Child Of Fire Part 29

"What do you aim to do?" Arlene asked. I suddenly recognized her. She was the one who'd given Bill Terril a birthday card to sign in Sara's bar-she had a grandchild at boarding school in Georgia. Small town.

"Reverend Wilson is already putting people outside Frank's room to protect him, but that's a short-term solution. We need to get him out of town to a place where they can't find him. And we need to do it secretly."

I glanced at the doorway. Miriam and Arlene followed my glance and understood. Arlene patted Miriam's hand and started toward the door. "I'll shut down the rumor mill for a little while. I'll be right back." She stepped through the door way.

Miriam looked me in the eyes. "Why don't we call the state police," she said quickly, "or the FBI?"

Call the cops, I thought. It wasn't an idea that came to me naturally. "We will," I a.s.sured her, "but that's the long-term solution. They're a bureaucracy and they move too slowly. Let's get your husband to safety first, then worry about who to tell."

"He'll go to prison, you know," Miriam said. I could hear Arlene reading the riot act in the next room, but I couldn't make out what she was saying. "Emmett opened an account in Frank's name in Oregon. He's been putting money in it every month, as though it was a payoff. Frank and I didn't even know until Emmett sat us down and showed us a bank statement. He made it look like Frank is part of the whole thing. The FBI is going to go after my husband just as hard as they go after Emmett."

There was a loud boom from the living room, followed by a crash of breaking gla.s.s. I charged through the double doors, almost knocking Arlene to the carpet.

The big bay window that looked out into the garden was shattered. The rod had fallen, and the drapes lay in tatters on the carpet. A woman sitting on the couch clutched at her shoulder. Blood seeped through her fingers. Another woman held her hand against the back of her head. I realized that people were screaming and that some of those screams were actually squealing tires.

Cynthia ran to the window. I pulled her away.

Arlene was examining the woman with the cut on her head. I went to the woman with a bleeding shoulder. "This isn't too bad," Arlene said casually, as though she'd seen much worse. "But we'll still need to go to the emergency room."

"This too," I said. The woman I was examining stared at the bullet hole in my s.h.i.+rt and the tattoos beneath it. "Is anyone else hurt?"

I didn't get an answer. I heard a door open. Two or three of the women, Miriam included, pushed through the doorway into the front yard.

"No!" I shouted at them. "Stay inside!"

They didn't listen. So much for my leaders.h.i.+p skills. I turned to Cynthia. "Organize a ride to the emergency room for these two. We have someplace to go first."

I ran out into the yard. Miriam and her three friends stared up the street, trying to see who had fired at them.

As I came near them, I saw a long white van drive up from the other direction. The black barrel of a shotgun protruded from the back window. It pointed at Miriam.

I shouted at them to get down, but she and her friends simply stared at the van in bewilderment. They were as still as paper targets.

I was too far away from the van to use my ghost knife, but Cabot's gun was still in my pocket. I jammed my hand inside and wrenched it up. The hammer caught on my jacket, tangling the gun.

I had already lost my chance. The shotgun had her in its sights. She was not going to survive.

But the weapon never fired. The van pa.s.sed us, then squealed away down the road.

I couldn't figure it out. Was this just a warning, or had someone lost their nerve? I hoped it was the latter; it would restore my faith in humanity a little to know that there were people out there who couldn't shoot a bunch of women in cold blood.

I dropped the gun back into my pocket and ran to Miriam. She looked shocked.

"He didn't shoot," she said, sounding amazed. "I looked right into the barrel of that gun and I prayed it wouldn't hurt too much, but-"

"Would you get back inside, please?" I couldn't keep the annoyance out of my voice.

That startled her. She and the other women turned and bustled back to the house. I watched for the return of the van and saw something small rolling in the street. I ran toward it, keeping an eye out for vehicles.

It was a yellow hard hat. The name "benny" was written in all lowercase letters on the inside lining. I sprinted back into the house.

Arlene was organizing the others into their cars. She had a brisk honesty that I liked. "These two will be all right," she told me as I entered. "Vera is going to drive them to the hospital to be checked up, but I think they're more frightened than anything."

"What's that?" Cynthia asked.

"I found it in the street. It must have come from the van."

A little woman I hadn't spoken to yet grabbed my wrist and looked at the lining. "That belongs to my little brother, Benjamin."

There was a general expression of astonishment. Arlene came over to us. "Vera, do you think he shot at us?"

Vera scowled down at the hard hat. "He's always losing things. I knew he was in debt to that d.a.m.n casino, but I never thought he'd go this far, or that Phyllis would ask him to."

"We don't know who was behind that shooting," I said, "so don't start rumors. Now let's go. Vera, you're taking the injured to the hospital, right? Cynthia and I will take Mrs. Farleton there in a bit. We have a stop to make."

"I'm going with you," Arlene said. She had a stubborn look in her eye.

"There isn't room," I told her.

"My car can squeeze in four," Cynthia said.

"I know," I told her.

"I'm going," Arlene said.

"She is, or I'm not," Miriam said.

I threw my hands into the air. How could I argue with these people?

I took the gun from my pocket. One of the women gasped, and I felt a little twist of nausea at her fear. I led Vera and the other women to Vera's station wagon, where they all squeezed in beside one another. As they pulled away, I imagined Luke Dubois sneaking through Miriam's back door and killing them all while I was out front. I ran back to the house and found them waiting for me.

I stood facing Miriam. I had her full attention. "Your husband seems like a good man. Do you love him?"

"I do."

"What about all this?" I waved at the house, the furnis.h.i.+ngs, everything. "Do you love all this, too? Because it's time to choose."

"What do you mean?"

"It's time for you and your husband to get out. You're going to have to leave a lot behind. Artwork, knickknacks, all sorts of stuff."

"I can do that," she said. "Staring down the barrel of a shotgun clarifies things."

"Get your financial stuff," I said. "Bank records, credit-card papers, mortgage papers, insurance stuff, what ever. And get photo alb.u.ms and old love letters, too. Everything else you should leave behind. Expect it to be burned to the ground before you get back."

She nodded and hurried up the stairs. Arlene started to follow her, but I caught her arm. "I have two questions for you: Do you have a reliable car? And if so, can she borrow it? They can't run away in a tangerine Yukon."

"Yes," Arlene said. "Yes, of course." She went off to help Miriam.

Cynthia and I stood in the living room. She smiled at me and squeezed my hand. I took a deep breath and relaxed. I was glad that she was helping me. I hoped that I wouldn't have to cut the iron gate off of her, or worse.

Within five minutes, Miriam came back downstairs with a banker's box in her arms. On top of that was an old leather-bound Bible. "I'm ready."

"We'll put them in the back of Arlene's car. Arlene, we'll meet you at the hospital. Ready?"

We went out the front door and loaded up the back of Arlene's Forester. While Miriam pushed the box into place, Arlene tapped my elbow. "Who are you?"

"Raymond Lilly."

"That doesn't really answer my question."

"I'm aware of that." Miriam shut the hatch. "Go quickly, please."

Arlene climbed in behind the wheel and pulled away. I made Miriam get into the backseat of the Audi and stay low. I felt silly rus.h.i.+ng around like movie spies, but being shot at changes things.

"Where to now?" Cynthia asked.

"We need Annalise."

"Your place, then." She pulled away from the curb, and we drove quietly for a few blocks.

Miriam broke the silence. "Do you think Phyllis tried to have me killed?"

"I'm not convinced it was her. The hard hat was a little too obvious. And from what I've seen, her guys all carry the same snub-nosed.38."

"I heard she got a deal on them because she bought in bulk," Cynthia said. "She's a real cheapskate."

"But it was her sort of van," Miriam said. "And I'm sure some of her men have guns of their own at home."

I knew how easily a vehicle could be stolen. "It's pointless to speculate. What matters is that we get you and your husband to safety."

Five minutes later we had arrived at the motel. My room had been tossed and all of my clothes torn to shreds. I would have to make do with the bullet-hole s.h.i.+rt for a while longer. My detective novel had been destroyed, too. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Now I wouldn't find out who the killer was.

Annalise's room was empty, but it had also been tossed, and everything in it torn apart. Miriam peered over my shoulder into the room. "Mercy," she said. "Do you think something has happened to her?"

"I'm not worried about her," I said. "I'm worried about us."

The van was gone, too. I wished she had given me a d.a.m.n cell number I could use. I needed her, and I had no idea where she was or what she was up to.

Cynthia tugged on my sleeve. "Are we done here?"

I could have asked the manager where she'd gone, but I didn't trust him to give an honest answer.

I was on my own.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

"Here," I said. Cynthia pulled into a parking lot. "Leave the engine running," I said. "I'll run up and run back."

"What are you planning to do?" Miriam asked.

"If you see trouble, peel out of here without me, understand?"

Cynthia nodded. She and Miriam began scanning the street. I turned and ran into the building that contained the offices of The Mallet and Peter Lemly.

In the lobby, I scanned the directory. There was an actuarial on the second floor and marriage counselors on the third. The fourth was the editorial offices of The Mallet.

The elevator looked slow and confined to me, so I took the stairs, vaulting up them as quickly as I could. I nearly knocked over a middle-aged couple coming down from the third floor. I mumbled an apology and squeezed past them.

At the top of the stairs I saw the door for The Mallet, est. 1909. It wasn't locked, and I let myself inside. There were three doors along a short hallway. The farthest door was marked EDITORIAL. I put my hand on the k.n.o.b and hesitated. The air was very still. Peter wasn't here, and I wanted to sprint back down to the car. Instead, I opened the door.

I immediately smelled blood. I walked toward the desk and window at the far side of the room. There was a pair of fresh blood splashes on the gla.s.s, and the desk had been knocked crooked.

Peter was behind the desk, mostly. His arm lay in the far corner, his hand still clutching a nine-millimeter. His head lay a few feet away beside a single spent bullet casing. I wondered if he had managed to hit his target.

I backed out of the room, wrapped my hand in my s.h.i.+rttail, and pulled the door closed, then wiped my fingerprints from the k.n.o.b. I did the same to the k.n.o.b on the door to the stairs.

I ran down the stairs, out the door, then hopped into Cynthia's car. "Any trouble?" I asked her.

"No. You?"

"Oh, yes. Peter Lemly is dead."

"Oh, s.h.i.+t," Cynthia said.

"Shouldn't we call someone?" Miriam asked.

"Like who? The cops are probably the ones who killed him."

"An ambulance, of course. What if he's just badly hurt?"

I turned around and looked in her eyes. "Miriam," I said. "He's very, very dead."

She snapped her mouth shut and stared out the window. Cynthia raced through town and pulled into the county hospital lot. She parked as close to Arlene's car as possible.

Within five minutes, we were all walking down the hallway toward Frank's room.

Just outside his door, I saw a tiny, bald black man of about seventy. The top of his head came up to the bullet hole in my s.h.i.+rt, and he wore huge, black-framed rectangular gla.s.ses that make his eyes look like apricots. He held a long, black rifle in both hands.

Across the hall, a bird-thin woman of about sixty sat on the same padded bench Cynthia and I had sat on the day before. She held a World War II-era carbine across her lap.

The tiny man thrust out his chin and slid his finger over the trigger. "Stop right there, young man," he said in a high, nasal voice. "You stop there."