Stone Cross (Arliss Cutter #2) - Marc Cameron Page 0,96
a fresh track, wide and flat. The dogsled. The trampled snow out front and boot prints beside the track showed clearly that Ned had come upon Donna Taylor while she was hitching dogs to her sled. The trail ran past Ned’s body and into the tree line to the northeast.
Taylor was gone, but she hadn’t been gone long.
Holstering the revolver, Cutter ran to Ned’s side, dropping to his knees. A line of blood-soaked snow trailed behind the VPSO for nearly twenty feet, where he’d been trying to drag himself toward the safety of the cabin.
Birdie knelt beside them, shrugging off the cord yoke that held her mittens around her neck. She lay her rifle on top of the beaver fur to protect it from the damp. Frantically, she dug the snow away from Jasper’s face so his mouth and nose were clear, then pressed her fingers along his neck.
“I got a pulse,” she said.
“Entry wound here,” Cutter said, pointing to the small hole above the knee in the back of Jasper’s uniform pants. He handed her the flashlight. “Hold this up for me so I can see if there’s an exit wound.”
Ned groaned at Cutter’s touch. His eyelids fluttered, but did not open.
Birdie took the light with one hand and kept her fingers on Jasper’s neck, as if to reassure herself that he was indeed still alive.
“Ned!” Cutter said, gently but firmly. “Stay with me, buddy. We’re with you now.”
Ned Jasper was a large man, at least two-seventy and pushing six feet tall. Cutter rolled him on his side, using his own knee to prop him in place. The exit wound wasn’t difficult to find. Blood soaked the VPSO’s brown uniform slacks, pooling in the snow beneath where he’d fallen. A quick scan revealed a golf-ball size hole approximately six inches above his left knee, slightly toward the inside of his thigh. Cutter rolled the wounded man all the way onto his back, then used his pocketknife to slice away the pant leg, exposing the wound.
Blood arced out with each beat of Jasper’s heart.
“Artery!” Birdie gasped.
“The shot must have nicked the femoral,” Cutter said. Snapping his fingers to get Birdie to give him the flashlight, he pointed to the junction where Jasper’s thigh met his pelvis and then to the wound itself. “Push there,” he said. “And here. The heel of your hand in each spot. Lean in. Put all your weight into it.”
Jasper moaned at the sudden pressure. His eyes fluttered open, glancing down at his crotch. “Well, Birdie,” he said sleepily. “I didn’t know you felt that way . . .”
“Hey, Ned,” Cutter said. “How you doing there, bud?”
“The bitch shot me!” Jasper said, suddenly angry, then sedate again, breathless. “Sorry, Birdie, but this pisses me off.”
“Save your energy, Ned,” Birdie said.
“I can’t believe she shot me . . .”
Cutter held the light between his teeth and reached into his back pocket for a coiled length of bright orange cord. Far too many peacetime protectors suffered from it-will-never-happen-tome syndrome. Cutter had watched enough people bleed out in Afghanistan that he always carried some kind of tourniquet in his pocket or bag—even if only for self-care. This one was called a RATS, Rapid Application Tourniquet System—essentially a flat elastic bungee cord with a metal clasp on one end.
“Okay, my friend,” Cutter said, his words garbled by the light in his teeth. “This is gonna hurt some, but I have to put it high and tight.”
“Do it,” Jasper said, coughing a little. “High or die, right?”
“Nobody’s gonna die,” Birdie said.
“Except the bitch who shot me . . .”
Looping the RATS around Jasper’s thigh, Cutter pushed it up well past the wound, so the bright orange band nestled against Birdie’s hand as she maintained pressure. The cord was long enough he was able to take a second wrap, pulling it tight as he went, and tucking the end into the metal clip.
He checked the wound, flashlight in a blood-stained hand.
“We’ve slowed the bleeding for now,” he said. “But we need to get you out of the snow.” Cutter shrugged off his coat and rolled it into a ball. Ned winced when he stuffed it under his leg.
“Pulse is awful fast,” Birdie whispered, looking grimly at Cutter. Jasper’s body was struggling to make up for blood loss.
Cutter fished the cell phone out of his pocket, punching in a speed-dial number with his blood-covered thumb. He looked up at Birdie while he waited for the call to connect. “Health aide,” he said.