Free Bleeding Green by Anne James Page A

out of her shoulder. Complimenting himself on his accuracy. He was the man! All man. But the bitch? She had hurt him. Hurt him bad. Rangers didn’t behave this way. Rangers weren’t women. Women were cunning and cruel. Men were good.
    Blood spread in a dark stain on Laurel’s shirt. The world went dark.
     
     

Chapter 10
     
     
    E rnie drove Laurel’s truck at the required 25 mph down the main park drive. As he drove by the ranger station, he slowed to 5 mph. Discovering her broad-brimmed green sun hat on the passenger seat, he composed it on his head. Grinning like a fool, he slumped in the seat. If anybody saw him, specifically a ranger, they would think he was Laurel.
    He scowled as he noticed the leather clad steering wheel was sticky. Looking at his hands he saw dried blood all over them. This wouldn’t do. He hated anything sticky. That damn woman had bothered him for years. Now he was done with her. He could place her in a checked-off box of tidying up the clutter in his life.
    His fingers drummed a beat on the steering wheel. Why wouldn’t that damn song leave his head? Night and Day, you are the one . He didn’t realize he was humming the tune. His torso rocked slightly. Better. He felt better already.
    As he drove down Timucuan Springs Road, his right foot itched to put the pedal to the metal. The gas gauge read three quarters of a tank. A white notebook was wedged between the seat and the middle console—the vehicle log. He smiled, then frowned. His right hand plucked the notebook from between the seats and he hurled it to the passenger floor. Double-dang-dammit it all! He didn’t know the password for Laurel’s gas card. As clever as he was, he had forgotten that minuscule detail. He had scooped up the fallen keys by the chase door. Yup! He was one smart feller.
    He rocked more vigorously. Not a problem. He had sixty dollars in his wallet. That ought to get him across the Georgia border.
     

     
    Sounds came and went. Pain with a thousand razors raked her body. Struggling to connect a sequence of thought through the fog, her head was swirling as if she had gulped a whole bottle of single malt. The piercing pain in her back overrode all the other stabbing aches. Laurel fought to open her eyes. As she concentrated on a red blinking light, she realized her eyes were open. Why couldn’t she move?
    Reality surged over her in a flood of nausea. She was in the chase. Sounds began to make sense. Every time the red light blinked, she heard her coworkers on the radio that seemed to be suspended in black midair. She could hear people using the restroom, campers talking to each other as if she was right in the room with them.
    As memory returned, she realized that she was unable to move. Her legs were bent at the knee and her ankles tapped to her wrists. Pure agony had escalated to a scale where she was unable to make sense out of what was happening to her.
    She heard Boyd’s voice in the darkness and realized he was talking on the radio. The sound brought comfort.
    “Bill, this is Boyd.”
    “Go ahead, Boyd!”
    “Are you late field?”
    “10-4 on late field.”
    “Could you come by my office when you get the chance?”
    “Copy that. On my way. Be about ten minutes.”
    Laurel slipped back into oblivion.
     

     
    Boyd Warner eased out of his office chair and stared out the window. He had a feeling. Something wasn’t right. He had tried to get Laurel on her office intercom for the last two hours. He’d also tried to raise her on the park radio and her Nextel speaker phone. She had left no message on the dry board in the hall. This was a cardinal rule that each of the administrative staff did, so the others would know where they were. After all, there were several thousand acres to manage and many miles to negotiate in the Florida wilderness. As park manager, Boyd was a stickler for each person writing their name on the board—even if it was only for lunch.
    Janice LaPlume’s growl filled the room.