Page 10 of A Mile of Ocean

Still in contact with the ER, Linus climbed aboard the back with his patient. It wasn’t until he sat next to him on the gurney and turned his head slightly that he noticed the real problem. Inthe center of the back of his head, he saw a small, circular entry wound, likely from a small caliber bullet. There wasno exit, which meant the bullet had lodged somewhere in his brain.

While hooking up the oxygen tube around his nose to help him breathe, Linus updated the ER staff on what to expect upon arrival: “Correction. Not a stroke. We’re not dealing with a stroke victim. On closer examination, we have a GSWB—center back of the head, small caliber, perhaps a .22 caliber, no exit wound, no blood visible. All the bleeding must be internal. Swelling of the brain is likely. He’s been unconscious for forty-five minutes, possibly longer.”

Linus squeezed the man’s shoulder and whispered into his ear, “Hang in there, Mr. Callum. Now that we know the problem, we’ll fix you up, and you’ll be good as new in no time.”

But Linus knew he’d need a miracle because ninety-one percent of gunshot wounds to the head were almost always fatal. As they raced down the roadway, he hoped Barrett Callum would be one of the lucky nine percent who survived.

Chapter Three

Expecting a stroke diagnosis at the hospital, Trent was stunned to learn his grandfather had been shot. While he waited for Gideon Nighthawk to perform surgery to try and remove the bullet and stop the bleeding in the brain, he looked around the waiting room at the people who had accompanied him to the ER. Duchess was still trying to process the information, so much so that she couldn’t answer. All she could do was cradle her head in her hands and moan.

“I don’t understand,” Trent muttered. “Who would have done this? And why?”

Dolly put her arms around Duchess, rocking her in a sisterly embrace.Dolly looked fierce and determined. Her snow-white hair was cropped short with spikes on top and dyed feathery pink.“Wait till I get my hands on the lowlife that did this.”

“You and me both,” Tate stated, wiping away tears. Always detail-oriented, she seemed intent on getting the facts straight about the shooting. “How far does a .22 caliber bullet travel anyway?”

“Up to a mile and a half,” Trent stated, anger building. “But the shooter would only need three hundred yards to be effective.”

“That’s three football fields,” Tate figured, attempting to work out the angle in her head. “Could it have been an accident? Someone who wandered onto our land by mistake, shootingat something else? Someone hunting in the woods near Turtle Ridge, maybe?”

Duchess lifted her head out of her hands to stare at her granddaughter. “Don’t you understand that I didn’t even hear a gunshot at all? Not the sound of a bullet whizzing by or anything else even close to a rifle shot. How could this happen and me not know he’d taken a bullet to the head?”

“That’s what we intend to find out,” Brent Cody said from ten feet away. With Eastlyn Parker standing beside him, he continued, “My office will need to find out what type bullet it was first to make sure it was a .22 caliber. That’s why Eastlyn’s here, waiting to bag the bullet as soon as Barrett’s out of surgery. Linus says the entry point was small. He sent me a photo of the wound. Even though it looks like a .22, we’ll need confirmation. Then we’ll need a statement explaining where you all were at the time of the shot and try to pinpoint where it originated from and from which direction.”

“Might as well be now,” Duchess grumbled. “Barrett was sitting on Zorro. I was sitting on Confetti Queen. We were facing west, looking out over the ridge at the setting sun. The two horses were right beside each other, not two feet apart. I saw him fall, tip over in the saddle, and fall to the left side of Zorro. I watched him hit the ground. I thought he’d suffered a stroke or something. It never occurred to me that he’d been shot.”

“You never heard gunfire?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I heard nothing except that Barrett hit the ground with a thud. I jumped off my horse and went over to where he was. I kept asking him what was wrong. He didn’t say a word because he couldn’t speak. I remember texting Tate right away to tell her what had happened. I told her to call 911. I even tried dialing it myself, but my hands shook so hard I couldn’t. I dropped my phone. It’s still out there somewhere in the grass. When I glanced over at Barrett again,for several long seconds, he looked like he was struggling to breathe, so that’s when I started chest compressions.”

Tate handed off her phone to Brent. “Here. Read the text for yourself. It came in at eight-fifteen. When I left my house I ran over to Trent’s place, it must’ve taken another ten minutes. It wasn’t completely dark when the paramedics showed up. So, we must have reached Turtle Ridge around eight-forty, eight-forty-five. Trent was already there helping Gran.”

Brent took Tate’s phone and studied the text, noting the timeline seemed to make sense. “Do you have anyone angry about anything that I should know about? Has Barrett argued with anyone? Has he upset anyone lately?”

“No,” Duchess replied sharply. “Nothing unusual has happened. The last time he argued with anyone was about all the stupid changes in major league baseball. That was last spring with Brad Ratliff at the car lot. Or maybe it was with Tucker Ferguson at the hardware store. Neither one of those men would kill Barrett because he thinks the pitch clock is just plain stupid.”

Trent chuckled. “Granddad doesn’t think the game needs speeding up. He enjoyed watching his A’s just the way old-time baseball was played, even if it took four or five hours to end the game. They’re his favorite team. He had an opinion about limiting the mound visits. But that pitch clock really drove him up the wall.”

Brent smiled. “I can’t say I disagree with that. Okay. If you think of anything that I should know, text me. Tomorrow morning, I’ll send my people out to take measurements at first light. In the meantime, don’t go back to the scene and disturb anything tonight. Got that?”

“Got it,” Trent said. “But what if the bastard who did this comes back?”

“Then don’t let your guard down. For what it’s worth, I don’t think this was an accidental shot.”

“I don’t think so either,” Trent noted. “They were right on target.”

Brent slapped Trent on the back and bobbed his head toward the double doors. “Step outside with me for a second, will you?”

“Sure. What’s up?” Trent asked as he followed Brent out onto the sidewalk.

“I’m assigning Trish Vosberg to watch things tonight at the ranch. You should see a patrol car in the area when you get home. She’ll be stationed there all night. Call if you see anyone hanging around who shouldn’t be there. Right now, Theo Woodsong and Colt Del Rio are out there walking the scene with flashlights, trying to make sense of the shot, the angle, and the shooter’s location. They’ll report back to me if they find anything. Tomorrow, I’ll take a fresh look myself.”

“Who’ll be overseeing the case?”

“I’ll be in charge. But the legwork will likely be up to my entire team. They’ll all work together to find out who did this.”

“Thanks. There, for a minute in the waiting room, I was afraid you thought my grandmother did it.”

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