He hired a guide and went
hunting, eighty miles beyond the last outpost of civilization. Somehow,
he got his hand on a gun, though only guides were supposed to touch
them, managed to overcome its safety devices, and then pulled the
trigger with the gun pointed the wrong way.
Chris, Feldman and Harnett from Public Relations had accompanied him on
the trip. They were sitting in a nearby car while Feldman enjoyed the
scenery, Chris made further plans, and Harnett gathered material. There
was also a photographer and writer, but they hadn't been introduced by
name.
Feldman reached Baxter first. The man was moaning and scared, and he was
bleeding profusely. Only a miracle had saved him from instant death. The
bullet had struck a rib, been deflected and robbed of some of its
energy, and had barely reached the heart. But it had pierced the
pericardium, as best Feldman could guess, and it could be fatal at any
moment.
He'd reached for a probe without thinking. Chris knocked his hand aside.
She was right, of course. He couldn't operate outside a hospital. But
they had no phone in the lodge where the guide lived and no way to
summon an ambulance. They'd have to drive Baxter back in the car, which
would almost certainly result in his death.
When Feldman seemed uncertain, Harnett had given his warning in a low
but vehement voice. "You touch him, Dan, and I'll spread it in every one
of our media.
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