"No you don't. You're going to stay right here until a medic says it's all right for you to move."
"My head hurts," she said again, a bit truculently.
It had been so long since he'd heard that tone in her voice that he couldn't help grinning, despite the terror that had been clawing at his insides and was only now beginning to truly subside.
"I know it does, honey. Sitting up will only make it worse. Just lie still."
"I want to get up."
"In a minute. Let the paramedics take a look at you first." She gave an impatient sigh.
"All right." But before the
sirens had wound to a stop outside, she was trying again to sit up, and he knew she was disoriented. He'd seen it before in injured people; the instinct was a primitive one, to get up, keep moving, put distance between yourself and whatever had caused the injury. He could hear Greg explaining as he led a veritable parade of people up the stairs. There were six paramedics and at least that many deputies, with more arriving, from the sound of the sirens as additional vehicles speeded up the road.
Webb and Lucinda were shouldered to the side as the paramedics, four men and two women, gathered around Roanna. Webb backed against the wall. Lucinda clung weakly to him, trembling, and he put a supporting arm around her. She leaned heavily against him, using his strength, and with dismay he felt how fragile her once strong body felt in his grip.
More deputies arrived, and the sheriff. Booley Watts was retired now, but the new sheriff, Carl Beshears, had been Booley's chief deputy for nine years before being elected sheriff, and he had worked on Jessie's case. He was a compactly muscular man with iron gray hair and cold, suspicious eyes. Booley had operated with a sort of good old-boy Andy Taylor kind of manner; Beshears was more brusque, straight to the point, though he had learned to temper the bulldog, straight-ahead tactics he'd learned in the marines. He began gathering the family together, ushering them to the side.
"Folks, let's get out of the medics' way now, and let them take care of Miss Roanna." His steely gaze lit on Webb.
"Now, what happened here?"
Until then, Webb hadn't realized the similarities between what had happened to Roanna tonight and Jessie's death ten years earlier. He had been concentrating on Roanna, terrified for her, taking care of her. The old, cold fury began to build in him as he realized Beshears suspected him of attacking Roanna, perhaps trying to kill her.
He ruthlessly suppressed his anger, though, because now wasn't the time for it.
"I heard Roanna scream," he said in as even a tone as he could manage.
"The sound came from the front of the house, and I was afraid she'd gotten up without turning on any lights and fallen down the stairs. But when I got here, I saw her lying just where she is now."
"How did you know it was Roanna screaming?"
"I just did," he said flatly.
"You didn't think it could be anyone else in the house who'd gotten up?"
Lucinda gathered herself, galvanized by the obvious suspicion in Beshears's voice.
"Not usually," she said in a firm tone.
"Roanna suffers from insomnia. If anyone is wandering around the house at night, it's likely to be her."
"But you were awake," Beshears said to Webb. "No. I woke up when I heard her scream."
"We all did," Gloria put in.
"Roanna used to have nightmares, you know, and that's what I thought was happening. Webb ran past my door just as I opened it."
"You're sure it was Webb."
"I know it was," Brock put in, squarely facing the sheriff.
"I was right behind him."
Beshears looked frustrated, then shrugged, evidently deciding he didn't have a tie between the two events after all.
"So, did she fall or what? The dispatcher said it was a call for the paramedics and the sheriff's department."
"Just as I got to her," Webb said, "I heard something downstairs."
"Like what?" Beshears's eyes sharpened again.
"I don't know. A crash." Webb looked at Brock and Greg.
"Brock and I went downstairs to take a look," Greg said.
"A lamp had been knocked over in the den. I went outside while Brock checked the rest of the house." He hesitated.
"I think I saw someone running, but I couldn't swear to it. My eyes hadn't adjusted to the dark."
"What direction?" Beshears asked briefly, already beckoning to one of his deputies.
"To the right, toward the highway."
The deputy approached, and Beshears turned to him.
"Y'all get some lights and check the yard on the other side 263
T'JNDA HOWARD
of the driveway. There's a heavy dew tonight, so if anybody's been through there, it'll show on the grass. There may have been an intruder in the house." The deputy nodded and departed, taking several of his fellows with him.
One of the paramedics came over. He had obviously leaped out of bed to answer the call; a ball cap covered his uncombed hair, and his eyes were puffy from sleep. But he was alert, his gaze sharp.
"I'm pretty sure she's going to be all right, but I want to transport her to the hospital to be checked out and to have that cut in her head stitched up. Looks like she's got a mild concussion, too. They'll probably want to keep her for twenty-four hours, just to make certain she's okay." "I'll go with her," Lucinda said, but suddenly staggered. Webb grabbed her.
"Lay her down on the floor," the paramedic said, reaching for her, too.
But Lucinda batted their hands away and pulled herself erect once more. Her color still wasn't good, but she glared fiercely at them.