A Montana CSI Foresees Her Death

Chapter Six

AN: Okay, folks, as promised - a new chapter, short and... okay, probably not sweet. I'm on a tight schedual, so be prepaired to sit tight before a nother capter turns up, but bare with me - we're getting there. Leave reviews!

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Lindsay crashed straight into Danny's arms – and she was not a pretty picture. The front right quarter of her hair was matted with blood, which had dripped out of her hairline and down her face. It was smeared up one side of her jacket, coated her knees and her hands along with something else – god, he sure hoped that was vomit.

"Okay, okay," Danny collapsed to his knees as Lindsay's legs gave out, "okay, Montana, come on, stay with me here – big strong country girl like yourself ain't gonna give up on me now, huh? Huh? Come on, Montana, head up!"

Lindsay mumbled something, her eyes tight closed against the sudden light; her grip on him loosened alarmingly as she nearly crashed forward. "Medic!" Danny yelled, grabbing Lindsay's lapels and holding her up just in time for her to be sick again.

"Oh my God," Stella shone her flashlight into the open closet, "no wonder she was freaking out."

"Stuck in a closet for four hours with a dead guy," Mac muttered, staring at the body of the man, "God… another one."

"You are one brave lady," Danny let Lindsay rest her head on his shoulder as the medic rushed to their side, "don't ever let me doubt you again, got that?"

"Not brave," Lindsay muttered, her eyes still closed, "In pain."

Danny managed a soft chuckle, "nah, I reckon you got more guts than most."

"Don't talk to me about guts…" Lindsay turned, if it was possible, a shade paler and began to gag.

Danny hastily got out of her way and held her hair back for her – but Lindsay seemed to have lost anything that had once been in her stomach, and only spat out a mouthful of phlegmy-blood.

"She needs to be gotten to a hospital," the medic said, as Lindsay continued to cough.

"Ya think?" Danny raised his eyebrows.

"Danny," Mac reprimanded, firmly. He came to crouch next to Lindsay, taking her chin and lifting it to get her to look him in the eye, "Lindsay, you still with us?"

"Mmm…" Lindsay blinked hard. The world swam alarmingly through a haze of vomit and skull-thumping pain.

"Hang in there," Mac squeezed her hand, "okay, we need to get her downstairs."

"I got it," Danny shifted his weight, sliding one arm beneath Lindsay's knees, the other around her shoulders, "you got a good grip on me, Montana?"

"My fingers hurt," Lindsay muttered, her head falling back as Danny lifted her.

Mac grabbed Lindsay's hands and positioned them at Danny's collar, closing the fingers about the cloth, so that Danny could feel her hands, rough and bloody, next to his throat, clinging there – close to his pulse (he wondered vaguely if she could feel how fast it was going), "hold on here, okay Lindsay?" Mac commanded, "Keep a good, tight grip. Don't let go."

Lindsay nodded blindly. Danny felt her fingers contract, and realised that Mac had put them there to give him an early warning should Lindsay begin to slip further into unconsciousness. If she passed out, she would let go. "Hold on, Lindsay," he told her.

Lindsay's eyes were closed, her bleeding head resting on his shoulder, smearing scarlet on his jacket. Her lips twitched with the ghost of giggle, "you almost sound worried about me, Messer." Her voice was hoarse and raspy, full of half-swallowed panic and exhaustion.

"Who, you?" Danny tried not to sound shaky, "nah. Country girl like you oughta be able to handle a little bump on the head, right?"

"Go with her to the hospital," Mac told Danny, "get her clothes, and make sure you collect trace from her head wound, too. We're going to add attempted murder to that son of a bitch's list of charges."

"You got it," Danny nodded, already heading for the end of the corridor with Lindsay in his arms, the paramedic in tow.

Lindsay tightened her grip on Danny's collar, and felt for his pulse, racing by.