Playing Doctor (Bandit Creek Books) by Julie Rowe

bedroom and down the stairs. Smitty was on his cell phone again telling someone that they were going to disappear until this nut job was caught.
    “Who are you talking to?”
    Smitty pulled the phone away from his ear. “Sheriff. He doesn’t know anyone who served in Nam and did any long range patrols.”
    “Well, either JD made it up or someone’s hiding something.”
    “Or maybe JD is nuts.”
    “That too.”
    “Okay,” Smitty said into the phone. “I’ll keep in touch. Let me know if ballistics can help figure what kind of rifle our ghost is using.” He ended the call. “Are you ready to go?”
    “Yeah. We’d better get going if we’re going to get there before dark.”
    “Is there a road?”
    “It’s more of a goat track. How are the shocks on your Jeep?”
    “Brand new. It looks like a rust bucket, but I take good care of my equipment.”
    “You sound like you’re back in the Marines again.”
    “Heh, I’m your personal army of one.”
    “I’m a doctor. Doctors don’t have armies.”
    “What do you call those medical groups that go to disaster areas or refugee camps to do war on disease and injury if not an army of doctors?”
    “Those are volunteer groups who go with nothing more than a humanitarian mission to keep people alive, not kill them.”
    “I volunteered and my humanitarian mission is to keep you alive. I hope I won’t have to kill anyone to do it, but I’m prepared to do what’s necessary. Doesn’t sound much different to me.”
    She stopped to stare at him. “I wish it seemed so black and white to me.”
    “You think too much,” he said grabbing his duffel bag. “Come on, let’s go.”
    He preceded her out the front door and threw his gear into the back of his Jeep. She stepped outside, closed and locked the door then took a step toward the vehicle when the door jam behind her head exploded in a hail of splinters.
    Heart pounding like a car piston at its top gear, she ducked behind the Jeep.
    Smitty was yelling and it took her a moment for his words to register. “...are you all right? Abby answer me!”
    “Yes. Yes, I’m okay. What do we do?”
    “We get the hell out of town before that crazy bastard kills something other than doors. Can you crawl in through the back?”
    “Yes.” And proved it by sliding her bag and her body into the Jeep from the rear hatch, keeping the bag in front of her to hide her from view.
    Smitty jumped into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition and gunned the motor, shooting them out of her driveway and down the street. “Keep your head down and call the Sheriff.”
    Good idea. She dug her cellphone out of her pocket and punched in the number. A woman answered.
    “Cecilia, I need the Sheriff.”
    “He’s not in the office, Abby.”
    “Well, what’s his cellphone number?”
    “I can’t give that out, dear. You know that.”
    “I just got shot at again. I really need to talk to him.”
    “Oh no. All right, how about if I call him with your number and he calls you?”
    “Whatever will work.” She gave Cecilia her number and hung up.
    Twenty seconds of tires screeching, sharp stomach churning turns and certainty she’d have a whole new set of bruises from rolling around with two duffel bags in the back of Smitty’s Jeep later, her cell phone rang.
    “Sheriff?”
    “What the hell is going on, Abby?” he yelled.
    “Someone decided to put another hole in my door. Though I believe they were aiming for my head again.”
    “Geez Louise. Where are you now?”
    “Flying about thirty miles an hour over the speed limit on our way to my folk’s place.”
    “That Marine or Special Forces guy, whatever he is, driving?”
    “Well, I’m sure as hell not. I’m hiding under our duffel bags in the back of the Jeep.”
    “Good, stay there. I’ll go over to your grandmother’s house and see if the bullet matches the one from the first scene.”
    “Don’t forget to lock the door when you’re done.”
    “Call me before