Castillo Linda - Outsider

“I was just over at Adam Lengacher’s place,” I begin.

“Everything okay over there?” he asks, still trying to figure out why I’m here.

The last thing I want to do is involve someone in a situation that could have moral or legal implications. But with emergency services shut down and the weather deteriorating by the minute, I’ve run out of options. I’ve seen enough gunshot wounds to know that even if Gina’s injury is minor, if left untreated it could become life-threatening.

“Joe, I’ve got an unusual situation and I need your help.”

Concern suffuses his expression. “Of course. What is it?”

Leaving out details he’s better off not knowing—not to keep him in the dark, but to protect him from any problems that might arise—I lay out the basics of Gina’s situation. “She’s a police officer and she’s involved in—” I grapple for the right words. “—a sensitive situation. There was an incident last night. Joe, she’s been shot.”

His eyes narrow. “How bad is it?”

“All I know is that it’s a shoulder wound. There’s some bleeding, but it’s not profuse. I think she was probably hypothermic when Adam found her.”

“How long ago was she shot?”

“Ten hours, give or take.”

“Is the bullet still inside her?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Gunshot wounds are very serious, Chief Burkholder.”

“I know. Joe, I’d never ask you to become involved in a situation like this if there was another way. But emergency services aren’t running because of the storm. And I don’t believe I can get her to the hospital myself.”

He gazes at me intently. In the depths of his eyes, I see the bloom of knowledge. “Doctors are required by law to report those kinds of wounds.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

I nod. “You are not obligated to help.”

“She is a criminal?” he asks.

“She’s a police officer,” I say. “But she … made some bad choices and now she’s wanted by the police. I’m trying to help her do the right thing.”

His eyes slide to the window, where wind-driven snow assaults the glass. “If infection sets in, she will have a serious problem.”

I nod. “If you decide to help … Joe, there will likely be an investigation. A lot of questions. I want you to know that going in.”

He stares at me, his expression troubled. For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse. A choice I will not hold against him. Instead, he gives a single, decisive nod. “Let me get my bag.”

CHAPTER 5

The drive back to the Lengacher farm is a harrowing ordeal. Drifts reaching as high as the bumper bog down the Explorer several times, but I manage to bust through and keep going. If current weather conditions continue, roads will likely become impassable overnight—a reality that sends a thread of anxiety through my midsection. If Gina’s gunshot wound is life-threatening, we’ll be left to deal with it without a doctor, because the window for me to get her to the hospital in Millersburg has closed.

I drive up the lane too fast, the Explorer bucking over massive drifts, snow exploding over the hood. Beside me, Joe Weaver clutches the door handle. “You’ve done this before, no?”

“A time or two.” The rear tires fishtail when I make the turn toward the house. “Wouldn’t have made it without the four-wheel drive and chains.”

The Amish man grins. “And then Adam would have to get Big Jimmy to pull you out.”

“Right.”

I park as close to the house as I can manage and throw open my door. Joe does the same. Wind lashes us as we trudge to the back porch. Snow pelts my face like a sandblaster as I yank open the door.

Adam meets us in the mudroom. “I was starting to get worried.”

“She’s a good driver, no?” Winking at me, Joe extends his hand, and the two men shake.

Adam tips his head, his eyes falling to the bag at Joe’s side. “That she is.”

“How is Gina?” I ask.

“Sleeping.”

The two men exchange looks, their expressions thoughtful and uneasy. Adam motions toward the kitchen. “This way,” he says.

We don’t take the time to remove our coats or boots. Adam leads us through the kitchen, where the two girls are sitting at the table, playing a game of checkers, curious eyes tracking us.

Sammy joins us in the living room. “Annie made Gina another cup of tea but she fell asleep and it got cold,” he proclaims. “Should we wake her so she can drink some tea, Datt?”

Adam sets his hand on the boy’s head as we enter the hall that will take us to the sewing room. “Not now.”

We find Gina lying on the cot, the quilts pulled up over her shoulders, watching us, her expression wary. Her gaze flicks from me to Adam to Joe Weaver and finally to the bag at his side. “Who are you?”

“Joe Weaver.”

She eyes the bag. “You a doctor?”

“No, ma’am,” Joe says.

“Looks like a medical bag.”

Joe stares at her, not sure how to respond. Adam’s gaze moves from Gina to me. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“He’s … got some medical training,” I tell her. “He’s going to treat that gunshot wound before infection sets in.”

Using her uninjured arm, she pushes herself to a sitting position, propping her back against the wall at the head of the cot. “So if he’s not a doctor, what the hell is he?”

“He’s your best bet,” I tell her.

“I’m an animal practitioner,” Joe offers.

Before anyone can add anything, Gina laughs. It’s a slightly manic sound in the silence of the room, with the wind and snow battering the window. The two men exchange another look, not sure how to react, likely wondering if she’s not only on the outs with the law, but insane, too.

Under different circumstances I might’ve joined her. But I don’t. That she would laugh in the face of two men who’ve offered their help, perhaps at the risk of legal repercussions or their standing in their community, ticks me off.

“A simple thank-you would be a good way to get things rolling,” I tell her.

“Sorry, it’s just that…” Choking back laughter that isn’t entirely born of humor and contains a distinct edge of desperation, she sobers. “I’m a little out of my element here.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, all of us are out of our elements.” I look at Joe. “What do you need to get started?”

“I have everything I need right here.” He pats the bag.

I go to Gina. “He’s going to need to take a look at that shoulder.”

“All right.” Grimacing, she nods at Joe. “Thank you.”

The Amish man steps forward, looks around for a place to set his bag. I spot an old-fashioned rack of TV trays against the wall, pull one out, and unfold it for him.

Joe nods. “ Danki. ”

Adam sets his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Ah … we probably ought to go break ice for the cattle.”

“And check on Suzy to see if she had her calf,” Sammy adds, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Gina.

I make eye contact with Adam. “Thank you.”

Giving us a final nod, the Amish man guides his son from the room. I close the door behind them, fold my arms at my chest, and lean against it. From her place on the cot, Gina watches as Joe opens the medical bag and sets a roll of wrapped gauze, a large plastic syringe, and a bottle of Betadine solution on a small tray.

“Have you ever treated a gunshot wound?” she asks.

Joe continues his work, disinfecting his hands and pulling on a pair of disposable gloves. “Two years ago, one of Mark Miller’s buggy horses was shot in the withers. An accident, you know. A stray bullet from a hunter, probably. It was deer season.”

“The horse survived?” she asks.