his name was Ralph. His master’s name was still a mystery.
“It’s okay, Ralphie,” she said quietly as she checked his left hindquarter. Although it was bleeding, she was relieved to see the bullet had only grazed him. “You’re going to be okay, little guy,” she said soothingly. “We can fix that up.” Still, she knew from her nurse’s training that direct pressure was needed to stop the bleeding.
With nothing to use as a bandage, she decided to turn his wounded side toward her midsection. If she could hold him tightly against herself, she might be able to slow down or stop the bleeding. Knowing it was the best she could do and there was no time to waste, she took off running again.
As badly as she felt for the man who had come to her aid—Ralph’s master—she knew that all she could do at this point was to run for her life, as he’d urged her to do. But the memory of those gunshots—after she’d run—was still reverberating through her. What if he’d been killed?
With no time to think about this, she focused on getting herself and Ralph out of harm’s way. If that were even possible. And as she sprinted through the beach grass, she silently prayed for Ralph’s owner. Unless she’d imagined it, the stranger’s eyes had suggested a northward direction, but she had gone the opposite way. Intentionally. Her plan was to cut through the creek and double back in the surf, in an effort to hide her footprints.
* * *
After Jon had gone about half a mile, he knew he needed to tend his wound. Besides the pain, which had subsided some, he knew he was leaving a trail of blood. Fortunately the old plaid flannel shirt he was wearing over his T-shirt could help. He removed it and wrapped it tightly around his thigh, using the sleeves to secure it. If the cop was trailing him—and that was preferable to the man tracking down the woman—he could at least attempt to make it more difficult. And the longer it took the cop to find Jon, the better the chances for the pretty brown-eyed lady—who he hoped was headed in the opposite direction.
The memory of the slender woman dressed in her running clothes shoved roughly against her car by the heavyset cop filled Jon with a fresh sense of outrage. And with his bandage secured, that anger propelled him even faster. Everything about the scene had felt wrong. All wrong. Even if the girl was a wanted felon, which he seriously doubted, the cop had been inappropriately rough. Not to mention inappropriate. Plus he’d broken the law by not reading the girl her Miranda rights or checking her ID. There had been lots of red flags—strong implications that the cop was not on the up-and-up. He remembered his mother’s opinions about the local law enforcement. “Most of them are very good, but there are a few bad apples that spoil everything.”
He really hoped that creep was on his trail right now—and not following the woman. She was obviously kind and sweet and good—she’d taken care to pick up the injured dog. He prayed she was safe—and Ralph, too.
Jon’s plan was to head south until he reached a runoff creek that would conceal his footprints as he turned toward the ocean. And then, with the help of the fog to hide him, he would double back in the surf, erasing his footprints all the way back up the beach. But when he reached the place where the creek trickled through the bluff wall, he heard a rustling noise followed by the sound of stones tumbling down the bluff. Someone was nearby!
Hunkering down in the shadows of some twisted spruce trees, he waited breathlessly. Was it possible the cop was really that fast? The rustling sound grew closer, but because of the wind, he couldn’t determine which direction it was coming from. Fearing the worst, Jon tried to think of a plan. Should he try to sneak up on him? Jump him from behind? Try to get his gun? And then, if he did, what was next? He’d have to figure some way to safely detain the creep and find a place to call for help. But even then, who would he call? What if his mom was right? What if some of the local police were as crooked as this guy? What if they were all in cahoots? Whatever he did, Jon couldn’t let the “cop” take control of the situation. If he did, he’d be dead, for certain.
Just as he was bracing himself for more hand-to-hand combat, he heard a whimpering noise. It sounded like an animal. Cupping his hand to his ear, he listened intently. Ralph? Jon slowly stood and, peering over the tall beach grass, saw a long blonde ponytail blowing in the breeze. It was the runner!
Not wanting to startle her, he controlled himself from rushing at her. Instead, he slowly approached, waving his arms in silence. And when she recognized him, he hurried over.
“You’re okay,” she whispered, relief washing over her face as they crouched down in the tall grass together.
A shock tore through him as he noticed her pale blue shirt soaked with blood. “Were you shot, too?” he quietly demanded.
“No, no, I’m okay,” she said in a hushed tone. “That’s from Ralph.” She pointed to where Ralph was relieving himself in the tall grass. “Just a flesh wound. He’ll be okay.” She glanced down at Jon’s makeshift bandage. “What about you?”
“A flesh wound, too,” he quietly assured her. “I can run fairly well.”
“You and Ralph are fortunate,” she said.
“Yeah. Officer Krantz is a bad shot.”
“Officer Krantz?” she whispered.
“I noticed the name on his badge when we were scuffling.”
“There’s no way he’s a real cop.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Or if he is, he’s a crooked one.” He glanced over his shoulder. “We better get moving. My guess is he’s following. I’d hoped you’d gone the other way.”
“I planned to turn back in a while. I was headed for the creek, hoping to hide my footprints.” She pointed to the fog bank. “Then I was going to cut across the beach and double back in the surf.”
Jon stared at her in wonder. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I was going to do, too.”
“But I thought the creek was closer.” She frowned.
“It’s still about a mile down the beach.” He stooped over to pick up Ralph. “We better get—” He stopped to the sound of rustling grass—and there was no wind blowing. “Go,” he whispered to her. “Fast.”
Before he could stop her, she grabbed Ralph from his arms. And then she took off and he followed. They hadn’t gone twenty feet before he heard the sound of a gunshot—and unless he was wrong, the source was from a high-powered rifle this time—not a revolver. “Stay low,” he called out as he followed her.
Despite the pain in his leg, he knew he had to run with every ounce of his strength. Not that he could keep pace with her. And for that he was glad. If Krantz was going to catch one of them, he wanted it to be him. To his surprise, the woman was heading inland now, going right into the rolling dunes, which would put them out in the open for a few dangerous seconds. But realizing her strategy—hoping to outrun Krantz through the uneven ups and downs of the sand dunes—he followed. Two more shots rang out just as she made it into the cover of the grassy area and one more before he dived into the grass, rolling down the hill toward her. Even though they were leaving a trail by running through the valley in this dune, he knew this was their best hope. To wear Krantz out and to convince him that they were heading for the jetty. If only Jon didn’t expire first.
After about fifteen minutes of running up and down dune hills, the woman stopped to wait for him. He could barely breathe, let alone talk, but he pointed toward the ocean.
“The
