it been Angela’s child in a near abduction, that kid would not be roaming alone outside.
She followed Celia out to the front. Billy stood in her driveway. Behind him she could see telltale skid marks smeared across the cul-de-sac’s roadway.
“Hi, honey.” She bent down so she was at his eye level. He was blond, a little grubby and had a great smile. He reached up and gave her a hug. Then he walked away.
“I don’t think he talks,” Celia said.
“Maybe he’s learned it’s best to keep quiet. He’s probably having to grow up pretty fast in that household.”
Already, Billy was at his front porch, climbing the steps and letting himself in, looking far too mature.
“How old do you think he is?” Angela asked.
“Maybe three or four.”
As the door slammed behind Billy Rubio, Angela remembered why she’d run for the Cadillac yesterday. She’d done it to save a life. It was exactly the reason she’d convinced her sister to go with her to the police all those years ago and turn their father in.
To save lives.
Heading back inside the cabin, she wondered how Jake Farraday was doing.
He, too, had saved a life.
INTENSIVE CARE MEANT a tiny room, lots of equipment and few visitors. Jake’s parents had stayed the first two nights, both of them looking a little shell-shocked. “When you quit the police force, we thought we wouldn’t need to worry so much,” his mother had murmured.
Barely conscious, he hadn’t had the energy to reassure her. Even in a half daze, he’d been pretty sure she wouldn’t want to know that the two jobs had a lot in common.
Now, a few days later, out of intensive care and in a regular room, his parents were down in the cafeteria giving him privacy while Rafe Salazar talked with him.
But Rafe played second fiddle to the doctor. He’d already held a light up to Jake’s eyes three times. And, clearly, the man’s favorite toy was a handheld recorder. The doctor came in at least two or three times a day that Jake knew of and spoke just about the same words into the machine.
At first it had been, “Muscle damage is minor, mostly bruising, and no ribs appear to be broken.”
They felt broken.
The doctor continued to talk, spewing words like pericardioscentesis, pulmonary artery and penetrating chest injury. Best of all were the words no damage to vital organs.
The bullet hadn’t even hit bone.
It had been a few days since the shooting and he could now sit up very slowly with the help of the mechanisms that lifted the bed, do a thirty-minute turn from lying on his back to his side—complete with teeth gnashing and bad words—and finally walk to the bathroom, holding on to the nurse, who scolded him about the bad words. Now the doctor merely noted range of movement, breathing and how the wound looked. It was still a dozen shades of purple, black, green and blue.
It bothered Jake that the bullet was still inside him and it hurt like crazy every time they repacked the wound.
And every day the doctor prescribed rest.
Jake was alive and, thanks to good health, he’d be functioning in a few weeks and as good as new in a few months.
Thank you, God.
Jake also very much appreciated the Level 1 trauma center in Tucson.
The doctor spoke to Jake. “Don’t tire yourself out.”
“Did you get a look at the two men in the Cadillac?” Rafe asked the moment the doctor left. He opened his briefcase and took out a laptop, which he promptly turned on.
Jake groaned as he forced himself to sit up a few inches. He’d worked undercover in motorcycle gangs, drug gangs and had even pulled a stint in the Mexican mafia, but he’d never taken a bullet before. Nope, he’d had to become a forest ranger for that to happen. And he still had to answer to the police.
“Somewhat. They were both big. One was bald and neither smiled.”
“You just described half my deputies,” Rafe said. “But that matches what Angela Taylor saw.” As sheriff, Rafe was in charge of a county that covered two towns and a whole lot of rural area. He supervised six men and one woman.
“I wrote down part of the license plate number.”
“We found that in the garbage truck. The Cadillac belongs to a taxi driver in Phoenix. It was reported stolen the day before the kidnapping attempt.”
“Figures.”
For a few minutes they discussed what they both suspected: Miguel was involved with meth labs and bear poaching. He owed money and the boy was to be used as collateral.
“I’m surprised he shot me. They had more than one opportunity.”
“That’s what Angela said. She didn’t get the idea that shooting was on their agenda.”
Jake nodded. “They could have easily shot her, too. How’s she doing?”
“Pretty good. A bit shaken up.”
“And everyone else?”
“It’s strangely quiet on Jackrabbit Road.” Rafe punched a few keys and soon Jake was looking at Angela standing with Ted Dilliard. Both had blood smeared on their clothes. Jake’s, no doubt. She wasn’t looking at the camera, probably wasn’t aware her photo was being taken. She was looking at the garbage truck. The wind held her black hair in its grasp. It didn’t look as if she was wearing makeup, not that she needed to. There was that upturned chin again. If anything, that’s what had helped Jake recognize her.
The word beautiful didn’t even begin to describe her. Her shirt was yellow with giant white buttons, her jeans were formfitting and she wore white tennis shoes. He thought about the way she’d dashed across her front yard, intent on saving a small child.
She, more than anyone he knew, had reason to keep a low profile.
“She and Ted saved your life.”
He’d taken a bullet and this time he hadn’t thought twice about blowing his cover.
Rafe kept talking, “We’ve looked a little closer at Dilliard. Fifteen years ago he was married, one child, lived in a middle-class neighborhood and seemed to be living the American dream.”
Trying to stay upright was wearing Jake out. But he wanted to hear what Rafe was saying. He looked at the photos of Ted Dilliard. He was an awkward-looking man, and for all the years he’d lived on the tract of land, Jake had only met him once on rattlesnake retrieval.
“His daughter died of a drug overdose when she was
