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That fact had been tucked away in her subconscious. The nightmare had revealed it to her.
The doctor had explained to Sheriff Addison that any account she gave so soon after coming around would be questionable, the sequence of events possibly incorrect. Now she was glad she hadn’t remembered that detail. Before telling anyone, she needed time to process what significance it had, if any.
But she felt it did.
Someone had tried to open the door before the gunshot. She had addressed The Major through the door and said, “I’ll be right out.” There had been no response. Then the gunshot.
Who had been trying to open that door?
Not The Major. He would have responded when she spoke to him, and, besides, why would he have tried the door, knowing that she was using the restroom? Not the would-be killers, who were in the front of the house.
Could an accomplice have been in the back rooms? Perhaps all along? Had he seen her go into the powder room?
Gooseflesh broke out on her arms as one name sprang to mind, the name of the individual who had returned tonight—without the sheriff—demanding to know whom she had seen “out there.”
Trapper.
Chapter 8
The sun was coming up by the time Trapper went to bed, and he slept with one ear attuned to his phone, fearing and half expecting a call from hospital staff. None came. He woke up a little after ten o’clock, efficiently showered and dressed, and grabbed a sausage biscuit at a drive-through on his way to the hospital.
When he stepped off the elevator on the ICU floor, he nearly collided with Hank Addison, Bible in hand.
“Oh,” Trapper drawled. “You must be the lookout, posted to see if I’m respectable enough to be here.”
Hank gave Trapper a disapproving once-over, frowning down at his scuffed boots. “If this is the best you can do…”
“Like I give a fuck.”
Hank hadn’t inherited much from his father’s gene pool. He had a slighter, more compact build than Glenn. He was fair-haired and brown-eyed like his mother, Linda, and had her mild-mannered smile.
Because of the close friendship between their fathers, the two boys had spent a lot of time together during their developmental years. Trapper was the younger, but he’d been the instigator of the general mayhem they created during the vacations and holidays the families spent together. He devised their shenanigans and cajoled Hank into going along.
One saw traces of the mischief-maker in the pastor only on occasion, as now, when he laughed at Trapper’s vulgarity. They shook hands then man-hugged, slapping each other on the back. “We held a prayer breakfast at the church this morning. We didn’t pray nearly hard enough for you.”
“Lost cause,” Trapper said. “But I appreciate the thought. And I apologize for cutting out the other night before even saying hello.”
“Not exactly your scene.”
“Job still enduring trials and tribulations?”
“Sort of like you,” Hank said, turning serious. “This is…I’m at a loss, Trapper.”
“I know. Me too.” He looked beyond Hank in the direction of the double doors that sealed off the ICU. “Have you seen him?”
“No. Only one person allowed in every couple of hours. I stayed with Dad in the waiting room until they came out to tell him he could go in.”
“How is he this morning?”
“As shaken as I’ve ever seen him. Right now, he’s caught up in the investigation, the hubbub. But if The Major dies, it’s going to hit him hard. All of us. The nation.”
Trapper nodded.
“How are you?” Hank asked.
“Stunned like everybody else. Hasn’t quite soaked in yet.”
“If the worst happens, it’ll hit you hard, too. I’m available if you need someone to talk to.”
