Pain sucked the air out of Tierney’s lungs. Tears froze as soon as they formed in his eyes. Lying flat on his back, he cursed lavishly and loudly, in agony and outrage.
When the first searing pain receded, and it actually began to feel good just to lie there in the snow, he knew he was in serious danger of freezing to death. That was how it happened; it gave the victim a false sense of comfort.
It took a tremendous amount of willpower, but he forced himself to move his injured ankle. The pain that shot up through his leg made him gasp, but at least it yanked him out of the deceiving comfort into which he’d been lulled.
He sat up. His head reeled, so much that he clasped it between his hands in the hope of stopping it from spinning. He barely had time to pull the scarf away from his mouth before he retched into the snow. He threw up only sour bile, and the stomach spasms reminded him how much his ribs hurt.
He took several deep breaths, then, putting all his weight on his left leg, he stood up. He tested his right ankle by rotating it slowly. It hurt like bloody hell, but he didn’t think it was broken. That was something. At this stage, anything short of outright disaster seemed like good fortune.
He set out again, now using the snow shovel as a crutch.
In his effort to keep moving, he lost all sense of time and distance. His ankle was a new focus. He could feel it swelling inside his boot. Actually, his tight boot would probably help keep the swelling to a minimum. Or would it cut off the blood supply and cause frostbite? Gangrene? Why couldn’t he remember basic first aid? Or his zip code? Or his telephone number in Virginia?
Jesus, he was hungry. But he was also gripped by nausea that resulted in agonizing dry heaves.
He was cold to the bone, yet his skin felt feverish.
But the worst was the goddamn dizziness.
A fatal blood clot, jarred loose by his hard landing on the road, might even now be wending its way through his blood vessels to his brain or lungs or heart.
Random and bizarre thoughts such as that flitted through his mind like fireflies. They winked out before he could grasp and assimilate them. He was rational enough to recognize the onset of delirium.
Actually, his various pains were friends. Without them, he might have drifted into a state of euphoria, lain down, rested his cheek on a bosom of snow, and died. But the pains were persistent. Like spiked prods, they deviled him to continue. They kept him awake, on his feet, moving, alive. Meanwhile, his reason was shrieking for him to stop. Lie down. Sleep. Surrender.
CHAPTER
22
WHY? WHAT FOR? WHY ME?”
“Will you calm down?” Wes said, raising his voice above Scott’s. “They’re not coming here to accuse you of anything.”
“How do you know?”
“Even if they do, you’ve got nothing to hide. Right? Right, son?”
“Right.”
“So why are you freaking out?”
“I’m not.”
In Dora’s opinion, he was.
Scott was inordinately nervous about talking to the FBI agents. His eyes darted restlessly between her and Wes, making him appear guilty of something and contradicting his claim that he had nothing to hide. Wes’s calculated nonchalance was equally troubling.
“All they’re after is some background information on Millicent,” Wes said. “Dutch said it’s routine.”
“They could get background information on Millicent from a hundred other sources,” Dora said. “Why have they singled out Scott?”
“Because he was Millicent’s steady boyfriend.”
“That was last year.”
“I know when it was, Dora.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Wes. My point is that a lot happened to Millicent between last spring, when she and Scott broke up, and last week, when she disappeared. Why is her past relationship with him relevant?”