Shepherd's Crook (26 page)

seventy-three

The scream from Phil
Martin's house was followed by yelling, but I couldn't make out the words. Jay and Bonnie raced up and down the fence between Martin's yard and mine, and how they managed not to crash into one another was a mystery. Goldie and I turned toward the gate, and I was deciding whether to take the dogs with us when Bonnie made the decision for herself, clearing the four-foot fence with room to spare.

“Oh!” Goldie's eyes went wide at the sight of her dog flying over that fence. She turned and ran for the gate. I gimped along behind her.

Bonnie raced across Martin's backyard and disappeared through the open door. Jay was lining up to follow her over the fence when I called him. He ran along the side of my house toward the gate and shoved it out of his way as soon as I released the latch. Goldie's long hair had come unpinned and was like a silver banner as she whirled past the gatepost and began to run. I ignored the pain in my ankle as well as I could, but it still slowed me down and Jay and Goldie were out of sight around the back of Phil Martin's house by the time I rounded the corner.

A popping sound came from inside the house and I yelled, “Goldie! Gun! Don't go in there! Jay!”

Too late. The dogs had disappeared past the flapping curtain and into the house.

“Bonnie!” Goldie was almost to the open slider and still running.

“Wait! Look!”

She stopped and turned toward me as I picked up the garden rake Martin had left leaning against the back of his house. “Good idea,” she said, looking around for a weapon of her own.

The house was dark but alive with sound. Bonnie alternated between
high-pitched
yips and the sorts of snarls you hear in a
tug-o
-war game. Deeper, more
business-like
growls told me Jay had joined the fray. I found a switch and light flooded the kitchen and guided me toward the front of the house. My ankle was on fire, threatening to quit, and I used the kitchen table as a crutch as I crossed the room.

Human voices mingled with the barking and snarling. Something hit the floor and slid, and I hoped it was the gun. A man yelled, “Get off maauugghhh!” followed by an impressive series of expletives and then, “My arm” and a howl of pain. I thought I knew the voice. Despite the desperation and change in pitch, I was pretty sure it was the goon, Albert Zola. But what had he to do with Councilman Martin?

The living room was aswirl with dogs, men, and long shadows. One of the men stood a little to the side and appeared to be swaying as he reached for something. He let out a long moan, spun a quarter turn, and fell to the floor. That had to be Martin, and I wondered whether he was injured or just overwhelmed.

The dogs had targeted the other man, and his curses and howls increased in volume. I was sure now that the voice belonged to Mick Fallon's partner, Albert Zola. Bonnie continued to bark, with sporadic breaks to dive at the man's legs.

“Hit him!” It was Goldie. “Don't let him hurt the dogs!”

The goon was whirling one way, then the other. In the dim light, he and Jay appeared to be engaged in some bizarre tug game, but Jay's snarling didn't sound remotely like play.

“Goldie, do you see a light switch?”

I heard a wall switch click, but nothing happened. I stepped in closer to the fracas, hoping to see well enough to conk Zola. Jay's body slammed into my leg and when I landed on my left foot, I thought the pain that rocketed through my ankle and up my leg might knock me flat.

Light flooded the room. Goldie had found the chain for a floor lamp.

“Get them off me!” Desperation twisted Zola's voice and pitched it so high it was almost unintelligible. Jay had a firm grip on the man's wrist and seemed to be trying to dislocate his arm. Bonnie snapped at his calf, his butt, his ankle, raising a
bark-storm
between strikes.

I held the rake up,
tine-end
toward the man's chest, handle gripped like a javelin. “Stop fighting and I'll call them off.” One side of the man's face seemed to be a mass of scabs, as if he'd exfoliated with a vegetable grater, but it was so contorted with pain and fear that I wasn't sure what else was wrong.

“Okay! Okay!”

“I'm calling an ambulance,” said Goldie. “Martin is hurt.”

Zola flailed at Jay's head with his free hand.

“I said stand still,” I aimed the end of the rake at his face. “If you try to hit my dog again, I'll shove this rake into your face.”

“Okay, just get it off me!” He held his free hand up in surrender. There was nothing funny about the moment, with my neighbor lying injured on the floor, but when I remembered the scene later, I wished someone had videotaped the last few seconds. Jay had lost his grip on the man's wrist but was still yanking on his shirt and jacket sleeves and had pulled the shoulder seams halfway to Zola's elbow. Bonnie had him by the front of his pants, and judging by the look on his face, she had more than fabric between her teeth.

“Are you going to stand still?”

“Yeah! Yeah!”

“Jay, drop it.”

Goldie was on the floor beside Martin. She called, “Bonnie, that'll do.”

Bonnie released Zola's fly and ran to Goldie. Jay rolled his eyes at me, still holding the sleeves. I forced my voice to be low and calm. “It's okay now. Drop it.” He let go but kept his eyes on the man.

Sirens broke through the sudden silence, distant but getting louder. I glanced at Goldie, but she was busy pressing a
chair-arm
cover against Martin's shoulder. “Did you call for help?” I asked.

“No, but we need to. He's been shot.”

I turned my attention back to the man in front of me and took my hand off the back end of the rake handle to get my cell phone. The attacker saw his chance. He raised his arms, fingers spread, and lunged toward me.

seventy-four

Once again, my years
of observing animals paid off. I sensed more than saw the beginning of movement when the thug from Cleveland made his move. I regained my grip on the rake handle just as he started to lunge toward me and thrust the flat edge of the tines into his face. The metal bar hit his nose with a stomach-turning crunch and snapped his head back. Blood spilled past his howling mouth and onto his shirt. When he spoke, the words were hard to make out. All I got was, “… you later,” and fear traced a path down my spine.

The sirens were loud now, and flashing red lights filled the room. Zola staggered backward a few steps before he turned and ran out the way we had come in. Jay started to chase him, but stopped when I told him to lie down. Two police cruisers parked in front of the house and I moved to the front door to let the officers in. Bill Washington, Martin's neighbor on the other side, met them on the lawn and had a few words. I didn't know any of the police officers, and once they were inside and partly up to speed, I retreated to the kitchen and called Hutchinson.

After I gave him the basics, I said, “He's hurt, Hutch. I don't know how badly, but I probably broke his nose, and I think he has some dog bites on his arm and legs and possibly his privates.”

“What?”

“Bonnie had him by the fly.”

When Hutch stopped laughing, he said, “You shouldn't have gone in there, Janet,” but then he relented and said, “but I have to admit, I feel a bit sorry for any bad guy who takes on you and your friends, furry or otherwise.” He said he was on his way and would alert law enforcement and area medical facilities to be on the lookout for a
heavy-set
guy with a scabby face, a broken nose, and dog bites.

An ambulance arrived a few minutes later for Martin. He was conscious, but barely, from what I could tell. They were pulling away when I sat down beside Goldie to ask if she knew which hospital they would take him to. Jay sat beside me and leaned into me, and I wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“Parkview.” She was sitting
cross-legged
on the floor, hugging Bonnie to her chest and rocking back and forth.

“I think you might want to wash up,” I said, and she followed my gaze to her
blood-smeared
hands.

“Yes, I guess I should,” she said. “It was Martin's own gun, the fool. He said he pulled it from that drawer to ‘defend himself.'” She gestured toward an end table and shook her head. “The guy took it away from him and shot him.”

“How bad?”

She shrugged. “I'm no nurse. I know enough, though, to know he was lucky it wasn't six inches lower.” She placed her hand over her heart.

One of the police officers squatted in front of Goldie and said, “Ma'am, do you need medical attention?” When Goldie said no, she wasn't hurt, the officer turned to me. “I noticed you were limping. Are you injured?”

“No. Well, yes, but not from this fiasco. I sprained my ankle earlier. It just hurts a bit.”

Officer Judith Mason nodded, and then earned a huge gold star in my book when she asked whether either dog needed veterinary attention. She told Goldie she could clean up if she wanted, but asked us not to leave until they sorted things out.

We just sat for a few minutes, each lost in our own thoughts. Goldie finally broke the silence. “Janet, that was the guy, right? The one from Dom's Deli? The buddy of the guy who was killed at Blackford's?”

“That's him.”

“Why in the world would he be after Councilman Martin?”

“I've been thinking about that,” I said, “and I have a terrible feeling he got the wrong house.”

Goldie stared at me for a moment, and then said, “Your car.”

I nodded. My car was parked in front of Martin's house because I hadn't been able to get into my own driveway when we got home earlier. What if the guy had been looking for me, or for the pictures they seemed to think I had? What if he had still been looking for Summer and thought I knew where she was?

“Janet, what if he comes back?”

“My thought exactly,” said a masculine voice behind me. Hutchinson stepped into view, squatted in front of us, and stroked Jay's cheek. “But first things first. Are you all okay?” When he was convinced that we were, he said, “Okay, ladies. I would prefer that you pack up your animals and stay somewhere else until we catch this guy. I can't make you do that, but … Janet, I think you should go to Tom's and if he has room, take Goldie and her crew with you.”

The last thing I wanted to do was explain my romantic troubles to Hutchinson. “Hutch, my mom's wedding is tomorrow. I can't, I mean, I need things here, at home.”

“I'm not leaving my home either,” said Goldie.

Hutchinson let out an “
I-knew
-it” sigh. “Okay. I'm posting a car to watch both your houses. Leave your outside lights on, and as many inside lights as you can sleep through.”

Sleep? He thinks we'll sleep after all this?

We answered questions and handed over phone numbers, and Hutch had Officer Mason escort us home. She checked my locks, had me turn on every light in and outside the house, and moved on to Goldie's house. When she was gone, I lay down on the couch with my feet pressed into Jay's belly and a cat on each side. I pulled my favorite fleece throw over us and settled in, expecting to replay everything that had happened all night long. The next thing I knew, my phone was vibrating in my pocket and the sun was up.

seventy-five

Even the critters slept
in Saturday morning until Norm woke us with a phone call at eight-fourteen. He wanted to know what time I would be at Shadetree to help Mom get ready for the wedding. “It's so cute,” he said. “She's quite the blushing bride!”

“I know. I'm really happy for them.”
Maybe there's still hope for me
. Not that I aspired to blushing bride status, but the love and happiness were on my bucket list, if I could figure out how to have them and my autonomy, too.

After I assured Norm that I would be there in plenty of time, I hobbled to the window and looked out. A police car was still parked there, but the street was quiet otherwise. I fed the animals and woke Mr. Coffee up. My ankle loosened up a bit as I walked. It was still swollen, although not as much, but the bruise had blossomed in disturbing shades of purple. I had been planning to wear a pair of
two-inch
heels that hadn't been out in public in about three years, but decided I'd better stick with flats. In the meantime, I wanted to see whether Joe had returned to his home behind Blackford's Farm and Garden and stop by the hospital to check on Phil Martin. I didn't like the guy, but guilt was eating at me. After all, Zola had probably been looking for me when he was misled by my van in front of Martin's house.

Blackford's was open by the time I got there, but I parked near the back alley, not the door. I had picked up two breakfast sandwiches, a large coffee, and two bottles of water on my way. Even if Joe was still hiding, I felt pretty sure he would pick up the food and drinks if I left them where he would see them.

The blanket and shower curtain were down over the opening to Joe's box home, indicating that he might be there. “Joe?” I waited, then tried again. “Joe, it's Janet. I just wanted to be sure you're okay.” Nothing. “Okay, well, I was supposed to meet a friend for breakfast, but she didn't show up. I had already ordered her food, and, well, I didn't want to waste it, so I'll just set it here, inside your door.”

I squeezed between the recycle bin and the wall to get to the alcove, careful not to rub against them, and moved the coverings over Joe's doorway just enough to set the paper bag inside. I wanted to look inside in case he was in there sick or injured, but couldn't bring myself to invade his privacy that way. I stood and waited another moment, scanning the alley and listening to a cardinal singing in a nearby tree. Finally I turned around to return to my car and saw Joe entering the alley from the parking lot. I walked toward him and smiled.

“Hi, Joe.”

He wore a blue plaid flannel shirt over a red sweater, brown chinos, and high tops. He wasn't much of a fashion statement, but I was always surprised at how clean and tidy he kept himself under the circumstances. He had a bottle of pop and a Butterfinger in his hands. His hair looked damp, and I guessed that he had made the purchase at the gas station across the road and used their bathroom to clean up.

Joe had pulled two battered but functional folding chairs out from behind his box for the two of us and he was just digging into his second sandwich when he froze
mid-bite
. He stared at something behind me, eyes wide. I glanced around and quickly back at Joe. “It's okay,” I said. “He's a friend of mine.”

“Cop?”

“Yes, a detective. You can trust him.”

Joe didn't look too sure about that, but he resumed chewing.

“Janet, what are you doing here?”

I interpreted the question to mean “Why are you sticking your nose into police matters again?” but I just smiled and said, “Having breakfast with my friend Joe. What are you doing here?”

The back door of Blackford's opened and Ralph Blackford stepped out, a trash bag in his hand. He looked startled to see us, but seemed to grasp what was happening and stayed where he was.

Hutch held a hand toward Joe and introduced himself. “Joe, we're looking into a murder committed back here on Tuesday evening. If you have a little time, I'd like to ask you some questions.”

“I had to do it!” Joe started to stand, and my heart fell to the pavement.

Hutchinson's voice stayed calm and he held his palms toward Joe in a placating gesture. “Whoa, whoa. Let's slow down.” He squatted beside my chair. I knew the gesture was meant to make him less threatening to Joe, and I was still trying to put that together with Joe's apparent confession when Hutch spoke again. “What was it you had to do, Joe?”

“Wait a second.” It was Blackford. “Should Joe have an attorney?”

Hutchinson smiled at Joe. “You're not a suspect. I'd just like to know if you saw anything that would help us.” Joe nodded, and Hutch went on. “What was it you had to do, Joe?”

I held my breath, expecting Joe to confess to Mick Fallon's murder, although I had no idea why he would have had Evan Winslow's shotgun.

“Hit him!” He practically shouted it. “I had to hit him!”

“What did you hit him with?”

I noticed that Hutchinson wasn't taking notes as he usually did. He was looking directly at Joe, something a lot of people don't do with the homeless.

“
Two-by
-four,” said Joe. “I keep it there,” he pointed, “under the dumpster. Just in case.”

“Joe, who did you hit?”

“Those bad men, the one that got shot and the other one.” He popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth and chewed hard, staring at Hutchinson. He swallowed and drank some coffee, and spoke again. “One of them is dead.”

“Yes.” Hutch nodded.

“I didn't do that. Not really.”

Not really?
I couldn't imagine what he meant by that, but Hutchinson just nodded again.

“Okay. Why did you hit him?”

“Both of them.” Joe picked up his Butterfinger and broke it into four pieces. He laid one on his knee and offered the other pieces to Hutch, Ralph, and me. I begged off, blaming my dentist, and Ralph said he had just eaten, but Hutch took a piece and nibbled the end. Joe studied him for a bit and finally said, “Maybe just one. The one with the gun. They were trying to kidnap that lady.”

“That's terrible,” said Hutch, and Joe nodded but didn't speak. “So you hit him to protect her?”

“Had to.” Joe squirmed in his chair, and when he spoke again, his voice was very soft. “I didn't mean to …”

Hutch waited a beat, and then tried again. “What happened when you hit him?”

“They didn't know I was there. I saw them follow that lady to her truck, and she saw them and pulled the gun from the rack, you know, one of those gun racks some trucks have? She was pretty. She had pretty hair.”

Summer.
“Did she have long red hair, Joe?”

“Black hair, red hair. And she turned around but he shoved her into the side of the truck and her hair almost fell off and he grabbed the gun and the other one said now they had her and and and—”

Her hair almost fell off? Black hair, red hair?
What did that mean? And then it clicked. Summer had worn a dark wig in the picture from Reno. I thought of the woman I had seen going into Phil Martin's house, the
dark-haired
one I had thought moved like Summer. I was sure now that it
was
Summer I had seen.

If Summer was in this alley with a truck, then Evan knew she wasn't missing. I thought back to the day we found Rosie the sheep's grave at the farm. Giselle had thought someone was in the yarn shop, although no one answered her knock. It must have been Summer. I was practically bursting to talk this out with Hutch, but this wasn't the time or place. Joe needed to finish his story.

“Okay, and then what happened?” asked Hutch, gently putting the brakes on Joe's delivery.

“I crawled through there,” he gestured to the space between the recycle bin and the building, “and hit him with my
two-by
-four.” Joe swung an imaginary bat. “Whomp! I hit him hard in the back of the legs and he sort of slipped and stumbled and I think he dropped the shotgun and bam! there was an explosion, you know, a blast, and and and—”

“And he was accidentally shot?”

Joe shook his head. “The gun shot them.”

“Them?” Hutch and I spoke at the same time.

“Yes, but only the one with the gun died. The other was just marked.” Joe looked thoughtful and turned to me and lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Some people might say it was an accident, but it wasn't.”

Just when I felt hopeful for Joe, my heart took another nosedive, but I whispered back, “What do you mean, Joe?” and held my breath.

“Angels watch,” he said. “They see what we do and they give us what we deserve. An angel saw what those men tried to do, and caught that gun.”