The truck sat exactly where Ollie had parked.
Big dents damaged the tailgate. The truck was even older than his. And it was red.
I told him it wasn’t me!
Fear for Bree sucked away his breath. He grabbed his cell phone, snapped a picture of the license plate of the truck, and then threw his truck into reverse and floored the accelerator, shooting backward. He steered while looking over his shoulder. No fancy backup camera for him. He took a hard turn when he met the narrow blacktop and sped back to Bree’s driveway. His brakes screeched as he slowed to take the turn. Gravel flew as he raced to her house.
Call Truman.
Call 911.
Christ. I don’t even know if something has happened yet.
He pictured a dozen policemen staring at him for calling 911 on a parked truck. Truman right in front. His arms crossed and his eyes stern.
Am I doing something stupid?
No. He could feel it.
He slammed to a stop behind Bree’s truck and raced to the door. Lights were on in the house. Good. He rang the bell several times, unable to stand still on her porch. After waiting five seconds he banged on the door with a fist and it swung open.
Oh shit.
“Mrs. Ingram?” he shouted. “Are you here? It’s Ollie.”
He took one step into the house and listened hard. Silence. Is she asleep?
Truman’s going to have my head.
“Mrs. Ingram?” he yelled again. “Anyone home?”
A small noise reached him. It sounded like a puppy. “Hello?” He took three more steps into the home, moving past the living room on his right and speeding toward the kitchen at the back of the house. “Mrs. Ingram?” he called in a normal voice.
The puppy whined again.
Ollie took a few fast steps and found himself in the kitchen. And nearly puked. Dear God in heaven. Oxygen vanished from the room and he sucked for air.
Bree was tied to a wooden chair, her head slumped forward on her chest. Blood soaked her clothing and had puddled under the chair on the linoleum. One arm was clamped to the table. Her hand flat on its surface. A bloody mallet and a knife lay beside her hand. Along with two severed fingers.
Ollie flung himself at the kitchen sink and heaved, barely making his target.
Her fingers. He vomited again.
Bree whined. A high-pitched, wet, choking sound.
She’s alive.
He spun toward her, wiped his mouth with a towel, and knelt next to her chair. He pushed her bloody hair out of her face and clenched his teeth at the sight of the abuse. Both her eyes had swollen shut. Her nose was bloody and split. Bleeding abrasions everywhere. What do I do? He made himself look at her hand. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. He quickly scanned the rest of her. She’d been beaten, but he didn’t see any active bleeding.
Get help.
With shaking hands, he called 911.
Moments later he set the phone down, switching to speaker. The operator had notified emergency services and wouldn’t allow Ollie to hang up. Unable to call Truman, he asked the operator to reach the Eagle’s Nest police chief.
“I need to untie her,” he told the operator. “I should lay her down.”
“Is she breathing?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t move her.”
“But she’s barely breathing!”
“If she’s been beaten as badly as you say, don’t move her. It might make it impossible for her to breathe.”
“But . . . but . . . she’s tied up!” He wrestled with the rope’s knots. They’d moistened and swollen with her blood. The rough texture scraped the skin from his fingertips as he dug at them. He grabbed the knife from the table.
“Ollie,” the operator commanded. “Don’t move her. The ropes might look horrible, but she needs to stay still.”
Ollie froze with the knife in his hand, every cell of his body screaming for him to cut her loose.
“Ollie, is anyone else in the house?”
He jumped to his feet. I forgot about her attacker. He checked the adjoining bathroom, the knife clenched in his hand. Anxiety had him ready to stab. I can kill anyone right now. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave Bree to check the rest of the house. He pushed open an adjacent door and found the laundry room. At the other end was a door wide open to the outdoors. Breathing heavily, he stared out into the darkness. He saw and heard nothing.
He’s escaped.
But I have a photo of his license plate.
Back in the kitchen, he told the operator, “The back door is open. I think he left.”
“The police should be there momentarily. The ambulance is a little further behind.”
“Did you reach the police chief?” An overwhelming need for Truman swamped him, and he felt tears burn.
“One of the other operators did. He’s also on his way.”
Relief made his knees weak. “Thank you.”
“Hang in there, Ollie. How’s she doing?”
He knelt beside Bree again, his hands gentle and no longer shaking. She still breathed. He was relieved she was unconscious. The pain would be unbearable.
“Still breathing. Can you hear me, Bree?” he asked softly, hoping on some level she knew he was there. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”
Her breathing stopped. Hitched. And started again.
Ollie collapsed onto his heels in relief, rattled by the long pauses between her breaths. Did she hear me?
Sirens sounded in the distance and tears burned again.
She’s going to make it.
He jumped to his feet and grabbed the first bowl he found in a cupboard. He scooped ice from the freezer into the bowl and then gingerly buried her fingers in the ice. I should have done that earlier.
With luck, she might be whole again.
Who am I kidding? No one would be whole after a beating like this.
TWENTY-THREE
Truman drove back to Bree’s home as soon as the sun rose the next morning.
Last night had been a nightmare. After the call from the 911 dispatch center, he’d floored his Tahoe all the way to Bree’s, alternating between cursing Ollie and praying for him under his breath. When he’d arrived, county had already secured the scene and Bree had just been loaded into an ambulance. Truman caught a brief glimpse of her, and it’d haunted him all night.
She’d been covered in abrasions and blood. An oxygen mask over her face and an IV in her arm. By the grim faces of the EMTs, Truman knew she was in bad shape.
Her eyes had never opened.
Ollie had been in the process of being questioned by Detective Evan Bolton. The boy’s hands were covered in blood, and a tech swabbed and photographed them. His eyes had been wide, confusion and fear in his gaze as he stared from the tech to his hands and then to Detective Bolton. Truman had stridden straight to him and enveloped him in a big hug, ignoring the annoyance on the tech’s face.
The teen had trembled in his hug. “She might die.” Truman barely heard Ollie’s whisper.