I lurched forward in a shambling run, then dropped to my knees at her side. Sahdev was checking her for injuries.
“Stay back and let me work,” he ordered.
I listened to the doc and tamped down the need to touch her, to confirm that she was still breathing. He carefully removed her helmet. Mac’s eyes were dazed and vacant. If she was awake and alert, she was holding onto it by her fingertips. Sahdev’s hands skimmed over her head, neck, and limbs, before gently palpating her stomach. “No broken bones, as far as I can tell.” He pointed to her left calf. “When the motorcycle tipped over, the exhaust pipe burned her leg. There’s a laceration on her right shoulder, probably from flying debris. I don’t know about internal injuries or traumatic brain injury.”
“We need an ER,” Kyle said.
Fear for Mac and anger at myself over the accident forged a combustible reaction. “Pull your head out of your ass. Where the fuck do you think we’re gonna find a functioning ER?”
“I know we can’t find a functioning ER,” Kyle sputtered. “You think I’m stupid? I just meant we have to figure out how to help her.”
“Both of you, if you want to help Kenzie, either shut up or step away.”
Kyle and I turned shocked eyes to the mild-mannered doctor. Shit. Ordinarily, a man told me to shut up and he was in for a world of hurt, but Sahdev was right. Anger was an indulgence I couldn’t afford and a pointless distraction from what mattered, taking care of Mac.
“Sorry, doc,” I muttered.
Mac whimpered, and my gut clenched.
I leaned over her. “I got you, Mac.” Could she hear me? No clue, but had to hope she felt better knowing I was near.
She blinked, and her eyes slowly focused on my face. Her lips moved, and I swear to God she was trying to say my name.
“Stay with me, darlin'.” I urged. Her beautiful gray eyes latched onto mine, as if clutching at a lifeline. Gradually, her gaze grew distant, her lashes fluttered down, and she lost her grip on consciousness. I sucked in a breath then shut down every emotion that would get in the way of my mission. There was no room for fear, for catastrophic what-ifs. I’d figure out what we needed to do to save Mac, and I’d make it happen.
“What can we do?” I asked Sahdev.
“Without a scoop stretcher, we’ll shift her onto a sleeping bag and carry her to the jeep. She needs a bed where she can rest while I assess the extent of her injuries. I’ll watch her for signs of concussion, subdural hematoma, whiplash, cracked ribs, spinal cord injuries, and internal bleeding. I need to stitch the laceration on her shoulder and tend to the burn on her leg.”
Kyle had paled during this litany of possible traumas to Mac’s body. His pinched face reminded me that he’d barely recovered from his bout with the flu. “Should we go back to the bed and breakfast?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” Sahdev replied. “Although I’d rather not jostle her in the back of a jeep for the hour it would take to get there.”
“Have a better idea,” I said. “At the very start of the flu pandemic, one of my Janissary brothers packed up his family and headed to his dad’s cabin on Lost Dog Lake. The lake’s two, maybe three miles behind us, just outside of the national forest. We’ll go there.”
Kyle ran to the jeep to fetch a sleeping bag. We stretched it out on the ground next to Mac. On a count of three, Sahdev and I lifted her onto the bag. We each took an end and carefully carried her to the jeep, where we laid her across the back seat. I wedged onto the far end, balancing half-on, half-off the seat. Kyle coaxed Hector into the front passenger seat with him. Sahdev turned the jeep around and backtracked to the exit for Lost Dog Lake. Kept a close eye on Mac, especially when we turned off the highway and took the small, bumpy lane toward the cabin.
Sahdev eased the jeep to a stop.
“Which way?” he asked. The road forked, branching off in both directions around the lake.
I scanned the dozen cabins that surrounded the small body of water. Been a couple of years since I spent a weekend here fishing with Chimney, but I recognized the rustic 1940s cabin his family owned by its green corrugated metal roof and L-shaped covered porch.
“There.” I pointed to a cabin on the far side of the lake. “After you pull up, let me approach them first.”
Sahdev nodded. Within a few minutes, the jeep came to a stop next to Chimney’s place.
I popped open the door and stepped outside, tossing another glance at Mac, who hadn’t regained consciousness. “Anything goes wrong, you drive back to the B & B. If Chimney’s alive, he’ll let us in, but I got no way of knowing what’s gone down here in the past two months. Keep the engine running, just in case.”
“Very well,” Sahdev said.
“Be careful, man.” Kyle took my place in the back, next to Mac.
I climbed the steps and pounded on the cabin door. “Chimney? It’s Ripper.” Silence. Pressing my hands against the glass, I looked through the window, but saw nothing beyond the checkered curtains. To my right, under cover of the porch roof, I spied Chimney’s bike, half covered by a blue tarp. Dirt and fir needles covered the bottom of the tarp. Obviously the tarp hadn’t been disturbed for a long time. Not a good sign.
I pulled my Colt from its holster and pounded on the door again. “Chimney? Nicole? Anybody there? Heads up, I’m coming in.”
Twisted the doorknob and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. Somebody was inside, either alive or dead. Didn’t look forward to kicking the door in—my knees twinged at the prospect—but I would if I had to. Luckily, footsteps tapped across the floor and approached the door, light, tentative steps, not Chimney’s heavy tread.
“Nicole, is that you? It’s Ripper.”
The door opened a few inches, and a woman peeked out through the crack. What the hell had happened to my brother’s old lady? Loud, brassy Nicole was known for her va-va-voom style. She called herself a vintage vixen and drove Chim crazy by spending a small fortune on retro clothes on eBay. He’d walk through the clubhouse bitching to anybody who’d listen, “How many goddamned cocktail dresses does one woman need?” We’d all laugh. He was crazy about that woman and preened like a rooster when she decked herself out like a 1950s bombshell at a club party.
The woman who peered out at me bore little resemblance to the vivacious woman I remembered from only a couple of months ago. Instead of the sexy Betty Page haircut she usually sported, she’d shoved her lank, dark hair behind her ears, and a gray stripe showed at the roots. She’d lost weight, her voluptuous figure whittled down to nothing. The sparkle had faded from her blue eyes, and her cheeks were dull and colorless. This was the first time I’d ever seen her without her signature bright red lipstick.
“Hello, Ripper,” she said in a flat voice.
I tucked my weapon back in the holster. “Nicole. Have you been sick, sweetheart?”
“No. The flu spared me, but it took Chimney and the boys.” Nicole delivered the news with a blank face and an expressionless voice. She might as well have been reciting her grocery list.
Loss changed everybody, I guess. Maybe she had to smother her grief in order to keep going. Squashing inconvenient emotions, a trick I’d mastered.