Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (11 page)

A
s the taillights of Nick’s car disappeared. I tried to recall the layout of the park. Thick woods bordered the gazebo except for an open expanse on the south. Paths wound through the trees to a pond on the north side of the park. Willows bunched between the pond and the back of the gazebo. A large open lawn stretched from the gazebo’s entrance on the south.

I ducked into the trees. Soon I was in deep darkness, far from the occasional lampposts along the street. I waited for my eyes to adjust, then moved carefully, wary of unexpected holes and fallen branches. A breeze rustled the leaves of the maples. I smelled the woody scent of firs. An owl hooted not far away, the mournful cry prickling my skin. Twice I heard unexpected crackling and stopped, listening hard. It might have been a deer.

I reached the edge of the woods. I was standing to the east of the gazebo and I had a good view of the entrance. The nearest lamppost was some thirty feet from the steps, so the gazebo itself was shadowy.

Footsteps sounded on the concrete walk. Nick hurried toward the entrance. He reached the gazebo, rattled up the steps. As the minutes passed, he moved restlessly back and forth. Occasionally he lifted his arm. I supposed his watch had a luminous dial. He yanked his cell from his pocket, bent over it, fingers moving. He waited, watched, then shoved the cell back into his pocket.

I considered moving behind the gazebo, where weeping willows afforded a deep patch of shadow, but I wanted an unobstructed view of the interior. I found a pine tree about fifteen feet east of the entrance. I knelt and scooped up a couple of sharp-edged cones, tucked them in each pocket. I could pelt Cole with cones if Dee had any difficulty wresting away the cell phone.

Where was she?

I took a deep breath and did my best owl imitation. “Dee-eee-eee-eee.”

“Only a fool would take that for an owl’s cry.” Her deep voice dripped with disdain.

I was so relieved she was here, I bit back what I would have liked to say. I swept out my hand, found her, gripped her arm. I pulled her close and whispered, “Nick’s going to insist Cole take out his cell. You need to be right there, ready to grab it.”

“I do not require repeated instructions.” She was acerbic. “I know quite well what to do. Once I get the phone, I’ll zoom straight to the lake and toss it in.”

With a twist, she pulled free from my grasp. I was once again alone in the shadows. But I felt excited because Dee was in the gazebo with Nick, ready to play her part. Everything was in place to confound a particularly unpleasant man. I had no doubt that Dee would play her role to perfection. Cole Clanton didn’t have a chance.

I pictured her leaning casually against a pine railing, probably in her riding gear, possibly holding a crop. Was McCoy nearby? Did I hear the snuffle of a horse?

Suddenly I stiffened.

Nick ducked his head as if something had brushed against him. His face puzzled, he reached up, touched his tangled mop of hair, shook like a dog coming out of water. I had no doubt what had happened. Dee had reached out to touch his dark curls.

“Don’t spook him.” I willed the thought to her.

But I was touched. She dearly loved the young man standing there.

Footsteps sounded. The clock at City Hall began to toll the hour. Cole Clanton strolled into view on the main path. He passed beneath the lamppost nearest the gazebo. He moved unhurriedly with a noticeable swagger, the conqueror coming to claim the spoils of victory. His mouth twisting in triumph, Cole thudded up the steps, stopped a few feet from Nick.

“All right.” Nick’s voice was gruff. “I’ve got the paper.”

Cole folded his arms. “Have I told you what a hot ticket Arlene is?”

Nick took a step toward him, fists bunched. “Stop the trash talk.”

“Who’s gonna make me? I can say and do whatever I want, Phidippus.” Cole’s tone was mocking.

Fighting for control, Nick drew in a breath, rocked back on his heels. He forced out the words, his voice harsh. “I’ll give you the paper as soon as you delete those photos.” He drew a folded sheet from his pocket.

“Not so fast, Spider-Man.” Cole pulled out his cell, held it to one side. “You hold up the paper, bring it close enough for me to read. Then we do a duet: I hand to you, you hand to me. I get the paper, you delete the pix.”

Nick looked uncertain, possibly remembering my insistence that he stay at least four feet from Cole. Slowly, he took one step forward.

Abruptly Cole’s wrist was bent back. He gave a shout, but the phone was out of his grasp and dangling in midair. “What the hell?” He jerked his head toward Nick. “What’s going on? You can’t—” Cole broke off and stared at Nick, who was a good three feet distant and, in fact, backing away, and clearly had nothing to do with the seizure of the phone.

Cole looked frantically around, seeking the phone.

Nick’s face was a study in disbelief as the phone sped through the air toward the back of the gazebo.

Cole made a strangled noise and lunged in pursuit of the phone, which disappeared into the darkness.

An explosive crack shattered the night silence.

Cole staggered.

Another shot rang out.

Cole gave a cry of pain, clasped one hand to his upper thigh. He wavered, took one unsteady step, then crumpled, blood splashing as he crashed heavily to the gazebo floor.

Nick shouted and moved toward the fallen man.

After a stunned instant, I ran toward the gazebo. Distantly I heard a shrill scream and knew it was me.

Nick knelt beside Cole, reached for his hand.

Out of the darkness, a rifle spun toward Nick, striking him across the face. Nick lurched to one side, grappling with the weapon. He lost his balance and landed on the floor next to Cole.

I reached the gazebo as Nick flung the rifle away and rolled to his knees.

“We have to get help,” I cried. “Call nine-one-one.”

Nick fumbled with his pocket, drew out the cell. “Did you see who shot him?” He pressed the numbers. “A man shot in the park. The gazebo—” His voice was ragged. “Nick Magruder. Man shot. Send help.”

The night was suddenly alive with crisscrossing lights. Beams settled on the gazebo. Nick was clearly visible, the lights pinning him in a glare. I was on the other side of Cole, deeper in the shadows. Nick was still on his knees, holding the cell phone. I crouched by Cole, his hand in mine, seeking a pulse.

Sounds of running feet. Shouts. “Police. Hands up. Police.”

How could help have come so quickly? Then I understood. We were across the street from the police station. Two shots had been fired and heard. Police knew the sound of gunfire, and they reacted quickly.

Nick still knelt by Cole. “We have to stop the bleeding.” He peeled off his ratty polo.

I laid down Cole’s arm. I had found no pulse. One of Cole’s legs jerked. I feared the movement meant little, a final quiver of a dying body.

Help was coming for Cole, but there was no help for me. In only minutes, I would be asked questions I could not answer and only too quickly the truth would be known. There was no Hilda Whitby from Dallas.

“Dee!” My shout was desperate.

Spears of harsh light from the police officers’ Maglites came nearer.

“Bailey Ruth,” Wiggins’s deep voice commanded. “Come. At once.”

I disappeared.

Hilda Whitby was no longer in the gazebo. I gazed down at the fallen man and at Nick, breathing fast, shaking, but keeping the shirt pressed against welling blood.

“Stand up. Hands above your head.” The shout was brusque, demanding compliance.

Nick looked over his shoulder. “He’s bleeding. I’m trying to stop it, but the blood keeps coming and coming.” His voice shook.

Gun in hand, a policewoman warily circled the downed man and Nick as a muscular policeman trained his gun on Nick. “No weapon, Sergeant. I’ll take over until the medics get here.” She approached warily, the gun waggling at Cole to move away. She was on the floor, one hand pressing Nick’s shirt against the wound, the other holding the gun steady on Nick as he slowly stood and lifted his arms. As he pushed up from the floor, his hand left a reddish smear. Blood stained both of his hands and one knee of his jeans.

Stark white Maglite beams harshly illuminated the interior of the gazebo. The muscular sergeant held his gun in both hands, pointed unwaveringly at Nick. “Got you covered, Officer.”

Half-blinded by the lights, Nick lowered his arm to shield his eyes.

“Up, up, up.” The sergeant spoke quickly.

Nick raised the arm. “He needs help. He’s been shot.”

“Don’t move, man. Medics are coming.”

I was poised to push the policeman’s gun away from Nick. Surely he wouldn’t shoot Nick. Every muscle in the officer’s body appeared hair-trigger tight. Of course, it looked to him and the other officers like they’d captured a criminal red-handed.

Nick glanced up at his hands with a sick expression. “I didn’t shoot him.”

In two strides, a second officer moved to Nick’s side. He ran his hands over Nick, lightly, quickly. “Unarmed. Stay where you are.”

The officer kneeling by Cole returned her gun to the holster. Still pressing the bloodied shirt to the wound, she lifted a flaccid arm, touched the wrist. Her face squeezed in concentration. Finally, she spoke. “No detectable pulse. Severe wound to upper thigh, apparently femoral severed, massive blood loss. Second wound to the chest.”

Sirens shrilled in the street. Running steps sounded. An ambulance drove squarely up the center path.

“He’s dead?” Nick glanced toward Cole with a look of horror.

I looked, too, and was swept with regret. Cole had caused trouble, but he had been young and alive and now his time here was over.

The officer in charge spoke rapidly. “Inform the chief. Apparent homicide in City Park. Rifle near the body. Possible suspect in custody.”

“Suspect?” Nick’s voice wobbled. “Listen, somebody shot him. Don’t just stand there. You’ve got to find him. The shot came from behind the gazebo.”

“Handcuffs.” The order was crisp.

In an instant, Nick’s arms were behind his back, and handcuffs clicked.

The officer placed his gun in a holster, handed the Maglite to a patrolman. He walked up to Nick. “We’ll be taking you to the station for questioning. You have the right to call a lawyer.”

“I didn’t shoot him. The shots came from there.” Nick jerked his head toward the dark mass of willows.

“Hey!” The shout was loud. “I’m press.” A stocky young man about fifteen feet from the gazebo tried to step around a wiry police officer. “I got a right to be here. Press. The
Gazette
. Albert Harris.”

“Get back, buddy.” The tall, thin cop barred the way. “I don’t care who you are. You’re interfering with a crime scene.”

Albert leaned to one side for a better view. “Hey, Nick, what are you doing here? Who’s—?” Albert broke off, stood stiff and still. “My God. Blood . . . That looks like Cole.” He stared, his round face slack with shock. “Nick, did you shoot him?”

“I didn’t shoot him.” Nick’s voice was strident. “I don’t know who shot him.”

The officer approached the reporter. “Back up, buddy. You’re in the way.”

Albert backpedaled a few feet, shouted, “Who shot him? Where are they? Has the killer been arrested? Nick, why’d they handcuff you?”

The officer glared at Albert. “This is a crime scene. Back off.”

Under cover of the officer’s gruff command, I heard Wiggins’s sharp whisper. “The Express is coming.”

I whispered in return. “We can’t leave Nick now.”

There was a huff of exasperation, then silence. I had no sense that Wiggins was nearby. He had let me remain, but who knew for how long.

“I want you at least twenty yards from the steps. Keep your mouth shut.” His expression grim, the officer turned away from Albert.

In the gazebo, a sergeant spoke to Nick. “Name?” He slipped a video camera from his belt loop, turned it on.

“Nick Magruder.” Nick squinted against the brightness of the Maglites.

“Address?”

“Eight nineteen Mulberry.”

“Mulberry. You the one that called nine-one-one about a shooting Tuesday night?”

“Yeah. I sure as hell did.” Nick was combative.

The sergeant’s gaze moved back to the dead man and the rifle lying on the gazebo floor. “Another rifle.” The tone was thoughtful. “Who’s the dead man?”

Nick glanced at Cole’s body, closed his eyes briefly. He opened them and met the sergeant’s stare with dogged determination. “Cole Clanton. I didn’t shoot him, and you idiots are standing around and the guy who shot Cole’s in the next county by now.” Nick gazed at the darkness of the willows. “The shot came from there.”

The sergeant’s stolid face remained unmoved. His voice was terse. “Describe the shooter.”

“I didn’t see him.” Nick saw disbelief in the tough faces around him. “Listen to me, will you? I was up here with Cole and he turned away from me and moved toward the back of the gazebo. There was a shot and Cole staggered. Then a second shot. Cole fell. I ran to help him. I was looking at Cole, not that way.” He nodded toward the willows. “Then somebody threw the rifle at me.”

“How’d somebody throw a weapon at you and you didn’t see the person?”

Nick tried to keep his voice steady. “I was down beside Cole. I was trying to help him.” He looked queasy. “That’s when I got blood on my hands. I was helping him.” His voice shook. “I wasn’t hearing anything or seeing anything. It was like I had roaring in my ears. The gun hit me. I never saw it coming. I kind of fell to one side.” He looked at Cole’s body. “I tried to help him.” His voice was shaky.

“All right. Edge back a few feet and walk toward the steps.” The sergeant turned to a female officer standing next to him. “Get on protective foot gear. We can’t touch the body until the ME gets here and makes it official, but I want a visual search made of the interior, then record the scene on video. Is crime lab on the way?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Listen, I can prove I didn’t shoot him.” Nick talked fast. “I have a witness. She can tell you where the shot came from. She—” He was looking around the gazebo. “Hilda? Hey, Hilda, where are you?”