Elizabeth Lowell - Blue Smoke and Murder

“We just got an alert from the alarm company at Garland Frost’s address. Police units are on the way. Name and age of the victim?”

“Garland Frost, over seventy.”

“Your name, please.”

“Just get here,” Jill said curtly. “I’ll fill out forms later.”

Without hanging up, she set the phone aside and concentrated on Frost. His eyes were open, glittering with reflected flame. His jaws were clenched against pain.

“Garland,” she said in a clear voice as she ripped away his shirt. “Can you hear me?”

His head moved and his eyes focused on her for a few seconds. His mouth opened, but all that came out was a groan. His eyes closed and his body went slack.

One look at his wound told Jill that it was beyond her training. All she could do now was try to keep him from going into shock.

“Garland,” she said calmly, clearly. “You have to help me. Stay with me here. Look at me.”

She stroked his cheek. When he didn’t respond, she pinched firmly. His eyes opened and focused on her again.

“Do you hurt anywhere except your side?” she asked.

His head rolled to one side, then the other in a slow negative.

Relief swept through her. Spinal cord isn’t injured. Thank God.

“Sh-shot,” he said.

“I know. Help is on the way.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. She devoutly hoped they were heading for Frost’s house.

A gout of flame shot from the rear window of the car. If the gas tank blew, Frost would be right in the line of fire.

“Garland, I have to drag you farther inside. It will hurt. I’m sorry. I don’t have any choice.”

She hurried past him deeper into the house, picked up the far end of the tribal rug, and increased the pressure on it until the rug began inching away from the door.

Slowly, she told herself. Don’t make the injury worse. Gas tanks only explode in the movies.

Bullshit. They explode whenever the conditions are right.

And only the gas tank knew when that would be.

Frost might have been in his seventies, but there was nothing fragile or birdlike about him. He was a solid weight on the rug. Jill’s bare feet gripped the tiles as she eased backward. The phone came along with Frost. She wondered rather wildly if the blood dripping on it would short out something vital.

It seemed like forever, but it was only a few seconds before she had Frost safely down the hall. She ran for the front door and slammed it shut. Then she went back to Frost. He was sliding in and out of consciousness.

“Stay with me, Garland,” she said firmly, picking up the phone. “Stay with me!” Ignoring the blood, she tucked the phone between her ear and her shoulder and felt for Frost’s pulse. Still there.

He groaned weakly.

“My name is Jillian Breck,” she said into the phone. “The patient is in and out of consciousness.”

As she spoke, she stood and hurried to the small, old-fashioned parlor off the hall. She grabbed two fat sofa cushions and the decorative Navajo blanket that covered the back of the couch.

“Stand by one,” the dispatcher said to Jill. “Med-techs are on the way.”

As Jill returned to Frost, she heard the operator dispatching additional units and relaying information over a radio, warning the officers that one of the residents of the house was armed.

“Ma’am, tell the resident to put down his gun,” the dispatcher said.

“I can’t reach him and he wouldn’t put the gun down anyway because someone is shooting at him. Whoever it is must be using a silencer, because I only heard one gun.”

“There’s a police unit less than a minute away,” the dispatcher said. “Describe the good guy for me.”

“He’s barefoot without a shirt,” Jill said as she elevated Garland’s feet on the stacked cushions and wrapped the wool blanket around him. “Wearing jeans. Name is Zach Balfour. Over six feet, dark hair, built like rodeo rider.” She kept as much pressure on the wound as she dared, hoping to slow the bleeding. “I have no idea what the other shooter looks like.”

Jill heard Zach’s voice calling her.

“In the hall,” she yelled, covering the phone. “Police are on the way. You’re supposed to put down the gun.”

The front door opened and closed quickly.

“Might as well,” Zach said, disgusted. “I’m out of bullets. Frost’s old hog leg is big on noise and short on ammo.”

“The resident is no longer armed,” Jill said distinctly to the dispatcher. “Do you understand? Not armed.”

“Copy. I’ll tell the officers.”

Sirens screamed closer.

When Jill looked up, the long, narrow windows on either side of the door framed Zach in the glowing, dancing reflection of flames.

“Do you think the gas tank will go?” she asked.

“Depends on how soon the fire truck gets here. How’s Frost?”

“Alive.”

Zach didn’t ask any other questions. The strain in her voice said more than her words.

“When will the ambulance be here?” Jill asked the operator. “The patient is in shock. We don’t have much time.”

“Are you a doctor?” the dispatcher asked.

“I’m a professional river guide. I’ve been trained as a first responder.”

“Tell them to send the fire truck to the front gate,” Zach said, his voice loud enough to carry to the dispatcher. “That gas tank could blow any second. There’s a pedestrian gate on the north side. It will be shielded from any blast. Send the med-techs in that way.”

“Copy,” the dispatcher said. “Gate, north side. Fire truck is less than a mile away. Police officers and med-techs will use north entrance.”

“Last I saw of the shooter he was running south,” Zach said. “I thought I heard a vehicle start up, but can’t be certain. I didn’t see any taillights or headlights.”

“Copy,” the dispatcher said. “Will inform the officers.”

Zach put the revolver on the hall stand and looked at Jill. “I’ll go open the north gate. Be back in less than a minute.”

“Bring more blankets. What happened to the shooter?”

“I’m pretty sure I winged him, but he still flew. He’s gone.”

And then Zach was gone, too, running through the house barefoot, making no sound.

TAOS

SEPTEMBER 16

1:18 A.M.

One police unit stood off from the front gate and down the block. The siren was silent, but the blue-and-red light bar flashed a message of urgency. An officer with a bullhorn sent curious neighbors back inside their houses the instant they appeared.

A fire truck’s big diesel engine revved as the driver switched power to the internal pumps. Behind a starburst of water from the hose, two firemen in turnout jackets and helmets advanced on the burning car. Water hissed on hot steel and vaporized, adding white steam to the roiling black smoke. Another fireman dashed forward with an axe and swung, shattering the safety glass in the side windows.

The flames began to die back, quenched by water. Very quickly the rental car became a sullen, hissing wreck. The air stank of chemicals and steam. Part of the fire still smoldered stubbornly.

Jill heard Zach leading med-techs through the house at a run. Since she had been working by the dying firelight, she flipped on the hall lights. Without the flames to give his skin color, Frost looked almost transparent. She stood and got out of the way of the med-techs.

The first tech, a woman, kneeled beside Frost to examine him. The second tech established a radio link with the hospital and began relaying vital signs as the first tech called them out.

For an instant Jill felt light-headed. Smoke, adrenaline, fear, or all three. Zach’s arm came around her waist, steadying her.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Just taking a deep breath.”

“You’ve got blood on you.”

She looked at her hands and rubbed them absently against her jeans. “Frost has a lot more on him.”

Zach led her down the hall and into the parlor. “The cops who are chasing the shooter will give up real quick and come back here to question us. If they’re any good, they’ll separate us to get our stories.”

“So?”

“Tell them everything except what we believe about your paintings,” he said softly. “We were just getting an appraisal from Frost. Got it? Just an appraisal. No St. Kilda, no death threat, no suspicions about your great-aunt’s death, nothing but paintings and an expert appraiser.”

A woman’s voice called from the hall, “Are either of you this man’s family?”

Zach went back into the hall. “He has a daughter in Santa Fe, last I heard. I’m an old friend. What do you need?”

“The patient is weak, but he wants to talk to you,” the woman said. “Better do it before we move him.”

Zach understood what the woman wasn’t saying. This could be his last chance to talk to Garland Frost.

As Jill came out to the hall, she saw Zach kneel at Frost’s side. The older man reached out with a feeble motion. An oxygen cannula rested beneath his nose and partially covered his mouth. His lips were moving.

Zach took the shockingly cool fingers between his warm palms. He leaned over and placed his ear close to Frost’s mouth.

“…stn…um…nt…on…tm.”

Frost repeated the sounds again and again. His hand twitched inside Zach’s palms.

Zach felt Frost’s thumb poke at him weakly. He released Frost’s hand. The older man’s hand shook as he thrust his thumb up beneath Zach’s nose.

“Are you saying you’re okay?” Zach asked.

Frost’s head rolled in a negative. He mouthed a word.

“More oxygen?” Jill guessed.

Again the painful negative movement of his head. Groaning, he jabbed upward with his thumb, staring into Zach’s eyes like he wanted Zach to read his mind.

Suddenly Frost went slack.

“No,” breathed Zach. “Damn it, no!”

He put his fingers over Frost’s jugular and felt a pulse. Weak, but it was there.

“Get him to the hospital,” Zach said to the med-tech. “Now.”

No sooner had he spoken than the second med-tech called out to the firemen. Two men leaped for the truck and ran toward the house, litter basket at the ready. They loaded Frost aboard and took him past the ruined car to the ambulance.

“We’ll go to Holy Cross Hospital,” the female med-tech said. “If you can find the daughter, tell her to get over there quick.”

Zach’s lips flattened with what hadn’t been said. “I’ll do that.”

“We’d like to ask a few questions about this shooting,” said a cop as he walked in the open front door.

“Talk to her first,” Zach said, jerking his thumb at Jill. “I’ve got to call the next of kin.”

TAOS

SEPTEMBER 16

2:30 A.M.

Zach started up Frost’s old Travel-All. The engine fired with a smooth rumble. Frost still kept his vehicles in good repair.

“Do you think the cops believed us?” Jill asked.

It was the first time they’d been alone since the guesthouse.

“Close enough,” he said.

“I got real tired of repeating the same answers to the same cop, over and over again.”

“Standard. The cops have a shooting and an arson to solve.” Maybe a murder, too. But, God, I hope not. “A prominent citizen is involved. Until Frost corroborates our story, we’re as close to a suspect as the cops have.”

“Why would we call them if one of us shot Frost?”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

Jill opened her mouth, then closed it with a sigh. “Forget I asked. My brain isn’t in top form.”

He lifted his right hand and ran it down her cheek. “You did fine, Jill. Better than I had a right to expect of a civilian. You kept your head and helped instead of getting in the way.”

“With that and four hundred dollars…” She made a sound that could have been laughter, but probably wasn’t. “Do you think Frost will make it?”

“He’s tough.” Way too much blood. Damn near bled out in the hall. “If they get blood into him quick enough, he’ll be up and swearing in no time.”

“What did his daughter say?”

“She’s on her way. It will be two hours, maybe more.”

Jill watched streetlights slide by either side of the windshield. There were few people out, and fewer still were sober.