Gone South (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 3) by Melanie Jackson Page B

to his knees as the red-haired woman, realizing what happened, jumped to her feet and charged at him. Her face was insane, snarling like an animal, and for a moment Jimmy was shaken.
    Jimmy raised his pistol and was taking aim through the stinging sweat and rain running into his eyes. Then his nostrils flared at the scent of something familiar and horrible. It smelled like wet dog, only ten times worse. Then he heard the guttural roar that almost blew him off his feet.
    “Oh crap,” Jimmy exclaimed, turning to face his nemesis.
     
    *  *  *
     
    I have never, ever wanted to witness a bear attack, especially not on someone ten feet away from me. That day I changed my mind. There was joy in my heart as I heard the roar of the grizzly and saw the thug’s muddy face freeze with fear as the bear broke out of the cover of the woods.
    Since my usual catlike reflexes had disappeared several hours ago, I stopped my useless charge by having my feet slip out from under me and going splat in slimy mud. The bear could have turned on me, but the weasel-faced jerk screeched and tried to shoot the beast, and she knocked the pistol out of his hand. Actually, it was more like knocking his hand off.
    He screamed and went running for the trees, but I didn’t follow to see what happened. The noise was graphic enough.
    As soon as the bear gave chase, I crawled back to Chuck. Anatoli was already there. With a shotgun and — more importantly — with a first aid kit.
    “How bad?” I gasped , seeing the ground around Chuck was far too red . Water was diluting the blood, of course, but there was still too much of it. “Did he hit bone?”
    “I put pressure on it. You hold his head out of water. Alex e i!” Anatoli shouted. “Go to bar. Fetch Doctor Jones!”
    “The Bones is here?” I asked, feeling tears of relief begin to leak from my eyes as I scrambled around to Chuck’s head and slid my hands under it, lifting him out of the mud where he had fallen.
    The Bones isn’t the best doctor when it comes to diagnosis of subtle illness, but he knew how to treat gunshot wounds.
    “Chuck,” I said softly, not really wanting to wake him since he would be in terrible pain, but needing to talk to him anyway. “You hang on now. You just hang on. Doc Jones is here and he’ll fix you right up.”
    Cold, bloody water soaked into my pants, but I didn’t care. My clothes were past praying for and cold didn’t matter so long as Chuck lived. And then, since I didn’t need to be brave for Chuck any more, I went ahead and allowed myself to cry.
     
     

Chapter 13
     
    Big John whispered to me in Gaelic that the American police were still here in the pub . I relayed this to Chuck and Anatoli as we got out of the Jeep . A still rather pale Chuck grimaced once as he adjusted his arm sling, but instantly straightened, assuming a professional demeanor. It almost compensated for his red and black plaid shirt and blue and green checked sling . Anatoli had sacrificed his ugliest shirts for us.
    Chuck would have been happier to do without the plaid badge of honor, but it wasn’t an option. The bullet had nicked the bone and torn through muscle. Because the Bones treated him, there was no official record of a gunshot wound, but Chuck would need a story when he went back to work.
    We walked into the pub. The dim light was comforting after the sunshine outside. I had done a lot of crying and not much sleeping after Chuck was shot and my eyes were tired .
    To be polite, I waited for formal introduction s , but I knew who these men were — or rather what they were . Big John was wrong. They were much more than run - of - the - mill city police.
    It was also obvious fr om body language who was in char ge . The head agent looked grim and was trying for formal dignity , though the bright colored clothing he wore did a great deal to detract from his air of authority . I would have to commend the Braids on finally ridding herself of the apparel that the devil g