By Starlight by Dorothy Garlock Page B

anything, he could do, Jack knelt beside Ross as the man writhed in pain.
    “Oh, my land sakes!” Virginia shrieked from behind the Belvedere’s front desk. “What’s the matter with him?”
    Given Ross’s current state, there was no point in asking him. Sweat dotted his pale white skin and ran in streaks down his cheeks, pooling in the recesses of his neck. The Bureau agent’s hands were pressed against his stomach so tightly that the tendons stood out, his nails dug in deeply as if he were clinging to a crumbling cliff side. Sounds hissed through his clenched teeth; there were no words, only guttural noises that spoke of hurt. Frighteningly, his eyes had rolled back so far in their sockets that Jack could no longer see the pupils. Ross looked to be in such agony that Jack began to fear he was about to die right before his eyes.
    It was that thought, that his partner might die if he didn’t do something, that finally spurred Jack into action.
    “Call Dr. Quayle and tell him it’s an emergency!” he shouted at Mrs. Benoit. “Tell him he needs to get here right now!”
    Without hesitation, the Belvedere’s owner hurried into the small room beside the front desk. A moment later, Jack could hear her frantically dialing the operator. Thankfully, he remembered that Dr. Quayle’s office was nearby, only a couple of blocks away; if he was in, he’d arrive at the hotel in minutes.
    But if he isn’t there…
    Even in the short time since Ross had fallen to the floor, his condition appeared to have worsened; in addition to groaning louder, he’d begun to shake, his limbs twitching with every tremor. Unable to do more than watch, Jack felt completely helpless. He might not have liked Ross Hooper, not a lick , but the last thing Jack wanted was for the man to suffer.
    “Doc Quayle’ll be here just as quick as he can,” Virginia explained, setting a pitcher of water and some old rags on the floor. “In the meantime, I reckon he needs to be cooled down a bit.”
    Dipping a rag into the water, Jack began wiping the sweat from Ross’s brow; at the first touch, Ross reacted as if he’d been struck by lightning, his body spasming before he moaned deeply. Jack didn’t know if he was helping or making things worse.
    “What do you reckon’s the matter with him?” Virginia asked.
    “I don’t know,” Jack answered truthfully.
    “Doc Quayle’ll know what to do.”
    “I sure hope so.”
    No sooner had Jack spoken than Steven Quayle raced through the Belvedere’s front door. The doctor was a wisp of a man, short and so thin he’d blow away in the first stiff breeze. Getting on in years, with severe glasses that made him look even older, he had thin white hair that barely covered a forehead well known around Colton for wrinkling whenever he considered a diagnosis. He mended children’s broken bones, tended pregnant women’s broken waters, and even, on rare occasions, offered advice to those suffering from a broken heart. He was a good physician as well as an honest man, sometimes brutally so, but everyone in town would put their lives in his hands.
    Hurrying over to the fallen man, Dr. Quayle hesitated for an instant, surprise fading from his face as he recognized who was kneeling down beside his new patient. “What happened to him, Jack?” he asked calmly, opening his medical bag.
    Jack answered by telling him about Ross’s many complaints during their drive, about how he’d thought it must’ve been something he ate, all the way up until he’d screamed, collapsing on the floor in agony. Dr. Quayle listened, occasionally nodding, his brow furrowed.
    “He only complained about his stomach?” the doctor asked.
    Jack nodded.
    Dr. Quayle leaned over and placed his hand against Ross’s lower stomach, just above his belt. He only gave a light push, but Ross practically leaped off the floor, a howl of agony bursting from his mouth as if a knife had been slid into his belly. Jack couldn’t help but recoil from the