Blue Smoke and Murder

50

SEPTEMBER 16

1:12 A.M.

As Zach disappeared through the open gate, Jill dropped to her knees next to Garland Frost. She wanted to scream at Zach to be careful, but it was too late. He was gone and all she could do was try to help Frost.

Even without street or porch lights, she could see that blood was spreading out from above and to one side of Frost’s belt buckle, dripping onto the Navajo rug that warmed the tile floor.

Too much blood.

She snatched the cordless phone off the hall table, punched in 911, and tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder. Before it even rang, she was opening Frost’s shirt, trying to see the extent of the damage. She barely noticed the rental car burning, the stink of plastic, paraffin, particleboard, and raw gasoline. She was wholly intent on Frost.

The operator answered in a calm male voice. “Taos 911. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Gunshots fired, one man down, a car fire burning out of control,” Jill said. “Garland Frost’s house, Taos. We need an ambulance and we need it now. Fire truck, too. A friend is pursuing the shooter. Both men are armed. I don’t know the address.”

“We just got an alert from the alarm company at Garland Frost’s address. Police units are on the way. Name and age of the victim?”

“Garland Frost, over seventy.”

“Your name, please.”

“Just get here,” Jill said curtly. “I’ll fill out forms later.”

Without hanging up, she set the phone aside and concentrated on Frost. His eyes were open, glittering with reflected flame. His jaws were clenched against pain.

“Garland,” she said in a clear voice as she ripped away his shirt. “Can you hear me?”

His head moved and his eyes focused on her for a few seconds. His mouth opened, but all that came out was a groan. His eyes closed and his body went slack.

One look at his wound told Jill that it was beyond her training. All she could do now was try to keep him from going into shock.

“Garland,” she said calmly, clearly. “You have to help me. Stay with me here. Look at me.”

She stroked his cheek. When he didn’t respond, she pinched firmly. His eyes opened and focused on her again.

“Do you hurt anywhere except your side?” she asked.

His head rolled to one side, then the other in a slow negative.

Relief swept through her. Spinal cord isn’t injured. Thank God.

“Sh-shot,” he said.

“I know. Help is on the way.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. She devoutly hoped they were heading for Frost’s house.

A gout of flame shot from the rear window of the car. If the gas tank blew, Frost would be right in the line of fire.

“Garland, I have to drag you farther inside. It will hurt. I’m sorry. I don’t have any choice.”

She hurried past him deeper into the house, picked up the far end of the tribal rug, and increased the pressure on it until the rug began inching away from the door.

Slowly, she told herself. Don’t make the injury worse. Gas tanks only explode in the movies.

Bullshit. They explode whenever the conditions are right.

And only the gas tank knew when that would be.

Frost might have been in his seventies, but there was nothing fragile or birdlike about him. He was a solid weight on the rug. Jill’s bare feet gripped the tiles as she eased backward. The phone came along with Frost. She wondered rather wildly if the blood dripping on it would short out something vital.

It seemed like forever, but it was only a few seconds before she had Frost safely down the hall. She ran for the front door and slammed it shut. Then she went back to Frost. He was sliding in and out of consciousness.

“Stay with me, Garland,” she said firmly, picking up the phone. “Stay with me!” Ignoring the blood, she tucked the phone between her ear and her shoulder and felt for Frost’s pulse. Still there.

He groaned weakly.

“My name is Jillian Breck,” she said into the phone. “The patient is in and out of consciousness.”

As she spoke, she stood and hurried to the small, old-fashioned parlor off the hall. She grabbed two fat sofa cushions and the decorative Navajo blanket that covered the back of the couch.

“Stand by one,” the dispatcher said to Jill. “Med-techs are on the way.”

As Jill returned to Frost, she heard the operator dispatching additional units and relaying information over a radio, warning the officers that one of the residents of the house was armed.

“Ma’am, tell the resident to put down his gun,” the dispatcher said.

“I can’t reach him and he wouldn’t put the gun down anyway because someone is shooting at him. Whoever it is must be using a silencer, because I only heard one gun.”

“There’s a police unit less than a minute away,” the dispatcher said. “Describe the good guy for me.”

“He’s barefoot without a shirt,” Jill said as she elevated Garland’s feet on the stacked cushions and wrapped the wool blanket around him. “Wearing jeans. Name is Zach Balfour. Over six feet, dark hair, built like rodeo rider.” She kept as much pressure on the wound as she dared, hoping to slow the bleeding. “I have no idea what the other shooter looks like.”

Jill heard Zach’s voice calling her.

“In the hall,” she yelled, covering the phone. “Police are on the way. You’re supposed to put down the gun.”

The front door opened and closed quickly.

“Might as well,” Zach said, disgusted. “I’m out of bullets. Frost’s old hog leg is big on noise and short on ammo.”

“The resident is no longer armed,” Jill said distinctly to the dispatcher. “Do you understand? Not armed.”

“Copy. I’ll tell the officers.”

Sirens screamed closer.

When Jill looked up, the long, narrow windows on either side of the door framed Zach in the glowing, dancing reflection of flames.

“Do you think the gas tank will go?” she asked.

“Depends on how soon the fire truck gets here. How’s Frost?”

“Alive.”

Zach didn’t ask any other questions. The strain in her voice said more than her words.

“When will the ambulance be here?” Jill asked the operator. “The patient is in shock. We don’t have much time.”

“Are you a doctor?” the dispatcher asked.

“I’m a professional river guide. I’ve been trained as a first responder.”

“Tell them to send the fire truck to the front gate,” Zach said, his voice loud enough to carry to the dispatcher. “That gas tank could blow any second. There’s a pedestrian gate on the north side. It will be shielded from any blast. Send the med-techs in that way.”

“Copy,” the dispatcher said. “Gate, north side. Fire truck is less than a mile away. Police officers and med-techs will use north entrance.”

“Last I saw of the shooter he was running south,” Zach said. “I thought I heard a vehicle start up, but can’t be certain. I didn’t see any taillights or headlights.”

“Copy,” the dispatcher said. “Will inform the officers.”

Zach put the revolver on the hall stand and looked at Jill. “I’ll go open the north gate. Be back in less than a minute.”

“Bring more blankets. What happened to the shooter?”

“I’m pretty sure I winged him, but he still flew. He’s gone.”

And then Zach was gone, too, running through the house barefoot, making no sound.