Stranded Page 2

  “Call 911. Let them know the area along Amish Road was hit and to send everything available. Then phone the Criminal Investigation Division on post. Talk to Colby Voss. Tell him the Amish need help.”

  “Colby would tell you to stay put, Frank. You’re still on convalescent leave.”

  Ignoring her concern for his well-being, Frank patted his leg for Duke to follow him upstairs.

  Another close call. Was God trying to get his attention? A verse from scripture floated through his mind, Come back to me.

  In the kitchen, Frank yanked his CID jacket from the closet and grabbed leather work gloves he kept nearby. Pushing through the back door, he stopped short and pulled in a sharp breath at what he saw—a different kind of war zone from what he’d experienced in Afghanistan, but equally as devastating.

  The tornado had left a trail of destruction that had narrowly missed his sister’s house. He searched for the Amish farmhouses that stretched along the horizon. Few had been spared. Most were broken piles of rubble, as if a giant had crushed them underfoot.

  A sickening dread spread over him. The noise earlier had been deafening. Now an eerie quiet filled the late Georgia afternoon. No time to lament. People could be trapped in the wreckage.

  “Come on, boy.” Frank quickly picked his way among the broken branches and headed for the path that led through the woods. He ignored the ache in his hip, a reminder of the IED explosion and the building that had collapsed on top of him. Thankfully, a team of orthopedic surgeons had gotten him back on his feet. A fractured pelvis, broken ribs and a cracked femur had been insignificant compared with those who hadn’t made it out alive.

  Still weak from the infection that had been a life-threatening complication following surgery, Frank pushed forward, knowing others needed help. Skirting areas where the tornado had twisted giant trees like pickup sticks, he checked his cell en route and shook his head with regret at the lack of coverage.

  At the foot of the hill, he donned his leather work gloves and raced toward the Amish Craft Shoppe. A brother and sister in their teens usually manned the store.

  “Call out if you can hear me,” he shouted as he threw aside boards scattered across the walkway leading to the front porch. “Where are you?” he demanded. “Answer me.”

  Duke sniffed at his side.

  “Can you hear me?” he called again and again. The lack of response made him fear the worst and drove him to dig through the fallen timbers even more frantically.

  An Amish man and woman tumbled from a farmhouse across the street. Their home had lost its roof and a supporting side wall.

  The bearded man wore a blue shirt and dark trousers, held up with suspenders. Dirt smudged his face and his cheek was scraped.

  “The store was closed today,” he shouted, waving his hands to get Frank’s attention. “The youth are at a neighboring farm.”

  “You’re sure?” Frank was unwilling to give up the search if anyone was still inside.

  The man glanced at the woman wearing a typical Amish dress and apron.

  “Jah, that is right,” she said, nodding in agreement.

  “What about your family?” Frank called. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Thanks to God, we are unharmed, but our neighbors are in need.” The man pointed to the next farmhouse and the gaping hole where the wall and roof had been. He and his wife ran to offer aid.

  Before Frank could follow, he glanced at the nearby barn. The corner of one wall remained standing, precariously poised over a pile of rubble. At that moment, the cloud cover broke, and the sun’s reflection bounced off a piece of metal buried in the wreckage.

  Something chrome, like the bumper of a car. The Amish didn’t drive automobiles, but a traveler passing by could have been seeking shelter from the storm.

  He raced to the barn and dug through the debris. “Shout if you can hear me.”

  A woman moaned.

  “Where are you?” Frank strained to hear more.

  All too well, he knew the terror of being buried. His heart lodged in his throat as the memories of Afghanistan played through his mind.

  Duke pawed at a pile of timber, his nose sniffing the broken beams and fractured wood.

  He barked.

  “Help.”

  Working like a madman, Frank tossed aside boards piled one upon the other until he uncovered a portion of the car. The passenger door hung open. Shoving fallen beams aside, he leaned into the vehicle’s interior.

  A woman stared up at him.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She didn’t respond.

  Hematoma on her left temple. Cuts and abrasions. She was probably in shock.

  “Can you move your hands and feet?”

  She nodded.

  “Stay put, ma’am, until the EMTs arrive. You could have internal injuries.”

  She reached for his hand and struggled to untangle herself from the wreckage.

  “You shouldn’t move, ma’am.”

  “I need help.” She was determined to crawl from the car.

  “Take it slow.” Frank had no choice but to assist her to her feet. She was tall and slender with untamed hair the color of autumn leaves. She teetered for a moment and then stepped into his arms.

  He clutched her close and warmed to her embrace. “You’re okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

  “But—”

  She glanced over her shoulder. He followed her gaze, his eyes focusing on a second woman.

  Black hair. Ashen face. A bloodstained jacket lay wadded in a ball at her waist.

  Pulling back the covering, Frank groaned. Her injury hadn’t been caused by the storm.

  She’d taken a bullet to the gut.

  TWO

  Where were the emergency response teams?

  Police, fire, EMTs?

  Frank removed his belt and wove it under the victim’s slender waist. Determined to keep her alive, he cinched the makeshift tourniquet around the rolled-up jacket to maintain pressure and hopefully stop the flow of precious blood she was losing much too fast.

  He glanced at the redhead hovering nearby. She looked as concerned as he felt. They both knew that without immediate medical help, the injured woman wouldn’t survive.

  “If you’ve got a cell, call 911.”

  She pulled a phone from her pocket and shook her head. “There...there’s no coverage.”

  The gunshot victim needed an ambulance and needed it fast. Frustration bubbled up within him. After ten years with the US Army’s Criminal Investigation Division, Frank didn’t like the only conclusion he could make with the information at hand.

  “Why’d you shoot her, ma’am?”

  Red shook her head, her eyes wide. “I did no such thing.”

  He pointed to the demolished car. “This is your Honda?”

  She nodded.

  “How’d she end up in your car?”

  “I...I stopped at the picnic park about a mile from here. She needed help. I opened the passenger door, and a shot rang out.”

  “Did you see the shooter?”

  Red rubbed the swollen lump on her forehead. “I...I don’t remember.”

  “Don’t remember or don’t want to remember?” Even he heard the annoyance in his voice.

  The woman stared at him, her face blank. Maybe she was telling the truth.

  “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Colleen...Colleen Brennan.”

  “You’re from around here?”

  “Atlanta.”

  Which didn’t make sense. “But you just happened to pull into a nearby picnic park?”

  Her green eyes flashed with fear.

  Trauma played havoc with emotions and memory. Frank wanted to believ
e her, but he knew too well that the pretty woman with the tangled hair could be making up a story to throw him off track.

  Duke sniffed at her leg. She reached down and patted his head.

  A raspy pull of air forced Frank’s attention back to the gunshot victim. She moaned.

  Sirens sounded in the distance.

  He leaned into the car. “Stay with us, ma’am. Help’s on the way.” Hopefully it would arrive in time.

  Her glassy eyes focused on Colleen. Frank turned to stare at her.

  The redhead blanched. The lump on her temple cried for ice, and the scrapes to her cheek and hands needed debridement.

  “After your friend’s treated, we’ll have the EMTs take a look at you.”

  “I’m fine.” Colleen’s voice was lifeless.

  Slipping past her, he waved his arms in the air at the approaching first responders. Two ambulances and a fire truck from one of the rural fire stations.

  The emergency crew pulled in front of the Craft Shoppe. Frank motioned them closer to the barn, where they parked and jumped from their vehicles.

  “Two women are injured.” Frank pointed to the collapsed structure. “One with a bullet wound to her gut. She’s lost blood. The other woman has a knot the size of a lemon on her forehead and could be in shock.”

  Hauling medical bags and a backboard, a pair of EMTs waded through the collapsed wreckage around the car. A second set of paramedics set up an emergency triage area near the second ambulance.

  “We’ll need you to step away from the car, ma’am,” one of the EMTs told Colleen.

  Her brow furrowed. She peered around them at Frank.

  Seeing the confusion in her gaze, his anger softened. “It’s okay,” he assured her. “They’re here to help.”

  Despite the niggling worry that Colleen Brennan may have been involved in the shooting, he reached for her. “Come toward me, and we’ll get out of their way.”

  She offered him her hand. Her skin was soft, but clammy, which wasn’t good.

  “Let’s see if someone can check your forehead.”

  She shook her head. “Vivian’s the one who needs help.”

  “You know her name?” Although surprised by the revelation, Frank kept his voice low and calm. “What’s her last name?”

  “I...I don’t remember.” Colleen pulled her hand from his grasp. “We were trying to get away—”

  She hesitated.

  “Away from—” he prompted.

  “A man. He was in the woods. Tall. Dark jacket. Hood over his head. He had a rifle.”

  “Did you see a car?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I remember.”

  Selective memory or a partial amnesia brought on by trauma?

  “Come with me.” Frank ushered Colleen to the triage site. Duke followed close behind.

  A pair of EMTs helped her onto a gurney pushed against the side of the ambulance. One man cleaned her hands and face and treated the scratches on her arms while the other took her vitals, checked her pupils and then applied an ice pack to the lump on her forehead.

  “You’ve got a slight concussion, but you don’t need hospitalization,” he said. “Is there anyone who can check on you through the night?”

  She shook her head. “I...I live alone.”

  “In Atlanta,” Frank volunteered.

  An Amish man stumbled toward the ambulance. Blood darkened his beard. The EMTs hurried to help him.

  “You’ll spend the night here in the Freemont area,” Frank told Colleen. Before she could object, he pointed to the one-story brick ranch visible in the distance. “My sister, Evelyn, owns the house on top of the knoll. There’s an extra room. You can stay with her.”

  “I...I need to get back to Atlanta.”

  “From the looks of your car, travel anytime soon seems unlikely. Downed trees are blocking some of the roadways and won’t be cleared until morning.”

  “Is there a bus station?”

  “In town, but you need to talk to law enforcement first.”

  The downward slope of her mouth and the dark shadows under her eyes gave him concern. She looked fragile and ready to break.

  “I...I don’t know your name,” she stammered.

  “It’s Frank Gallagher, and the dog’s Duke.”

  Her face softened for a moment as Duke licked her hand, then she glanced back at Frank.

  “You’re a farmer?”

  He shook his head. “I’m an army guy. CID.”

  Seeing her confusion, he explained, “Criminal Investigation Division. We handle felony crimes for the military.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a cop?”

  He shrugged. “More like a detective. What about you?”

  “Flight attendant.”

  “Hartsfield?”

  She nodded, indicating the Atlanta airport.

  One of the EMTs returned and pulled a bottle of water from a cooler. “I want you to sit up, ma’am, and drink some water. I’ll check on you again in a few minutes.”

  Frank pointed to the nearby fire truck. “You relax while Duke and I talk to the guys from the fire department.”

  Rounding the ambulance, Frank glanced at the road. A line of first responders and Good Samaritan townspeople had arrived to help in the rescue effort. The scene farther south was probably the same, with people flocking to the area in hopes of aiding those in need.

  Glancing back at Colleen, he was relieved to see she had closed her eyes and was resting her head against the side of the ambulance.

  Static played over the fire truck’s emergency radio. A tall, slender guy in his midtwenties stood nearby. He wore a navy blue shirt with the Freemont Fire Department logo and a name tag that read Daugherty.

  His face brightened when he saw Duke.

  “Nice dog.”

  “Daugherty, can you can patch me through to the local police?”

  “No problem, sir.”

  Once Frank got through to the dispatcher, he explained about the gunshot victim. “Colleen Brennan was the driver of the vehicle. She’ll be staying overnight at Evelyn Gallagher’s house.” He provided the address.

  “Everyone’s tied up with the rescue operation,” the dispatcher explained. “I’ll pass on the information, but be patient.”

  After disconnecting, he requested a second call to Fort Rickman.

  “Did you want to contact the military police?” Daugherty asked.

  “That works.”

  He connected Frank to the provost marshal’s office. After providing his name, Frank requested all available military help be sent to the Amish area.

  “Roger that, sir. I believe we’ve already received a request for aid, but I’ll notify the Emergency Operations Center, just in case. They’ll pass the information on to General Cameron.”

  “Any damage on post?”

  “A twister touched down. Some of the barracks in the training area were in the storm’s path. No loss of life reported thus far. The chaplain said God was watching out for us.”

  Frank wasn’t sure he’d give God the credit. If the Lord protected some, why were others in the storm’s path? “What about Freemont?”

  “We’ve got some spotty reports. A trailer park on the outskirts of town was hit with some injuries. A few shops downtown and a number of the old three-story brick buildings on the waterfront.”

  “The abandoned warehouses?”

  “That’s correct. We’re awaiting more details from the local authorities. The information I received is that Allen Quincy is heading the civilian relief effort.”

  “The mayor?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s asked for our help. We’ve called in all personnel. I’ll pass on the information about the Amish area.”


  “Let the Red Cross and medical personnel know, as well.”

  “I’m on it, sir.”

  “Do you have landline access?” Frank asked.

  “To main post only.”

  “See if you can contact CID Headquarters. Ask for Special Agent Colby Voss. Tell him Special Agent Frank Gallagher is at the Craft Shoppe, located at the northern end of Amish Road. We’re going to need him.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Colby’s wife, Becca, had been raised Amish. She knew the area and the local Amish bishop, but Becca was on temporary duty out of the state so Colby was the next best choice.

  He and Frank had joined the CID years earlier and had served together before. Frank could attest to Colby’s ability both as an investigator and diplomat.

  The Amish were a tight community and preferred to take care of their own. After the tornado, they needed help. Colby might be able to bridge the gap between the Amish and their English neighbors.

  Frank thanked Daugherty for the use of his radio. He and Duke returned to the ambulance in time to hear the EMT reassure Colleen.

  “Looks like dehydration was the problem, ma’am,” he told her. “Your vitals are better so you’re good to go.”

  “What about that lump on her forehead?” Frank asked.

  “She should be okay, especially if someone checks on her through the night.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” Colleen insisted as she hopped down from the gurney.

  Frank reached out a hand to steady her. She held on to him for a long moment and then nodded her thanks. “I’m okay.”

  “Ma’am, you need to take it easy for the next day or two,” the EMT cautioned.

  “And the gunshot victim?” Frank asked, his gaze flicking to the other ambulance.

  “They’re preparing to transport her to the hospital at Fort Rickman, sir.”

  “Not the civilian facility in Freemont?”

  “She was conscious long enough to give her last name. Her husband is a sergeant on post. Sergeant Drew Davis.”

  Frank didn’t recognize the name, but if Vivian was an army spouse, the CID would be involved in the investigation. With the Freemont police working hard on the storm-relief effort, the military might take the lead on the case.