A Beeline to Murder

“Oh, that’s awful. I hope that lowlife gets what’s coming to him. What about pain in your head and neck? How does it feel when I move it from side to side like this?” Using her hands, the paramedic gently moved Abby’s head from left to right and up and down.

“Feels kind of stiff, like I’ve been manhandled.” Abby managed a weak smile.

The paramedic checked Abby’s pulse and listened to her heartbeat and breath sounds. Waving a light into and away from Abby’s eyes, the paramedic began asking a series of questions. “Do you know your name? The president’s name? Where you are? What day it is?” Abby knew they were standard questions paramedics used to assess a patient’s orientation and level of consciousness.

After correctly answering Dottie’s questions, Abby said, “Look, I know the drill, but I don’t need c-spine. I don’t need transport. I’m fine.”

The paramedic reached into her bag and pulled out a small sealed package. “These should help with the pain. Refusing transport is your right; however, your cut could use a stitch.”

“No, I really don’t want to go to the hospital.” Abby didn’t feel it necessary to explain why she hated hospitals. She just did. And not just because of the failed surgeries on her thumb, but also because in her former line of work, it was the place of endings. Cops died. Perps died. Witnesses passed away before they could testify. Oh, sure, plenty of local women went there to give birth, but Abby had never seen that. She just didn’t like the place. It was that simple.

“Okay, but if you are going to decline our offer of a ride in the ambulance, you’ll have to sign a release form,” the paramedic told her as she finished taping the butterfly closures across the cut on Abby’s cheek. As soon as Abby had signed the release, the paramedics left along with the first responders, cops, and firemen.

Lucas strolled out from the kitchen with a mug of coffee and handed it to Abby. He went back into the kitchen, brought out the pot and two empty mugs, and set them on the table. “For your other friend,” said Lucas, adding in a disapproving tone, “The one who lets a lady rescue herself.” He poured coffee for himself in one of the mugs and sat down on a patio chair. Abby didn’t say anything. What could she say? That’s not fair. . . . Philippe was asleep in my bed. Uh-oh, might not be a good idea to tell him that. Abby inhaled deeply, stared up at the clusters of red berries on the towering pepper tree, and said, “Great coffee, Lucas. Thank you for making it.”

“I can cook, too,” he replied.

She smiled.

Sugar had gotten her drink and then had remained at Abby’s side after the attack. She had growled occasionally, as if to continue expressing her dislike for the man who had attacked Abby. Now that he was gone, the dog, who had been panting like crazy, had taken an interest in Abby’s house slippers. The slippers were old. And letting the dog chew them was a small enough gesture of appreciation for Sugar saving her life.

Abby and Lucas quietly sipped coffee, watching Sugar. The mutt quickly abandoned the shoe chew to chase a hummingbird that had zoomed past, apparently to lap nectar from the tubular flowers of the trumpet vines.

“I’ve been thinking,” Lucas said. “I’ve got a single-action revolver in my gun safe that I could loan you until you get your gun back.”

“Really? It’s a tempting offer, Lucas.” Abby thought about it for a moment. She liked the idea but suspected that she might not be able to handle it as easily as her own gun.

As if reading her thoughts, Lucas said, “I’d be happy to offer some pointers.”

“I’d need target practice, for sure,” Abby said, thinking it could be fun to shoot cans off a fence with Lucas or fire at the range. But then again, a single-action revolver required manual cocking. Lucas would pretty readily pick up on her gimpy thumb action. Still, how cool it was that he had offered to loan her that gun. A shot from it could take down a 250-pound attacker, even if he was high on drugs.