest. Another officer got off a fatal shot to the kid. Investigation suggested it might have been an initiation right of passage to get jumped into the gang—and bringing down the sergeant under which the gang unit served was a major feat.

Preacher had called on Mike about Paige, and Mike had done everything he could to help. Now Preacher had received the call.

It was early—the coffee barely brewed, Chris not yet racing downstairs in his pajamas, the loud crack of the ax in the backyard just begun. The shooting had occurred the night before and it took Ramon Valenzuela, Mike’s oldest brother, a few hours to get to someone in the old Marine squad. In the meantime, Mike had undergone emergency surgery and lay comatose in an intensive care unit.

Preacher went to the back door of the bar. “Jack!” he called. “Come in!”

Jack had an anxious look on his face when he came through the back kitchen door.

“Valenzuela was shot on the job,” Preacher said without preamble. “He’s critical. L.A. trauma center. I’ll call Zeke, have him pass the word, and close up the bar.”

“Jesus,” Jack said, rubbing his chin. “What chance they give him?”

“His brother Ramon said he thinks he’ll make it—but he’s in a coma. He said something about him never being the same.” He shook his head. “See if you can catch a flight. I’ll make the drive.”

Paige appeared at the bottom of the stairs and knew something serious was happening. She stood, waiting.

“What about Paige? Christopher?” Jack asked.

Preacher shrugged. “I’ll have to take them. I’m sure as hell not leaving them here without me.”

“Take me where?” she asked.

Both men turned to look at her. “L.A.,” Preacher said. “One of our boys was shot in the line of duty. He’s in intensive care and I have to go.”