Trusting The Sheriff. Janice Kay Johnson
Twelve
Footsteps. Night made murky by filtered light. A stench. Agony in her head.
“Why? Why would you do this?” Angry male voice. She knew it, but her mind wouldn’t quite supply a face or name. “Tell me before—”
Gunfire blasted. Once, twice.
She managed to fumble a hand toward her unsnapped holster. Empty. Why was it empty? She could see booted feet move, the back of someone crouching over—she couldn’t remember who lay still now.
Darkness beckoned and she moaned. When the footsteps approached, it took everything she had to open her eyes a slit. The toes of the boots were inches away. He must be looking down at her.
From somewhere, a voice yelled, “Hey! I called 9-1-1.”
Crack. The impact of the bullet bounced her body on the pavement. Pain blossomed like hot red lava.
I’m dead.
Crack.
A hammer pounded Abigail Baker’s head. Again. Again. Wasn’t the nail in yet?
Pain washed her body, but with her eyes still closed, she homed in on the hot points. Shoulder. Middle of her chest beneath her breasts. Spike through her head.
Someone had applied super glue to her eyelids, but she succeeded in prying them open. She stared blankly upward at an unfamiliar ceiling, then rolled her eyes to see to each side. Her head let her know that she really shouldn’t move it.
Curtains surrounded the bed. Abby could just see an IV pole out of the corner of her eye. White, waffle-weave blankets covered her.
Hospital.
The curtain rings rattled and a sturdily built middle-aged woman appeared at the side of her bed. Beaming, she said, “You’re awake! Oh, my. How do you feel, dear?”
Abby worked her bone-dry mouth and finally moaned, “Hurt.”
“You’re with us. Excellent. I need you to wait just a few minutes for the pain relief. The doctor will want to talk to you first.”
A hint of temper increased the force of the hammer blows. Note to self: Don’t get mad. She sank into a near doze, feeling every beat of her heart, conscious of her shallow breaths, floating on the sea of pain.
“Abigail?” A man’s voice.
It was a fraction easier to open her eyes this time.
“I’m told you hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me where? Or show me?”
She tried to move her mouth.
“Let me give you some ice chips.”
He gently tipped some into her mouth. The cool moisture was nirvana. While she sucked on them, she lifted her right hand, seeing that the IV was in it. She studied it for a minute, then touched her head, her shoulder—feeling a thick dressing—and her breastbone—no padding. Why not, when it hurt, too?
“Good,” he said with obvious satisfaction.
She had to work to focus on his face. He was lean, blond with grey hair at his temples. Lived-in face.
“Why am I here?”
Hazel eyes narrowed a flicker. “Do you remember what happened?”
Impatient, Abby made the mistake of starting to shake her head. Pain exploded, and she groaned.
He was suddenly closer. “There’s a button here you can push when you need pain relief.” He said some more things, but she didn’t listen, because he’d put the button in her hand. She squeezed it, and felt relief flooding from her neck to her fingers and toes. Another squeeze, and her headache receded enough for her to think about what he’d asked—and what she’d asked.
“No.”
“What’s the last thing you do remember?”
That took some concentration. “Laundry. Basement of my building. Someone dumped my clothes and stole the dryer cycle.”
He grinned. “I’d remember that, too.”
“Partner—Neal—worried about something.” After being promoted almost a year ago from patrol to detective in the Major Crimes division of the Kansas City, Missouri, police department, she’d been paired with Neal Walker. His previous partner had just retired. The two of them hit it off, even socializing. Abby and his new wife had become friends. “Wouldn’t say.” She recalled telling him she’d help, his crooked grin. His voice, tenser than usual. Let me make sure I’m not imagining things. He’d dropped her off by her car. And then...
Abby stared into space. And then... There was nothing. Not a single thing. Panic soared and she struggled to sit up.
She and the doctor wrestled briefly. She was so ridiculously weak, he was able to ease her down.
“You need to stay calm,” he said soothingly. “Don’t worry. People often lose their memories of a period surrounding traumatic events. Right now, your body has to deal with the physical injuries. You’ve been in a coma, so it’s not surprising that your brain isn’t entirely booted up yet. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She didn’t even blink as she stared at him, afraid to sink into that black void. “How long...?”
“You’ve been here for three days. We’re really happy to see you regaining consciousness.”
“What...happened?”
“Your injuries? You were shot twice. Fortunately, you were wearing a Kevlar vest. It didn’t stop the bullet in your shoulder, but the shot to your chest might well have killed you. Instead, you have only severe bruising and a cracked sternum. It also appears that when you fell, you struck your head against the corner of a dumpster. I understand you were found in an alley.”
Dread supplanted the panic. “Neal?”
The doctor took a step back, his expression becoming guarded. “Your partner?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’ll let your Sergeant Donahue tell you about that. He’s been haunting the place.”
She knew. She knew.
She managed to turn her face away.
* * *
HER DOCTOR DIDN’T allow any visitors until the following day, after they’d moved her from intensive care to a room she currently had to herself. She could only imagine how frustrated Donahue was to be thwarted. Given the severity of her head injury and the length of time she’d spent in a coma, Dr. Sanderlin insisted she rest, use pain medication as needed and not worry.
Yes, he actually said that again. After patting her hand. “Don’t worry.”
Abby