“Nikki!”
He was outside, hands grasping the doorframe. Slowly, the tears lessened the pain. His vision returned. The sun was too bright. The glare too sharp. He stumbled up the hill, calling her name, worry hardening to despair. Then he saw her.
She lay on her side, eyes open, her breathing shallow but steady. He kneeled beside her. There was blood. Lots of it. “Stay still,” he said. “Let me look.”
“What happened? Where is he?”
“Don’t worry about him.” He opened her blouse. The entry wound was the size of a penny.
“Your eyes,” she said.
“We’re a pair, the two of us.”
“Who?” she whispered. “Was it Neill?”
Simon was not ready to give voice to his suspicions. He was still figuring the angles, what exactly might be motivating him. “Can you move your hands and legs?”
Nikki lifted her feet, then clenched her fists softly, drawing in the fingers one at a time.
With care, he examined the exit wound on her back. The hole was bigger, flesh torn, bone and ligament visible. If there were a place one could choose to be shot, this was it. High and to the right of the torso, directly below the clavicle, causing serious damage to the shoulder and upper back but avoiding major organs. It was a shot to put down a man, not kill him. Just three inches to the center and it would have been over.
He lifted his head and scanned his surroundings. Here, out in the open, with nothing to protect him, he was an easy target. He saw nothing he shouldn’t, discerned no movement. Coluzzi was gone. And also whoever had shot Nikki, be it Barnaby Neill or parties unknown.
It took thirty minutes to get Nikki into the house and her wound dressed and cared for, if binding it with strips of bedsheets counted. During this time, he’d called emergency services and given their address as the bluff above Le Bilboquet. A helicopter was on its way. To help, he’d tied a blue duvet cover to a broomstick and stuck it on the roof, both wind sock and beacon.
“Go,” she said as he sat on the bed beside her. “Get him.”
“In due time,” he said. “In due time.” He ran a hand over her forehead, brushing away her matted hair.
“You didn’t finish telling me about the letter.”
“It said thank you.” And he told her who had written it and to whom it was addressed.
“I guess that’s pretty serious,” she said. “He was the cowboy, right?”
“That’s him.”
“And he’s dead?”
“Long time ago.”
To Nikki, who hadn’t yet been born when the letter was written, it was ancient history.
Simon squeezed her hand. He thought of Coluzzi’s words about the monsignor. It was hard to feel more enmity toward him than he already did. Anger solved nothing. It was the sense of frustration more than anything that bothered him. He pictured Coluzzi in the gray uniform. Where was he going that he needed an armored car?
He grabbed his phone and punched in a number he knew as well as his own. A booming baritone answered. “Who the hell is this?”
“D’Art, it’s Simon.”
“Riske, that you?” asked D’Artagnan Moore. “Why are you calling on a French number?”
“I’ll explain it to you later. Right now I need your help.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
“I was joking. So this is serious. Are you all right?”
