Dead Shot (6 page)

She smiled. Saw the gleam of humor in his eyes. “Okay, busted. Let me rephrase. What brought you down here, Ray?”

“Circumstances.”

She knew an evasion when she heard one. “Ever think about going back?”

“Going back? Oh, yeah, going somewhere.”

“So what’s keeping you?”

Just then, Carlson waved him over. “Excuse me,” Ray muttered, and left. A little too eagerly in her opinion.

It was nearly midnight before the police released the crowd. Gillian and Maddie huddled together on one side of the exhibition room waiting to be dismissed. Across the way, an empty patch of wall marked the spot where her photograph had hung. The blood on the wall around it had dried into a flaked and faded brown. Despite her suggestion, Will had taken it down. By Friday, when the exhibit opened to the public, it would all be sanitized. As if nothing had happened.

Chip stood in front of the bald spot, immersed in a heated discussion with Carlson and Ray. Ray had stashed his bloodied jacket over the back of a nearby chair and stood in his blotched shirt, black tie hanging loose against the white shirt neck, sleeves rolled up on strong arms. She liked the way he looked, rumpled and tired, the black and white an intense contrast, the blood streaked and splattered. Another title popped into her head.
Aftermath.
If she had her little Nikon, a couple of strobes . . .

“Ole Chip ripping them a new one?” Maddie murmured, cocking her head curiously.

“Ray said the museum handled the catering staff, so if anyone’s getting ripped, it isn’t him or his boss.”

“Well, they’re certainly going at it.”

Gillian didn’t respond, knowing all too well what the group was probably talking about. Keeper number thirty-three in a never-ending list.

She reframed the shot in her head. If she could catch Ray just like that, leg bent, hand straddling his low-slung hip. Maybe shoot two-and-a-quarters with the Hasselblad, get more detail.

Maddie nudged her. “What are you thinking, woman?”

Gillian shrugged, tore her gaze away. “Nothing.” Then couldn’t help looking again.

“Yeah, right.” Maddie snickered. “You can take the girl away from the lens, but you can’t take the lens away from the girl.”

Ray shot a swift glance over his shoulder. At her. Gillian Gray. Bloodstained, exhausted. The sight set something off inside him. A warning bell. An alarm about to go off. Nothing loud and clanging. Just a deep, low tolling. He could feel her eyes pulling at him. Soft, needy, defiant eyes. Troubled eyes.

“Look, it’s a few days, right? Just until the hospital fund-raiser—the whaddyacallit—gala, art auction—next Saturday night.” He was talking to Chip Gray’s frown, knowing he wasn’t getting through.

“Ten days,” Chip corrected.

Jeez. Ten days was plenty long to get into all kinds of trouble Ray didn’t want to think about. He waved the implied objection away. “Okay, whatever. Not a lifetime. If she stays low, is careful, I don’t think there’ll be a repeat. I really don’t think protective service is necessary.”

“You don’t know her,” Chip said. “She’s incapable of keeping a low profile.”

He thought of the scene with the reporters. The way she barged in to talk to her attacker. “Landowe, then.” He grabbed a name out of the air, turned to Carlson. “He’s good with creative types.”

“You’ve already established a relationship with her,” Carlson said, pointing out the obvious.

Ray opened his mouth to deny that, but Chip forestalled him. “I’ll double the fee.”

“Look, Ray,” Carlson said. “Like you said, not a lifetime.”

Ray didn’t like his own words used against him. “I don’t th—”

“And throw in a personal bonus for you,” Chip added.

Christ. He felt himself weakening. It wasn’t the money. He had plenty of that. There was only him to buy for, and he didn’t have expensive tastes. So it wasn’t money. It was those eyes. Why couldn’t he turn his back on them?

Because he didn’t cut and run, that’s why. Sticking was his specialty. Not to mention his private little torture chamber.

“I’d consider it a personal favor,” Chip said.

Oh, well, then. A personal favor to Chip Gray. He wanted to tell him,
personally,
that he didn’t give a shit. Not about Chip. “All right.” Ray sighed. “You got your ten.”

Chip’s frown broke into a victorious smile. He extended a hand to seal the deal. “I won’t forget this,” he said. “The Grays have long memories. You won’t regret it.”

Ray already doubted that, but he didn’t say so. He’d made the deal, he wasn’t going to carp about it. Carlson left. Ray grabbed his jacket, and he and Chip headed toward Gillian.

“They’re bringing the car around,” Chip told her. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t jump when the old man said jump. She only flicked a sardonic glance at Ray. “They rope you in?”

Chip frowned. “Mr. Pearce will look after you until you can return to New York. A few days. It’s all arranged.”

Gillian nodded. Things were always arranged, and somehow the arrangements never stuck. Her mother had arranged to move them here, away from her fast-track life, away from the pressure and the drugs and the all-night parties. She had wanted a safe place to raise her child. A nice place. A quiet place. The irony was staggering.

Chip gestured for Gillian to precede him. “Your grandmother is tired. Let’s not keep her waiting.”

The Gray house was miles away, but Gillian felt its suffocating walls close in on her. And outside, the night beckoned, thick with danger, but also possibility. She’d been attacked, but not by him.

He was still out there.

She looked over at Maddie. “Can you see them home?”

A silent message passed between them.

You up to trouble, girl?

Help me out. I can’t go home yet.

“You come soon, okay?” Maddie said at last.

Gillian nodded, but Maddie knew her too well.

Chip peered at her, his square, mottled face irritated but resigned to it. “How will you get back?” he demanded.

She squinted up at Ray. “Mr. Pearce has a car, don’t you, Ray?”

Exasperation flashed across Ray’s face, then was quickly gone. “I’ll see she gets home,” he told Chip.

“Come on.” Maddie tugged at Chip’s arm. “Let me find Mrs. Gray and get you two out of here.”

Her grandfather allowed himself to be led away, and Gillian was alone with Ray.

10

“You have plans?” Ray asked. “Because it’s twelve-fifteen on a Wednesday night in Nashville.”

“You miss your church meeting, Ray?”

“Just wondering where you think you’re off to.”

She watched her grandfather head through the arch and into the lobby, where the dregs of the reception were still sputtering out. He shuffled a bit, stooped and worn down by the night. Something turned over in her heart. He was getting so old. “Oh, I don’t know. Downtown. Second Avenue is still jumping.”

“Yeah, but you don’t look like the tourist bar type.”

She debated. Briefly. Decided to tell him the truth. Or at least part of it. “I don’t want to go home until after lights out,” she said. “Too much worrying.”

“After tonight, maybe justified.”

“Doesn’t make it easier to live with, though.”

“You’d be safer at home.”

She thought of the night, heard the pump action of her blood pounding through her heart. “I’m not too good with safe,” she said. “That’s why you’re here.”

He didn’t look happy about that.

“Oh, come on, Ray. Lighten up. You’re getting paid, aren’t you? Ole Chip is great with that stuff. What’d he bribe you with?”

Ray took her arm and led her away.

She laughed and stumbled along. “Must have been good. Come on, spill.”

He turned a corner and lugged her toward a back door delivery entrance she hadn’t known was there.

“What’s the big secret?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Are you kidding? I
am
the business.”

They arrived at the wide metal door, and he turned to her. “Double my fee to the agency plus a personal bonus. Happy?”

She smiled, but it felt all too wintry. “For you? Sure. I’m just helping you earn your keep. Besides, I’m starved. Can’t eat at these things. Bet you are, too.” She poked him in the belly. Hard as a rock. “Big guy like you.”

He unlocked the door with a key card, told her to stay put while he peeked outside.

“Okay,” he said after a few minutes skulking around. “Let’s go.” He beckoned at her impatiently.

His car turned out to be a full-size pickup. Black as onyx, all shiny and new. She couldn’t help laughing when she saw it.

“What did I tell you?” She high-fived the air. “Farm boy all the way.”

He opened the door for her and helped her up. “I gotta haul stuff; I can haul stuff.”

“Yeah? What kind of stuff do you haul?”

“People like you.” He slammed her door shut.

He yanked off his loose tie, threw his ruined jacket in the back, and slid behind the wheel. Then he backed out and headed to Broadway. But when he should have taken a right toward Second Avenue, he went left.

“River’s that way,” she said, pointing toward the eastern tip of Broadway, which ended at the Cumberland.

“My time as an extra on
Night of the Living Dead
is over.”

He headed west, past what was left of the railroad shed at Union Station and farther on toward the brick gates that marked the beginning of Vanderbilt. Carefully placed spotlights gave the university’s name a ghostly glow.

Traffic was almost nonexistent, so he sped through the lights, and she tried not to note the changes since the last time she’d been there three years ago. She wanted Nashville to remain a blur, an imprecise dot on the map of memory. A place she didn’t even have to visit in her mind.

But some things linger no matter what. At Murphy Road he made a right. The Shoney’s and Mr. Gatti’s that used to occupy the corner were gone. In an effort to make her feel normal, her grandparents had once taken her to Mr. Gatti’s, an all-you-can-eat pizza joint. She didn’t eat much in those days and didn’t remember whether they got their money’s worth. She did remember lots of screaming kids, balloons, the whistle and ring of video games. Someone was having a birthday party, and the faces of the children had looked so strange to her. Smiling. Laughing.

Suddenly she wished she were out of the cab and standing in the truck bed, black wind flying through her hair, arms out to possess the dark.

She rolled down the window and stuck her head out. Screamed into the night like a teenager after a keg party.

Ray swerved. “What the f—” He yanked her back in. “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

She bounced back in her seat, laughed. “God, that felt good.”

“Are you crazy?”

“You’ve seen my work,” she said lightly, the butt of her own joke.

He cut a hard glance her way. “Put your seat belt on.”

She didn’t move.

“Put your damn seat belt on!”

“Yes, Dad.” She leaned back, let the air wash her face with shadow, and fastened the belt.

They were heading into Sylvan Park, a vintage neighborhood of tiny bungalows on small lots. The streets were laid out alphabetically by state. He turned onto Nebraska and pulled in front of a small gray clapboard house.

Nebraska. She looked down to hide a smile.

He yanked the parking brake so hard it screeched. “You do anything like that again, and I’ll tie you down and cuff you to the floor.”

“That might be interesting.” She threw him a sly smile.

“Not the way I do it. Now don’t move until I come around.” He swiveled to collect his clothes from the back. “Take me five minutes to change.”

He threw the jacket over his shoulder and came around the front end to her side. Opened her door, took her elbow, and escorted her to the house. As he’d done at the museum, his big body shielded her again. Odd to have another person look out for her. To face the night on her account. Especially since he was so pissed at her.

At the front door, he handed her the key. “Keep my hands free,” he told her.

She looked out at the darkness with cold assessment. Would it be here, now? With Ray beside her? Would he keep the beast away or dare him to attack?

Her back prickled as she inserted the key. But the door opened, and Ray turned on the light. It snapped the world into brightness, cold, clear, and normal.

She looked around. The entrance bled right into a sparsely furnished front room with an air of impermanence about it. Temporary digs.

“Live here long?”

“Three years.”

Not so temporary.

A random set of white plastic shelves stood against a wall. A hockey stick leaned against it. In a corner across from a wide-screen TV, an easy chair, the kind you buy at one of those giant furniture outlets. A long-sleeved jersey with a faded number lay over one arm.