The laconic stable man, William, tall, gaunt, and in his seventies, handled the news of the gunman and Lily's injury with anxious composure. He called 911 and ordered the police and ambulance to Lily Pad Stables, while Gabe loaded up with water, bandages, anything that would pass for a splint, and blankets.

"Is there any easy way a man with a rifle could have gotten as far into the forest as he did?" Gabe asked, swinging back onto Serious Therapy.

"They's a number a ways, actually. These hills're crisscrossed by old logging roads and old mining roads and even old military roads from the war—the Civil War, that is. The bastard couldda taken the one right at the base of that hill over yonder. Ends up at an abandoned coal mine 'bout six miles in. Runs right alongside the Yellow Brick Road—that's this trail here that you was on—for three, four mile before cuttin' away."

"Send the rescue people right out," Gabe said, urging his horse to a full gallop with just a tap of his heels.

Lily was essentially as he had left her, eyes closed, moaning in pain, and looking as if her blood pressure was still quite low. For more than half an hour Gabe ministered to her, replacing the splints protecting her shoulder and neck, keeping her warm and as hydrated as she would allow, and whispering steady encouragement. Her injury was severe—probably a fracture dislocation with significant hemorrhaging—and as likely as not she would be in the operating room before the night was out.

Having done everything he could think of, Gabe knelt beside her and peered into the woods toward the spot where the shooter had stood. It would be worth taking the police there against the remote chance the man had left anything behind. The more Gabe thought about the episode, the more convinced he became that the gunman who had nearly killed him on the street near the White House and this assailant were the same or at least were working for the same people. It was nearly impossible to believe otherwise.

But why target him? Trying to come up with an explanation that fit the facts was a shortcut to a migraine.

"Hang on, Lily," he said. "Help should be here in just a few minutes."

"Can I make it to a hospital in D.C.?" she asked, her voice weak and raspy.

"In the shape you're in, I wouldn't chance it. You've probably lost a significant amount of blood into your arm and back into your chest. At some point you're almost certainly going to need anesthesia and a procedure to fix your shoulder. Maybe after you're stabilized, you can arrange to be transported to a university medical center for that."

"Thanks, Doctor."