Ramona Richards - Memory of Murder

The shriek of ripping metal helped Lindsey push the memory away, and she gritted her teeth against the sound. Then voices called, echoing around the ravine with a new fervor. Someone peeled the blanket away, and Lindsey blinked as light and cooler air flooded in. Two men reached in, gently easing her attacker onto a backboard. Over the cacophony of the rescue efforts, she heard the steady whup-whup of a helicopter.

“Lifeflight?” she asked one of the EMTs.

He nodded. “They’re taking him to Vanderbilt. You’ll probably go to NorthCrest, unless you’re hurt worse than we think.”

“Bruises, cuts, some pulled muscles. And I think I twisted my ankle when it hit the dash. Nothing major.”

Finalizing his work on the attacker, the EMT nodded at his coworkers and the backboard disappeared as it moved up the side of the ravine. He turned his attention to Lindsey. “You a nurse?”

“No. But I’ve been hurt bad before. I know how it feels.”

He reached in and slid a foam cervical collar around her neck. “How ’bout we let the docs decide?”

Lindsey took a deep breath. “Just didn’t want you fussing over me without reason.”

The EMT grinned at her. “My job. Now I’m going to see if I can slide this board between you and the seat. You ready?”

“My sisters will tell you I’m always ready for the next step.”

“I can believe that. Now, don’t move. Don’t try to help me. Let me do the work.”

Lindsey closed her eyes again, fighting the urge to claw her own way out of this stupid car.

No. Not just a car. A 1968 GTO. A bright orange 1968 GTO. The image of her father, his face battered and blotted, shot through her mind again, along with another shadowy figure. Entwined with them was the image of the orange GTO. Lindsey gasped. Why did that happen? What could her father have to do with the car? More importantly...

“Is she dead?”

What am I remembering? And why?

TWO

“Mild concussion. Ribs bruised but fortunately not broken. Cuts and abrasions, along with the burn, which—”

“In other words, I can get back to work. Now.” Jeff tugged his uniform shirt closed and buttoned it, trying to ignore the dirt smears and tiny tears from the gravel. He tucked it into his waistband, wincing at the soreness in his chest and muscles. The bandages they’d taped over his few injuries pulled against his skin as he tightened his belt.

Nick Collins, the emergency-room doctor who had treated more than his fair share of the sheriff’s officers, stopped typing on a mini-laptop and looked up at Jeff over the top of his reading glasses. “What’s got you in such a snit? You’re usually the calm one on Ray’s team.”

Standing behind Nick, Sheriff Ray Taylor spoke grimly. “He failed in his duty.”

Jeff scowled, feeling his face heat up, as Nick took off the black-framed glasses and tucked them into the pocket of his white coat. “Well, you also got kicked in the head. That sounds more amusing than it is. I don’t want you taking chances with that. Besides, the guy who did it is in a coma at Vanderbilt and Lindsey is a few rooms over, giving our nurses a run for their money. She’ll be all right. What’s left to do tonight?”

Ray shifted his weight but before he could reply, Jeff snapped, “Forensics. I want to look in the car. And review the reports, and talk to Lindsey about—”

Nick closed the mini-laptop and moved toward Jeff. “Now slow down. I get the picture. I don’t want to take any chances on the concussion. I’ve said you can leave, but only if there’s someone who can check on you tonight and in the morning.”

Jeff grabbed the opening. “I live over my parents’ garage.”

“Your dad is Alan Gage, right?”

Jeff nodded. “Stepdad.”

“Whatever. If Alan will agree to check in on you, I’ll have you out of here in an hour.” Nick nodded once, then turned and pushed through the door of Jeff’s E.R. room.

Ray stepped up in his place, speaking before Jeff could get a word out. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Ray—”

“No.” The sheriff crossed his arms over his chest. “First, you were on duty, but you were also a victim. I’ll have to think twice about your level of involvement. Second, Troy and his tow truck are at the scene. He’s going to haul the GTO to the garage, and we’ll go over it tomorrow. No one’s going to touch it.”

“His garage isn’t secure enough for a kidnap—”

“It’ll be fine. Troy’s Rottweilers won’t let anyone touch it.”

“But—”

Ray put up a palm. “Jeff, quit pushing. You keep this up, and I’ll ask Nick to keep you overnight. Be satisfied that they’re dismissing you and that Lindsey’s not hurt any worse than she is.”

Jeff let out a long breath as the door opened behind Ray. “No thanks to me.”

Ray stepped closer. “You did nothing wrong. No one could have thrown off two attacks like that.”

“That boy raised a lot of red flags. I should have paid attention.”

“Stop that!” A small hand waved at him, and Lindsey limped into the room, a crutch under one arm. “You did everything you could.”

Jeff’s eyes widened at the sight of her. “Everything but stop him.”

Ray scowled. “Both of you hush. Lindsey, what are you doing out of bed?”

Lindsey forced a small smile made crooked by her swollen jaw. A sharp feeling spiked right into Jeff’s chest. “I refuse.”

Both men stared at her. “What?” Jeff asked.

Lindsey looked at him. “It’s our rallying cry. The Presley sisters.” She glanced at Ray. “You can ask June about it. She wrote it. Made us memorize it. We’d say it to each other when things with our dad turned horrible. ‘I refuse to give up, give in, give over. I refuse to be defeated. He won’t win.’ After a while, we’d just look at each other and say ‘I refuse.’”

She turned back to Jeff. “I know what the second guy did, what he threatened. To both of us. Yeah, he nearly scared me to death. But I refuse. And Ray’s right. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Ray muttered, “Oh, boy,” as Lindsey’s blue eyes widened.

She pushed a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear and stood a little taller. “I beg your pardon.”

Jeff felt the heat rising in his cheeks again. “That’s not what I meant! You look great. Always. But you’re hurt. I mean—the bandages—”

Lindsey nodded. “And the cuts and bruises.”

“Yeah...”

“And the limp. I twisted my ankle. Not bad. Just a mild sprain.”

“Yes...”

“They’ll heal. I really will be all right.”

Jeff shook his head. “Lindsey, that’s not all—”

“And the guy who did it is in a coma.”

“But he didn’t do it alone.”

A rigid silence hung in the air a few moments, then Ray spoke quietly. “So let’s go over it again.”

Jeff sat up straighter, wincing a bit from the pain of his bruised ribs. Ray took more notes as Jeff repeated his version of the night’s events. “I can’t get this out of my mind. The first guy was a kid. Not more than twenty, if that. And really strung out on something. Meth. Coke. Something.”

Lindsey nodded again, watching Jeff closely. “He was sweating like a pig. Muttering. Totally stressed out.”

“And that car.” He looked at Ray. “You know what a classic GTO in prime condition is worth?

“About fifty grand, last time I checked.”

“So would it be your first choice for a kidnapping? Why not a van or an SUV? Something more practical. Nondescript. Cheap.”

“You think it was stolen or that it belonged to the second guy?”

Jeff shrugged. “I don’t know. But I do think the second guy was in charge. The kid was a mess, but the second guy...he was cold, unfeeling. The kid used the stun gun on me because he had to. The older guy did it because he wanted to.”