High Country Nocturne (David Mapstone Mystery 8)

“Such as the call I got this afternoon from Horace Mann. He wanted to know the whereabouts of a man named Matt Pennington.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said we’d check.”

I asked her why she didn’t tell him that Pennington was dead.

“Because I don’t trust feds. Everything you told me shows why I’m right.”

After she left, I made some phone calls, used the badge, and took a drive.

Chapter Thirty-eight

When I went in Lindsey’s room after seven the next morning, she was breathing on her own. The ventilator was still there, but the tube was out of her mouth. The gauze patches were off her eyes.

If anything had come from last night’s scheduled meeting in Scottsdale between “Matt Pennington” and the man on the phone, nobody had told me.

This was infinitely better than clearing a case. I sat and said, “Thank you, God.”

Thumbing through Emily Dickinson, I found what seemed appropriate: Angels In the Early Morning.

It was only eight lines. I read them with a slow, exhausted reverence.

“…the flowers they bear along.”

Those last words were in Lindsey’s voice.

I raised my head and saw those blue eyes I loved, looking at me.

“Dave, my chest hurts…a lot. What happened?”

“I’m going to get the nurses.”

She reached feebly and I took her hand.

“Wait. Stay with me, Dave. What happened to your eye? Where am I?”

“Mister Joe’s”

“What happened?”

“You were shot. Do you remember?”

Her eyes closed and my first reaction was fear, but the heart monitor was steady and her chest and rising and falling.

Her eyes fluttered open.

“It hurts, Dave. I remember…fajitas. And you went with the deputies…” Her voice was raspy and she licked her lips.

I was relieved. I had been so afraid her last memories would be of our terrible fight.

She said, “Wait. Where’s Peralta?”

“I haven’t found him yet.”

She struggled to keep her eyes open.

“You’ve got to find him. He’s in great danger. Pennington…”