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It’s coming from him.
He’s the one who was shot.
* * *
Two hours later, we’re in the emergency room of the hospital for the second time in two weeks.
Caleb kept me in the back seat of the car, head pushed down so it wasn’t exposed through the windows, for an endless eternity. He barked out orders over his phone. Called Trey in to help search for Montaigne. After an hour they declared that the area surrounding my house was clear, but Montaigne got away.
It was only then Caleb let me get him to the hospital. He was bleeding all this time.
When I discovered the wound was in his upper arm, I pulled off a strip of my long cotton top so I could bind it as tightly as possible, but it wasn’t enough. It bled through the fabric, and Caleb simply ignored my pleas for him to get the medical attention he needed.
He kept saying, “Not until you’re safe.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever been more scared and desperate.
We finally get to the hospital, and the doctor confirms what Caleb kept saying. It’s a clean wound. The bullet went all the way through, and it hit flesh but not bone. So it wouldn’t have been serious had he not delayed so long and lost so much blood.
The doctor lectures him. I try not to give him a cool look of vindication, which he blithely ignores.
The police come and take our statements. We tell them who it was, but they don’t appear to be convinced since things like that don’t happen in small-town Maine. They keep speculating it was a hunting accident. Finally they leave. They’re clearly not going to be much help.
There’s a lot of waiting around in the emergency room, as always, and at some point my heightened adrenaline finally comes down. As it does, I feel sicker and sicker until I finally have to lean over and vomit into a trash can.
It’s embarrassing, and I feel like collapsing afterward. The worst thing is Caleb tries to get up off the bed to help me, so I have to order him to stop being stupid in between heaves.
All in all, it’s a miserable several hours, but he’s finally discharged and told to take it easy and come back in if there’s any sign of fever or unexpected symptoms.
Caleb is a grumpy bear on the way home, responding to my reasonable questions and suggestions with mutters and refusing to take the most basic of precautions with his health.
He wants to get back out and search for Montaigne himself, and I absolutely refuse to let him do it.
We’re still in an argument when I park the car in front of the house. Stupidly, he tried to insist that he should drive us home, but I won that round. I’m prepared to be absolutely relentless in order to keep him here, but when he climbs out of the car, his knees buckle and he almost falls over.
So that ends the argument. He’s too weak to do anything right now. I tell Mick to help him into the house and get him settled in the guest bedroom.
I take a quick shower and clean up, exhausted and still sick to my stomach and jittery from so many fears. After I change into my pajamas, I check on Caleb.
He’s in sweats and a T-shirt. In bed with a sheet draped over him.
And he’s scowling malevolently.
“Don’t even start,” I tell him. “You were shot. You don’t get to kill yourself by running around aimlessly with a bullet wound.”
“It wouldn’t be aimless. We’ve got to find him.”
“We will. At least we can take comfort in the fact that he’s a bad shot.” I speak lightly, hoping to break his mood.
It doesn’t work. He shakes his head soberly. “He didn’t miss.”
“What?”
“He didn’t miss. He wasn’t aiming at you. He wouldn’t kill you. Not from a distance. Not when he’s never gotten close. Never gotten what he wants.”
I gasp as the realization finally hits me. “You think he was aiming at you?”
“Yes. I’m in his way. I’m making it impossible for him to reach you. I’ve stopped him from getting you his roses. I’ve stopped him from getting messages through to you. And I’m stopping him from getting close to you. He wants me out of the way, and I’ll be damned if I let him get what he wants.”
