Читать книгу Texas Gun Smoke - Joanna Wayne - Страница 7

Chapter Two

Sheriff Ed Guerra had called just as Bart was about to follow the ambulance into town. Once Bart gave him the lowdown, the sheriff asked Bart to hang around. Bart couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse.

There was no trace of the sheriff’s usual good humor when he strode over to the crime scene in the steady rain. Bart had already dug his work poncho from the metal toolbox in the bed of his truck, along with an old Western hat that had seen better days. The temperature was supposed to turn a bit cooler following the front that produced the rain, but right now it was still warm and muggy for late October.

Ed adjusted his umbrella as he approached the upside-down car. “Well, don’t this just take the whole biscuit! You can bet there’s a dadgum sight more to this story than meets the eye.”

“I took the liberty of checking in the glove compartment for the registration papers on the car. The vehicle belongs to Margo Kite of New Orleans, Louisiana,” Bart said, handing the document to the sheriff.

Ed held it under the umbrella so it wouldn’t get wet while he adjusted his flashlight to illuminate it. “But you said the driver’s name was Jackie.”

“Jaclyn—at least that’s what she told me, but she could have been lying. She wouldn’t give a last name. I guess the car could have been borrowed.”

“Or stolen,” Ed said. “Approximate age of the injured?”

“Early twenties.”

Ed rubbed his chin. “Not a teenager, then. Was she under the influence?”

“I didn’t smell alcohol on her breath.”

“Stoned?”

“Didn’t appear to be.”

“Pretty?”

“Not bad.”

“I was afraid of that. The pretty ones are always the most trouble.”

“I’ll add that to my list of truths to live by.”

“No, you won’t. You young studs never do. I’ll run a check on the license plate. See what turns up.”

Bart took a better look at the car while the sheriff made his call. It was a late-model Buick Lacrosse in an off-red metallic finish. It would take a skilled body man to put it back in decent shape.

Only the trunk seemed to be relatively undamaged. Bart opened it and pulled out a blue nylon duffel with a slight rip in the side, apparently not as important to Jaclyn as her handbag had been. The only other items in the trunk were the typical spare tire, a few tools and three liter-size diet sodas that would probably spew their contents the second they were opened.

“Car hasn’t been reported as stolen,” the sheriff said as he rejoined a Bart a few minutes later. “Your Jaclyn might have borrowed it from New Orleans Margo.”

“She’s not my Jaclyn, but she did say she was from out of town.”

“Did you get a good look at the car that ran this one off the road?”

“I saw two bright lights coming at me and then a blur of metal as it sped past. New-style headlights, so I’d say it was a late-model car. A full-size sedan, but I can’t give you the make, color or any identifying marks—except that it had to take some serious damage when it collided with the Buick.”

“I’ll have all the area body shops keep a look out for it, but unless the driver’s got peanuts for brains, he won’t take it anywhere near here to have it repaired. And he won’t be driving around Colts Run Cross with the telltale damage.”

“My guess is he’s not from around here,” Bart said. “The locals aren’t given to road rage.”

“I’d have to agree,” Ed said. “More likely this is trouble Jaclyn brought with her from Louisiana. Did she say why she was in the area?”

“No, actually, she said very little. She was woozy at first and then clammed up except for saying that she didn’t need an ambulance.”

“But she left in an ambulance, right?”

Bart nodded. “They were taking her to the hospital in Colts Run Cross.”

“Good. I’ll question her there. You say you don’t think she was seriously injured.”

“She had a blossoming goose egg on the left side of her head next to a wound that oozed blood, but she didn’t appear to have any broken bones or to be in much pain.”

Ed looked back to the car and shook his head. “She’s lucky to walk away from that.”

“Damn lucky.”

“Okeydoke. I’m going to call Hank’s Garage and tell him this is a two-man towing job. Then I’ll shoot some pictures of the car while I’m waiting on Hank. That camera of mine don’t take the sharpest of photos in the dark, but it will have to do. If I wait until morning and this happens to go to trial, some slick city lawyer will say the crime scene was compromised overnight. Humph. Compromised by a bunch of field mice and armadillos.”

“I have Mother’s fancy camera in my truck. She wanted pictures of the reception tonight.”

“Reception, huh? That explains why you’re wading mud in those city-slicker shoes. They’re ruined now anyway, so how about you taking over as crime-scene photographer?”

“I can handle it.” Bart went to his truck for the camera. The duffel was still in his hand, so he tossed that into the backseat of the extended cab. That gave him an even better reason to show up at the hospital. Not that the sheriff couldn’t have taken it with him.

When Bart returned, Ed was on the phone with Hank and aiming his superbright flashlight at the skid marks in the middle of the road.

“Definitely looks intentional,” Ed said when he’d finished with Hank. “Little Miss Jaclyn has some tough enemies or some real mean friends.”

“Looks that way. But she isn’t a ‘miss.’ She was wearing a wedding band.”

“Bingo. When there’s a husband or a boyfriend, I always have a first lead.”

Anger surged inside Bart as he snapped pictures, first of the skid marks and then walking around the car to get views from every angle. He hoped Ed was wrong about the husband being behind this. It was tough to think any man could do this to a woman. But a man who’d sworn to love and cherish Jaclyn…what kind of perverted bastard would he have to be to pull a stunt like this?

“That should do it,” Ed said after Bart had taken a couple dozen shots. “As soon as Hank gets this vehicle righted and on the tow truck, I’m going to the hospital and have a talk with the victim. I’ll keep you posted as to how this turns out.”

Bart nodded and said his goodbyes without mentioning that he planned to stop by the hospital as well. He didn’t want to have to explain his reason for doing so, mainly because he didn’t really understand it himself.

He climbed behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition and pulled onto the highway. Five minutes later he reached the gate to Jack’s Bluff. He could turn in and forget all about no-last-name Jaclyn just as she’d told him to do. But whatever she was into, whether her husband was behind her trouble or not, she definitely could use a friend with a broad shoulder to lean on tonight.

His shoulders had nothing better to do.

BART HAD BEEN AT THE hospital for over an hour before Dr. Cane—a tall, lanky fellow with unruly shocks of bright red hair and horn-rimmed glasses—finally came to the emergency waiting room to give him an update. “The patient is seriously disoriented and experiencing traumatic amnesia, probably caused by swelling near the brain.”

Bart stared at Dr. Cane. “Are we talking about the same woman? The one involved in the car wreck less than two hours ago?”

“That’s the one. The ambulance driver said you gave her name as Jaclyn, but she’s not responding to that now. She has no knowledge of who she is or how she got here.”

“Did you look in her handbag for identification?”

“Two of the nurses searched the purse and wallet thoroughly. There was no driver’s license or any other form of identification.” Dr. Cane scratched his whiskered chin. “How did she seem when you were with her?”

“She was a tad woozy when I pulled her out of the car,” Bart admitted, “but she was responsive. We carried on a conversation of sorts.”

“That would be consistent with the diagnosis of transient amnesia due to trauma. The increased swelling from the time of the wreck until the present has interfered with memory functions. This is unusual but not unheard of, even with a minor concussion such as the patient has.”

“How long do you expect the amnesia to continue?”

“Just until the swelling is reduced. She could be functioning normally in a few hours or it could last as long as a couple of days. It would be extremely rare for it to continue for more than forty-eight hours but not impossible.”

There was no reason not to believe Dr. Cane’s diagnosis, but still Bart had a hard time buying it. “Do you think she could be faking the amnesia?”

“That’s always a possibility.”

And with Jaclyn, Bart considered it more than a possibility. There were just too many things that didn’t add up, like what a Louisiana girl was doing on a dark Texas road alone so late at night. And more bizarre, why had some homicidal crackpot decided to run her off the road for no apparent reason?

Dr. Cane pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “We’re keeping her overnight for observation, longer if necessary. I’ll consult with a neurologist tomorrow, but if her condition worsens or continues past forty-eight hours, we’ll move her to a facility in Houston.”

“Can I see the patient?”

“I don’t see why not. Since you’re the last one she spoke to before the onset of amnesia symptoms, seeing you might trigger a memory. But don’t tire her out or upset her. The sheriff called and he’s on his way to the hospital to question her about the wreck. He was just waiting for us to finish the examination and assign her to a room. She’s in 224.”

Bart thanked the doctor for the info and took the stairs to the second floor.

“What brings you out on such a rainy night?”

He stared at the nurse who’d spoken, a girl he’d graduated with from Colts Run Cross High School. No longer a girl, she was pregnant—and from the looks of the bulge, ready to deliver most any day.

“Hi, Cindy. I didn’t know you were working here.”

“Yeah, for just over a year. I worked in Houston for a while, but when I got married we decided to move back here. I married Bud Johnson. You remember him. He was a couple of years ahead of us.”

“I remember.” And he really didn’t want to make small talk tonight. “I’m here to see the patient who was admitted tonight with a concussion.”

“Oh, the mystery woman. How do you know her?”

“I don’t. I just came up on the car wreck after it happened.”

“Then you must be the one who called for the ambulance. She doesn’t remember any of that.”

“So I heard.” Bart held up the duffel. “I got this from her car and thought she might need it.”

“Did you check it for ID?”

“No.” He hadn’t realized he’d need to until a few minutes ago.

“You can let her check it. She’s awake. Room 224. But if the two of you find out who she is, we could sure use that information for her records.”

“You got it.” He stopped at the door and tapped lightly.

The whispered, “Come in,” was so faint he could barely make it out.

He stepped inside. Jaclyn’s light blue hospital gown fell off one slender shoulder as she rose to her elbows. She jerked it back in place, then stared at him blankly, either not recognizing him or doing a good job of faking it.

“Hello, Jaclyn. I brought you this,” he said, swinging the duffel onto the foot of the bed. “It was in the trunk of your car. I thought you might need it.”

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Bart Collingsworth, but we’ve met before. I pulled you from the overturned vehicle earlier tonight.”

“Then I should thank you, though I don’t remember it. I don’t even remember my name, but Dr. Cane says the fog will clear up quickly.”

“Do you want me to go through your duffel and see if there’s any identification in there?”

She stiffened and then shrank back into the blue gown that fit like a loose sheet. “If you’ll hand it to me, I can do that for myself.”

He handed it to her—and was exceedingly glad he had when she pulled out a pair of white lacy panties and a matching bra. She tossed them onto the bed without notice, working her way through a pair of jeans and two long-sleeved cotton shirts.

“There’s nothing here that helps,” she said.

“Someone ran you off the road. Does that help?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What about the name Margo Kite?”

“No.”

She answered quickly, but not before he noted an impulsive wince. “If you’re afraid of someone, Jaclyn, the sheriff can make sure you’re protected.”

“I’m not afraid.”

He wasn’t convinced. In fact, he was almost certain it was fear or apprehension that shadowed her slate-colored eyes. “Do you want me to stay with you until morning?”

“No. Why would I? I don’t know you.”

“Just an offer. I’ll get out of here and let you rest, but if you change your mind about wanting company or if you need anything, you can have the pregnant nurse named Cindy give me a call. She knows how to get in touch with me.”

But Jaclyn had turned away and was staring at the wall. He backed out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him. He still wasn’t convinced she had transient or any other kind of amnesia, but whatever she was into, she didn’t want his help. That was good enough reason to get the devil out of here and get some sleep himself. He had a busy day tomorrow. Still, his heart twisted a little when he looked back and saw how lost she looked in the formless hospital gown.

The pretty ones are the most trouble. Definitely a truism worth remembering.

JACLYN HEARD THE DOOR shut behind Bart and fought the unexpected but excruciating ache to call out to the cowboy with the quick humor and mesmerizing smile. She wouldn’t let herself make that mistake, not when she knew his offer of help would be about as lasting as this little show she was putting on. As soon as he found out who she really was he wouldn’t be able to get away from her fast enough.

He’d know already—they all would—if she hadn’t gotten to her driver’s license first. She’d taken it out of her handbag while she’d been waiting to see the doctor and hidden it beneath the folds of the bloodstained blouse she’d been wearing at the wreck.

So the hero cowboy could just go back to his bunkhouse and forget all about her.

Still, Bart Collingsworth had a way about him. Too bad that trusting anyone at this point could be a deadly mistake.