Caught in the Middle (22 page)

I just shook my head at him.

“It’ll be dangerous, Merry,” he said. “I think we have a very desperate man here, so who knows what he’ll do. Possible gunshots. You might get hurt.”

“I’m already hurt,” I said. “And I promise to stay out of your way.”

In the end, Sergeant Poole let me come along. His alternative was to put me in a holding cell until it was all over, and then I’d just write an article about how unfair he’d been.

“But you’ve got to wear this,” he said, and handed me a bulletproof vest. I struggled to put the unwieldy thing on as I trailed him and several officers across the street.

“Remember, he’s not in there alone,” I called. “That’s Don Eldredge’s car—” and I pointed to a green Taurus “—and that’s Mac Carnuccio’s car.” I pointed to a bright red Miata. “And he has a gun that he’s already used.”

In the end, Sergeant Poole and four other officers positioned themselves behind
The News
. Another officer watched the building’s front door on Main Street, though no one expected our man to go that way.

“Are you going to go in?” I asked, breathing in the night’s raw dampness as my heart fluttered in apprehension.

“No,” Poole said. “We are not going in. That’s how people get hurt. We wait.”

I was placed behind a car not far from the sergeant as he crouched behind an unmarked police car issuing orders.

We had settled in for a long wait when suddenly, through the fog, came the whistled strains of “Merrily We Roll Along,” and Curt came sauntering into view like Marshall Earp on his way to the OK Corral. Only he didn’t know there was a showdown, and he’d left his six-shooters at home.

TWENTY

I
looked frantically from Curt to the back door of
The News,
positive that our man was going to burst out at this very moment, guns blazing, and that Curt would get blown away in the crossfire.

I saw Sergeant Poole move to grab Curt and haul him out of harm’s way, but I acted more quickly.

“Curt,” I yelled. “Help. Over here.”

He broke off whistling in the middle of the second “roll along.” His head spun in my direction, and he leaped to my aid, just as I had known he would. As he got near me, leaning down to see what my problem was, I grabbed him by the coat collar and pulled.

“Stay down,” I hissed in his ear as he thudded gracelessly to the ground. “You just walked into the middle of a police stakeout.”

He pulled back and stared at me in disbelief, then scanned the area, taking in Sergeant Poole and the others. Sergeant Poole gave a little salute and signaled that Curt stay low.

“My stalker,” I whispered. “We’re going to get him.”

“We’re going to get him?” he repeated, looking confused. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Why’d you call for help?”

“To get you out of the way. I didn’t want you to get shot.”

“You didn’t?” He looked ridiculously pleased.

“I don’t want anyone to get shot,” I said primly, studying my hands.

He grinned. “Right. Now explain all this to me in a sensible manner that I can follow,” he instructed. “What are they doing? What are you doing? What’s going on?”

“Nothing special.” I knew he was going to be mad when he heard the whole story. I would outrage all his protective tendencies and be unrepentant about doing so. “I just got put in a trunk again and I decided I was tired of it, so I got the police after him. And he shot Andy. And he tried to kill me those two times.”

“Wait a minute, Merry. Just who are you talking about?”

I told him.

He looked at me with agitation and suspicion growing in his face. He zipped right past the information, even the identity of the stalker, and tackled me, as I had known he would. “When I left you this morning, you didn’t know any of this.”

“Right,” I agreed. “I learned it all this evening.”

“At your ‘business meeting’?” He pronounced the last two words in verbal quote marks.

“Ah. You found my note,” I said. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Which is undoubtedly why you worded it so blandly.” He was so angry his voice shook.

“You’re darn right, buddy,” I said, tired of his righteous indignation. “I got a chance to meet with Andy, and you weren’t going to keep me from going.”

“Andy? Alone? Just you and him? You’re crazy!”

“Maybe, but have I got a story!”

“Merry! What’s wrong with you?” Curt hissed, grabbing me by the shoulders. “That’s exactly what you promised me you wouldn’t do!”

I looked him in the eye. “Oh, no. You
asked
me to promise, but I never did. I never would. I may be a coward in some areas, but never in the area of a story.” I pushed his hands away.

“You can’t go running around, risking your life like you were in a movie or something!”

“It’s my life! I’ll risk it if I want!”

“Oh, yeah. That’s mature.”

I scowled at him. The last thing I wanted to deal with was his sarcasm.

“Listen to me, Merry—” and up came his index finger “—you can’t keep on like this! It’s dangerous.”

“And you can’t keep telling me what to do!” I yelled, swatting at his finger, choosing to ignore the truth in his comment.

“Will you two shut up?” Sergeant Poole could barely get the words out through his gritted teeth. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re on a stakeout here.”

I looked an apology, then turned back to Curt and whispered fiercely, “You can’t tell me what to do!”

“Somebody’s got to!” Curt spat, his finger right under my nose in the most infuriating, patronizing manner. He clamped his lips together and took several deep breaths. Then he repeated, suddenly gentle, his face pained, “Somebody’s got to.” His index finger lost its rigidity and slid softly down my cheek.

Dirty fighting,
I thought as I closed my eyes to deal with my sudden vertigo.

“You’ve got a huge bruise, you know,” he said.

“I do?” I lifted my hand to my cheek and rubbed. “No, I don’t. It’s only grease from when I fell and slid along the floor. Here. Smell.” I held out my hand.

He took my hand and before I knew what was happening, pulled me into his arms. He nuzzled against my cheek and sniffed. “Um, you’re right. Grease. A soft, feminine fragrance to please a discriminating man.”

“Get away,” I cried, pushing him back. “You’re hurting my elbow.”

“What’s wrong with your elbow?”

“I cracked it when I fell and got the grease.”

“Merry!” He reached out and took my elbow gently in his hands.

“Dr. Carlyle, I presume,” I said snippily to cover the pain that flashed through me from fingertips to shoulder.

“It feels like a balloon!” He was horrified. “You’ve got to get to the hospital and get that treated.”

I nodded. “Sometime soon.”

“Merry!” He moved in close as if he wanted to slide an arm around my shoulders, probably preparatory to grabbing me and carrying me off whether I wanted to go or not.

“Be careful,” I cautioned with a sweet smile. “You’ll get blood on your clothes.”

“Blood? Blood!” He stared, at a temporary loss for words.

“Blood,” I said, and pointed to my wrapped shin. “I fell over a piece of steel when I was being chased. After he shot Andy. But he wrapped it in his scarf. Nice, huh? Wrap it up before you shoot her. Chivalry.”

Curt reached to unwrap the wound and see what he could do about it. “Boy Scout,” he said. “Lots of first-aid training.”

“Don’t,” I said, putting a hand on his. “I don’t want to know how bad it is until I can get it cared for.”

He turned his hand over and grasped mine. Poor man. He was falling for me, and I was driving him crazy. Seemed only fair. His concern and affection were scaring me to death.

“Did you sell Mr. Harrison the picture?” I asked.

He nodded.

“For the full amount?”

He nodded again, and we sat side by side, hand in hand, leaning against a parked car, the fog seeping into our clothes, the damp ground slowly chilling our seats.

After a few minutes he said, “You’re spunky.” He paused. “I’m not sure I like spunky.”

“I definitely don’t like it,” I said. “It rhymes with chunky and clunky.”

He drew a line down the back of my hand with his thumb. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” I said gently.

“How about perky?” he offered after a bit.

I shook my head. “Rhymes with turkey.”

“Feisty?”

“Feisty’s nice. I like feisty.”

He smiled lopsidedly. “I guess I’ll have to learn to like it, too.”

Good grief! An adaptable man! Now I was truly terrified.

More time passed while I wondered how many women held hands with men trying to like
feisty,
and all while they were on a police stakeout.

“Did he really shoot Andy?” Curt asked suddenly.

“You were listening!”

“Of course.” He seemed surprised. “I always listen to you.”

“Then why do you keep singing ‘Merrily We Roll Along’?”

“Because I can’t help it. I never knew anyone before who had whole songs written about her.” And he smiled.

“You are ridiculous! And yes, he really shot Andy.”

“How badly?”

“I don’t know. I was running for my life. But the police sent emergency vehicles to help him.”

Suddenly we heard Sergeant Poole’s walkie-talkie squawk. I couldn’t make out the words across the parking lot between us, but whatever was said energized him. He signaled one of his men, issued orders and began to climb into the car he’d been hiding behind.

I climbed over Curt and limped across the lot as fast as I could. “Where are you going?” I demanded.

“To Brandywine Steel. Andy’s holed up there and keeps threatening to kill himself.”

I grabbed the rear door handle. “I’m coming with you. He’ll talk to me.”

Sergeant Poole groaned, then nodded reluctantly. “You may be right.”

I climbed in, only to be pushed forcefully from behind as Curt climbed in after me.

“Do you think I’m letting her go alone?” he said to the frowning sergeant.

The sergeant rolled his eyes. “I don’t think she’s alone, unless I count for nothing.”

“I’m coming.” Curt slammed the door behind him.

I studied Curt, torn as usual between irritation and delight that he felt I needed care. Noticing little droplets of mist on his dark ringlets, I stifled the renegade desire to brush them away before he caught cold.

It’s hard to keep your seat in the back of a police car with a driver who is practicing all the fast-driving skills they ever taught him at the police academy and with no door handles or anything to grab on to. When we swirled into the lot at Brandywine Steel and screeched to a halt, Curt and I picked ourselves up off the floor and waited to be let out.

It took a knock on the window to remind Sergeant Poole to free us. As we climbed out, a cop ran up to the sergeant.

“It’s not as bad as we thought,” he said. “We think the kid’s bluffing.”

“Where is he?” Sergeant Poole asked.

“In a cupboard in the cubbyhole where he works.”

“Why do you think he’s bluffing?”

“We don’t think he has a weapon.”

“Do you know this?”

“No, we think this,” the cop said. “We asked him to tell us about his gun, and he mumbled some things that you would only expect from a kid who’s not really familiar with firearms. He messed up brand names and caliber and bullets and where he got the gun—everything. It sounds like more than just stress-induced confusion to us.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “When he killed Pat, he just used what was at hand, a wrench. And he didn’t have a gun when I was here earlier.”

Sergeant Poole grunted and looked thoughtful.

“Isn’t he wounded?” I asked. “I thought he had been shot.”

The officer nodded. “He’s hurt, all right. We found him by following the trail of blood to this cupboard.”

“Let me talk to him,” I pleaded. “I’ve talked to him before, and I think I can get him to come out. Please?”

Sergeant Poole grunted again and thought some more. I watched him with a thudding heart.

In a matter of minutes, I was back in Andy’s work area, though this time the B-movie atmosphere of impending doom was missing. All the lights were on, revealing the dirt and grime of an everyday workplace.

I swallowed the great surge of bile that rose when I saw the huge red stain on the concrete. Andy’s blood.

“He’s in there.” One of the officers pointed to the bank of cupboards Andy had glanced toward when he told me he had been hiding here since the killing.

“Go ahead,” Sergeant Poole told me, and I was conscious that everyone became silent and totally focused on me.

“Andy?” I said as I knelt in front of the dirty, once tan, now grimy-gray cupboard. I tried to keep my voice from shaking, to sound assured and comforting. “It’s me.”

“Merry?” A sob came on the end of my name.

“Andy, are you all right?”

“Help me,” he whispered. “Don’t let them get me.”

“Oh, Andy.” I glanced around at the officers, their guns either drawn or hanging on their hips, and at all the emergency medical personnel hanging back by the welding shields but watching intently.
Don’t let them get me
. There was a piece of true Andy realism.

Andy groaned. “He shot me!” The shock and disbelief were audible even in his raspy whisper. “It’s my shoulder. I never knew something could hurt this bad.” And he sobbed again.

“Andy,” I said, wishing I could see his face instead of just the cupboard door. “You need medical help.”

“No,” Andy begged. “Don’t let them get me! Don’t turn me in! I’ll shoot myself!” He began to cry, and my heart twisted.

“Andy,” I said with as much authority as I could muster, hoping I was right, “we both know you don’t have a gun.”

“How do you know that?” he asked. His voice was a whine, and I felt a surge of triumph. He sounded just like a young Sam used to when he made empty threats to his big sister, and I called his bluff.

“You’ve never had a gun. That’s why you used the wrench.”

He didn’t argue the point, and I saw Sergeant Poole nod in relief, a few of his craggy worry wrinkles smoothing.