stood.
“Ms. Milo?” I said, sprinting for the Jeep. I jumped in, jammed the shifter into drive, and floored the gas. “Scarlett? Can you hear me?”
But there was nothing.
I raced up the slope, reciting what she’d said about left turns and right turns as I pushed the Jeep around the corners.
The house sat by itself on a section of curving road, out of sight from its neighbors. My tires scraped sand and grit as I stomped on the brakes. I jumped out, let Spot out, and ran for the woman’s door.
“Scarlett Milo?!” I shouted as I tried the door. The doorknob was locked. There was also a deadbolt, and the door looked too heavy to easily kick in.
I ran around the side of the house. Spot anticipated my movements and ran ahead.
The house was on the lower side of the road, and the ground went down at a steep angle. I scrambled down a landscaped path to a broad stairs that climbed in a dogleg up to the deck. I took them two at a time while Spot took them three or four per leap.
Scarlett Milo was sprawled on her side at the far edge of the deck where she had probably stood to look down on me. Her throat was blown open, and blood gurgled out in large volume. I’d seen enough wounds to know this one was fatal. Because the blood was bright red and pulsed, I knew the bullet had hit her carotid artery.
By the shards of shattered vertebrae that mixed in with the messy, shredded wound, I knew her neck had largely been destroyed. There was no way to prevent further blood loss without strangling her.
Nevertheless, I knelt down and put my thumb across the main part of the blood flow. The blood gurgled out elsewhere. Just then, she made a kind of a coughing contraction. But there was no connecting windpipe to her mouth, so the exhalation just sprayed blood from her neck into the air and all over me and Spot, who stood a respectful several feet back.
I reached my phone out of my pocket with my other hand and set it on the deck to dial 911, a reasonable, if futile, move.
Her hand rose up, demonstrating that at least part of her spinal cord was still intact. She clutched at my shirt and pulled me down. Her mouth was moving. I realized that she was still conscious and wanted to say something. I bent down, my ear next to her mouth.
Because her windpipe was destroyed, she had no way to run air from her lungs through her vocal cords, if there were any vocal cords left. All she could do was make mouth movements.
Her hand shifted and reached for her pocket. In an astonishing feat of focus and control, she pulled out a pen and held it up.
I realized she wanted some paper. I let go of my phone and felt my pockets. There was a gas station receipt. I held it on the deck boards.
She scrawled some marks.
A voice came over my phone. “Nine-one-one emergency,” a woman said. “Please state your name and location.”
I reached for the phone.
Scarlett Milo tapped her pen on the deck boards.
I let go of the phone and looked at her. Except for the flowing blood and her moving arm, nothing else moved. She appeared paralyzed.
She tapped the pen again, the point making dots on the receipt paper.
I stared at it, trying to figure out the jerky writing.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell what you’ve written,” I said. “Can you try again?”
Scarlett once again raised her pen. Then her hand collapsed to the deck boards, and she was still.
TWO
I explained to the 911 dispatcher that the victim had died from a gunshot wound, and I told her who I was and where I was.
“Please keep the line open,” she said. “I’ll have officers en route immediately.”
I looked at the scene, speaking as much to help me focus as to provide information to the dispatcher and anyone who would eventually listen to the recorded call.
“While I wait for your officers, I’ll give you the details for your recording,” I said into the phone. “A woman named Scarlett Milo was shot. I heard only one shot, and the wound appears to have
“Ms. Milo?” I said, sprinting for the Jeep. I jumped in, jammed the shifter into drive, and floored the gas. “Scarlett? Can you hear me?”
But there was nothing.
I raced up the slope, reciting what she’d said about left turns and right turns as I pushed the Jeep around the corners.
The house sat by itself on a section of curving road, out of sight from its neighbors. My tires scraped sand and grit as I stomped on the brakes. I jumped out, let Spot out, and ran for the woman’s door.
“Scarlett Milo?!” I shouted as I tried the door. The doorknob was locked. There was also a deadbolt, and the door looked too heavy to easily kick in.
I ran around the side of the house. Spot anticipated my movements and ran ahead.
The house was on the lower side of the road, and the ground went down at a steep angle. I scrambled down a landscaped path to a broad stairs that climbed in a dogleg up to the deck. I took them two at a time while Spot took them three or four per leap.
Scarlett Milo was sprawled on her side at the far edge of the deck where she had probably stood to look down on me. Her throat was blown open, and blood gurgled out in large volume. I’d seen enough wounds to know this one was fatal. Because the blood was bright red and pulsed, I knew the bullet had hit her carotid artery.
By the shards of shattered vertebrae that mixed in with the messy, shredded wound, I knew her neck had largely been destroyed. There was no way to prevent further blood loss without strangling her.
Nevertheless, I knelt down and put my thumb across the main part of the blood flow. The blood gurgled out elsewhere. Just then, she made a kind of a coughing contraction. But there was no connecting windpipe to her mouth, so the exhalation just sprayed blood from her neck into the air and all over me and Spot, who stood a respectful several feet back.
I reached my phone out of my pocket with my other hand and set it on the deck to dial 911, a reasonable, if futile, move.
Her hand rose up, demonstrating that at least part of her spinal cord was still intact. She clutched at my shirt and pulled me down. Her mouth was moving. I realized that she was still conscious and wanted to say something. I bent down, my ear next to her mouth.
Because her windpipe was destroyed, she had no way to run air from her lungs through her vocal cords, if there were any vocal cords left. All she could do was make mouth movements.
Her hand shifted and reached for her pocket. In an astonishing feat of focus and control, she pulled out a pen and held it up.
I realized she wanted some paper. I let go of my phone and felt my pockets. There was a gas station receipt. I held it on the deck boards.
She scrawled some marks.
A voice came over my phone. “Nine-one-one emergency,” a woman said. “Please state your name and location.”
I reached for the phone.
Scarlett Milo tapped her pen on the deck boards.
I let go of the phone and looked at her. Except for the flowing blood and her moving arm, nothing else moved. She appeared paralyzed.
She tapped the pen again, the point making dots on the receipt paper.
I stared at it, trying to figure out the jerky writing.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell what you’ve written,” I said. “Can you try again?”
Scarlett once again raised her pen. Then her hand collapsed to the deck boards, and she was still.
TWO
I explained to the 911 dispatcher that the victim had died from a gunshot wound, and I told her who I was and where I was.
“Please keep the line open,” she said. “I’ll have officers en route immediately.”
I looked at the scene, speaking as much to help me focus as to provide information to the dispatcher and anyone who would eventually listen to the recorded call.
“While I wait for your officers, I’ll give you the details for your recording,” I said into the phone. “A woman named Scarlett Milo was shot. I heard only one shot, and the wound appears to have
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