Roan Page 3

  He had escorted ambulances hundreds of times. Often they carried people he knew, friends, even family. He usually concentrated on the safety of the person in transit and also of the other drivers and pedestrians who crossed their path. Tonight was different. Tonight, he’d hardly known what he was doing.

  He couldn’t get the memory out of his head of the woman lying so still, with blood soaking into her shirt and his bullet in her shoulder. That endless time before the ambulance arrived was a nightmare in which he’d moved and acted like an automaton. Somehow, it blended in his mind with that other time, the night he’d found Carolyn lying on the floor of their bedroom, beside the bed they had shared for three years. Blood, there had been so much blood everywhere, even on the black shape of his extra handgun that she’d used on herself and the folded white note that she’d left for him.

  He’d tended his wife as he tended the suspect tonight, had held her in his arms, willing her to live, during the short ride to the hospital. She had made it, mercifully, though their marriage had died that night. Since dying had seemed preferable to living with him for her, he’d given her the divorce she requested.

  Roan shook his head to clear it. This woman tonight wasn’t Carolyn, bore no resemblance to the fey, illusive girl-child who had been his wife. Life was almost too much for Carolyn, but it seemed nothing was too much for the woman he’d shot. She’d come at him out of the dark, a trim shape in shining white, tumbling with muscled grace and with deadly determination shining in her eyes. He’d been primed for many things, but she wasn’t one of them. To fire had been an instinct so basic that he couldn’t even recall pulling the trigger.

  He’d shot her.

  God.

  He’d been brought up to revere women, Roan thought. They were everything that was soft and tender and bright and good. They carried within them the promise of life itself, and to protect that promise was his honor and his privilege. The females who came through his jail didn’t always fit the picture, but he never quite got over the feeling that they should, and might have if circumstances had been different.

  He had that feeling now about his new prisoner. Which was crazy, since he didn’t know her at all.

  Still, he’d seen her, talked to her, and she bothered him. She didn’t have the hard-edged bravado or unkempt carelessness of the kind of woman who operated outside the law. Women’s fashions weren’t exactly his strong point, but the outfit she’d had on looked high style, obviously expensive. She had the time and money for regular attention to her nails. Her hair shone with health and carried the tantalizing perfume of some expensive shampoo. Her eyes had appeared to be a mysterious hazel in the semidarkness, and she had glared at him with unselfconscious disdain. The cadence of her voice had been almost accent-free, like that of a trained actress or maybe someone who had attended a fancy school. Her body, when he held her, had been as slender and fine-boned as a thoroughbred’s. The overall impression was that she should have stepped from a limousine instead of falling out of a rusty van.

  She claimed she’d been kidnapped, the only information she’d offered. On the surface, it seemed plausible. But if so, then what was she doing cooperating with the pair of lowlifes shown on Betsy’s security camera? Why had she wielded a handgun during the robbery? How come she hadn’t been screaming for help at the top of her lungs when she came out of the van? Better yet, how had she been allowed to escape?

  The whole thing didn’t add up. It gave him a twisted feeling in his gut. It created chaos in his orderly world. It was a mystery, and he didn’t like mysteries.

  The best way to handle the problem was to get concrete answers as soon as possible. His immediate inclination was to stay at the hospital, partly to be on hand when the doctors indicated she was able to talk, but also to be sure she was all right. Still, no one would be allowed anywhere near her until her condition stabilized, not even him. His time would be better spent coordinating the search for the suspects still at large. Sherry had reported that Betsy had dropped off the tape from the robbery on her way home. If he could get a clear freeze-frame of the two men from it, he’d put out an immediate APB.

  He’d get a frame on the woman, too, while he was at it. For purely professional reasons, of course. What else?

  Leaning forward, Roan started the unit’s engine and headed back toward town.

  His dedication to the job lasted nearly two whole hours. At the end of that time, he headed back to the hospital. On the way, he swung out by the house on the lake to change his bloodstained uniform and make sure Jake was home from the movies; he trusted his son but a bunch of teenage boys could get into trouble without half trying.

  As Roan approached the door of the operating room assigned to his prisoner, Allen Bates stepped from the waiting room next door. A question hovered in the deputy’s eyes, though an easy smile lighted the rich, double-fudge brown of his face.

  “Thought I’d see how it’s going,” Roan said in answer to that look of inquiry. “Any excitement?’

  “Not so you’d notice. Nurse down at the surgical station said to tell you to come see her when you dropped by.”

  “I’ll do that.” That duty nurse would be Johnnie Hopewell, an invaluable source of information for what was going on under the covers, so to speak, in Turn-Coupe—since most of the results eventually showed up at the hospital. She’d been a Benedict before she married, so was also his cousin. Dark-haired, vivacious, and pleasingly plump, she was a favorite with patients and with him. Roan tipped his head toward the operating room doors as he went on. “I suppose the suspect is still in surgery?”

  “Unless somebody wheeled her out the back way. A med tech stuck his head out a little while ago and said they’d be another half hour, give or take.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “It’s not good, from what they say, but you know how it goes. Takes longer to get ready for the job than it does to get it done.”

  Roan nodded. “If you’ll hold the fort here until after I see Johnnie, I’ll relieve you.”

  “I thought you’d be heading home. Cal’s got the graveyard shift, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s still out chasing the bad guys. Besides, I wanted to keep an eye on progress here.”

  “Yeah,” Allen said. “I can see how you would.”

  Roan appreciated the understanding in the deputy’s voice, but it didn’t exactly add to his comfort. He touched the brim of his Stetson in acknowledgment, then headed on down the hall.

  Johnnie looked up when she heard his approach, then threw down her pen and came to meet him. “It’s about time you showed up,” she complained. “What the hell do you mean, adding to my workload?”

  “Sorry.” He returned her quick embrace, and was in no hurry to break it.

  “I’ll just bet you are.” Her smile faded as she drew back to study his face.

  More sympathy was about to be offered, he thought. In an effort to avoid it, he said, “Anyway, you like the excitement and you know it.”

  “Some kinds, I can do without!” Her voice turned wistful. “Though I wouldn’t say no to a good party about now.”

  “That’s Luke’s department.”

  The look she gave him was jaundiced. “Not anymore, not since he got married.”

  “I had noticed our cuz wasn’t throwing as many shindigs.”

  “Think he’s afraid somebody, especially some other Bad Benedict, will steal his April away from him?”

  Roan smiled. “I think he’s just, well…”

  “Busy, huh?” Johnnie laughed, a deep, rich sound. “Guess they don’t—didn’t—call him Luke of the Night for nothing.” She slid a quick gaze over Roan from head to heels while a reminiscent smile rose in her eyes. “Of course, we were all pretty wild in high school, weren’t we? Even you, before you started hanging out at the sheriff’s department.”

  Roan sighed and stepped back. “That was then, this is now. What’s the word on my prisoner?”

  Johnnie sent him an intent look before
she answered in the same businesslike tone. “She’s going to make it, no thanks to you. She lost a lot of blood but is stable, for now, as long as they don’t run into anything too drastic. They’re removing the bullet, repairing the damage. Recovery may take a while, so I hope you don’t plan to haul her off to jail any time soon.”

  He shook his head, aware at the same time of the easing of the tension inside him. He’d been half afraid Johnnie might have bad news.

  She studied him for a second, as if not quite satisfied with his answer. Then she reached for a manila envelope that lay on the counter and passed it over. “Your girl’s been fading in and out. I tried to get a name, but it was no good. We removed all her personal effects before surgery. This was on her ankle, and I thought you might want to look at it.”

  Roan turned the envelope over in his large hands. The words Jane Doe were scrawled across it in black marker. He had a strange notion not to open it, not to proceed further and to let it go, let the woman go, before he found out something he didn’t want to know.

  It wasn’t possible. She was linked to one known robbery and might be implicated in others. His job was to find out who she was and turn her over to the justice system. As the parish sheriff, he had considerable authority, including some leeway as to who was or was not charged with a crime, but that power was a serious responsibility; abusing it was not in his rulebook or in his nature. He had sworn to uphold the law, and he would do it, regardless of who got hurt.

  With an abrupt gesture, Roan thumbed open the envelope and poured the contents into his hand. He thought it was a bracelet at first, until he saw the extra length and realized it was an anklet. It was surprisingly heavy, a fine yet intricate chain with the deep burnish and minute scratches of well-worn eighteen-karat gold. Linked into it was a set of letters formed with channel set stones that glittered with diamond fire. As he straightened the piece of jewelry along his palm with a fingertip, it seemed to carry a lingering hint of the body heat of the woman who had worn it. Then he saw that the linked letters formed a name.

  Donna.

  Roan wasn’t much given to New Age touchy-feely stuff or even to hunches. Still, holding the anklet to the light so the letters glittered up at him, he felt a shiver of premonition scrape down his spine.

  Donna.

  He frowned, a slow scowl that left an arch in one brow.

  Johnnie, staring at him, put a hand on one ample hip as she demanded, “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  But that was an evasion, if not an out-and-out lie. His prisoner didn’t seem like a Donna. It was one more thing that felt all wrong.

  Roan didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.

  “There’s another problem,” Johnnie said.

  He looked up, alerted by something in her voice. “Yeah?”

  “She needs more blood, O positive. The hospital had half the units she needs on hand, and it may be hours before we can get the rest here.”

  Roan’s type was O positive. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t bother to even think about it. “Why the hell didn’t you say so?” he demanded as he turned in the direction of the lab and began to remove equipment from his belt. “Let’s do it.”

  “Donna? Donna, wake up.”

  The voice was deep, quiet and masculine, the appeal urgent. Though it wasn’t her name the man called, Tory felt she should respond. She lifted her eyelids a fraction, then snapped them shut again as bright light from directly above her sent a stab of pain into her head.

  “Donna?”

  The light was snapped off. Her hand was taken in a warm grasp. The touch seemed to lend her strength. She lifted her lashes again with slow care.

  A man stood over her. His face was strained and somber in the subdued glow from behind vertical window blinds. The tan uniform he wore was familiar, as was the shiny badge on his chest.

  The sheriff. She stiffened, tried to drag her hand free.

  “Careful. You don’t want pull out your IV.”

  It was a second before the words penetrated the drug-induced haze in her mind. Then she saw the plastic tubing that snaked from her hand up her arm and across the sheets to disappear somewhere above her. White sheets, pale-green walls, TV set placed high on the wall, faded cotton gown that smelled of bleach. She was in a hospital.

  She returned her gaze to the man who stood next to the bed with his body partially blocking the light from the window. She moistened her parched lips, and began, “You. You’re…”

  “Sheriff Roan Benedict.” He inclined his head in a brief, almost courtly gesture. At the same time, he released her and backed away a step, as if he felt he might be too close.

  Tory appreciated that retreat; his tall figure looming over her had been unsettling. She took a slow, deep breath against the raw heaviness of her lungs and chest while she stared at him in the light of day, measuring what she saw against her impressions from the night before.

  He wasn’t what she’d call devastatingly handsome; his face was rough-hewn and weathered to a deep bronze, his lips were a bit too firm, and a half-moon scar indenting the end of one brow gave him a quizzical look even in repose. Still, there was strength and inherent attraction in the alignment of his features. Like some western actor from the late-night movies, his height, square jaw and piercing steel-gray eyes bracketed by smile lines made him look like a man it would be easy to trust but dangerous to cross.

  Her gaze dropped past his broad shoulders, touched briefly on the silver star pinned to his shirt pocket, and then came to rest on the wide leather belt that supported his holstered weapon.

  “You’re the one who shot me,” she said in bald accusation.

  The corners of his mouth tugged into a grim smile. “That has a familiar ring.”

  He was right; she’d said something similar before. For a second she glimpsed, like a dream on first awakening, the events of the night. The van. Zits. The shot. She’d been angry and confused. There was pain followed by the comfort of a firm voice and life-giving warmth of enfolding arms.

  No, the last had to be a figment of her imagination; it couldn’t have happened. Here in broad daylight, she could not picture this man, with his stiff stance, muscle-corded jaw, and shiny image of authority pinned to his chest ever unbending enough take her in his arms.

  She met his gaze with a troubled frown. He was watching her, his expression shuttered, though some dark and not quite official awareness lingered in the gray depths of his eyes. She was so startled by it that she lay perfectly still, barely breathing, while feverish heat moved over her in a slow wave.

  The door of the room swished open. A dark-haired nurse clad in a scrub suit of lilac and green bustled toward her. “Well, so you’re awake! How are you feeling?”

  “She’s fine, we’re fine,” the sheriff responded smoothly, before Tory could marshal her thoughts enough to answer.

  “Let’s see she stays that way, shall we?” For all her cheerfulness, the glance the nurse turned on the sheriff seemed to hold a warning. She reached for the stethoscope looped across her neck. “While I’m here, I need to get her vital signs.”

  It was a short drill without much entertainment value, but the sheriff seemed to find it interesting. He looked over the nurse’s shoulder as she made notations on the bedside chart. When she turned to leave, he held the door for her, then stepped through it after her. It clicked shut behind them as if it had been given a firm push.

  Tory could hear low-voiced conversation out in the hall. Since it was almost certainly about her and her condition, she strained to hear but could make no sense of it. She relaxed on the pillow again with a sigh.

  This was the second time she’d been awake, she thought. She could remember being in recovery and parts of the gurney ride down long halls to this room. She looked around, taking stock in frowning concentration since she was half afraid that the hallway consultation meant she was more seriously injured than she seemed.

  Both her wrists were wrapped in bandages to protect her
duct tape injuries. Plastic tubes draped above her like Christmas garlands, including one connected to a machine that administered a high-powered painkiller in automatic doses. The bandaging that wrapped her shoulder and upper chest was bulky, but beneath it was only the natural soreness of any injury. She could flex the fingers of her hand and move her arm, a distinct improvement over the night before.

  She was okay; she was going to survive pretty much intact. That was a minor miracle, one she owed to first aid administered on a dark, gravel road.

  But saving her life was the least Sheriff Roan Benedict could do after shooting her, wasn’t it? No special gratitude was required. Anyway, he’d have done the same if she’d been a seven-foot-tall, three hundred pound male and guilty as sin.

  She was innocent. She’d told the sheriff so and he hadn’t believed her. That rankled. In fact, it made her even madder than being shot like a common criminal. The stiff-necked lawman out in the hall was so sure she was a desperado that he was standing guard over her. That had to be it. There was no other reason for him to be at her side.

  Somehow, some way, she had to convince him. Surely there was some detail of what had happened that would prove her case? She let her mind drift back to be beginning, trying to find it.

  She’d left the house on Sanibel for her run along the beach just as she did every evening. The sunset had been beautiful, with the last purple-and-crimson light of the day streaking down into the gulf. She’d passed well beyond the private Vandergraff beach area, racing past a hotel beach where tourists peered through cameras at the sunset, clicking off shots and rolling endless miles of videotape as they enjoyed their vacations vicariously through distancing lenses. She’d noticed the smell of frying conch scenting the wind, coming from a nearby restaurant. As the rustle of the breeze through the beachside palms and the deepening twilight soothed her frayed nerves, she’d run on and on, coming to a long stretch of winter homes whose owners had returned to cooler climes for the summer.

  She hadn’t been thinking, hadn’t been watching. Her mind had been on her quarrel with Harrell. She’d given his ring back to him the weekend before, then he’d come around that evening, just before she left the house. He’d been so certain, being a supersalesman, that he could talk himself back into her good graces. He hadn’t taken her refusal to listen to his spiel at all well. The words they exchanged had left her rattled and upset.