“You’re nuts. Can the car even start?”
“We’ll find out, won’t we? Get down.”
I tried to slide down farther, but the seat belt pinned me to the back of the seat. I managed to maneuver under the chest belt so it was behind my head. The lap belt was tight across my abdomen, but I could live with it. The deflated air bag covered my legs, but I pulled them up as far as possible. I didn’t want him to shoot my leg. Because I was certain he would start shooting.
Jeff let go of my hand, and I felt even more exposed. He shimmied down farther, too, but not as far. His seat belt was close to his neck, but still across his shoulder. He didn’t move his legs. His foot was hovering over the accelerator.
“Hold on,” he whispered as his hand moved to the ignition and he turned the key.
The engine roared to life, and he slammed his foot on the accelerator. The car shot backward, and I felt as if I was on a roller coaster, my body slamming back against the seat. I had shifted even lower, the seat belt strap across my neck, but I could still see out the front windshield. One of the headlights was out, but the other one illuminated the desert. It was ugly out here, brown with a few tumbleweeds and scattered yuccas.
The gunshots were steady now.
The car swerved around, and we were facing the road again.
“Down, Brett!” Jeff shouted as he put the car into first and we rocketed forward, shots ringing in my ears, barely discernible above the engine’s roar, so much so that I thought the shots might have been my imagination. But then I saw the hole in the windshield. It had just registered when a body came up over the hood, smashed against the windshield, and then rolled off.
I couldn’t discern the hole anymore, because the entire windshield had shattered into a mosaic with the impact of the body.
The car kept going.
I moved up in my seat and stared out my window, looking back to see who it was.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I asked. My voice sounded too loud.
“Call 911,” Jeff barked, the car still rocketing down the road.
I leaned down and grabbed my bag. We were getting close to a traffic light, but Jeff wasn’t slowing down. There were a couple cars waiting at the light.
“Aren’t you going to stop?” I asked.
Jeff didn’t answer, spun the Pontiac around the cars.
It was brighter here, too, the streetlights doing a better job than the one up the road. I turned to confront Jeff about the speed of the car when I saw it.
The gun had blown a hole through more than the windshield.
Blood was pouring out of Jeff’s shoulder.
Chapter 53
I felt myself start to hyperventilate, but I took a couple of deep breaths. I still held my phone, but I hadn’t opened it yet.
“You have to stop, Jeff,” I shouted. “You’re bleeding.”
“We’re going to the hospital. Call the cops. Tell them what happened.”
My hand was shaking as I flipped up the cover on the phone. Instinct made me call Tim.
“What, Brett?” He sounded annoyed.
“Tim,” I said breathlessly, still looking at Jeff’s shoulder. All that blood was making me woozy.
“Talk to him, Brett,” Jeff said sternly, although his voice wasn’t nearly as strong as it should’ve been. “Don’t look at me.”
I closed my eyes.
“What’s going on, Brett?” Tim’s voice echoed through my head.
“It’s Jeff. He’s been shot.” It was all I could concentrate on at the moment.
“Shot? Where?”
“In the desert.”
“Where are you?”
I opened my eyes and looked through the windshield. The shattered glass gave it a sort of magnifying glass appearance. The lights from the strip malls and the gas stations and the apartment complexes glimmered against the broken windshield and bounced back off it in a halo effect. How on earth could Jeff see to drive?
“We’re on the way to the hospital,” I heard myself say, the question about Jeff’s driving still bouncing around in my head like a pinball. “He’s been shot.” I didn’t say he was at the wheel.
“Which hospital?”
There was only one on this road, so I figured that’s where we were heading. “University Medical Center.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Um, Tim? We hit the guy who shot at us. He’s back there-I don’t know-somewhere on the side of West Charleston Boulevard in Summerlin. Near a streetlight that’s out. He forced us off the road. Then he shot at us. Jeff ran him over. We left him there.” I couldn’t stop talking; I didn’t want to stop. I felt as though if I stopped, something even more awful would happen. My hand was still shaking as the phone vibrated against my ear.
“Brett, stay calm.” Tim’s voice was soothing. “Did you recognize the guy who shot at you, the guy you hit?”
“No, I never saw him. Even when he hit the car”-the words got stuck in my throat for a second-“I just saw a body. Not his face. Nothing to recognize.”
“That’s okay; don’t worry about it. I’ll meet you at the hospital. I’ll send someone out to Summerlin. How’s Jeff?”
I looked over at him. He was focused on the road; his hands were holding the steering wheel tight. The blood was spreading, and his breaths were short and shallow.
“He’s okay,” I lied to Tim, then closed the phone.
We were almost at the hospital. We’d run every red light, but, remarkably, we didn’t see any cops. The emergency entrance was up on the next block. I sighed with relief.
Too soon.
As we approached the driveway to the hospital, the car suddenly swerved as Jeff’s arms fell from the wheel.
I braced myself as we slammed into an ambulance. My neck snapped back and hit the headrest.
Security guards, paramedics, and doctors surrounded the car in seconds. Faces peered through the windows. The door opened, letting in a cold gust of air that made me shiver. Jeff was white as a ghost; he looked as though he’d passed out. My heart leaped into my throat as someone tried to pull me from my seat.
“Help him,” I begged, although they were already doing that. Jeff was out of the car; they had him on a gurney; they were rolling him away.
It was only then that I let myself be brought out of the car, unlatching my seat belt, reaching for my bag at my feet. My legs got caught for a second in the air bag before I wrenched them free and stepped out of the car. I felt as though I’d been at sea for days; my knees buckled, and I almost went down. Hands were under my arms, pulling me back up.
A familiar voice asked, “Are you okay?”
I turned my head to see Colin Bixby in his white lab coat, holding me.
I tried for a small smile, but I couldn’t carry it off. “Yes. But Jeff…”
“We’re taking care of him. Don’t worry about him.”
I wanted to worry. “He lost a lot of blood.” I saw it then, on my arm, on my shirt. It had splattered all over me. Bixby was looking at me, wondering whether I’d been shot, too. “I’m okay,” I said, lying again. Sister Mary Eucharista was giving me a pass, though. I asked her to look after Jeff.
“You weren’t shot?” Concern laced Bixby’s words.
“No.”
