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Les leads the way to his SUV, and we take off north toward Elgin and Dr. Gray’s Hospital. For the not-quite half hour drive, silence reigns while we are all occupied with our thoughts and fears.
As we pull up, Brian points to an impressive early nineteenth-century building topped with a short tower capped by a cupola. “I wasn’t expecting anything so old,” I say.
“The town built it in 1819, using a bequest from Dr. Alexander Gray. I’ll tell you all about it one of these days.”
Distracted by my fears for Max, I flap my hand in agreement as Les parks.
I bolt from the car and start running toward the building. JL easily outstrips me while Les stays back with Brian, who isn’t moving too fast today. He seems to have aged ten years in the last hour.
When we arrive at emergency, we almost collapse in relief to hear that Allan is having a broken wrist set and Max has a minor concussion and bruises. The fact that they are still alive seems a miracle. We don’t even mind sitting in the hard chairs, drinking bad coffee while we wait for them to be released. After a couple of hours, we take them home.
Max is silent during the drive in Les’ SUV. Allan is uncharacteristically voluble.
“I’m pretty sure someone shot out a tire,” he tells us.
JL jerks his head toward Allan. “What makes you think so?“
“I heard a ping before the tire blew, maybe two. There may have been more than one marksman.”
I stare at him, puzzled. “Why not shoot into the car? Isn’t that what they do in the movies?”
JL squeezes my hand. “I’m guessing the shooter wants it to be ruled an accident.”
My cell ringtone goes off. Viktoria.
“Cress. How is Max?”
The phone is on speaker, so Max answers, his voice hoarse. “I’m fine, Mamoushka. A little the worse for wear.”
“Thank God,” Viktoria says in Russian. Her ragged breathing slows. “The police questioned everyone at Lohan Beinn. They’ll come back to speak with you and your friend tomorrow.”
Max grumbles. “Fine. Not that I can tell them much.”
Max is settled in the library in time for Ian to say goodbye before he takes off. Liz is driving him down to Edinburgh to catch the train. A crash announces he has dropped his case in the hall and a creak announces his arrival in the darkened room. Clomping over to the couch where Max is lying, he drops to his knees and takes Max’s hand.
Then he turns his head toward Allan, who perches on one of the lounge chairs, his cast resting on the arm. “Was it an accident or was this terrorist shooting at Max?”
Allan grimaces. “Probably the latter, but we won’t know until the reports are in.”
“How would he know where to find us?”
“If he knew Max was coming up to Scotland, then he might have been the guest staying at Lohan Beinn. Once your parents made the arrangements, I’m sure word got around in the area. Mr. Robertson may have mentioned it to one or two people. The event was only secret from Max, after all.”
“So you think Nasim Faez is here?” The tremor in my voice shows how scared I am.
“Not necessarily. He may be in contact with a terror cell in the area.” Allan looks at me gravely. “I still believe he is pulling the strings from somewhere in Turkey.”
Ian leans down to give his brother a hug. “Take care, Max. I’m traveling back with Allan. I’ll let you know what the police and the insurance say about the house.”
Max touches his arm. “Lucky you.” His voice is pure acid. Then he manages a smile. “Thanks, Ian. Have a safe trip.”
“I’m safer than you,” Ian retorts.
Max groans, and I pull Ian aside and give him a quick peck on the cheek. He and Allan walk out the door and I pull a chair over near the couch and slip Max’s hand into mine.
With a sigh, Max slips into a half sleep.
* * *
