Ramona Richards - House of Secrets

June bent to squat down against the car but she fell, slamming into the door. Ray tried to hold on to her, but his grip slipped. Terror washed over her as she began to slide down the embankment.

June’s head cracked against a rock on the edge of the ravine and she went silent as she tumbled over. Scrambling but still trying to hold on to the car door, Ray frantically snatched at her arm but missed, and she slid away into the ravine. Ray let go of the door, dropping out of the line of fire and sliding down the rock-lined slope. He stumbled on the rock bed at the bottom, twisting his right ankle and hitting the ground hard. The rocks had punctured deep gashes in his right arm, but he clambered to June’s side, calling her name and checking her pulse.

June, limp, pale and unconscious, had a deep cut on her forehead and abrasions on her right cheek and arms. Blood streamed down her face and Ray pulled his shirt open and ripped away part of his undershirt, pressing it hard against her forehead. Her pulse felt thready and uneven, and Ray yanked his cell phone from his pocket.

As he called into the station for backup and an ambulance, Ray drew in several deep gulps of air to steady his voice—and his nerves. Flipping the phone shut, he pressed the cloth against June’s face again, then turned his attention up the ravine’s bank. Using the cruiser for cover, he climbed the embankment slowly, ignoring the increased throbbing in his head and arm.

Peering around the rear tire, Ray spotted the assailant on the foliage-covered hillside that rose steeply away from the other side of the road. The yellow-white late-morning sunlight glinted off the grille of an SUV—and a rifle barrel. About ten yards below the rise of the hill, and camouflaged by thick brush, the sniper still sat, apparently waiting to make sure they had not survived.

“How did you get here so fast?” Ray muttered under his breath as he pulled his pistol from its holster. Bracing his arms, Ray took careful aim and fired three times.

The rifle went airborne with the first shot, and the assailant—a slender, wiry white man with dark, shaggy hair—scrambled after it. Ray could hear the raw, explosive words that burst from the gunman. The second and third shots shattered one headlight and the grille on the SUV and, Ray hoped, the radiator.

The assailant clawed the SUV’s door open and slammed the vehicle into Reverse as Ray fired again, aiming for but missing the windshield. The SUV roared away as sirens filled the air, and Ray lowered his gun, sliding back down into the ravine toward June.

Pressing the cloth against her head again, Ray checked her pulse. Weak, and her breathing was shallow and slow. All his training, all his knowledge, fought desperately with his urge to gather her up in his arms and clutch her to his chest.

Instead, Ray clenched one fist at his side and waited for the sirens to close in, for the first responders who could truly rescue this woman. And in his mind he made plans for the man who’d tried to kill her.

“Where is she?” Ray winced as Fran Woodard cut his sleeve and peeled the cloth away from the gash on his left forearm, and the demanding tone in his voice lessened. “Who’s seeing her?”

As a nurse, Fran had been taking care of Bell County’s law enforcement officers since long before Ray had been on the force. Her hands were always firm but gentle, and her straightforward manner kept any attitude in line. She’d already cleaned and rebandaged the gunshot wound on the side of his head, and now she used a dampened gauze pad to loosen a bit of cloth stuck to his arm by clotted blood.

Ray sat on the bed in the E.R., his arm resting on one end of a rolling table, Fran’s tray of supplies on the other. She picked up a cleansing antiseptic to use on the gash. “We’re seeing too much of you boys lately. You need to be more careful.” Fran clucked her tongue at him. “Stop fretting and sit still. Dr. Collins is in with her right now. The X-rays are back.”

“Is she still unconscious?”

“Last I heard, she was awake and being stubborn about treatment.”

Ray’s quick grin shifted to a grimace as Fran began to clean the wound. “That’s a good sign.”

Fran shrugged. “Maybe. She needs to rest, not resist.”

“Not June’s style.”

“Yeah, well, she won’t have much choice if Dr. Collins decides to keep her overnight. That was quite a knock on her head.”

Ray took a deep breath and steeled himself as Fran reached for tweezers.

“Hold still. You’ve just got a couple of pieces of gravel embedded.”

Ray didn’t want to close his eyes, even against the pain. Every time he did, he replayed the scenes from the shootings. “How did he get there so fast?” Ray muttered.

Fran cut her eyes toward him briefly, then focused again on the cut, pulling free the last bit of gravel. “I don’t think I’m the one to ask.”

In spite of it all, Ray almost grinned. Instead, only the corner of his mouth jerked. “Thanks, Fran.”

She paused, watching him for a moment.

“What?”

“Do you think he was shooting at you or June?”

Ray scowled. “Why?”

Fran shrugged one shoulder again. “It’s a little unnerving to know someone’s out there randomly shooting at folks. I mean, it’s easy to assume that it was because of Pastor Gallagher’s murder, but was it really?”

Ray’s eyes narrowed. “Fran, for all our sakes, let’s hope it’s connected. I’d hate to think we’ve got two nut-cases running around in Bell County.”

Fran stood. “You’re going to need four or five stitches in this arm, so sit tight. Dr. Collins will be over here in a few. Do not go wandering around looking for June. Even if she is nearby.” She winked at him, then left the room.

Ray twisted his forearm, tipping the gauze onto the tray where his arm rested. His muscles still twitched from the pain. Much of the blood had clotted, but a few places still glistened red from the cleansing of it. It was only three inches long, but deep in the center. Scrapes surrounded the primary wound, and a bruise had started to form.

Ray looked up at the room. How he hated being in the hospital. It reminded him of pain and loss—nothing good, that was for sure. The last time he’d been stuck in the hospital was with Anne, when she was dying of cancer. He’d done everything he could since his wife’s death to avoid the place. But now it was June who brought him here—how strange.

He stretched his fingers out, then made a fist, grateful that the tendons remained unscathed. He repeated the action, imagining his grip closing on the man who’d shot at June….

“Don’t you dare undo all my work.” Fran’s scolding drowned out the greeting of Dr. Collins, who followed the nurse into the room.

Ray focused on the doctor, whose busy night in the E.R. showed in the shadows around his eyes. “How’s June?”

Nick Collins plucked a pair of latex gloves out of a box on the wall and stretched them over his hands. “Obstinate. She’s not thrilled about being kept overnight.”

“You’re keeping her for observation only?”

Nick nodded, then peered over his glasses at the tray Fran had prepped. “They’re moving her to her room. Go see her when we’re done here. Hopefully, you can save the second-shift nurses some grief.”

June’s head throbbed, and every time she moved it, a new wave of vertigo slammed into her, making the room spin.

“You missed lunch, but I can order you a tray for later. What would you like for supper?” the nurse’s aide asked.

June closed her eyes and pressed her head against the pillow, hoping it would stop. “A bucket.”

In the silence that followed, she relented, opened her eyes and squinted at the aide, who waited next to her bed. “I’m too dizzy to eat. Don’t order anything.”

“The meds will take care of the dizziness. You’ll be hungry later.”

“I’ll order out for pizza.” She closed her eyes again and scratched idly at the heart-monitor patch peeking out of the top of her gown. Near the head of the bed, the monitor blinked, its bright green sinus-rhythm line showing steady and even. “Please go away.”

“I’ll be back later.” The aide’s shoes squeaked lightly on the floor as she turned and left the room.

Before the door could shut, however, someone caught it and entered the room. June started to repeat her command to go away when she realized that her new visitor had arrived with the scent of sweat, musk, dirt, gunfire residue and the faint odor of cologne that somehow still lingered after the day’s events.

“Hi, Ray.”

“You had to get hurt, didn’t you?”

“I guess it does sort of put a damper on the possibility of me as suspect.” She opened her eyes and peered at him through the pain.

“More or less.” He stepped closer to the bed. “How do you feel?”

“Like a major-league baseball after the World Series.”

“Mets or Yankees?”

She grinned, which made her wince. “Red Sox. Don’t make me laugh.”

Ray returned the smile, then reached for her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh? You put the sniper on that hill?”

“I dropped my guard. Our cruisers don’t just suddenly have flats.”

She glowered at him. “Sniper. Lying in wait. Nothing you could have done.”

“I could have called—”

June clutched his hand. “Stop it, Ray. You start getting all overprotective on me and we’ll never solve David’s murder.”

Ray’s eyes narrowed. “We.”

“I’ve been thinking about something—”

“You’ve been smacked in the head.”

“Doesn’t stop me from thinking.”

He pointed at the badge on his chest, then at her. “Me, sheriff. You, witness. Solving this is my job, not yours.”

“Don’t worry, Tarzan, I’ll let you be the hero.” June tugged on his hand to pull him closer. “But there are some things you don’t know.”

Ray listened silently as June spoke. He knew that her mind never stopped, that she always had some project, some plan in the works, whether it was remodeling a Victorian parsonage or a craft session for the kindergarteners at the church. Apparently, her brain had been spinning about David’s murder from the moment she’d found the body. Her ideas were astute and in many ways mirrored his own thinking about the murder.

She felt it wasn’t random, but local, intentional and related to David’s newfound political ambition. As far as she knew, nothing else had changed in his life. And she also felt that she had not interrupted the murder itself—but possibly the reason for it.

“If you had interrupted the murder,” Ray said, “there would have been less blood and probably no footprints. Whoever bolted out that door did it without caring that he’d stepped in the blood.”

“I barged in because I saw the footprints on the porch. And someone was still there.”

“Ransacking the study.”

She nodded, then pressed her palm to her forehead. Ray could see that pain still raged inside her. She took a deep breath, wiped her face with one hand and sat straighter in the bed. She won’t give up. Or give in.

“I must have interrupted the search in David’s study.”

Ray pulled a chair next to the bed and sat. “The way they left, as well as the evidence, definitely points to a division in the team. Whoever went out the back ran first or you would have run into him. Probably the mastermind was more afraid of getting caught. The person who left out the back may have been the killer since there was blood evidence in the tunnel. He left last, more determined to finish the job.”