“Goddammit,” he swore. “I wish I had my gun.”
“You wouldn’t be able to hit him. It’s coming from the rooftop of that Victorian over there,” Chance whispered.
I heard a curse from the porch. I cast a glance over my shoulder and found Shannon crouched behind one of the columns. In a normal town, we could expect concerned citizens to call the police. I wasn’t so sure in Kilmer. If the sheriff chose to show up, he might find some way to blame us.
Butch broke free from my arms and ran back toward the door, scratching furiously. His agitated bark rang out. I’d spent enough time with him to know there was something badly wrong inside.
Another shot pinged into Miss Minnie’s porch. Please don’t let her step out to see what the fuss is about. If anything happened to her, I didn’t know what I’d do. She was gentle and kind; the only good thing I could remember about my childhood after my mama died. I only wished she hadn’t been so scared of my gift—that she’d let me stay with her, baking pies and cleaning cupboards until I was grown. But I suspected I’d be a much different person if that had happened.
“At this distance, it has to be a rifle,” Saldana said. “But at least I could lay down suppressive fire, make him dive while we run for it. But don’t worry. I’m counting shots. When I give the word, sprint for the Forester and stay low.”
Chance objected, “Doesn’t it depend on what kind of weapon he has and what kind of ammo he’s using?”
“Sounds like a .22, used for varmint hunting,” Jesse told him impatiently. “Generally, you’re looking at a ten-round mag. Unless he’s a great shot, one hit won’t kill us outright. Somebody’s trying to put the fear of God in us.”
Another shot hit the porch steps, too close for comfort.
“I thought I’d be safer with you guys,” Shannon mumbled.
“That’s half a mag, then.” Chance must’ve been counting too.
In the distance I heard sirens. I guess people didn’t go up on rooftops and open fire with impunity, even in Kilmer. Butch continued to bark and scratch. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes bulging, as if willing me to take the hint.
“Oh shit.”
If I was right, if Butch was hearing an intruder in there, we had to get back inside. It might already be too late. Accepting Jesse’s analysis at face value, I pulled myself back on the porch. One hit wouldn’t kill me. A bullet slammed into the wood behind me; I felt the splinters against my calf.
“Corine, get down!” Chance shouted.
Ignoring him, I picked up the patio chair and threw it through Miss Minnie’s living room window. Shannon cried out, but she didn’t budge from the cover of the column. Good girl. I dove, arms first, hit the floor, and tried to roll. I’m sure it wasn’t graceful, and I felt the sting of broken glass even through my jacket.
“What are you—fuck!” Jesse’s voice split on a cry.
That time, I had no doubt he’d been hit, but I couldn’t stop. I pushed to my feet and caught the son of a bitch red-handed. A man in black stood over Miss Minnie—and she was so deeply asleep as to be unconscious. He wore a ski mask, the kind criminals used to wear to commit armed robbery, and in his hand gleamed a knife.
I grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a heavy poker from the fireplace. Glass crunched beneath my feet as I braced myself. Good thing he didn’t know how truly useless I’d be in a fight, but I could stall him until the cavalry arrived.
“Cover the back,” I shouted, hoping someone could get there.
The sirens drew closer. I could see the glimmer of red and blue in my peripheral vision. Outside, the gunfire had stopped.
We stared at each other. He couldn’t decide whether to take out the old lady, go for me, or run for it. That hesitance cost him.
“You’re trapped,” I told him.
Brakes screeched, car doors slammed, and then I heard a garbled announcement from Sheriff Robinson. I couldn’t make out the words, but I suspected it was some variant of “Come out with your hands up.” I didn’t imagine he would be happy if he had to come in after us.
And then everything happened too fast for me to track. The man in black spun. Too slowly, I swung the poker at him, whiffing air as he sprinted toward the back door. I heard a scuffle and then the heavy thud of a body falling. When I made it to the kitchen, I found Chance kneeling over the corpse, blood on his hands. His face seemed taut with fear. I didn’t know if he’d killed anyone before. And what a strange thing to wonder about a man you once slept with.
“Shit,” I said.
From behind me, Miss Minnie said, “Oh, how nice to see you again, dear.” She came into the kitchen, took one look, and then fainted dead away.
Before we trudged out to be apprehended like dastards, I couldn’t resist pulling the mask off; I had to see who Chance had killed. To my astonishment, I recognized the gas station attendant who had pointed me toward Augustus England. That made no sense at all. We’d hardly spoken to the man.
I sighed, collected my heroic dog, and went out with my hands up.
It took hours of separate interviews to convince Robinson of what had happened. The little jail in the courthouse basement wasn’t equipped to handle so many suspects, so he unlocked the surveyor’s office upstairs and used it as an interrogation room while the rest of us sat in the tiny cell.
Jesse was pale, but he didn’t mention the shot he’d taken to the upper arm. Calling it a flesh wound, Jesse refused to leave Shannon and me. He sat there, pinch faced, between us and tried to look reassuring.
“It’s going to all right,” he whispered. “If Miss Minnie doesn’t press charges, they can’t even do anything about that broken window. And I don’t think she will. We saved her life.”
I nodded as the sheriff came for me a fourth time and left Chance in my place. No matter how many times Robinson came at me or from what angle, I told the same story. We’d been invited to Miss Minnie’s house for supper; I had been her foster child once upon a time. And yes, that could be verified.
Local felons must have targeted her for a robbery—an elderly woman living alone, right? When they found us at the house, they panicked, and one of them tried to scare us off while the other attempted to complete the job. As off-the-cuff theories went, I felt rather proud of that one. The truth would make him lock me up quicker than I could spit.
He pursed his mouth and stared at me, hard. “Do you know that for a fact, Ms. Solomon?”
I think he was hoping to make me admit to being an accomplice, but I opened my eyes wide. “No, I don’t know that for a fact. I was just guessing. But why else would anybody shoot at innocent tourists? Why else would a masked man be in an old lady’s home?”
Sheriff Robinson had no answer for that, so he asked more questions. “Why do you think they didn’t just rob Miss Minnie another night?”
I shrugged. “Maybe they aren’t very bright. In fact, I’d say they definitely aren’t if they’re robbing old ladies in a town the size of Kilmer.”
The portly lawman growled his impatience. “Tell me what happened next, please, Ms. Solomon.” He put exaggerated stress on the please.
“We had our meal and visited for a while,” I answered. “Then she dozed off, so we saw ourselves out.” Best to stick close to the truth, whenever possible. “Someone started shooting at us, and I dove into the bushes. But my dog heard something inside that alarmed him, and I didn’t think; I just reacted.”
“By breaking her window,” the sheriff said in a tone of such dry sarcasm that I knew he didn’t believe a word I said. “Most people would’ve been too scared to move. Most people don’t listen to their dogs, either.”
I peered up at him through my lashes. “So you’re chastising me for being too bold, Sheriff?” Lifting Butch, I added, “It’s a good thing I do listen to him. And why wouldn’t I? He has good ears. We saved Miss Minnie’s life tonight.”
“Or you want her to think you did,” he muttered.
A lance of genuine surprise ran me through. “Are you accusing me of staging the break-in so she’ll feel grateful and put me in her will?”
“Right now I’m not accusing you of anything.” His jowls quivered. “I’m just fact-finding.”
I wanted to challenge him to find proof I’d had anything to do with the aborted “robbery,” which I suspected was something else entirely.
“Who was the guy who tried to kill Miss Minnie?” I asked.
The sheriff sighed. “Curtis Farrell. I just can’t believe he’d do something like this. He wasn’t a bad kid.”
Funny. Nobody ever thinks someone is bad until he up and does some terrible thing. I knew from firsthand experience that everyone was capable of that. It only required the right impetus.
“Well, I’m not sorry we were there to help her.”
Robinson frowned at me and kept asking the same questions.
In response, I kept giving the same answers until he returned me to the cell, his face reflecting high choler. Butch whined until one of his deputies took him outside. I further annoyed the man by demanding water for my dog.
“You should be giving him a medal,” I said as the man brought a plastic bowl. “I can’t believe this is how you treat people who help out. What do you do to the criminals? Take them to the woods to die?”
The deputy’s hand shook, slopping water on the cement floor. “That’s enough out of you, miss.” But his voice was none too steady, either, and he didn’t meet my eyes as he hurried away.
Butch yapped, and I picked him up. “You got that right, buddy. There’s something rotten in the state of Georgia, and it stinks like hell fire.”
One by one, Robinson questioned us, and nobody contradicted my version of events. I found it odd that Shannon’s parents never showed up to see if she was all right. Maybe her mother had washed her hands of Shannon . . . but that didn’t track. Women like Sandra Cheney didn’t quietly concede.