A Killing Frost. Hannah Alexander
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she’d better be careful. “My friend did…until she moved to Kansas City. My friend used to play in one of those farmhouses until she found out she was in one of the places where drugs are made. Scary people hung out there.” That should get their attention.
“Scarier than me?” Clancy asked with a laugh that blasted his rotten breath through the cab of the truck.
Doriann nearly gagged. “People like you.” She wasn’t going to pretend she thought he was a good guy. “It’s creepy around that town. There are lots of trees along that part of the river. A person could get lost in those woods and never get out.”
That should convince him to turn there. Didn’t he and Deb need to hide from the FBI agents and police? And if they thought they could find drugs in River Dance, why go farther?
“Sounds like a place I might want to visit,” Clancy said.
Doriann slanted a look at Deb, who didn’t look mad at all. Good. She had their attention.
She sank back into her seat, trying not to show her relief. Grandpa, here I come, ready or not.
Doriann watched the trees whiz by, so fast that she was reminded of her mother’s blender concoction of yogurt and green vegetables—an awful drink that made her feel sick just to remember the taste.
Clancy gave her another narrow-eyed look, making her squirm. “So. You think you know your way around this River Dance?”
She kept her eyes on the road—something she wished Clancy would do. “My friend told me all about it.”
“Then you could be our tour guide?”
“Don’t even think about it,” Deb snapped. “Somebody could recognize her.”
“Nobody knows me there.” Doriann figured if she was going to lie, she might as well go all out, as Grandpa would say.
Deb seemed to space out. She blinked, gave Doriann a confused look, closed her eyes as if the day was too bright.
Yep. Meth.
“It sounds like a good place to hide until the heat’s off. Besides—” Clancy rested his hand on Doriann’s leg “—with little Dori here as a guide, we won’t get lost, will we, darlin’?”
Doriann cringed at his touch. “No, but it’s a bad place.” How am I getting out of this truck?
“She’s gotta go,” Deb said. This time she studied Doriann with a sly look of hidden intention that was scarier than slapping or curse words.
“Not till we’re through with her,” Clancy growled.
Doriann swallowed. Through with her? Through doing what with her? And how was she going to “go,” as Deb said? Did she mean they were going to kill her?
“We’re gonna crash soon if we can’t get some stuff,” Deb said. “What are we gonna do with her then? I’m telling you, Clancy, she can’t be here.”
“Wait a minute, will you?” Clancy’s voice shot through the cab with a force that told Doriann there was more where that came from. Violent killer.
And they were talking about what to do with her? She was sorry she’d said anything. Why couldn’t she have kept her mouth shut?
“We’ll tie her up or lock her in one of those old buildings she’s jabbering about,” he said.
“That’s stupid,” Deb said. “She could get away and we could wake up in jail. Just dump her and leave. And slow the truck down! What if there’s a speed trap? These backcountry roads are known for traps.”
Doriann felt a flare of hope, but then the speedometer needle dropped.
She couldn’t depend on a traffic cop to notice Clancy’s reckless driving and rescue her. She was going to have to think of some way to save herself.
Chapter Five
T yrell Mercer stood frozen as the love of his life looked up at him with tender concern, touching his arm with her warm hands. Jama’s expressive blue-green eyes were dark and troubled.
“Is it a heart attack?” he asked.
“Not exactly.” She described the morning episode, and he heard the hesitation in her voice. For the second time in three weeks, he wished he didn’t know her so well. And he wished she would look into his eyes more often instead of just past his left shoulder or at the ceiling or out the front window.
“How bad is this tear you’re talking about?”
“No way of knowing,” she said. “I’m not even sure that’s what it is. Marty mentioned a sensation of ripping in his chest, and his left leg is weaker than his right.”
“He’s had weakness since his stroke.”
She hesitated, then her gaze met his straight-on. He didn’t like the look of alarm that flashed in her eyes, and as quickly disappeared. “Monty’s never had a stroke.”
“It happened right after…” It was his turn to hesitate. “Dad had a small stroke four and a half years ago, a few weeks after Amy’s funeral.” Just saying the words brought back the horrible grief of his sister’s death. He saw it affected Jama, as well. Of course it did. Amy had been Jama’s best friend…her foster sister. The whole family knew Jama had never recovered.
“The rest of us had already returned to our homes and jobs,” he told her. “Mom and Dad decided not to burden us with it. I only found out about it this year.”
He saw Jama’s eyes darken further, and he fought down his own rush of anxiety. Calm. Stay calm. But he knew from her response that, for some reason, Dad’s stroke could somehow complicate everything. He just didn’t know how.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” she asked.
“You know Dad. Never wants anyone to worry, just like today, I’m sure. What’s the significance?”
She closed her eyes briefly.
“Jama?”
She looked up then, and he could see that she was mentally adjusting her expression for him. It was in this brief change—this infinitesimal moment—that he saw the flash of loss and longing in the depth of her eyes.
“As I said, that tear he felt in his chest is classic for dissecting aortic aneurysm.” Professional again, she looked away, speaking with calm authority. “That means there’s bleeding that could get worse with blood thinners.”
“That’s why you couldn’t treat him for a heart attack?”
“Exactly. But one symptom I was using to help me make the tentative diagnosis, since I had no capacity for any other kind of test, was the weakness of that leg. This is often a symptom of the condition I suspected. With no X-ray tech available, I couldn’t know for sure.” She sought Tyrell’s gaze again.
“Explain a little more, sweetheart.” The endearment slipped out, and he didn’t care. “All of it. You’re scaring the bejeebers out of me, so the plain truth can’t be any worse.” Jama had finished second in her med-school class. He trusted her judgment, because he admired her intelligence and her logic. But when that judgment came without complete knowledge of the facts, it could be faulty.
“This shouldn’t be happening,” she said. “Monty’s too active and healthy for heart trouble, and so that’s the knowledge on which I based my decision not to treat. I didn’t know about the stroke. If this isn’t what I’ve suspected, and if this really is an MI, then there could be further damage to his heart because of the delay in treatment.”
“So it’s up to you to decide, based strictly on your medical judgment.”
“That’s right.”
Jama shouldn’t be forced to make life-and-death decisions about someone