Hannah Alexander - A Killing Frost

“Looks like he could use a trip to the vet’s office,” Bosch said. “Is there one nearby?”

“Sure is. I’ll walk him down to Dr. Witherspoon’s house.”

“Tell us where that is, and we’ll take him,” Sydloski said. “You need to get that wound taken care of.”

Tyrell held his squirming niece on his lap, safely in his arms, and he had some serious doubts about being able to release her to the care of others once they landed.

“Wow, Uncle Tyrell, I’ve never flown in a helicopter before!” She leaned as far to the right as she could to look down at the retreating lights of River Dance. She waved, as if someone down there could see her through the mirrored black glass.

“Is Aunt Jama going to meet us at the hospital?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Why couldn’t she ride with us?”

Tyrell didn’t know that, either. He’d been unable to wrest her away from the two agents who had hovered over her all the way from the island.

“Did you see what she did, Uncle Tyrell? Clancy had me in a stranglehold and I was going down, and she jumped him and knocked him over, and then he almost had her, and I used some of those moves she taught me, and we held him off long enough for you to come to the rescue.”

She looked up at him, that little mud-streaked face, mud-caked hair, red-rimmed eyes. She gazed at him as if he were a superhero.

He smiled down at her, then pulled her into a tight hug. Though she’d been in tears on the island, she’d recovered quickly enough once the FBI personnel had begun to arrive. Since then, she’d been awed by the gear the agents wore, and asked question after question about their weapons and whether or not they wore earplugs when they shot, and whether or not they wore bulletproof vests. Once he managed to calm her excitement over riding in a genuine FBI helicopter, he checked her out, as Jama had done on the island. No blood on her clothing. He felt up and down her legs and arms. No wincing.

“Doriann, do you remember if you were unconscious at any time today?” Had they knocked her out?

“Yeah. I stayed up too late, and was sleepy. I’d never make a good private investigator, because I fell asleep right outside the barn where Clancy and Deb were hiding!”

“You followed them after the truck went into the swamp. Why?”

She looked up at him then, and her eyes grew somber. “It’s what you would’ve done. You wouldn’t have let them get away so they could kill more people or kidnap more little kids. Clancy had my cell phone, and I wanted it back. They were high on meth, and I heard Deb say they would have to crash soon. So I tried to wait until they crashed in the barn.” She grimaced. “It didn’t work, and Clancy almost caught me.”

“Did they hit you or inject you with any needles?”

“No, but Deb smacked me in the face a couple of times, but then she protected me from Clancy later. Humphrey found me and kept me warm.”

“Humphrey?”

“He’s some good dog, isn’t he, Uncle Tyrell?”

“He is.”

“When are you and Aunt Jama getting married?”

Tyrell decided not to ask Doriann any more questions.

Jama let herself in through the front door of the clinic with her new key. The hinges didn’t squeak; there was no noise at all. She removed her dirt-caked shoes before stepping inside.

She turned on the lights in the reception office.

The familiar quiet hum of the Pixus machine whispered from the far corner of the office. It would be moved to a more appropriate location as soon as there was opportunity to decide where that would be.

She entered the first exam room, with the minor meds treatment chair, switched on the light and gathered the supplies she would need to treat her arm. The clock on the wall registered three o’clock. She’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours-and most of those hours inundated with high drama and tension.

Residency had given her the mental and emotional resources to deal with day-to-day life-and-death issues with multiple patients, but nothing had prepared her for what she’d just endured.

She worried about how Doriann would handle everything that had happened to her. She’d been talkative and had interacted well with everyone after those first few moments on the island. When would the effects of the day hit her? Would she be scarred by this for the rest of her life?

Jama sank onto the chair and stared at the meds and instruments on the stainless steel tray table beside her. Tyrell…

She felt like crying. But Jama Keith never cried. Even when she’d been forced to make a life-or-death decision about a loved one. Even when she had a life-and-death struggle with a killer to save another loved one. Even when she was finally forced to confess her guilt about Amy’s death.

But after all that time spent with Tyrell, his promise that she could trust him no matter what, and now his response to the confession he had wrested out of her-who wouldn’t lose a tear or two?

Or fifteen or twenty…

Tissues. There were no tissues in this whole stupid office. Jama sniffed and her nose ran, and she rushed into the bathroom at the end of the hall, belatedly remembering why she didn’t cry. It was a messy business, and it wasted paper.

She was walking back from the bathroom, trying to blow her nose on a paper towel, making a mental note to purchase facial tissues, when she heard a soft thump. A whisper of movement behind one of the closed doors.

Silence. She waited. The accomplice?

She reached for her cell phone and was about to dial for help when there was another quiet movement, and she isolated the direction of the sound. It was behind Ruth’s office door.

Oh, why call for help now? After everything else she’d done in the past few hours, was there anything she couldn’t handle herself? She reached into the right pocket of her jacket and pulled out her pistol. She’d lugged the weapon around all night and hadn’t used it yet.

She released the safety and reached for the doorknob. It was locked.

“Who’s in there?” she demanded.

Another thump, and a grunt.

“I’m calling the police,” Jama warned.

The knob clicked, twisted, and the door opened. Ruth Lawrence stood there barefoot, hair in her face, wearing her scrubs. Behind her lay a pallet on the floor.

“Don’t shoot,” Ruth said dryly, her voice filled with fatigue.

Doriann was asleep in Tyrell’s arms when the helicopter landed on the hospital helipad. He carried her inside without waking her. His mother stood just inside the entrance, and when she saw them, she burst into tears and ran to meet them.

“I knew you and Jama would do it,” she whispered as she turned to walk with Tyrell and the two agents to an exam room. “Is she injured?”

“Not that we can tell. Jama checked her over at the site, and then I did a second check on the way here. How’s Dad?”

“He’s sleeping peacefully, doing great.”

“Did he find out about Doriann?”

“Not a thing. Heather, Mark and Renee are on their way here.” She looked into her granddaughter’s sleeping face, then up at Tyrell. “Do you realize Jama had a hand in saving two of our beloved in less than twenty-four hours?”

He nodded. Yes, he knew. And then he thought of Amy, and he felt weary to the bone.

“Worked late?” Jama clicked her safety back in position and shoved the weapon into her pocket.

“I decided to save on gasoline.” Ruth watched the gun enter the pocket, swallowed, looked back up at Jama.

“Then I guess it’s a good thing our private facilities have a shower,” Jama said. “Eric told me you’re staying in Hermann.”

“You carry that thing with you all the time?”