To Hell in a Handbasket Read online

  “Let me see what the detective has to say,” Claire said, “then I’ll call you and let you know. Maybe they can protect you without being so obvious. Can I have your phone number?” She dug a pen and an old grocery receipt out of her purse and passed them to Naylor.

  He hesitated then scribbled his cell phone number. “You won’t give him my name until I say so, right?”

  Claire looked directly into his eyes. “Right.” What she didn’t add was that she would keep hounding him to give himself up for questioning until he did.

  He returned the stare and worried his lip. “Okay.” He stood and hunched his shoulders against the cold. “I’m going back to Yeti’s now. Some people are expecting me.”

  “Thanks for talking to us, Boyd—Nail-It.” Claire extended her hand.

  Naylor shook it. “Thanks for the crepes.” He walked to the street, glanced both ways, and stepped out. His head was bowed, as if pondering their conversation.

  Tires screeched. Aimed straight at Naylor, a black SUV roared along the asphalt.

  Five: The Black SUV

  Claire leapt up, toppling her chair. She screamed, “Look out!”

  Judy jumped up next to her. “Nail-It!”

  Roger’s chair fell over with a loud clang as he shoved himself to his feet.

  Boyd jerked his head up but had no time to react before the black SUV rammed him. Arms flailing, his body was catapulted over the hood.

  Claire tensed, almost as if she had been hit, too. She gaped in horror at the scene unfolding in slow motion before her.

  Beside her, Judy gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth.

  The SUV jolted to a stop.

  Boyd slid off the side of the hood and slammed to the ground.

  The vehicle started moving again. Its rear tire ran over Boyd’s groin with a sickening crunch. Once free of Boyd’s body, the rear tires spun on the slick street, spewing crystals of brown ice on his still form. All four tires caught, and the SUV shot down the street, with the dark silhouette of the driver inside sitting stone-still.

  Roger ran after the vehicle and peered at the back bumper.

  “Ohmigod,” Judy shouted, “that car smashed into Boyd and never stopped.”

  Claire grabbed Judy’s shoulders. “Yes, and we’ve got to help him.”

  Judy gazed at her, glassy-eyed, then blinked and nodded.

  Claire ran to Boyd, dragging Judy behind, and knelt on the asphalt next to the young man, who lay sprawled on his back in a widening pool of blood. “Boyd, can you hear me?”

  He groaned softly but his eyes didn’t open.

  Roger met them there, already pulling out his cell phone. “Christ, that driver hit him deliberately.” He stared at the young man’s mangled body.

  Feeling slow and stupid as if she had just woken from a nightmare, Claire asked, “Did you see the license plate?”

  “Some of it. I’m calling nine-one-one.” He punched in the numbers.

  Claire called Boyd’s name again. He remained silent and unmoving. At least he’s breathing. She took a deep breath herself to still the wash of panic flooding her heart. Here it was only the day after Stephanie’s accident, and Claire needed to rely on her rusty first-aid training again.

  Check the scene first. She scanned the road. No cars approached, but Boyd and the rest of them were vulnerable out in the middle of the street. The two crepe-stand workers, a young man and young woman, had run over to the side of the street. They stood craning their necks and wringing their hands in their aprons.

  Claire pointed to the young man and yelled, “Hey you. Stop any cars that come. Got it?”

  He nodded, as if grateful for something to do, and ran into the street, south of where Boyd lay. Roger moved to the north, ready to stop traffic coming in the other direction.

  Check the victim. Blood stained the top of Boyd’s jeans, which were scored with black tire tracks. Likely his pelvis was crushed. Oh, God, the pain. She hoped he would remain unconscious.

  Gently, Claire pulled away one side of his open jacket to examine his torso, which had borne the brunt of the initial impact. Blood soaked his T-shirt. Not good.

  She ran her trembling gloved hands along his scalp and behind his neck, being careful not to move his head. Her gloves came away blood free. At least he didn’t have an open head wound.

  “Here.” Judy held out his hat. She must have recovered it from the street.

  “Good thinking, honey.” Claire grabbed the hat and perched it gently on top of his head to keep him warm.

  Step three. Call. She heard Roger giving directions on the phone. Good. “Tell them he’s breathing, but unconscious and bleeding from multiple injuries.”

  Roger relayed the information.

  Step four. Care. What the hell can I do? His life is pouring out of him onto the ground. Claire rubbed her forehead with a shaky hand and took a deep breath. Focus. You can do something. Must try to stop the bleeding. Claire’s gaze lit on the young woman at the side of the road, still wringing her apron. “Get some towels, cloths, whatever you have that I can use to stop the bleeding.”

  As the young woman ran to the crepe stand, Claire said to Judy, “Go with her. Bring back whatever you find.”

  Claire shucked her jacket and laid it on Boyd’s chest. She had to keep him as warm as possible, or he would go into shock. She looked up at Roger. “Give me your coat.”

  He took it off and handed it to her, then returned the phone to his ear.

  She placed Roger’s coat on Boyd’s legs. Gingerly, to avoid jostling his pelvis, she slid one side of the coat under his lower legs to protect them from the cold ground. Boyd’s own coat would provide a layer of protection for his back.

  Judy and the crepe worker returned with arms full of towels and paper napkins. Judy dropped to her knees next to her mother.

  Claire lifted her coat and Boyd’s T-shirt. A jagged red cut slashed across half his stomach.

  Oh, God. Claire’s stomach lurched. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and willed it back down to where it belonged.

  Judy sucked in a breath and turned away.

  The crepe worker dumped her armload of towels and stepped back, eyes wide with horror.

  Claire knew the young woman would bolt if she let her. She stared down the crepe worker and forced her voice to be stern. “Don’t leave. I need your apron.”

  Slowly, the young woman moved her hands behind her back to untie the strings.

  Claire pulled a towel from Judy’s pile, folded it, and pressed it on the wound. She peered at Judy. “Another one.”

  Keeping her gaze averted from Boyd, Judy folded a towel and handed it to Claire.

  Good girl, you’re hanging in there. Claire slipped the second towel over the first, now blood-soaked, towel and pressed her gloved hand down again. “Now the apron.”

  Judy reached up for the apron held out by the crepe worker and tried to hand it to Claire.

  Claire shook her head. “No, you have to slide it under his back, without moving him at all, so we can tie it around his stomach and keep pressure on this wound.”

  When Judy hesitated, Claire said firmly, “Now.”

  With trembling hands, Judy slid one side of the apron under the hollow of Boyd’s lower back and gently pulled from the other side to bring it up and around.

  “Now tie it tight. I’ll slide my hand out of the way.”

  Judy did as she was told.

  “Good job, honey.” Claire turned her attention to Boyd’s pelvis. It didn’t seem to be bleeding as badly as the cut on his stomach, and pressing on the broken bones might make things worse.

  The siren of an approaching ambulance interrupted her thoughts. Thank God. No more decisions.

  Two emergency medical technicians ran over with a stretcher. As they hooked up a heart-rate monitor, IV, and oxygen to Boyd, Claire briefed them on what she had done.

  She stood to get out of the way and swayed. Stars revolved around her head as her knees buckled.

&n
bsp; Roger caught her, and he and Judy sat her on the curb. He pushed Claire’s head between her knees.

  One of the EMTs shouted, “You going to be all right, ma’am?”

  Claire took a deep breath. The world stopped spinning. “I think so.”

  “You may be a little shocky. Pretty common for someone giving first aid in an accident. You don’t feel it until you’re off the hook.” He glanced at Judy. “How ’bout you?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Roger picked up his and Claire’s coats that the EMTs had removed from Boyd and replaced with blankets. He draped Claire’s around her shoulders and slid on his own.

  Wondering if any of Boyd’s blood was on her coat, Claire shivered.

  Roger sat next to her and gathered her in his arms. “You did great, dear. I’m proud of you.”

  “I hope he lives. His injuries were terrible.”

  Roger rocked her, rubbing her arms in silence.

  Young people had poured out of Sherpa & Yeti’s to stand on the sidewalk, gawk, and point. Claire recognized the group of young women she had talked to, looks of whitened horror on their faces.

  Siren blaring and lights flashing, a Breckenridge police Land Rover pulled up next to the ambulance. A policeman stepped out of the car and approached the ambulance crew, who had transferred Boyd to the stretcher. They pointed to Claire’s family and wheeled the injured young man to the back of the ambulance.

  The policeman approached the Hanovers. “Hello, I’m Officer Koch, Breckenridge police. The ambulance crew said one of you might need some help.”

  Impatiently, Claire waved her hand. “I’m fine. Forget about me. They need to take that poor young man to the hospital.”

  Officer Koch took out a notepad. “They will. Can I get your names?”

  After they had identified themselves and given their contact information, the officer asked, “Did you see what happened?”

  “Yes,” Roger answered. “A black Range Rover hit him.”

  “A Range Rover? You sure?” Claire asked.

  “I know my SUVs.”

  The officer looked up from his notepad. “Did you get a license plate number?”

  “Just part of it,” Roger answered. “It was definitely a Colorado plate. White mountains against a dark green background. The first two letters were A and Y.”

  The ambulance took off toward the medical center, sirens blaring. They all watched it leave in silence.

  Roger caught the officer’s attention. “The hit was deliberate. The driver waited up there”—he pointed in the direction from which the SUV had come—“and took off once Naylor stepped into the street.”

  The officer’s brows rose. “Deliberate?”

  Roger’s mouth was set in an angry line. “I’m sure of it. Whoever was driving that SUV meant to kill Boyd Naylor.”

  Judy gasped. “No. Boyd can’t die, too!”

  “Too?” The officer looked even more confused. “Who else died?”

  Claire sympathized with the poor man. She was still trying to sort out everything in her own mind. Something nagged at her, a detail she was missing. “I’m sure the attack on this young man is connected with the young woman who died at the ski resort yesterday.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  Claire remembered her promise to Boyd. If he lived, she owed it to him to keep that promise. “I would rather talk to Detective Silverstone about that.”

  “Is he investigating the skier’s death?” At Claire’s nod, the officer said, “Wait here a minute,” and walked to his patrol car.

  After a few minutes talking on the radio, he returned. “Detective Silverstone’s working an accident on Highway Nine out by Farmer’s Corner. I’ll take your statements and share them with him. Can you meet him at the justice center tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes.” Claire shivered again. She couldn’t get warm.

  The officer peered at her in concern. “How about the three of you get in my patrol car? We’ll continue the interview there.” He signaled the crepe-stand workers. “Three hot chocolates, then stick around. I need to talk to you, too.”

  Roger helped Claire to her feet. As she trudged to the police car, she said a silent prayer for Boyd. He needed to live, to help find out who had tried to kill him—and succeeded in killing Stephanie.

  _____

  At eight-thirty the next morning, Roger pulled the car into the parking lot of the Summit County Justice Center. Claire studied the red brick building with its peaked green roof. Flanked by firs and aspens and Colorado and U.S. flags, it seemed to be just another unassuming local government building, like the public library next door.

  She followed Roger and Judy through the glass doors into a quiet two-story lobby with green indoor-outdoor carpeting. The stern face of a mounted bighorn sheep stared down at them from over the entrance to the jail side of the building, as if to say, “Beware, all who enter here.” The Hanovers turned in the other direction, down a hall decorated with DARE posters and drug-free pledges signed by Summit County children.

  Roger held open the door to the sheriff’s office, and Claire told the receptionist who they were and asked to see Detective Silverstone. As Silverstone led them to his desk, she noted the space looked like any other business office—insurance, engineering, marketing—except some of the occupants wore uniforms of black shirts and green-gray pants with black strips along the side. And their belts bristled with handcuffs, black leather cases holding who knows what, and holstered guns.

  Silverstone, however, wore jeans and a work shirt. The only clothing that identified he was a member of the sheriff’s office was his black fleece vest with a yellow star on the left side, emblazoned with blue letters spelling out “Summit County Sheriff’s Office.” He led the way into a large room divided into four gray half-cubicles open to the center, each with its own computer. Three desks were unoccupied, and a patrol officer sat typing at the last. The soulful strains of a Tab Benoit song Claire recognized from the Voice of the Wetlands CD came from a radio turned down low.

  Silverstone motioned for the Hanovers to sit in three chairs positioned in front of one of the rear desks. “Anyone want coffee?”

  Claire shook her head. Judy and Roger refused also. They had polished off a whole pot of coffee before they came, because none of them had slept much after getting home. Claire had called the Summit County Medical Center early that morning. Boyd had been flown to Denver Health Hospital’s Trauma Center on the Flight for Life helicopter. But she hadn’t gotten any information out of Denver Health before they left for the justice center.

  “Have you heard anything about Boyd Naylor?” she asked, as Silverstone seated himself behind his desk.

  A pained expression crossed his face. “He died on the operating table. Too much damage to internal organs.”

  Oh, God. A wall of sadness slammed into Claire, forcing her against the back of her chair.

  “Damn,” Roger whispered.

  Judy dug for a tissue in her purse as a tear ran down her cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” Silverstone said. “Did you know him well?”

  “We just met him last night,” Roger said.

  Silverstone cocked a brow and eyed each of them. “Maybe you can explain to me why you three have been the first on the scene for not one, but two suspicious and fatal accidents in the last two days.”

  Roger gripped the arms of his chair and thrust his chin out. “You can’t seriously think we had anything to do with either one.”

  Spreading his hands wide, Silverstone said, “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Stephanie was my friend,” Judy blurted out. “My boyfriend’s sister. Why would we want to hurt her?”

  “Maybe she didn’t approve of the relationship.”

  Claire leaned forward and slapped the top of Silverstone’s desk. “Look. Judy’s upset enough. She’s experienced more death in the last two days than in her whole lifetime up ’til now. And there’s a big difference between saying a gentle goo
dbye to her grandfather in a nursing home and watching a young man get run down by a speeding car.”

  Claire glanced at Judy, who wiped her nose and stared at her mother. “I will not allow her to be upset further. We came here willingly to cooperate with your investigation, not to be accused of killing people.” She sat back, crossed her arms over her chest, and narrowed her eyes at Silverstone.

  A noise behind them made Claire turn around. A patrolman stood next to the one who had been typing and now sat stock still. They both stared at her.

  “The crepe-stand workers can tell you,” Roger said, “we not only were nowhere near Naylor when he was hit, but we provided first aid and called nine-one-one, just like we did for Stephanie.”

  Silverstone shooed the two officers out of the room with a wave of his hand then focused his attention on the Hanovers. “And for that massage therapist in Colorado Springs, too?”

  Roger slumped in his chair and eyed Claire. “So you heard about that.”

  “I thought I recognized your name,” Silverstone said, “and I did a little research last night. This makes three deaths you’ve been involved in, right?”

  “Roger was totally exonerated in that murder,” Claire replied, “as you should know from your research. It has nothing to do with these deaths.”

  “You can understand why I’d be suspicious, though.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  Roger’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth together. “Look, if you’re going to accuse us of something, do it; then we’ll sue you for false arrest.”

  Silverstone held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not accusing any of you of a crime. But I do need to know what’s going on here, and what your connection to it is.”

  He rose and paced behind the desk. “We rarely get more than a few burglaries, drunk-driving arrests, maybe a domestic dispute or two in a week, and now all of a sudden, we have two deaths on our hands. The resources of our office and the Breckenridge police are being stretched damn thin to handle the investigations, let alone deal with the interference.”

  Could someone be hampering the investigations deliberately? Claire leaned forward. “Interference?”

  Silverstone pulled a small, shiny brown object out of his pocket and rubbed it absentmindedly. “The press, who want all the lurid details. And on the opposite side, the ski resort, the chamber of commerce, and the local politicians who all want this bad news to go away fast.”