Duplicate Daughter

Taking a roundabout approach, he made his way to the dark shape lying in the snow. As he came within a few feet, he heard more rapid fire. He was under attack! As bullets whizzed behind him, he tumbled forward in the snow, the rifle held out at the side, scrambling to his knees to take cover behind the wounded man, shooting into the brush near the dock from where the shots came.

The injured man groaned. Nick couldn’t risk even the smallest of flashlights to check for wounds. He used his frozen hands and felt something warm and sticky on the man’s chest.

Time was critical. Did he have an injured good guy, an injured bad guy or what?

He shook the victim’s shoulder and got more groans. Obviously, the wound was too extensive to make this man much of a threat. Nick would get him into the house; to leave him out here would be to leave him to die from exposure.

He rose to a stooped position. In the moment of stillness that followed, he heard the crunch of someone approaching through snow. Breathing suspended, he searched the landscape.

Another shot and a bullet sliced through his jacket sleeve. Nick returned fire and a dark shape detached itself and fell forward from a bank of trees.

Nick stood slowly, shakily. It had been well over ten years since he’d fired a gun at another human being. He used the small flashlight he always carried in his pocket to examine the fallen man in front of him. Blood seeped through his jacket. His face was covered with fallen snow.

Nick then moved to the other man, rifle ready. This guy was lying on his face. A 9mm Glock had fallen beside his hand and Nick picked it up carefully, thumbing on the safety, dropping it into the deep pocket of his down jacket.

He could feel no pulse, but his hands were so cold it was hard to know for sure. Since his sympathies at this point favored the first wounded man, who at least hadn’t shot at him, Nick retraced his steps, shining his flashlight. The injured man flung up an arm in a defensive gesture—a good sign. Nick stooped to help him stand, supporting most of his weight. Helping the victim manage the deepening snow quickly became an arduous chore made more difficult as the poor guy lost consciousness.

When Nick finally gained the front porch, he pounded on the door. There wasn’t time for finesse. He yelled, “Katie? Let me in.”

She had apparently been hovering against the door, for the moment his hand hit the solid wood, it flew inward. She seemed to size up the situation in a heartbeat. Throwing her shoulder under the man’s other arm, she helped Nick get him inside and onto a leather sofa. For a small woman, she was strong, though Nick did notice her limp was back.

Sweeping a lap blanket off one of the chairs, he gave it to Katie with the instructions, “Apply pressure to his chest. There’s another injured man outside. I’ve got to get to him before he freezes.”

His gaze followed hers as it dropped to his arm. A rent in the sleeve leaked white down.

“Nick, what’s going on?”

“Gunfight at the OK corral,” he said. Seeing the bewilderment in her eyes, he added, “Two men are trying to kill each other. And me. I’ll be right back.” He turned when he reached the door to find Katie leaning over the man on the couch, pressing the blanket against his chest. Her complexion had turned a pea-soup green.

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