Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (3 page)

I hesitated. Before I could make up my mind what to do, the man sat up.

Big, dark blotches all over the front of his white shirt. What? No. Yes. Blood. Dark red blotches. Blood, or something like it.

"Leave me alone," he said.

My mind spun.

He lay back down.

Now what the hell was I supposed to do? Could it really have been blood on his shirt front?

I kept the flashlight on his face. Thought about it. Then I shouted, "Do you need help?"

No response. And then, slowly, he sat up again, looking in my direction. "Leave me alone," he said again. And then quite distinctly, "I'm trying to kill myself."

Once again, he lay back. Shit, shit, shit. This time I was sure the dark red blotches were blood. "I'm trying to kill myself," he had said. I played the flashlight on the ground around him. In a moment, I caught the dull flash of reflected light off the blued barrel.

A gun. Lying on the ground near his right hand. Within reach of his hand. If I approached him, he could shoot at me. I trained the flashlight back on his face.

"I'll get help," I shouted.

This time he spoke without moving, and I had a harder time making out his words. "No, no help. Don't want help."

"Just hang in there," I said, using my strongest reassuring-veterinarian tone. "I'll help you."

"No. Leave me alone. No help. Let me die."

I tried to decide what to do. If I went near this guy, he could potentially shoot me, though he had made no move toward the gun so far. I had no idea if he was dying, or if there was anything I could do immediately that would help him. Get some help, I thought. Don't get yourself shot for no good reason.

"Listen," I yelled at him, "I'm going to get help. Just hang in there. You'll be okay."

"No, please." He didn't move; I thought his voice was weaker. "Don't try to help me. I'm dying. I want to die. Like the horses."

"Like the horses?" I repeated, startled.

"Dying." He stared straight up at the night sky. "Green fire in their bellies. I couldn't save them. Dying."

This made no sense to me. "I'll be back," I yelled. "Please. Just hang in there." Then I turned and ran.

Running through the dark, to the jouncy, jerking beam of the flashlight, running down the trail. I could see the pack station lights ahead of me, across the meadow; they seemed a long way away. I stuck to the trail; I could run faster on the trail than I could through the meadow.

All I could hear was the thump of my feet, the panting of my breath. Hurry, hurry.

The lights across the meadow flickered and bounced to the rhythm of my feet, the bob of my head. Faster, a little faster, I urged my body. I kept my eyes on the trail as it flared and faded before me in the flashlight's lurching beam.

Even as I ran, I planned. I would go straight to the bar; someone would be there, there was a phone there. God, what in hell was that man doing out in the meadow? Why shoot himself there, of all places?

Hurry, hurry. I was tiring; my breath came in gasps. Find the rhythm, keep breathing, keep running, I chanted to myself. Keep your eyes on the trail, keep moving, keep running.

I looked up. The pack station was closer. Eyes back on the trail, I forced myself to put one foot in front of the other in a steady rhythm.

A man with blood all over his shirt front, lying on his back in Deadman Meadow, wanting to die. Had he picked this spot to shoot himself because of the damn name?

Come on, Gail, I urged myself. Move it a little. Save this guy's life for him.

I could see the bar, with the long porch across the front of it. Not so far now. God, I was out of breath, though. I was really out of shape.

Closer, closer, almost there. The meadow was soggy, almost boggy, here; my feet squished and stuck a little. I could feel moisture seeping through my boots.

No matter. The lights were in front of me, the parking lot, the cars. Gasping for air, I pounded across the dark road-empty of tourists, for once-up the wooden steps, across the porch, and through the open door of the bar.

Lights, noise, faces, confusion. My eyes struggled to adjust to the bright light; all faces looked my way. And then I saw Lonny.

Standing at the bar with Ted, I registered. Turning toward me with a look of welcome changing to concern.

"Gail, what's wrong?"

He took three fast steps toward me, put his hand on my arm.

"A man ... shot himself ... still alive ... in the upper meadow." I said it between pants.

Lonny had never been slow. "Damn. Go get the Jeep," he ordered one of the boys. "Pick us up along the trail. Bring the first-aid kit. We're headed up there." He turned to Ted. "Better call the ambulance, and the sheriff."

"I think," I gasped, "he's going to need a chopper."

Ted nodded. "Okay." Then he headed for the phone.

"Come on, Gail, show me where." Lonny had hold of my arm.

"He's got a gun," I said.

"Ernie. " Lonny held out his left hand. Without a word Ernie produced a short shotgun from under the bar and handed it over the counter to Lonny.

"Okay. Let's go," Lonny said.

"Okay."

I started out of the bar, still panting, but a little better for the rest. I could keep going until the Jeep picked us up.

Lonny had the long stride of a six-foot-plus man, and despite the fact that he walked rather than ran across the parking lot and down the main trail, I had to jog every few steps to keep up.

Before he'd had time to ask me more than, "So just where is this guy?" we could hear the noise of the Jeep behind us. Headlight glow lit the trail as Jake, one of Ted's crew, pulled the vehicle up beside us.

As we climbed in, I told Lonny, "Behind some willows at the far end of the upper meadow. His car's out there. Some sort of black sports car."

I could barely see Lonny's face in the peripheral glow of the headlights; he looked strained and tired. And old, I thought. Well, he was fifty-one. Considerably older than I was. But until recently I'd always thought he looked young for his age.

"So, did you recognize this guy?" he asked.

"No." I thought about it. "He had dark hair, sort of an aquiline nose. He'd be about your age."

We were bouncing along the trail now. Lonny asked Jake, "Did you bring the first-aid kit?"

"Yeah. And three flashlights." Jake was all of sixteen, but, like most of the crew, he had already picked up Ted's laconic way of speaking. He said nothing more, just kept manhandling the Jeep over and around boulders, jolting up the trail.

When I judged we'd gone far enough, I said, "Stop."

Jake stopped.

"See if you can get the headlights pointed out into the meadow."

Jake began jockeying the car; Lonny and I were already scanning with the flashlights.

In a second I saw the sharp reflected gleam. ''There.''

''Take it as far as you can without getting stuck," Lonny told Jake.

Then he was out of the Jeep, with me scrambling to follow him, and we were both half walking, half running through the meadow grass and low willow scrub toward the car.

"He has a gun," I reminded Lonny.

"Did he threaten you with it?"

"No, but that doesn't mean he won't."

Lonny grunted. We both kept moving. Until, about twenty feet from the car, he stopped. "You wait here," he told me.

"What are you talking about? I'm not going to stand back here watching while somebody shoots you."

"Gail, will you for once in your life do what you're told? Especially when it makes sense. Why should we both get shot? Now stay here." And he walked off.

I stayed. What the hell. He was right, more or less. I kept my flashlight on the car. From this angle I couldn't see the man, but I knew about where he was.

Lonny moved cautiously forward; I could see him sweeping the ground with his flashlight beam. In the other hand he held the shotgun loosely. He stepped quietly around the front of the car, stopped, stepped forward again, and stopped.

"My God," he said. "It's Bill."

THREE

Do you know him?"

"Yeah, yeah I do. It's Bill Evans. He was my vet."

"Your vet?" I walked toward Lonny.

He bent down; I saw him come up holding the pistol.

"While I was running this pack station; he's Ted's vet now. Or was."

Lonny handed the pistol and the shotgun to me and bent down again, pressing his fingers under the man's jaw. No response from the recumbent figure. He was either unconscious or dead.

"He's got a pulse," Lonny said.

We both stared at the big, dark blotches on the white shirt front, the still face. Bill Evans didn't appear to be bleeding heavily.

"Is there a blanket in the Jeep?" I asked.

"Should be."

I could hear Jake slowly piloting the Jeep toward us around scrub, boulders, and wet spots.

"I guess all I know to do is keep him wann, maybe try to put some pressure on the wound if it's still actively bleeding."

"Yeah." Lonny looked stunned; he stared down at the man as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Jesus," he said quietly. "Bill."

"So why would try he to kill himself?" I asked.

"I don't know. But he has been acting real strange. He was up here last night, got drunk and obnoxious, and Ted threw him out of the bar. Jesus."

The Jeep was behind us now; Lonny yelled, "Bring a blanket."

In a minute Jake stood beside me, staring down at Bill Evans. I handed him the guns and took the wool blanket out of his hands. Jake didn't say a word. Bending down, I covered the man's legs with the blanket. Gingerly, I explored with my fingers the wet red spot in the center of the chest. Seeping. Not much of a hole. The pistol had been a .22, I recalled. The bullet appeared to have gone right into the sternum. Whether it had hit the heart or lungs I had no idea. Probably not the heart, or the guy would be dead by now.

"Get the first-aid kit," I told Jake.

He headed back toward the Jeep; I looked up to see Lonny still staring blankly downward.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I just can't believe it," he said slowly. And then, "My father killed himself."

"He did?" I hadn't known this.

"He shot himself. In the head. I found him." Lonny recited these facts quietly enough, but I sensed that the emotions behind them were roiling wildly through his mind.

"It's okay," I said soothingly. "This guy's alive. I can see Ted coming," I added.

Sure enough, headlights were bouncing along the main trail-Ted or somebody.

Jake handed me the first-aid kit; I opened it and began making a pad with gauze and cotton. This I pressed firmly against the wound. Lonny and Jake stood over me, wordless.

After a few minutes two others joined them. I looked up. Ted and Jake's older brother, Luke.

"My God." Ted's voice. Pain and shock were plain.

I had never heard Ted Reiter express so much raw emotion. About my age, Ted was short, stocky and stout, with a round face, guileless blue eyes, a boyish manner. Lonny had taken him on as a hired hand when Ted was seventeen, then, later, as a business partner. Now Ted was sole owner of the pack station. But you'd never know it to look at him. Wearing dirty jeans and denim jacket, usually messing with a horse or flirting with a girl-that was Ted. And, despite his unlikely looks, quite the lady-killer.

But now, in this moment, he looked as devastated as Lonny looked stunned.

"Not Bill," he said. "He couldn't."

Luke and Jake were silent. Lonny put a hand on Ted's shoulder.

Some dark emotion seemed to twine through the little group of men. Not grief, not shock, though they were present, too. Something blacker. I could feel it, but I didn't understand it. I wasn't part of it. I hadn't known this man.

After a minute Ted said quietly, "Chopper's coming. Is he still alive?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Better get out in the meadow with the flashlights," Lonny said to Luke and Jake.

"Come on." Ted turned abruptly. "That chopper will be here soon."

The three of them hurried away; setting up guide points for a helicopter to land in the dark was familiar to them. All serious medical emergencies had to be carried out of these mountains by the medevac helicopter. Other methods were prohibitively time-consuming.

"So, what's the deal here?" I asked Lonny. "You all knew this guy, I take it."

"Everybody knew him. He was up here all the time. I'm surprised you never met him."

''I've only been up here on the occasional weekend in the summer." I pressed the pad gently against the man's chest.

"Bill was virtually part of the crew," Lonny said. "He's been the vet for us up here ever since I owned the place. We all knew him real well."

"So, what was going on with him that he would shoot himself?"