Sheriff's Runaway Witness. Kathleen Creighton
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also occurred to him that the habit made a pretty damn good drape.
Still, it wasn’t easy, getting her out of her wet clothes. Especially since she wasn’t able to be of much help. She kept having contractions that doubled her up and seemed to take her off into a place where she wasn’t even aware of him and what he was doing. By the time he had her shoes off—at least they were good quality sensible athletic shoes—and her wet socks, and started tugging on her slacks, he was almost as wet with sweat as she was.
But he got them off, finally, and her underwear, too. And that was when he ran into something unexpected. When he pulled off her underpants, something came with them—an envelope. It was thick and white and addressed by hand, with no stamp or postmark, just some tape around the edges, the kind used to hold bandages in place, the kind that doesn’t irritate the skin.
What the hell? His cop radar was pinging again, this time clear off the scale. A pregnant woman wearing a nun’s habit—some kind of disguise, he now figured—clearly having suffered a fairly recent beating, found walking alone in the middle of the Mojave Desert—what was she doing with an envelope taped to her stomach?
He’d have given a lot to know what was in that envelope, but right now he had more pressing things on his mind.
“J.J.? Are you there?”
“Copy…”
“Ridgecrest wants to know what’s happening, and so do I.” Katie’s voice came tensely from his shoulder.
“Uh…hold on…” He took mental note of the name on the envelope—Rachel Malone Delacorte—and the address, a very pricey part of Beverly Hills, then laid the envelope on top of the pile of shoes and clothing on the floor where they’d be out of the way. Then, hoping his hands weren’t going to shake, he lifted the edge of the habit.
“Uh…okay, looks like the baby’s right there.”
“Ridgecrest says, can you tell if it’s the head.”
“Uh…yeah, seems to be.”
“Okay, Ridgecrest wants to know, which way is it facing—up or down?”
Jeez. “Too soon to tell,” he said tersely. He gulped in air to fight off the beginnings of queasiness and looked over the top of the draped habit. Smiled wretchedly. “Hear that, Rachel? Won’t be much longer now…” Lord, I hope.
“J.J., Ridgecrest says you better get ready. Have you got anything to catch the baby with.”
Catch the baby? Envisioning a giant-sized catcher’s mitt, he felt an absurd impulse to laugh.
“And something to tie off the cord.”
“Copy.” He leaned across the mound of Rachel’s draped knees and said, “I’m just gonna go and get—”
Which was as far as he got before a hand clutched at the front of his shirt, a very small hand with a whole lot of strength to it. “Don’t…leave…me.”
He didn’t know why he did what he did then—he sure didn’t think about it beforehand. He cupped his hand behind her head and kissed her forehead, then pressed his cheek against her wet hair. Under the salty smell of sweat, he caught something sweet and exotic, like tropical flowers.
“I’m not gonna leave you,” he said huskily. “We’re doin’ this together, you and me. I’ve just got to get some things out of the back of the vehicle to help us. Okay?” He pulled back and waited for her to look at him and nod her comprehension, then he kissed her forehead again. “Be right back….”
For a moment then, he stood upright in the bright sunlight, pulling in big gulps of hot desert air, trying to get his bearings. Then he went around to open up the back of the SUV and took out the first aid kit and a blanket. When he got back to Rachel, she was lying back quietly, evidently resting, so he took a moment to open up the first aid kit and check the contents. Scissors…cotton balls, bandages, disinfectant…all good. Even a bulb-thing for suctioning out airways, which he seemed to recall he’d probably need. It was good to know some of what he’d learned in his training days was coming back to him.
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