Grace Under Fire (Buchanan-Renard 14)

Would he mind if she started screaming? Probably, she thought.

“I’ll be happy to,” she lied, and once again she went through what Samuel was now calling “the event.” She thought that was an odd name for what had happened, but then Michael called it her “bad experience,” which she thought was odd, too. She had her own special name for what happened. Nightmare. A frickin’ nightmare.

“Isabel?” Michael said. “Focus on the task at hand. Samuel asked you a question.”

She had zoned out. “I’m sorry. What were you wanting to know?”

More questions followed. They were a bit different from the ones asked several times yesterday. Samuel was more interested in knowing what the injured detective had said to her. She thought she had gone over it yesterday. Maybe he forgot.

Samuel studied his notes for a few seconds, then said, “Now, Isabel, when Detective Walsh was reaching for you, he was whispering something, wasn’t he?”

She tried to remember. “He was mumbling... I think. I don’t know. If he was whispering something, I didn’t hear it clearly. There was blood everywhere, and I was thinking that he must be in terrible pain and I needed to help him. I doubt he was making sense.”

He nodded. “Our technicians are examining the video. They’ll slow it down and try to determine what Detective Walsh was saying.” He put his notepad on the table and leaned back in his chair. “I think most people would have tried to run away, but you wanted to help.”

She couldn’t let him believe she had done anything heroic. “It all happened so fast, and I couldn’t have gotten away even if I wanted to. He had a fierce grip on me. I do believe most people would want to help. I think you might be a bit cynical.”

Michael began to stroke her upper arm. It felt nice. “And you might be a bit naive,” he said.

“I’ve been at this job a long time,” Samuel said. “I’ve seen the worst in people.” Nodding to Michael, he added, “I’m sure you’ve seen things you won’t ever forget. You were in Afghanistan, weren’t you?”

Michael nodded but didn’t want to talk about past experiences, so he said, “How is Detective Walsh doing? Any change in his condition?”

“No, he’s still listed in critical condition,” Samuel answered. “He may never wake up.”

“What about the man I shot?” Isabel asked. “You told me that, as soon as you knew anything about him, you’d tell me. I’d like to know who he was.”

“As soon as I know something, I’ll share it with you.”

She had a strong feeling he wasn’t telling her the truth, and she couldn’t understand why he would lie to her. Why wouldn’t he give her the man’s name, at the very least?

Michael could see how dejected she looked. “Are we finished here?” he asked.

Before they could leave, Samuel once again wanted to know where Isabel would be in case he needed to talk to her. How many times was he going to make her come back to the station to ask her the same questions? Did he think she was holding something back? The poor injured man had whispered something to her, but she hadn’t understood what he was saying. What more could she add to the investigation? She had told them everything she remembered.

When they were finally allowed to leave the station, Isabel voiced her concern. “Michael, why won’t Detective Samuel tell me anything about the man I shot?”

“He’s gathering facts. Give him time.”

Isabel didn’t want to go to Nathan’s Bay. She wasn’t in the mood to be chatty today. “Would you mind dropping me off at the hotel? I think I’ll hang out in my room. I’m tired, and I won’t be much fun. I might go up to the spa,” she added.

He shook his head. “You’re going with me.”

“I need to decompress,” she insisted.

“You can decompress at the house. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

He remembered Dylan had commented that Isabel liked to drive, and he thought that might cheer her up. When they reached the car, he handed her the keys.

“You want me to drive?” She sounded thrilled.

“Yeah, sure.”

Those were the last coherent words Michael spoke until they were parked in the drive on the side of his parents’ home. Most of the words he shouted didn’t make sense; the rest were obscenities. He wasn’t a screamer, but she’d pushed him to his limit.

Five or six times on the endless drive he thought they were going to die. The last time he might have welcomed a quick death. He lost count of the near misses. Crossing the bridge he was sure they were going to fly off into the ocean. He grabbed the wheel and got them back into the right lane before the car was launched over the rail. And did she appreciate him saving their asses? Hell, no. She slapped his hand away and yelled, “I’ve got this,” when, in his opinion, she clearly didn’t.

By the time he got out of the car, he was shaking. He’d been in plenty of firefights, surprise attacks, and every other kind of gunfight while in Afghanistan, and he’d never been unnerved. But then he’d been working with competent men and women who knew what they were doing. Isabel, on the other hand, was a maniac behind the wheel.

Dylan and Kate were sitting at the kitchen table reading a report on Dylan’s laptop when Michael stormed in, slammed the door shut behind him, and roared, “Son of a bitch!”

Kate jumped and grabbed hold of her husband’s arm. Dylan didn’t flinch. He took it all in stride because he knew exactly what had happened. Michael’s face was bright red, and there was murder in his eyes.

Dylan calmly looked up from his laptop and with a grin said, “You let her drive, didn’t you?”