Carrieann nodded.
Nearly every household in rural Pennsylvania had a hunting rifle that took 30-30 ammunition. A hunter would know the immense damage the round could do to a human being; depending on the type of round, it could shoot straight through a person or it could fragment inside and destroy everything in its path. Luke was lucky to be alive. For now.
Carrieann said, “They said the shots came from the woods.”
“Oh God.”
It must have been close to the place they’d hooked up the other day. The barracks was surrounded on three sides by forest. Someone had intentionally hidden in the trees and waited for him to finish his shift. Him? Or any trooper, she wondered. She thought of the manila envelope on her kitchen table. The Ginger Blackwell file with all of its missing information. The other envelope in her car showing that Ginger had been raped, just as she had said. Had Luke been targeted because he’d been nosing around in the matter? It sure felt like it. Or was she reading too much into it again? No. She was sure that she wasn’t. He had been picked off in the parking lot at the end of his shift. It was intentional.
Who could have known that he was nosing around in the Blackwell file? Obviously, Denise had some idea that he’d been looking into it, but she seemed much more interested in him personally. Since he had accessed the physical file, it had to be someone in his barracks. They might not even know he’d passed it on to Josie or that he’d called Denise about the rape kit.
But if someone did know that he’d given it to Josie and that she was looking into the Ginger Blackwell case, was she next?
She looked around. She’d seen two state troopers at the entrance to the hospital and one outside the doors to the surgical wing, but that was it. Usually when a member of law enforcement was shot, their brothers in arms were everywhere. Standing guard. Keeping vigil. “Where is everyone?” she asked.
“Scouring the woods,” Carrieann answered. “Trying to find the person who shot Luke.”
But they wouldn’t find him. Because it was one of them. He would know how to cover his tracks. He was probably out there with them right now, searching for himself. Everyone would be fooled. No one would expect that one of their own would turn on them. Unless the killer had help? Unless it was more than one person? She thought of the DA and Jimmy Lampson and their shady report on the Blackwell case. Then there were the four state troopers who were transferred soon after working on the Blackwell file. So they wouldn’t ask questions? So the men responsible for Ginger’s abduction would never be called to account for their crimes?
None of the Denton PD officers who had worked on the Blackwell case had been banished, and there were three law enforcement agencies involved in the Blackwell case. The state police, Denton PD, and the district attorney’s office. Which meant that if law enforcement was either complicit or involved in Ginger Blackwell’s abduction, there was no way of knowing exactly who was involved or how deeply it went.
“Josie?”
“Huh?”
“You okay?” Carrieann asked. “You look really pale.”
Josie waved a dismissive hand, her mind running on overdrive. “Fine, I’m fine.”
What if Blackwell’s case was connected to the Coleman case, as Josie suspected? She thought about Ray repeatedly telling her to leave the Coleman case alone. Was Denton PD involved? What about the chief? Did he know who was behind the missing girls? Was that why he hadn’t called in the FBI in the Coleman case? Was that why he had changed Josie’s status from paid suspension to unpaid suspension right after she had brought him the lead connecting Coleman to June Spencer?
Carrieann clamped a sweat-damp palm onto Josie’s forearm and whispered urgently, interrupting her thoughts. “It’s the surgeon.”
Josie looked up and, sure enough, a tall, burly man in blue scrubs and matching blue surgical cap was coming through the door. With a grim, fixed expression, he walked toward them. Carrieann’s fingers tightened on Josie’s arm. Together, they stood to greet him.
“You’re here for Luke Creighton?” he asked.
Josie opened her mouth to speak, but her lips were so dry she could barely part them. Carrieann pulled Josie closer to her and spoke for both of them. “Yes,” she said. “I’m his sister and this is his fiancée.”
The man introduced himself. “I’m the attending trauma surgeon. My team is closing Mr. Creighton up as we speak. He is stable, for now, but there was a lot of internal damage. Two bullets to his chest.” He pointed toward his right side, in the area just below the collarbone. “The first one missed his heart, but it fragmented once inside—both bullets did—and caused a lot of damage to the surrounding structures.” He pointed lower and more toward the center. “The second bullet lacerated his spleen, so we had to remove it. We were able to remove most of the fragments and stitch up what we could. He is very lucky to be alive. We’re going to move him to the ICU and keep him there in a medically induced coma until his body begins to recover from the trauma. I have to warn you though, his injuries are extensive and severe. He—”
“What are his odds?” Josie blurted. She couldn’t take any more of the doctor’s words. Severe. Trauma. Extensive. Fragmented. It was too much. All she wanted to know were his chances of survival.
The doctor grimaced. “I can’t really give you odds.”
“Guess. Your best guess. A percentage. Something. Anything. We won’t hold you to it. We already know that he is in very bad shape. We knew that the moment he was shot. The only reason he’s alive is because of you and your team. We understand that the rest is out of your control. But please. What are his chances?”
He stared at the two of them for a long moment, clearly uncomfortable with the scenario. Then he said, “Fifty-fifty.”
Chapter Forty
They got to see him for ten minutes each, but no more, and that was about all Josie could take. Luke’s large frame was dwarfed by the sheer amount of machinery needed to keep him alive. Tubes and wires seemed to extend from every part of him, IVs snaking from both arms, his hands and the crooks of his elbows. A large tube was jammed into his mouth and taped there. His blue hospital gown was haphazardly thrown across him and, from beneath it, zigzagging across his chest, were wire leads connecting to various machines. Multicolored numbers flashed across the monitors that surrounded them. On his head was a large blue shower cap. He didn’t look like Luke at all.
She approached the bed slowly, afraid she might dislodge something important. It was freezing in the room, and she wondered if he was warm enough. But he was always warm. He’d often wake to open one of the windows in her bedroom in the middle of the night, only to have her get up to close it later. “Leave it open,” he would whisper sleepily from the bed. “I’ll warm you up.”
The memory hit her hard like a baseball bat across her shoulders. An involuntary cry escaped her lips. Tears blurred her vision. She took a stumbling step toward the bed and tried to find a place on his arm where her hand would fit. She needed to touch him, to feel his body warm beneath her palm. She needed him to know she was there. The wiry hairs of his forearm were springy beneath her hand. His skin was cool and dry. She squeezed gently. More tears spilled from her eyes as she realized there was no way he could feel her touch. Not with all the artificial life-saving, vital-monitoring equipment attached to him and the remnants of the anesthesia from his surgery. She couldn’t even imagine what they were pumping him full of to keep him under.
“Luke,” she choked. “I’m here. I’m right here. I’m so—” Her voice broke, and she had to gather herself. “I’m so sorry that this happened. Please don’t—please don’t—”