Sticks & Scones Page 7

  “Facing the creek and the highway. Across from Cottonwood Park. You know the chapel bridge? Andy’s body is about fifty feet downstream from that. I’m above him, in a parking space, forty feet or so from the chapel doors.”

  Before he could confirm that he understood what I was saying, the call-waiting bleeped again. I’d completely forgotten about the emergency operator.

  “Get yourself out of there, Miss G.,” Tom ordered me. “Now. Drive back to town, this minute—”

  “I … I can’t!” Static invaded the cell phone and I stared at it. For some reason, I suddenly remembered Arch’s Montessori teacher telling us parents that I won’t means I can’t and I can’t means I won’t. So … why was I telling Tom that I couldn’t leave? Did it really mean that I wouldn’t leave?

  I glanced down at poor Andy Balachek and shuddered. If I left him, somebody might see his body and be compelled to stop and gawk, or maybe mess up the crime scene. They might even steal his body. Not only that, I reasoned blindly, but this could be related to whoever shot at our window. Tom had arrested Ray Wolff. Andy Balachek knew Ray Wolff. Tom was working on the case. Thanks to the newspaper article, virtually everyone in town knew that I, Tom’s wife, would be catering at the chapel today…. I moaned.

  More crackling assaulted my ear. Why had I discovered Andy? Most folks know a caterer is the first to show up at an event. Was I meant to find him?

  No question, I was getting paranoid.

  The static suddenly cleared and I heard Tom say my name.

  “Dammit,” I said fiercely, “Tom, I don’t think I should just drive out of here.”

  The call-waiting beeped again. “Tom, I need to go, the emergency operator is holding. I’ve already called the department, I can’t leave. Please understand.”

  “Don’t worry about the operator,” Tom said calmly, just as the beeping stopped. Had she given up? Had she decided my call was a prank? “I’ll call the department,” Tom went on. “They’ll have a car up more quickly if I do it. I’ll cut over from seventy, be coming from the direction of Denver. I should be there in less than ten minutes. Do you have a good view of traffic from the east?”

  I glanced around. Cottonwood Park slanted steeply to the road all along the other side of the two-lane highway. “Pretty good.”

  “Do not go near that body, understand? You could fall into the water.”

  Oh-kay, I thought as Tom signed off. A chilly February wind rocked the van and pummeled the spruce trees across the road. A car swooshed past, then another. No one slowed to gawk. Andy Balachek’s body must have been situated in such a way that it couldn’t be seen from the road. No one gave me a second glance.

  Do not go near that body…. What was Tom so worried about, besides my tumbling into the creek? The killer still being around? If you dumped a dead guy, you wouldn’t wait to see who discovered him, would you?

  I tried to warm up by snuggling closer to the dashboard heater. According to my watch, it was quarter after seven. Overhead, the charcoal sky was lightening to a velvety blue. Not far away, an engine growled. Less than a minute later, as promised, Tom’s big Chrysler roared into view. It turned left to cross the creek, then roared into the lot and pulled up fifteen feet to the right of my van. Puzzled, I unbuckled and jumped from the van, then trotted toward him.

  Tom was walking calmly in my direction. He passed Andy’s body. Without glancing toward the creek, he motioned me back to the van.

  A shot rang out.

  Tom reeled back, clutching his left shoulder. I screamed. Without thinking, I raced toward him. When I reached him, his right hand grabbed my arm. Another shot fired and pinged off Tom’s car. Then another shot hit one of my van doors.

  “Move!” he hollered. Panting with pain, he wrenched me toward the boulders lining the far side of the parking lot. “Get behind those rocks and stay down! See if we can, see if we can …”

  Running hard, my heart thudding, I thought he said, See if we can dig a hole. Dig a hole? I stumbled; Tom’s hand wrenched me upright. I couldn’t catch my breath. Those shots had not been like the explosion that rocked our house. They’d been higher-pitched, not as loud, more like a firecracker….

  I let go of Tom’s hand and leaped above the crevice between two boulders. When I slid down, Tom pushed himself next to me. Blood from his shoulder stained the rocks. I gasped. How badly was he hurt? Where was the shooter? Why was this happening?

  “Stay down,” Tom ordered me. His sleeve was wet with blood.

  Oh, God, I prayed. Help him, help us. I couldn’t tear my eyes from Tom’s wound. Sometimes I think I learned too much in Med Wives 101. The subclavian vein. If that major artery had been hit, Tom could bleed to death in minutes. Please, God. Not Tom.

  With his good hand, Tom pulled the radio off his belt. “Officer needs assistance. Shots fired.” He bit the words, his face contorted with pain.

  How could I compress the wound? Think, I ordered myself desperately as a voice answered Tom’s call. “Unit calling?”

  “X-ray six,” Tom replied. “Location is south side of Cottonwood Creek, by Hyde Chapel, on Highway two-oh-three.” Tom’s involuntary groan sent my heart racing. If there were no broken bones, if the bullet had not nicked a lung, then perhaps I could compress it and stop some of the dangerous blood loss. “Am behind boulders by chapel parking lot,” he went on. “Am now fifty yards from Cottonwood Creek, next to Highway two-oh-three. Do not know mile marker.”

  There was static on the other end of the radio, but I prayed the operator was telling him that units were responding. What have I done? Why didn’t I get out of here when Tom told me to? Where had the shots come from? Was there someone on the other side of the road, up in the trees of Cottonwood Park?

  “Believe assailant has a rifle, possibly AR-fifteen. My shoulder’s hit….”

  “Can you give location of assailant?” the operator’s voice crackled.

  “Believe he is on north side of road. Possibly fifty yards up in the trees, judging from sound of shots.”

  “Can we land a helicopter there, X-ray six?”

  “Don’t know—” The radio fell from Tom’s hands. It was slick with blood. I picked it up and pushed what I hoped was the correct button.

  “This is Tom’s wife, Goldy Schulz,” I yelled into the radio. “Send paramedics with your team!” Tom had slumped forward. Static spewed from the radio. I placed it on the ground and leaned in close to my husband. “Tom!” His eyelids fluttered. “I’m going to compress this wound,” I told him. “You have to tell me if it feels like you’ve got a broken bone. You also have to tell me if pressure makes it harder to breathe. Do you understand?” His face paled as he nodded. I couldn’t imagine his pain. If the collarbone was broken, any weight I put on the wound would cause him agony.

  I steeled myself. He was losing an awful lot of blood. With shaking fingers, I pushed on the area where blood spurted through his once-white shirt. Tom moaned but did not tell me to stop. His eyes sought mine. Tears ran down my cheeks as I pressed on the hot, bloody slash in his left shoulder.

  As I gently exerted pressure, I listened. Was the shooter planning to try again? All I heard was the gurgle of the creek.

  The blood slowed to a trickle and fanned out into a delta of ripples, first on Tom’s shirt, then on the snow-dusted rock. He blinked and grunted as he reached for the radio.

  “Don’t do that!” Hysteria threaded through my voice as my hands, slippery with blood, lost their grip on the wound.

  He held the radio up with his right hand. “Talk.” His voice was thick. I composed myself and pushed in again on the wound. “Talk into the radio,” Tom muttered. He groaned again, a deep guttural sound that didn’t sound human.

  “All right, all right,” I promised hastily as I first stabilized my pressure on the wound, then scooted awkwardly to get closer to the radio. “Just don’t move again. Please, Tom—”

  “Goldy, I’m sorry …” His voice had descended to a hoarse whisper.

>   “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

  “No … Goldy….”

  Fear spiked up my spine. Where was the shooter? My hands began to cramp on the wound. I willed them to relax.

  Again Tom said, “I’m sorry….”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry. Somebody will be here soon. Ambulance, cops … they’re on their way.”

  “I can feel my right arm, but not my left—”

  “They’re bound to be here any sec.”

  Tom’s eyes rolled back in his head, then came forward again. “Goldy.” He was struggling to speak. “I have to tell you.” Each word heaved out, like an enormous, painful sigh. “I’m …” With great effort, he said, “I don’t love her.”

  “Tom! Be quiet. You’re delirious.”

  “I was just … trying to figure out … what was going on. So you’ll understand….” His voice trailed off.

  I stared at him.

  “Listen,” Tom said again, weakly. “I’m … so … sorry.”

  My voice made no sound as I concentrated on stopping the blood still leaking from the ugly wound in his shoulder. But my mind screamed, “Sorry for what?”

  CHAPTER 7

  How long had it been since Tom had been shot? Seconds. Hours. No, not hours. Minutes. Fractions of minutes. Tom floated in and out of consciousness, his face drained of color, his body slumped against the boulder. He looked like a dying bear. There was no further sound from the radio. I pressed against Tom’s wound and begged for him to live.

  Then something changed. At first I was not sure if the piercing noise was sirens or ringing in my ears. And perhaps the distant wop wop wop was the drumbeat of my heart, and not the helicopter I desperately wanted it to be.

  Please, I prayed again.

  Then: Men shouted. The sirens screamed closer. Not far away, a helicopter landed with a blast of air that hurt my ears and made my eyes water. The helo engine cut off and more men yelled. Overhead, I thought I could hear another copter.

  “Here!” I yelled, without moving from Tom’s side. “We’re over here!”

  After what seemed like a century, a policeman in full SWAT gear leaped through the rock barrier ten yards from us. He was big, muscular, and limber, with dark skin and dark hair. Crouching expertly, he spoke into a radio as he scrambled across the distance to us.

  A second later, he was crawling around Tom and me. He told me not to move my hands as he bent in to get a look at the wound. He felt for Tom’s pulse, murmured into his own radio, then turned his full attention back to Tom.

  “Schulz! Schulz! Can you hear me?” The SWAT guy’s radio crackled. “Schulz!” he cried again. “Are you in there?”

  “Of course,” Tom said unexpectedly, and I almost laughed with relief.

  The SWAT cop nodded to me. “Are you hurt?” he asked. I shook my head. “Can you talk?” I nodded. “Good. How many shots?”

  “Three.” My voice sounded weird. “One went into his shoulder. Another hit his car. The last one struck one of my van doors.”

  “Could you tell where the shots came from?”

  “From across two-oh-three, it seemed. At the time, I thought someone was up on the hill in Cottonwood Park. In the trees.”

  “How far up the hill?” the cop demanded.

  I didn’t know. “Maybe a hundred feet, maybe fifty.” Tom’s eyes had closed again, and I leaned in close to him, murmuring his name.

  The SWAT guy talked into his radio, then tried again to communicate with Tom until his radio crackled back. The cops must not have found the shooter, because the officer jumped up, waved over the boulder, and hollered for the medics.

  Moments later, two medics—both young men with shaved scalps—clambered over the boulders. They instructed me to ease off the compression and move out of the way. I obeyed. One assessed Tom’s wound while the other checked his vital signs. The second medic told the SWAT guy to get the police copter out of the meadow. They were bringing in Flight-for-Life. This meant the medics were skipping the ambulance. Again I wished I didn’t know so much. They were skipping the ambulance because of the severity of Tom’s wound. Time had become critical and an ambulance would take too long….

  I felt dizzy and keeled backward. My body was shutting down, drained of its initial surge of adrenaline. One medic ordered me to lie on the ground. He told the SWAT officer to check me for shock.

  Without realizing how I got there, I was suddenly lying on an uneven sheet of ice. A rock stuck into my left shoulder blade. My whole body turned very cold, very fast. I have to call the Hydes, I thought, as the blue sky whirled over my head. There’ll be no luncheon today. The SWAT deputy was talking to me, telling me to keep my eyes open, to keep looking at him. He asked if my collar was tight. I didn’t care about my damn collar. I couldn’t see Tom. The deputy informed me that the situation on the other side of the rocks had stabilized. The shooter had fled. Captain Lambert of the Furman County Sheriff’s Department had radioed to say I could follow the medical helo down to the hospital. If I wanted to. If I was well enough.

  I said I was fine. I tried to sit up but my head swam and I sank back, helpless and frustrated. I wanted to be with my husband, my voice croaked. And could someone please call the Hydes, Eliot and Sukie, who owned the the castle on the hill above the chapel, and tell them what was happening? The SWAT man nodded and told me the police chopper was leaving now, so Flight-for-Life could land. When the medical helo left, the police chopper would come back to take me to the hospital. Did I understand? I nodded. Captain Lambert would meet me in Denver. A trauma team at the hospital was already getting prepared for Tom.

  A trauma team. I was having trouble breathing. The SWAT deputy had not mentioned the body in the creek. When officer needs assistance, shots fired comes in, I knew, everything else gets dropped. My mind repeated the words. A trauma team. Getting ready. For Tom.

  I couldn’t hear the SWAT guy anymore.

  I registered the deafening racket and harsh wind of one helo taking off and another landing. A uniformed man and woman—both flight nurses, I realized—threaded through the boulder wall. They stabilized Tom’s head, tersely asked the SWAT deputy for a report, then bandaged Tom up and belted him into a stretcher. I craned to watch. My dear Tom, big in body and spirit, charismatic with his men, loving to Arch and me, was always on the move, without being hurried. Now he was unconscious, his face gray, his body drenched in blood. Working in sync, the two nurses expertly heaved the stretcher bearing Tom over the boulders. The SWAT man didn’t stop me as I struggled to my feet. When I swayed and nearly fell, he gripped my elbow and walked me through the rocks.

  The sheer number of cops assembled was astonishing. At least fifty police officers, their uniforms and cars emblazoned with the insignia of the Furman County and nearby Jefferson County sheriff’s departments, as well as Littleton, Lakewood, and Morrison police departments, were crowded onto the road, talking into their radios, taking notes, investigating the scene, keeping tabs on more officers combing the trees. I wished that Tom could have seen it.

  My mind backtracked to Tom’s words about her. Don’t think about it, I warned myself. He’d been shot. He was out of his head.

  Still, as the medical helo whipped into the air, my brain again supplied Tom’s shaky, apologetic tone. I don’t love her. What could he have been thinking? That he was going to die, and that I would find something incriminating from before we’d met? Like what? Love notes? Hotel bills? Or was his concern more recent? Had he compromised himself with a hooker in Atlantic City? Had she threatened to give me a ring?

  Stop. Stop, stop, stop.

  I watched the medical helo recede into the sky.

  Less than ten minutes later, the sheriff’s department chopper took off with me in it. Below us, on the other side of the creek, police officers continued to swarm through the trees of Cottonwood Park. The corpse was still in the water; crime-scene techs were videotaping and combing the site. Half a mile east of the scene, where Fox Creek flowed do
wn into the Cottonwood, cops had stopped traffic. On the south side of the road, on the hill far above Cottonwood Creek, rose the castle. Its moat glittered in the morning sun like a medieval vision. Had the police notified the Hydes of what had happened? Or were they still expecting me to be there to cater the lunch?

  The helo swept eastward. The castle estate adjoined an enormous cattle ranch, and the noise of the copter drove dozens of steer below us into a brisk trot. To the south stretched acres and acres of pine trees.

  I glanced back at Cottonwood Creek, where Andy Balachek’s receding body was a bright spot in the dark water. In the county park, a cluster of uniformed officers had stopped at a dirt road that cut through the expanse of trees. They were studying something on the road. Shells from the bullets fired at us? Footprints in the snow? Tracks from a vehicle?

  I turned and stared at Highway 203, now receding from sight. Had someone shot out our window, then somehow followed me to the castle? Had that same person murdered Andy Balachek and dumped his body in the creek, where I would be almost certain to discover it? Had that person then waited across the road, to try to shoot me? Or had Tom been his target all along?

  I turned back, determined to focus on Tom. In the cockpit, the pilots’ mouths worked as they spoke into headsets. Out the window, the endless spread of forest fell away beneath us. I closed my eyes and prayed for Tom.

  But thoughts intruded. Either my mind was struggling to make sense out of all that had happened, or my soul was trying to generate hope. What had Tom told me about gunshot wounds? It depends on the weapon. If someone shot a high-powered rifle at your shoulder, good-bye shoulder. If it was a low-powered rifle, something might be salvaged if a bone hadn’t been hit, or if a major blood vessel hadn’t been opened up. If a bullet tore open the subclavian vein, you could bleed to death before you reached a hospital. Would they give blood in the medical helo? I didn’t think a Flight-for-Life IV could contain anything besides glucose.

  The helo pilot, who looked too young to be shaving, much less flying a helicopter, murmured into his radio, then swerved the aircraft to the right. Unless I was extremely disoriented, we were heading south-by-southeast. This was not the direction to the base for Flight-for-Life: Saint Anthony’s Hospital in Denver.