Playing God (38 page)

This reminded him of nights in Vietnam, the seemingly normal conversation fraught with emotional undercurrents, the overarching sense of danger, the whole situation crazy. "You're like that. Randall Noyes is like that. Patient. Watchful. Calculating."

She shifted angrily. "You don't know Randy. Yes, he's patient. I thought that was supposed to be a virtue." She snapped the wooden matchstick between her fingers with a look that said she wished she could do the same to him.

"The man's a saint," she said. "Best thing that ever happened to Carman. God, she loved that man. Even when she was so sick, she just lit up around him. He was the same with her. Most people forget, let things drift back into memory, but not Randy. I swear he loves her as much today. And I have to think..." There was a choke in her voice, a hesitation. "Her spirit's out there somewhere, loving him right back."

"Where can I find him?" Burgess asked.

"Randy's gone."

"Gone where?"

"I don't know. Just gone. I only hope he's gone to a different place, not done something to himself. He's still hurting so much."

"I need to find him."

"Randy didn't do anything, unless watching and hating someone are crimes, which I don't believe they are. The poor man's been through enough."

At the least, the poor man might have helped set up a murder. He thought she knew and didn't care. The connection he'd felt to Sarah Merchant was gone. Not feeling hopeful, he asked his next question. "Who's the girl? The lovely one with the long blonde hair." Then, suddenly, he knew. "Carman had daughters, didn't she?" She didn't answer. "I'm going to find her, Sarah. Your cooperation could make things easier."

"That's cop bullshit. How is it easier if she's arrested today instead of next week or next month or next year, when she didn't do anything?"

"What do you mean, didn't do anything? They went looking for him, your niece and Randall Noyes, because of how he treated Carman. They stalked him. They set him up. She was there in the car that night. I can prove all that, and Stephen Pleasant is dead."

He waited. Most people would have rushed in with a bunch of excuses and explanations, but she stayed silent. "Look," he said, trying to humor her, "if you know of something to explain her behavior, some reason it wasn't murder, you should tell me."

"Why?"

"Person's in a better position when they're forthcoming, when they voluntarily explain instead of offering their story as an excuse only after they're tracked down and arrested."

"I'm supposed to believe that?"

Her angry defensiveness made him angry in return, something he was trained not to be, not even at four in the morning after a day of dragging people to their sorrow and rubbing their noses in it. Cops, like doctors, sometimes had to cause pain to get a good result. That didn't make it easy. He raised his voice. "I don't care what you believe, Ms. Merchant. I just want to find your niece and get this over with."

"And then what? She goes off to the horrors of some dirty jail and you go home to bed? Maybe your life gets easier, maybe hers is ruined." A log in the stove snapped and she jumped. "You want me to help with that? Maybe I'm dense, but I fail to see the advantage. Right now she's free. Hasn't got the whole state talking about how she dressed up like a hooker and screwed this guy so she could get him alone and jam a poker down his throat. Even if she proves her innocence, which you'll make it damned hard to do, she'll never live that down."

A low moan filled the silence between them as she realized what she'd just said. "Oh, Lord," she breathed. "Lord. I am so damned stupid."

"A fireplace poker," he said. "Thank you. I was thinking curtain rod. Randall Noyes is pretty handy with metal, isn't he? He make these candle-holders?"

"I would like you to leave," she said, trying for firmness. Her voice was shaky.

"I'll just bet you would," he said. "I wish I had some of the crime scene pictures with me. You've probably got some sanitized vision of your sweet and lovely niece performing her quick and efficient kill and marching proudly away. But it wasn't anything like that. Know how he died? He drowned in his own blood. And the lengths she was willing to go to? Oral sex. Anal sex. Lesbian sex. There's a video of the sex party."

She stood up, no longer trying to disguise the tremble in her voice. "I want you to go!" Her voice rising. "Get out of my house! You want to come back, show me a warrant. Otherwise, leave me and what's left of my family alone!"

"You think death only touches you?" Raising his own voice. "Stephen Pleasant had a daughter who loved him. You know something about daughters who love their parents, don't you? A wife who loved him, and a brand new baby son. Now they're suffering like you and Randall Noyes and your niece are suffering. Is that what you wanted, to make other innocent people suffer? Is it really such a good thing you've accomplished?"

"Get out!" Her voice shatteringly loud in the quiet darkness.

Feet pounded on the stairs. The door burst open, a light came on, and a young woman rushed in. She wore the same nightshirt his niece had worn, but there was nothing budding about this body. This girl had bloomed. Her long blonde hair was tousled with sleep, her blue eyes still heavy-lidded. "Aunt Sarah?" she asked in a puzzled voice. "What's going on?"

He was watching the wrong person. Behind him, he heard the distinctive sound of a gun being readied, turned to find Sarah Merchant pointing a shotgun at his chest. His first regret was not wearing a vest. His second, that he'd only told the dispatcher about Warren and not about coming here. That he hadn't followed protocol. His third, that he hadn't finished writing his reports, and the letter and other information leading here were in his notebook and in the car. He'd been cocky. Careless. Too independent. If someone working for him had been this slipshod, he'd have taken their head off. Maybe that's what was in store for him.

Not the first time he'd been on the receiving end of a loaded gun. He'd been shot at twice. Two misses. That didn't make him feel better now. Staring at the wavering barrel never got any easier, and he didn't believe in third time lucky. He wondered how it felt to be blown apart. He'd seen it enough—bodies torn and shredded. Men he'd loved reduced to dripping hunks of meat. There was a cold sickness in his stomach. He had to remind himself to breathe.

He watched her hands carefully, alert for signs of movement, alarmed by their unsteadiness. She gripped the gun with a familiarity that said she'd handled guns before, but he was sure she'd never pointed one at another human being. Her tense face and white knuckles said she was as likely to shoot him by accident as by deliberation. Had he misjudged her? Were the three of them in this together?

"Throw your gun over here," she said. "And don't try any tricks. The safety's off and I have my hand on the trigger. Even if you shoot me, you're coming along." Her voice spiked with panic. A bad situation behind a trigger. Not a good time to be heroic. He pulled out the gun, bent down slowly, and pushed it toward her. Hating her for it, more so because earlier he'd found her attractive, because she was making him feel like such a fool. A cop never gives up his gun.

"Kara," she said, "this is Detective Burgess from the Portland Police Department. He came to arrest you. Get dressed and get the hell out of here."

The girl started to go and then turned, twisting her body with an agility granted only to the young, giving her aunt a puzzled look. "But Aunt Sarah... shouldn't I... shouldn't we... tell him what happened?"

"He doesn't care what happened, Kara. He won't believe you. He just wants to make an arrest. Now go!"

"Hey!" he said, taking a step toward her. "Wait, Kara, that's not true! She's wrong. I do care what happened."

The girl turned and ran.

"Don't move!" Sarah Merchant stepped forward, tripped on a corner of the rug, and stumbled. The gun exploded as Burgess dove sideways. The window behind him dissolved, showering him with glass. He lay on and among the sharp fragments, stunned by the loudness and proximity of the blast, pain from his bad arm and his new wounds surging through him, feeling the flow of warm blood and the rush of cold night air.

He didn't lie there long. The kickback had knocked Sarah Merchant off her feet. She was sitting on the floor, still holding the shotgun, an astonished expression on her face. He dove for his own gun, which now lay between them, picked it up, and pointed it at her. Holding it steady, he walked slowly forward, grabbed the shotgun, and tossed it through the broken window. Overhead, feet pounded across the floor. The front door slammed, followed by the distant surge of an engine.

She must have used birdshot. Otherwise, at this range, it would have punched right through him. Otherwise, he'd be screaming and writhing on the floor as he bled out and the bad guys would have won. So he didn't think he was going to die, but now that his heartbeat had slowed enough to let him reconnect with his surroundings, he was in a world of hurt. Adrenaline plays strange tricks. It could be worse than it seemed.

He felt cold and dizzy and disoriented, wanting to lie down and rest, but there was too much cop in him. He'd come to get information and he was going to get it. "Look," he said, trying not to sound as pathetic or pissed off as he felt, "she's gone, okay? If I promise not to go rushing after her, will you answer some questions for me? Please? I don't think you meant to shoot me." Get her talking, get what he needed. He could arrest her later.

She stared in amazement. Then, slowly, as if she were as stunned and damaged as he felt, she walked to the couch and sat down. "I've shot you?" she said, disbelieving, looking down at her hands. She unclasped them and flexed her fingers, watching them curiously. "I thought the damned thing wasn't loaded." She rose slowly, came a few steps forward, studying him. "Oh, man," she muttered. "Oh, man. This is unbelievable. I just shot a cop." Then, in the way people said crazy things at times like this, "That was a thousand dollar window."

Fuck your window, lady. Blood stained the leg of his corduroy pants, darkening the loden green to reddish black. She bent toward it, her face echoing his pain. Then, as though it wasn't a charitable gesture but only curiosity, she rose again and walked unsteadily out of the room, her hand over her mouth. He could hear her somewhere nearby being sick.

He needed to sit, but her couches were so nice. He must be worse off than he thought. The woman shoots him and he worries about her upholstery. Abruptly, he was too exhausted to care. He shuffled across the glass-strewn floor, his blood-soaked pants slapping against his leg, and more fell than sat. An expensive night for Sarah Merchant. She'd blown out her window. He was wrecking her couch.

She came back as far as the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, holding a towel in her hands. "I'm sorry," she said. "Really. Abandoning you like that... living alone, I guess, I'm too used to taking care of myself... too unused to taking care of others. I..." Disjointed, sharing his shock. Her hand fluttered to her head, taking the towel with it, like an exhausted soldier waving the flag of surrender. "I never meant to. I really didn't know it was loaded. There's nothing I can say, is there? One day I'm living a perfectly ordinary life and then, suddenly, everything goes to hell."

The towel fluttered again as she wiped her eyes. "You're bleeding on my couch."

"Should have thought of that before you shot me," he said. "Sit down. We need to talk."

Chapter 29

Her gaze darted toward the phone. "You must need an ambulance?"

He waved her off, wincing at the effort. Jesus, God, that hurt! "Let's just get this over with." Her fluttery behavior made him nervous. He liked her better tough.

She hovered there, desperate to do something to make amends. As if she could. "Would you like something warm to drink? Some coffee, tea, aspirin?" She bit her lip at the stupidity of offering aspirin to a gunshot man.

"A blanket?"

"Right," she said. "Pain. Injury. Shock. I'm being an idiot, aren't I?" She looked at him, thoughtfully. "Do you think you could make it upstairs to my bed if I helped? It's better than down here with all that cold pouring in." She crossed the room and offered her shoulder as a crutch.

He just wanted her story so he could get out of here and go home. Drag his injured body back to his cave and lick his wounds. "Here is fine."