Dead Hunt

‘‘Can you turn and let me see the exit wound?’’ she said.

Even with both of them trying, she couldn’t get his coat moved so that she could see the wound.

‘‘I think it’s a through shot,’’ she said to him. ‘‘From the placement, I don’t think it hit your shoulder girdle,’’ she said. ‘‘Wiggle your fingers.’’

She watched as he obeyed her.

‘‘Can you move your shoulder?’’ she asked.

He shrugged and moved it back and forth. ‘‘Hurts like hell,’’ he said.

‘‘Doesn’t seem to have broken any bones,’’ she said. ‘‘That’s good.’’

She felt a wave of nausea sweep over her.

‘‘You sick?’’ he whispered.

‘‘I’m fine. How about you?’’ she asked.

‘‘I’m a good sailor,’’ he said. ‘‘No nausea. Just a bullet hole in me. I’m sorry . . . we should have stayed in Beaufort.’’

‘‘I’m not sure what happened. Was he following us all this time?’’ she asked.

‘‘I don’t know,’’ he said.

She needed to bandage his wound. What with? She would use her jacket, but she couldn’t get it off. She looked around the van. There were plastic grocery sacks. She emptied them onto the floor. Nothing useful, no paper towels, just cakes, nuts and fruit. Just the snacks. Okay. She stuffed the nuts and a couple of bananas in her pocket.

It was then she realized she felt her cell phone in the front inside pocket of her jacket. Why didn’t he take it? He must have felt for weapons and would know it was there. He took Kingsley’s Beretta. Why didn’t he take the phone? Because he didn’t need to. No towers, no signal—no service.

She had an idea about the phone. Not one that would get them out of the immediate situation, but one that might help in the long run.

Okay, think. She ignored the throbbing in her head and the queasiness of her stomach and tried to look at all the resources they had.

‘‘How do you feel?’’ she asked.

‘‘All right, considering,’’ he said, smiling.

She scrambled down to his feet and took off his shoes and socks. She took the time to put the shoes back on before she continued. She didn’t want to take the chance that the kid would suddenly decide to dump them somewhere and Kingsley would be without shoes.

‘‘What are you doing?’’ Kingsley whispered.

‘‘Your socks are the only thing I can get at right now to dress your wound,’’ she said.

‘‘You know, I don’t really like the sound of that,’’ he said. ‘‘My socks?’’

Diane smiled briefly. At least he was alert and not focused too much on pain. She thought it was a good sign. She folded one of the socks and put it next to the wound. She folded the other one.

‘‘I’m going to have to try and scoot my hands up your jacket and shirt to put this in place,’’ she said. She rolled him over.

I’m an idiot, she thought. Letting myself get in a situation like this. I should have my PhD revoked. Then, Keep alert. Forget about the pain in your head. While he was on his stomach, she untied his ropes.

‘‘I’m watching you,’’ said the kid.

She looked up front. He had popped his head inside the window and was pointing a gun at her.

Diane froze. ‘‘I know,’’ she said with all the calm she could muster, ‘‘but I have to dress his wounds. He’s too injured to do anything. If he dies, you are going to be in a great deal of trouble. I think you know that. And I am still tied up and you still have two guns.’’

‘‘Tie him back up when you finish. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you too. Then where will you be? I’ll tell you where, in the water, that’s where, feeding the fishes.’’ He laughed as if he had just told a terribly funny joke.

‘‘I understand. Just let me tend his wound and I’ll tie him back up,’’ she said. God, he’s a little maniac, unpredictable and with a temper, thought Diane. Her hands shook as she reached for Kingsley’s jacket. Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, she kept telling herself.

‘‘You’d better. Remember, I’m watching,’’ he said, grinning at her and pretended to shoot, mimicking an explosion noise before he disappeared from the window.

The ferry rocked back and forth on the water and Diane felt sick. She concentrated on breathing evenly.

Kingsley helped her take off his jacket and shirt, wincing at the effort. Blood was running from the entrance and exit wounds, but they were small and Kingsley could move his arms and shoulders. It was painful, but it was possible. She used strips of his shirt to fashion bandages. She put his jacket back on. She untied and retied his feet, then she tied his hands in front of him.

‘‘I’ve tucked the end of the rope under the loops here where it’s hidden,’’ she said, her mouth close to his ear. ‘‘If he checks your hands, he’ll see that the ropes are tight. But if you pull on this loop here, free the rope and pull on it, it will come undone,’’ she whispered.

‘‘That’s right, you know your knots.’’ He grinned.