Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (24 page)
My head dropped for what seemed like the thousandth time, waking me with a start. Turning my face to the clear sky, I stared at the stars. Hadn't I been warmer sometime during that endless night? My head lolled and I took in the shadowy trees across the clearing. The rain had stopped and a brilliant moon illuminated the gloom.
Closing my eyes, I rolled onto my side, drew my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around them and tried to warm myself.
Something rustled nearby.
My eyes snapped open as I rolled onto my stomach, terror pumping adrenaline through me.
Adam saw me. He wiggled free from the last of the rope and made a spectacular dive for the rifle.
I lunged at him, grabbed the barrel with one hand, pushing it away from my face and toward the trees.
Eyes feral, Adam shoved me backward, his anger feeding him incredible strength. Fingers still locked around steel, I yanked him with me, sending us rolling, end over end down the slope.
A gunshot shattered the night.
I let go, still tumbling backward and smashed into something hard and unyielding. White light exploded behind my eyes, blinding me as I bounced off and fell facedown in damp earth.
My lungs didn’t seem to work as celestial noises, like I'd heard when Adam pushed me down the stairs, rang through my ears. A voice or a sound like nothing on earth echoed through my ears—and this time it wasn't Kay Andolina.
I must be dead.
But I wasn't.
Was I crazy, or had I simply blacked out?
Time wobbled.
I coughed, then took a few deep, sweet breaths and lay still.
Eons later, I stared at the still-dark sky, aware of strained muscles I hadn't known existed. I waited, wondering if I'd ever muster the strength to roll onto my side.
Adam lay crumpled by one of the ski lift's concrete supports. We'd both hit it—my shoulder, by the ache in it—his head, by the blood staining his pale face. I watched him for long minutes while assessing a whole new set of aches and pains. My right hand didn't want to close. Broken? Nerve damage? I worked at flexing it until finally I could almost make a fist.
I'd live.
No longer winded, I made it to my knees, dragged myself yards up the soggy hill until I found the rifle, and then painfully inched my way back down the wet grass toward Adam.
He hadn't moved. Was he dead? Quite frankly, I didn't give a shit. I hefted the gun's cold steel barrel. It would've been so easy to reload, gut shoot him and leave him as carrion. Instead, I reached for Adam's throat, felt for a pulse. It was weak, but there.
I'd lost the flashlight, but there was moonlight enough to see my watch: 4:18. The sun would rise in about two hours or so. The long grassy slope lay before me. I might be able to hunker down the hill on my ass, maybe even work up a decent sweat doing so. I didn't
have
to wait for rescue, I could go find help myself.
But I knew I wouldn't. I was too damned tired.
I considered my options. I could just leave Adam crumpled against the concrete support, but his breathing sounded strained. Wasn't there some kind of law about withholding aid? I almost laughed. What a crazy idea that I could go to jail for letting him die—after all he'd done to me....
Using the last of my energy, I hauled him away from the pillar and out into the open. He still had a pulse—he was still breathing. The rope was somewhere above us on the slope—I had no way to secure him. Instead, I sat on his ass. Only this time I held the gun cradled on my lap, ready and willing to use it if he roused.
I wondered what Richard would say. He'd felt guilty not waiting for help and moving an injured Maggie from my wrecked car. But I wasn't a doctor, and instead was blissfully ignorant of further damage I might've caused the kid. Killer, I reminded myself. Richard would've moved him with great care, to avoid the risk of further injury or death. He would've figured out some way to keep him warm and alive....
I shrugged.
C'est la vie.
The adrenaline rush that had warmed me wore off. I couldn't even shiver—which was not a good sign.
Spilling the ammo into my palm, I counted the remaining bullets: twelve. Okay. One last-ditch effort. I fired three times—a distress signal—the recoil knocking me back to the ground.
The echo of the blasts died away and I waited in the still darkness.
Nothing.
Maybe there was nobody out there to hear it.
I swallowed my disappointment. I'd try again—maybe in half an hour. It gave me a goal, because without that I had nothing to occupy my mind.
I was so damned cold, I couldn't feel any emotions at all—there was just nothing left inside of me.
Worse, I didn't even care.
It took a long time for the sky to brighten over the hills to the east, staining it a milky orange. Its beauty eluded me as I stared at the shadow-drenched silhouette. The rifle lay across my lap, my index finger resting lightly on the trigger, the ground around me littered with shell casings.
And I waited.
I was good at waiting. I'd been waiting...forever?
"Jeffrey Resnick. Can you hear me? It's Sergeant Beach."
The voice registered, but the words weren't making much sense.
"Resnick! Put the gun down."
Where had the sound come from?
Something clicked inside my head. A bullhorn.
Okay! Rescue at hand.
I looked around me, couldn't even tell if Adam still breathed. Well, if he was dead, that was okay too. Everything was just fine with me.
"Resnick, put the gun down!" the voice commanded again.
Put the gun down.
Put the gun down—where?
It was a perplexing problem.
"Put. The. Gun. Down."
Down? On the ground?
I set the rifle on the grass beside Adam's prone body, folded my arms across my chest and waited. From out of the trees came a swarm of uniformed police and fireman. I squinted up at Sgt. Beach who had stopped in front of me.
"It's okay now," he said. "You can give up your prisoner.”
Strong arms lifted me off Adam and placed me on a blanket. Stuporous, I sat there, while warm hands worked on me.
"He's alive. Head injury. Hypothermia for sure," a fireman said of Adam.
Someone peeled off my wet jacket and shirt, wrapping a dry blanket around my shoulders. Someone else cut off my mud-caked jeans. Then I lay on the ground and watched the sun creep higher over the Green Mountains while a firefighter splinted my sore foot.
A buzz of voices asked questions with no meaning. I longed to sink into oblivion. Then a single voice penetrated the fog around my brain.
"Hey, kid. I told you I'd be back for you."
My eyes cracked open to see Richard's worried face. Groping fingers found his hand. I used what little strength I had to squeeze it before my eyes slid shut. All I wanted to do was sleep—because now I could.
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Don’t miss the next exciting Jeff Resnick Mystery:
CHEATED BY DEATH
.
Jeff Resnick faces a new dilemma: someone is stalking his sister-in-law, Brenda, who fears that violence from pro-life supporters will escalate near the women’s clinic where she works. Or could the vandalism, threatening phone calls, and letters against her have come from her abusive ex-husband? Meanwhile, Jeff grapples with meeting his estranged father and the sister he never knew existed. Could Patty Resnick be the key to Brenda’s stalker?
About the Author
The immensely popular Booktown Mystery series is what put
Lorraine Bartlett’s pen name Lorna Barrett on the New York Times Bestseller list, but it’s her talent -- whether writing as Lorna, or L.L. Bartlett, or Lorraine Bartlett -- that keeps her there. This multi-published, Agatha-nominated author pens the exciting Jeff Resnick Mysteries as well as the acclaimed Victoria Square Mystery series and has many short stories and novellas to her name(s).
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Also By L.L. Bartlett
Short Stories
Abused: A Daughter’s Story
Writing as Lorraine Bartlett
The Victoria Square Mysteries
Recipes To Die For: A Victoria Square Cookbook
Short Stories
Writing a Lorna Barrett
The Booktown Mysteries
Book Clubbed (2014)
Murder In Three Volumes