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“Then why are you here?”
He shook his head as he kept moving. “It’s not safe for you.”
Stunned, she stumbled over an exposed tree root and nearly fell. “You were up here to protect me?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “Why?”
They were nearly at the bottom of the hill now, and it didn’t appear that Leon planned to give her any answers. But she remembered the other times late at night when she’d sensed someone else was up here. “Did your father ever follow me, Leon?” she asked softly.
Leon’s head bowed a fraction.
So Earl had watched over her, as well. But why? Given Leon’s limited verbal skills, she’d probably never know, but what mattered most right now was Leon himself.
Taking him to the hospital with a gunshot wound could give rise to some difficult questions, but that was secondary to the risk of infection and permanent damage if Leon’s wound was deep enough.
When they reached Dry Creek Road, she knew he would take a sharp left and head for home, where he could lock himself inside. “Leon! You stop right now and listen to me. Not another step.”
He faltered to a halt, obviously intimidated by her voice of authority.
“Thank you, Leon.” She gave him a nod of approval.
He took a wary step back. “No doctor.”
“You don’t have to go to a doctor.” Unless it’s more than a superficial wound. “Look—there’s enough light right here under this street lamp. Just take off your jacket and roll up your sleeve.”
His eyes filled with renewed suspicion. “No doctor,” he repeated.
Gritting her teeth in frustration, she rested a hand on his good arm. “I understand that you don’t want to go to the hospital. But you’re alone now. What happens if you get an infection?”
“I’m okay.” But finally, after pondering her words, he clenched his teeth as he peeled off his bloodstained denim jacket.
The faded Minnesota Vikings T-shirt beneath appeared fairly clean, thank goodness, but when he pulled the bloody sleeve away from the wound, fresh blood oozed from the small, neat hole at the outer curve of his biceps.
Relatively minor, all things considered, and the lack of an exit wound meant the bullet could be recovered.
The shooter had probably aimed at the beam of Leon’s flashlight, but given the underbrush, the angle, and the darkness, even a powerful night-vision scope couldn’t have ensured perfect aim.
Five or six inches over and Leon might be dead.
“Let’s stop at the emergency room and get that bullet taken out.”
“No.”
He started off down the road and all she could do was pray that the shooter had decided to flee, instead of coming around to check on who’d been up on the hill. The twelve-round clip in her gun wouldn’t be much help against four or five armed men.
After a moment she pulled her cell phone from her jacket pocket, pressed the power button, and started a call.
Leon jerked to a halt. Turning swiftly, he grabbed the phone, threw it onto the ground and crushed it with his foot.
“Leon!”
Perspiration beaded his pale forehead. Shock? “No doctor,” he repeated, his mutinous, childlike voice at odds with his massive size. “I’m going home.”
Trying to stop him would have been like standing in front of a charging buffalo.
Scooping up the remains of her phone, she fell back and watched him start down the road again, then tailed him until he’d made it through the gate and on up to his house.
Men. She fingered the shattered pieces of plastic in her pocket as she called Harold to heel and hurried back to her apartment to call 911.
* * * *
