Time seemed to stand still as, not far away, Allie heard an engine start. The shooter was escaping. She didn't even try to follow. She'd never be able to catch him. But that wasn't what kept her rooted to the spot. It was the sickening realization that someone had just taken a shot at Clay.
And she'd heard him fall.
The pungent smell of wet earth filled Clay's nostrils as he lay on the ground, blinking against the rain falling into his face. What had happened? One moment, he'd been searching frantically for Allie. The next, he'd heard a gunshot and something--presumably a bullet--had knocked him off his feet.
Had someone taken a shot at him? As surreal as that seemed, it was the only explanation.
He wanted to believe the gunshot was a freak accident, but then he remembered Allie yelling, trying to warn him.
What was going on? He remembered the shattered window in Allie's car. She wasn't safe.
He had to get up.
But his arm...
Muffling a groan, he tried to see what was wrong with it. It ached and burned. His head hurt, too. But he had to reach Allie somehow. The person who'd shot him could be after her.
"Allie?" he called. Except he was pretty sure her name didn't actually leave his lips. He was yelling, but only inside his head.
"Clay? Answer me if you can. Please! Clay? Help me find you."
She was the one who was calling. She was pleading with him, searching for him, but he couldn't seem to respond. Why?
The beam of a flashlight swept through the trees. She was coming toward him.
He cursed the target her light made. She had to turn it off, run, hide....
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to clear his muddled brain. Had he blacked out when he hit the ground? "Allie, get out of here," he said. The words were a mere croak, but at least this time he heard his own voice and, when he redoubled his efforts, he was able to yell louder. "Get out of here! Do you hear? Go!"
"Clay!" she cried, breaking into a run.
"Not this way!" he yelled. Slowly, his faculties were returning. He clambered into a sitting position and used the tree to pull himself to his feet. Dizziness nearly overwhelmed him, but he fought it back. She wasn't listening, dammit. She was hurrying toward him.
"Allie--" he started. But then she was there, helping to support his weight while she shone her flashlight, examining him closely.
"Are you hurt?"
He wanted to shield her, in case another bullet came from the same direction. But he didn't have his accustomed mobility. He wasn't even sure he'd still be standing without her. "My arm."
The beam of her flashlight rose, and he heard her gasp. She'd spotted the warm, sticky blood he'd felt soaking into his clothes. But when she spoke, her cop instincts seemed to take control because she sounded quite calm. "It doesn't look too bad."
He knew she was saying it for his benefit, but he had bigger concerns on his mind right now. Like getting shot again. Or seeing Allie shot. "Whoever did it could still be out there--"
"No, I heard him go. We've got to get you to the cabin," she said urgently.
"The cabin?" he said. "Let's get the hell out of here."
"We can't," she told him. "We don't have a vehicle."
As soon as Allie got Clay out of the rain, she helped him strip off his wet clothes. She was afraid he'd go into shock if she didn't get him warm. He was soaked clear through, and his pupils were dilated.
"Do you have a cell phone?" she asked.
"No."
Great. "That's okay. You're going to be fine," she said over and over. She wasn't sure who she was trying to convince, him or herself; she didn't feel nearly as confident as she tried to appear.
Before she joined the cold case unit in Chicago, she'd responded to calls that involved some serious wounds, but she'd never come across a victim she couldn't immediately rush--or have rushed--to the hospital.
In any event, it didn't matter if she sounded a little panicked, because Clay didn't seem to be listening, anyway. Allie got the impression he had to concentrate just to remain conscious.
"Are you in a lot of pain?" she asked.
"No," he said.
She could tell by the grim set of his jaw that he was lying, but decided to play along. "That's good." She pulled the blankets over his naked body then rummaged through the cupboards, searching for anything that might help them.
She located a first-aid kit that was at least fifteen years old. Thankfully, the bottle of ibuprofen she found right afterward was almost new. "Here, have some of these," she said, dropping four pills into his palm. "They might take the edge off."
He swallowed the pills without water and without argument.
"Doesn't look like a big deal," he said, gazing down at his arm.
Bits of dirt and grass clung to the blood smeared on his bicep, and a fresh trickle flowed from a tiny hole in his deltoid.
Was the bullet still inside?
That thought made Allie nauseous, which surprised her. She'd dealt with some gruesome murders, considered herself to have a strong stomach. But this was different. Clay wasn't a stranger.
Allie wiped away the blood with a dish towel, because it was all she had. More blood surged out, so she applied pressure until the bleeding slowed. She could see where the bullet had gone in and--she leaned forward, then sagged onto the bed in relief--where it had come out. It had passed straight through the muscle.
"Don't tell me you're going to faint," he murmured.
"No, I'm just glad we don't have to perform any kind of crude surgery. There's a lovely exit wound on the back of your arm. If it didn't hurt so badly, you could probably turn it far enough to see for yourself."
He winced. "I'll take your word for it."
"I'm getting the bleeding under control."
"Glad to hear it," he muttered.
She tied the dish towel around his arm to keep pressure on the wound. "I'll be right back."
He reached out to stop her, but she stood up too fast. "Where are you going?"
"To the river for water."
"No, I don't want you out there. Get under these blankets before you catch pneumonia."
Allie immediately pictured the body beneath the covers, the body she'd helped undress. She knew Clay was only being practical. They were almost out of dry wood and had to stay warm somehow. The shock to his system was probably making it difficult for him to bring his body temperature up, even though he was dry and covered with blankets. But she should clean his wound first. There was no telling how much bacteria he'd encountered when he fell in the mud.