Chapter 2
Laurel paced back and forth in the hospital emergency waiting room, her shoulder aching and her suit jacket crumpled into a ball on a leather chair.
The shooting had hit the news, and her mother had already phoned her from an island in the middle of the Caribbean.
Laurel had strongly supported Deidre in taking a month on a sunny cruise with her new beau, Fish and Wildlife captain Monty Buckley, who was healing after successful cancer treatments.
Having them both out of town while Abigail’s legal proceedings continued was just a blessing. Period.
The outside glass doors opened and Viv Vuittron hustled inside, her wet tennis shoes squeaking on the tile. “Laurel?”
Laurel moved toward the girl. She was the eldest of the three of the Vuittron girls, whose mom, Kate, ran the local FBI office. “Viv? Are you back from softball camp already?” Time seemed to be flying.
“Yeah. I got back last night.”
Wasn’t today a teacher’s work day? The girl should be sleeping. “What are you doing here?”
The girl pushed blond hair over her shoulder, her blue eyes wide. “I was on my way to my internship at Oakridge since there’s no school today, and I heard about the shooting. The local news named you and said you’d headed to the hospital.” She rushed Laurel into a fierce hug. “I was worried.”
Laurel returned the hug and stepped back. “I’m fine, honey. The bullet hit Abigail, and I’m waiting to hear about her.”
Viv exhaled slowly. “Okay. Good.” She looked around the vacant waiting room. “Since you’re here, I was wondering if you’d help me?”
“Always.” Laurel focused more fully on the sixteen-year-old. “What do you need?”
Viv flushed. “My friend Larry died a week ago. The Seattle police are saying it was a suicide, but he didn’t seem like he’d do that. He was always happy.”
Laurel paused. “I didn’t hear anything about one of your friends dying.” Kate would’ve told her.
Viv stuck her hands in her light blue raincoat. “He’s not from here. He’s just a buddy who lives in Seattle named Larry Scott. I tried to talk to the Seattle detective, and she wasn’t very nice. Would you please just call her?”
Just then, FBI agent Walter Smudgeon ran inside, his eyes wide. “Are you okay?” He skidded to a stop and touched Laurel’s shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said.
“You’re bleeding.”
She jolted and looked down at her torn blouse. It was white with tiny yellow tulips and had softened the blue suit, or so her mother had said when she’d gifted it to Laurel. “Oh, I’m fine. That’s from hitting the ground.” She rolled her shoulder and looked carefully. It was just a scrape.
He took a deep breath. “Okay, good. Hey, Viv. What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Walter.” Viv glanced at the wall clock. “Crap. I have to get to my internship. We’re seeing what yeast does to various materials today. Thanks for helping, Laurel.” She patted Laurel’s arm and jogged out of the hospital.
Laurel watched her go. Apparently she’d be making calls to the Seattle police department later today.
“What was that about?” Walter asked.
“She lost a friend.” Laurel looked at her partner from the specialized FBI office she’d opened in the small town.
Walter had been shot months ago and yet appeared better than ever.
He had lost weight and today wore jeans, a green T-shirt, and an overcoat.
His belt appeared new, as did his shoes.
Even his hair had thickened, noticeably so, and taken on a deeper, warmer shade, several degrees removed from its prior silvering.
She suspected one of those color-depositing shampoos designed to mask age with just enough plausibility to escape casual scrutiny.
“You appear markedly improved,” she said.
His eyebrows rose over his brown eyes. “You’re saying I look good?” Wasn’t that exactly what she’d just said? “Yes.”
“Thanks. I’ve been making an effort at it.” He gently took her elbow and led her over to the seats. “How about we take a load off, boss?”
“Sure.” She sat.
He sat next to her and patted her hand. “I think you might be in shock.”
She looked at him, her mind spinning. “I suppose it’s possible. We were fired upon, and Huck slammed me into the marble steps with enough force to leave a mark, but I retained motor coordination, made rational decisions, and drove myself here. That doesn’t align with clinical shock.”
Walter winced. “You sure driving here was a good idea?”
“Perhaps not.”
He looked around. “Speaking of Huck, where is he?”
“The captain remained at the scene,” she said.
Her vision wavered unexpectedly in an involuntary neurological response, most likely from fatigue or residual adrenaline.
She gave her head a brief shake just as her phone buzzed.
She retrieved it from her pocket with slightly uncoordinated fingers and lifted it to her ear. “Agent Snow.”
“Hey, it’s Huck. I’m checking on you. How are you feeling?”
“I’m functional,” she said.
He snorted. “That you are, Snow. However, you hit the ground pretty hard. Sorry about that. I heard the shot and just reacted.”
“I’m perfectly unharmed. Was anyone else hit?” So far there hadn’t been anybody else brought in by ambulance, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have a body or two. She’d hurried away from the scene so quickly she hadn’t taken stock. She thought most people were okay.
“Nope, just Abigail.”
Laurel ran through the scene in her head. “Did anybody see the shooter?”
“No. The shot came from a distance.”
She sat back in the chair. “You think we have a sniper?”
“I’m exploring that now. I just wanted to check on you. You sure you’re good?”
“Yes,” she repeated. “I’m fine. Walter’s here with me. You must have been the one who notified him.”
“Of course I called him. He’s your partner.” Huck added, “Well, when I’m not.”
She couldn’t be certain, but it sounded like there was a slight smile in the captain’s voice. “Yes. You’re both good partners.”
His chuckle finally grounded her. Then the sound halted. “How’s Abigail?”
“No update yet,” Laurel said. “I’m waiting for the doctor to come out.” The nurse had provided only a minimal data point in that Abigail had arrived alive.
“All right. Norrs is here breathing down my neck. As soon as you get an update, call it in.”
“Okay, I will.” She ended the call. It struck her as mildly unexpected that Agent Norrs hadn’t accompanied Abigail to the hospital. But once he confirmed that Laurel would cover that front, he’d redirected his focus to locating the shooter. From one agent to another, she could respect the calculus.
A doctor emerged from the back wearing light green scrubs. He slowly pulled off his cap.
Laurel stood, along with Walter. “Doctor, hi.”
He moved forward. “Are you family?”
Laurel bit back a wince. “I’m FBI Special Agent Laurel Snow, and this is Agent Smudgeon. The gunshot victim is my sister. Rather, my half sister,” she amended.
“Dr. Bodie,” he said. He looked to be in his early thirties with light green eyes and thick black hair. “Your sister’s going to be all right and has already been moved to a room.”
Laurel blinked, processing. “That’s the entirety of your update?”
He smiled. “Yeah. She was wearing a bulletproof vest.”
She glanced at Walter, then returned her focus to the doctor. “She was wearing a ballistic vest?”
“Yes. Saved her life. Even so, the bullet nicked the vest and her arm. You can go back and see her now if you want.”
Laurel tried to get her bearings.
“Go ahead, boss. I’ll wait here,” Walter said.
Laurel hesitated and then followed the doctor through the county hospital until they reached patient room 212. She took a deep breath and walked inside.
“Why, Laurel. How nice of you to come see me,” Abigail said, her tone slurred.
Laurel moved forward to see her sister in the bed with a bandage across her upper arm.
The room was dim and too warm, the lights set low to keep things calm. Pale green walls dulled the brightness of the late-morning light trying to push through the slats of the half-closed blinds. A faint scent of antiseptic clung to the air, mixed with something floral and artificial.
The machinery next to the bed made soft, rhythmic sounds, with a blood pressure cuff deflating every few minutes and a heart monitor pulsing steadily in the background. Abigail lay nestled under a thin blanket, one arm tucked awkwardly at her side, her IV line taped neatly into place.
“Why exactly were you wearing a ballistic vest?” Laurel lowered herself into the chair.
Abigail looked like the true wounded heroine in the hospital bed, her thick, reddish-brown hair spread across the pillow, her eyes slightly dulled by medication.
“Wayne insisted upon it. Can you believe it? I thought it was the dumbest thing ever. I just put it on to appease him. To appear agreeable.”
Laurel raised a brow. “To manipulate him?”
“No, to ease his mind. The same as I’m sure you do for the Huckalicious every single day.”
“Excuse me?” Laurel said, momentarily unable to follow the thread. Perhaps she had hit her head.
Abigail smiled, catlike. “Oh, come on. You take precautions with the captain around. He always drives you. You always wear your seat belt. He makes sure you’re safely in the vehicle before he drives away. All that kind of crap.”
“That’s just the captain being the captain,” Laurel said.
“And I guess that’s just Norrs being Norrs.”
Laurel had to concede that point. “Why did Agent Norrs think you needed a vest in the first place?”
“I thought it was an absurd idea,” Abigail muttered. “I’ve received a couple of anonymous death threats I figured were purely melodramatic.”
Laurel tilted her head to the side. “Excuse me?”
“Yes, a couple of death threats. I assumed they were from some of those unhinged church loyalists.” She paused, paling. “I surmise Wayne was correct. Somebody shot me. Someone from the congregation?”