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“Gunnar?” I whisper, as loudly as I dare. “How are you?”
“Shot.”
“I’m going to stop him and come back for you.”
There’s a pause. One so long that I know he’s about to say no, don’t leave, he needs help. Instead, there’s a nearly inaudible “Okay.”
“Are you all right?”
Another pause. Then, “Sure. Go on. Get him.”
Damn it, that’s not what I want. Gunnar isn’t all right, and he’s lying, telling me to go after Mark because it’s the right thing to do, which makes it a hell of a lot harder to dismiss Gunnar, telling myself he was Bruno’s partner, the guy who shoved Bruno off a cliff and left Penny to die.
Is he being helpful because he’s innocent? Or because he’s guilty and building his alibi?
I really was the victim here. I even pretended I wasn’t badly hurt so you could catch the real killer.
I place one careful foot up and then grab what looks like a well-rooted vine. I lean into my foot and brace. I make it two steps up before dirt tumbles, and I freeze.
Nothing.
Where the hell is Mark?
Not here. Not paying attention to me. That’s all I can care about right now.
I make it the next few feet, and then I’m at the second climbing spot. This time, I can’t hide. I can just move fast. Thankfully, it’s only about five feet, and then I’m throwing myself onto the ledge where Gunnar is.
At the last second, I remember that I’m supposed to be cautious. I remember that he could be faking his injury and spring at me.
I hit the ledge and awkwardly roll, as if that’s going to protect me. Also, I just vaulted onto the ledge after falling ten feet onto rock and every muscle screams at once. I execute a weird scrabble-and-twist as I grab for my gun and get my back against the rock.
“Hey,” Gunnar says.
I look over to see him propped on one elbow as I’m pressed against the rock, holding a gun on him.
“You came,” he says, more croak than words.
I only nod.
“Can I lie back down now? Before I pass out?”
There’s blood pooling under him, and I motion for him to lie down. Then I reholster my gun and crawl over to him.
“So,” he rasps. “I got shot. How’s your night going?”
I shake my head and check his wound. He’s been hit in the hip. It’s bleeding freely, but the bullet didn’t seem to hit anything that’ll make him bleed out. He can’t move, though, not without risk of doing more damage.
“At least I didn’t get shot in the ass,” he says. “Close, though.”
I take off my jacket and fold it under his hip and up over the wound. “Press there,” I say.
“It’s a lot of blood.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Getting the impression you’re not happy with me right now, Detective, and I think I know why.”
“Um-hmm.”
