"What friend?" she asked, forcing her tone to stay neutral.
In response he tossed a wallet to her. She opened it. Drake, he had Drake.
Another wave of nausea almost dropped her to her knees. She sucked her breath in and slowly edged to the side of the stairway.
"Put your hands on your head and move to the front of the steps," Sinderson commanded.
She did as she was told, holding her left hand over her right, putting both hands behind her neck. She hoped that Sinderson would not notice her missing belt.
"Good, now kneel down."
Cassie obeyed, positioning herself near the stairs. She saw Sinderson reach behind him and lift a large bucket from the top step. He held the gun pointed at her chest as he slowly came down the stairs. She braced herself when he swung the bucket up, but still gasped as he threw the cold water on her.
Curling her toes under her, she dug in. She would only get one chance. He raised his leg to take the final step down.
CHAPTER 66
Drake watched Sinderson start down the stairs. Damn it, he left the door open behind him. Now Drake had to take the chance that Sinderson might hear him. He thought about rushing the pharmacist, pushing him down the stairs, but after hearing Sinderson's instructions to Hart, he knew it would be too risky, might get her shot.
At least she was still alive. He wanted to run to her side, but he forced himself to remain calm. If he failed, and Sinderson killed him, Hart would be alone. No, he had to get help.
He saw a phone on a hall table. He crossed over to it and raised the receiver. It was dead. He looked around the living room but didn't see the car keys or his cell phone.
Now it was really up to him. If he couldn't take Sinderson out, Hart would die.
Drake wiped his sweaty palms and gripped the tire iron. He began to move toward the cellar door.
Sinderson raised his leg, off balance for a precious millisecond, and Cassie pounced. She pushed herself up, threw herself at him, tumbling him over. She grabbed his arm and tried to knock the gun free, but he gripped her throat with his free hand.
"You bitch," he snarled from his position under her, his fingers squeezing tighter until her vision began to darken. "I told you I didn't want to do it this way, but you wouldn't listen." She struck at his face with the belt buckle. He levered his body up, shoved her off him.
"Why didn't you listen!" He wiped the blood from his face. He pivoted and kicked her in the gut, knocking the wind out of her. She grabbed his foot and pulled it into her, rolling her body weight against it. Sinderson slipped on the wet plastic and went down once more.
Before Cassie could move to take advantage of her position, footsteps pounded down the steps. Drake raced toward her, a tire iron in his hands. Sinderson raised his gun.
"No!" she cried. The sound of the shot ricocheted through the small stone room. Drake kept coming down the stairs, but she saw blood staining his shirt.
Sinderson fired again, this time hitting Drake in the thigh. Drake staggered, then tumbled down the rest of the steps, dragging the tire iron with him.
She grabbed Sinderson's gun arm from behind. She twisted it savagely, hoping to break it or at least dislocate his elbow. He pulled his knife and slashed her across her left forearm.
Cassie tried to hold on, but her hand was on fire with pain. Sinderson broke free and back-slapped her with his gun, hitting her nose so hard that blood spurted.
She grappled with him. They both slid on the slippery plastic, but his greater weight gave him the advantage. She struggled to crawl away. Sinderson caught one of her legs, laughed as he pulled her toward him.
"No more running, Cassie."
Her hands flailed out in front of her, trying to gain a purchase. Then she felt the cold steel of the knife against her Achilles tendon.
"No," she whispered, "please, no."
He slid the blade up under her jeans, then down over her naked foot.
"Don't worry, it won't hurt for long. Not after the fire gets going, at least."
Cassie held her leg absolutely still. She raised her gaze and saw Drake was still conscious, staring at her. She thought for a second that she could hold on to the sight of those eyes forever. Then she followed Drake's glance down. Slowly, his breath coming in ragged gasps, he pushed the tire iron toward her, slid it inch by painful inch over the plastic.
She tried to ignore the ugly sucking noise that came with each breath Drake took and concentrated on stretching her fingers forward, reaching for the tire iron.
Please God
, she prayed,
not for me--don't let Drake die. Keep me alive long enough to save him. Please.
Apparently God wasn't listening tonight. It was just too far for her to reach. She looked into Drake's eyes, but they had closed. Her heart stuttered for a moment--he was dead!
Then Cassie heard him take a deep, rattling breath and saw his body move. It was a heroic effort as he inched his body forward, pushing the tire iron with it.
Just as she felt the sting of Sinderson's blade slice into her flesh, Cassie connected with the steel rod and grabbed it.
With one fluid motion she arched her body into a sitting position and swung the tire iron into Sinderson's face. She felt the sickening crack of broken bones. He yelped, released her leg and dropped his knife.
He raised his gun, aiming blindly as blood filled his eyes, but she swung again, this time hitting the side of his head. She broke his skull with such force that the tire iron came out covered with blood and pieces of gray matter. Sinderson slumped to the ground, his hand still clutching the gun, his eyes unfocused.
He wasn't dead yet, but he was incapacitated. Cassie cautiously took the gun. She slid her hand under Sinderson's body and pulled Drake's gun from his waistband.
Then she took a deep breath. God, it hurt, she hurt everywhere. She turned to Drake, carefully rolled him over. His breathing came in rapid gasps. He stared at her, his lips moved but no sound came from them.
"Ssh, it's okay." Her own blood mingled with his as her nose continued to bleed. She cut his shirt off with Sinderson's knife and ran her hands over his chest. Entry wound just below the diaphragm. Exit wound just behind the right axilla. Classic sucking chest wound.
Cassie cut a piece of the plastic drop cloth and placed it to cover the exit wound, then lay his hand on top of it.
"Don't hold it tight, let the air pass out." He nodded his understanding. "I'm going to try to get some help. Hold on, I'll be back."
She climbed to her feet. Her right ankle was covered with blood, but she found she could still lift her foot enough to walk. That meant her Achilles tendon was at least partially intact. Enough to get the job done.
First she had to call for help. She found a phone in the first floor hallway, but the line was dead. Hell. Okay, Hart, focus. She looked out the front door and was surprised to see Drake's Mustang sitting in the drive.
Should she try to go for help? How could she--she didn't even know where they were.
Wanting to scream in frustration, Cassie grabbed one of the canvas drop cloths and took it with her downstairs to where Drake lay, his breathing so loud that it echoed across the walls.
Sinderson had somehow crawled a few inches toward Drake, blood trailing behind him. He lay there staring at her, confusion in his eyes.
She ignored him. His head injury would be fatal without immediate surgical intervention, but there was nothing she could do about it.
Sinderson would soon be dead. She had killed a man. She was a killer.
Cassie squeezed her eyes shut, forced herself to think only of Drake. She might be able to save him.
Drake's breathing was labored and his color ashen. Using the cloth from upstairs, she dressed his leg wound. She gingerly felt his abdomen. He winced.
"Don't." The word rushed past his gritted teeth.
Cassie felt his pulse again. Racing and much too weak. The bullet had gone through his liver. He needed blood and surgery to stop the bleeding. Things she could give any patient at her trauma center but there was nothing she could do for him here. She looked up the stairs. If she tried to drag him out to the car she would kill him for sure, and she didn't think she was strong enough anyway.
His fingers tightened on her arm, pulling her close. "Cell phone," he whispered. She could tell that each breath was agonizing.
"Where is it?"
"Took it." She could barely hear him.
She looked over at Sinderson. His mouth was opening and closing like a fish out of water. He stared at her as she moved over to him, one hand reached out for her. She batted it away, and it flopped to the floor. She forced herself to feel his pockets, but there was no cell phone and no car keys either.
"Damn it, where are they?" she shouted at the soon-to-be-dead man.
He smiled at her, then his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his body began convulsing. Cassie bit her lip as tears of frustration slid down her face. Sinderson would die soon--and so would Drake if she didn't find a way to get him help.
CHAPTER 67
"I'm going to check upstairs," Cassie told Drake. She searched the dusty rooms of the first floor. Nothing there and nothing on the second floor either.
She sat on the bottom step in front of the living room and thought, tried to visualize herself coming in the door, car keys in her hand. There was no table to put them on, no coat rack, where was the closet? She stood up and looked around again. She found a tiny hall closet under the stairs. In it hung Sinderson's dark wool overcoat.
Please Lord. She pulled the coat from its hanger and began to search the pockets. There were two key rings in the right hand pocket, one of them Drake's. And, hallelujah, the phone was in the other pocket.
She dropped the coat and with trembling fingers, she flipped the phone open. She dialed the ER number, electronic tones sang at her, and she was rewarded with the desk clerk's voice.
"Three Rivers ER, how may I help you?"
"Jason, it's Cassie Hart. Listen closely. I need a helicopter transport and police here immediately. I have two patients: a severe head trauma and a gunshot wound to the chest and abdomen with internal bleeding."
"Where are you?" Jason asked.
She cursed in frustration. "I don't know where the I am, that's the problem. I'm calling from Detective Drake's cell phone. Call the police, tell them what's going on. See if they can trace this. I'll call you back in ten minutes."
"I'll try my best, doc." Cassie could hear the confusion in his voice.
"Just do it. I have two dying men out here." She hung up the phone. How much battery time did this thing have? How long would it take to trace it?
Her only hope was that Drake had some idea where they were. She went back downstairs, taking the coat with her. Drake was noticeably paler, for a second she wasn't even certain if he was alive. As she drew closer she could see his chest rise. She released the breath that had caught in her throat, lay the coat over him and gently squeezed his hand.
"Hang in there," she urged him. "Help is on its way, but I need to know where we are."
His eyes didn't open, but his lips moved. She leaned down and was able to hear his rasping whisper. "South on fifty-one," she made out. "East two-oh-one."
"Okay, I've got it. Please, just hang on, it won't be long." She kissed his forehead, then stood.
Cassie looked over to where Sinderson lay, his seizure over. He looked dead, but she didn't waste time finding out. She climbed the stairs again and went out to the front porch to look for a mailbox. She saw one down past the car.
She returned inside and grabbed another drop cloth to wrap around her. She looked for boots but could only find some old rubber shoe covers thrown into the corner of the closet. She put these on after wrapping her feet with strips of cloth.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the cold, her feet burning as she crossed the snow-covered yard. She wrapped her arms around her, cursed her wet clothes that invited the wind to suck away all her body heat and energy.
At least the snow had stopped, they could fly
. She hurried down to the mailbox and squinted at the faded numbers, thankful for the moonlight.
Cassie made her way back to the house, tried to ignore her uncontrollable shivering and called Jason again. This time he immediately turned the phone over to someone else.
"Dr. Hart, this is Sergeant Murphy," came a reassuring voice.
Murphy, she knew him, he was always stopping by the ER for coffee and gossip. "Murph, glad you're there. Drake says we're off Route 201, east of Route 51. The only address I could find was a rural delivery route number ten, house number ends in three-seven."
"Got it. We've state police standing by, we'll relay that information to them."
"Get a chopper in the air headed this way. Drake's really bad off, we need to get him into the OR."
"They're on the pad, I'll have Jason tell them to take off."
"Good. There's room to land on the front lawn. I'll turn all the lights on in the house and turn the car lights on."
"That's fine, Doctor. Just leave the cell phone on while you do that."
"Okay. First, send a message to the chopper crew to have six units of O neg ready to go and a pleuravac and chest tube tray. A vent also," she said quickly, her thoughts racing. Most of that was gear the team would have anyway, but she wanted to be sure.
"We copy that," a second voice came over the phone. This one was overlapped by static.
"Zack, is that you?"
"Yes. We'll be taking off as soon as the blood gets here. Winds are pretty high, so weight's an issue. I've got a full crew and room for two, is that enough?"
Cassie knew that he was asking if she was functioning or if she was going to be another patient.
"That'll be fine, Zack."
"Glad to hear it. I'll talk to you soon to get LZ details. We're taking off now."