Matchpoint (24 page)

Holly slumped to the ground, hitting my legs as she fell. Her eyes were round with horror and blood spilled from a hole in her neck. She made a gurgling sound and then no sound at all.

“She’s been shot!” I yelled, which was what started the stampede.

“SHE’S BEEN shot!” I shouted again. I watched as Holly’s blood pooled on the ground by her neck. Her eyes stared up at me, unblinking, without expression. “Please!”

I felt consciousness drain out of me, but I was jarred awake by the push and pull of panicked spectators, trampling people and chairs as they fled for their lives.

I tugged at one person as he ran by. “Help!” But he took off without looking back, tearing his shirt in the process. I was standing with the piece of his shirt in my hand, unsure what to do next, when a man came out of nowhere, dealing me a body blow, throwing me to the ground and crushing me under his weight.

“Stay down,” he hissed in my ear. “There could be another shot.”

I recognized the smell of meat and organic soap before I recognized his face. His forehead was lined with concern, and his eyes studied me for any sign of injury.

“I’m fine,” I croaked. “It’s Holly. I think she’s dead.”

“One shot,” he said out loud. “I think you’re safe.”

“Safe?” I screeched the word, hysteria finally breaking to the surface. Where had it been? Usually hysteria was much closer to my surface.

“Stay down,” Holden ordered.

He rolled off me and checked Holly’s pulse as the stampede dwindled to a few people running past. “She’s alive, but she’s choking to death,” he said. “She needs a tracheotomy.”

He checked his pockets and came up with a fancy Swiss Army knife. “Damn,” he said.

“What?”

“I need a tool, a tube, something to do it with.” He searched the area, but it was pandemonium, like a tornado had touched down.

“I have a pen!” I announced. “It’s a cheap ballpoint pen. Grandma made me bring it.”

Holden nodded and put his hand out. I fished through my purse and gave it to him. He unscrewed the pen and tossed the ink cartridge onto the ground. He knelt over Holly. I turned my head as he made the incision in her neck without flinching and inserted the pen to allow her to breathe.

It was like he was a natural at it, or it wasn’t his first tracheotomy. Another Holden secret, I guessed.

Only a couple chairs were left standing, and the ground was littered with water bottles, shoes, and bits of trash. Most of the gathering had run away, but some shell-shocked cultists and spectators remained, some wandering the perimeter, some standing in place, wondering, I imagine, what the hell had happened.

The stage was illuminated from only one side. The lights on the other side had been toppled over, and they now pointed upward, lighting the dark sky. The tent that had held Holly’s attention was no more.

To my surprise, I spotted Mr. Steve in a deep conversation with Belinda and Tim, and as I turned back to Holden, I caught Rosalie in the corner of my eye. She was more subdued, and I hoped someone had knocked some sense into her.

Nathan Smith appeared at my side, more traumatized than ever. “Is she—?” he asked, his hands up at his mouth. He had gone through a lot in the past week, and I feared he would slip into shock.

“She’s breathing,” Holden told him. “But we need the paramedics in here, quick.”

As if on command, the sound of sirens ripped through the air, drawing nearer.

Holly was unconscious, covered in Holden’s jacket, with her wound stanched and a pen stuck in her neck. Nathan was transfixed, as if he was incapable of turning away from the sight, a look of pure horror on his face. Yep, Nathan was going to need counseling. I wondered if he could get a two-for-one deal and take me with him.

Thankfully, emergency services arrived within a couple minutes. The paramedics, a fire truck, and police cars drove up onto the grassy area. I had been seeing a lot of them lately, and they waved when they saw me.
Holden guided them to Holly, and they began to work on her.

I stood there, unsure what I was supposed to do. Should I leave? Should I stay and make some kind of statement? I didn’t have to wait long for my answer. A familiar car skidded onto the grass and squealed to a stop near us. Spencer hopped out and marched right at me. He looked mad, and I flinched and hid behind Holden.

“It wasn’t my fault!” I yelled as Spencer got nearer.

He tried to get to me, circling around Holden, but I danced away to avoid him. Finally Spencer caught me in his arms and held me by my shoulders.

“They told me you got shot.” His voice was rough with anger or some other emotion, I couldn’t tell what. I braced myself, expecting him to slug me or shake me or arrest me. Instead he wrapped his arms around me and pressed his lips against mine.

My exhausted, traumatized body reacted to him. I was at once energized, a warmth filling me as if he was blowing life into me. My mouth opened and welcomed his tongue, and I pressed myself deeper against him.

Little fireflies of arousal buzzed in my head, and I was swept away from everything to a place where there wasn’t murder or violence or dentists without faces, a place of warmth, acceptance, want, and desire. Holden was a good kisser, but Spencer
transported
me.

At the thought of Holden, I pulled back. Spencer’s eyes were wide open, and he looked almost as surprised by the kiss as I was. We dropped out of our embrace and stood in awkward silence for a moment before Spencer regained his composure and went to work assessing the scene. I stood rooted to the spot, waiting for my fireflies to stop buzzing and my breathing to return.

Holly had been treated and was on her way to the hospital in the back of an ambulance. The rest of the police and first responders, as well as Holden, Belinda,
Tim, Nathan, and the remainder of the stragglers, were entirely focused on me. Tim had a big, shit-eating grin on his face. At least Nathan looked better. He had been pale and shocky before, and now he was flushed.

I didn’t dare make eye contact with Holden. Not only had I betrayed him, but I betrayed him in front of half the town. I shifted my gaze to Belinda, who looked suitably impressed, undoubtedly figuring that I was the latest person to succumb to the “magic penis.”

I groaned.

Spencer moved on to interview witnesses, bypassing me entirely. I guessed he was saving me for last. He talked for a little while to a large woman in a maxi dress and cardigan, jotting down notes. She didn’t seem to know anything, which was a common story among the so-called witnesses.

Belinda was Spencer’s fifth interview. “I don’t know. I was watching the performance when I heard the shot, and then it was chaos,” she explained. I caught her eyes shifting downward, probably searching for evidence of Spencer’s magic body part.

Tim belched. “Must have been something I ate,” he said. Belinda handed him a bottle of Tums, and he took four.

“You two together?” Spencer asked. Belinda thought about it a moment, and Tim belched again.

“I’m not feeling very well,” Tim explained.

“Those are my guns. Mine!” One of the mostly naked bodybuilders who had so recently gonged the gong that got the evening started ran barefoot after Officers James and Brody across the grassy area toward us. James and Brody held armloads of weapons. The naked bodybuilder’s weapons, according to him.

Before Conan could reach the police, Sergeant Fred Lytton, my first client, tried to tackle and handcuff him. But the bodybuilder was big. Fred jumped on his back,
but instead of taking him down like a linebacker, it looked more like a failed game of leapfrog. Fred held on for dear life, clutching the bodybuilder’s back, his legs wrapped around his waist. It was as if the behemoth had decided to wear a tall, gangly Irishman as a backpack.

James and Brody, finally noticing that Fred needed help, dropped their collection of guns and ran to the sergeant’s aid. “No! No!” shouted Fred. “I’ve got him. I think he’s slowing down.”

Fred grunted, trying to take down the bodybuilder, his spindly legs squeezing around the man’s eight-pack. The muscle man swatted at Fred like he was a pesky fly and tried to pry his limbs off him. I had to give it to Fred, he had staying power. James and Brody cheered him on.

“You can do it, Fred! You’ve got him where you want him!” they called to him at a safe distance, the guns on the ground at their feet.

Spencer’s eyes grew to twice their normal size as he watched his police force at work. I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking, but I would bet homicide or suicide was in there somewhere.

“That’s the way, Fred!” yelled Officer James. He hooted and hollered, drawing a crowd of law enforcement, firefighters, and cult stragglers.

Spencer ran his fingers through his hair.

He walked toward the bodybuilder and Fred, still locked together in struggle. “Stop,” he said, monotone. “Jump down.” He never raised his voice, but his tone brooked no discussion.

The bodybuilder stopped struggling, and Fred jumped down and cable-tied his wrists. “I don’t want any trouble,” the bodybuilder said. “I was just telling you that those guns are mine.”

“Actually, they are mine.”

Mr. Steve sauntered over. He was barefoot, like the bodybuilder, except his toenails were painted bright red. A thought flickered through my mind about the owner of the beautiful shoes in Mr. Steve’s yurt.

“All registered, of course,” he told Spencer. “Completely legal. We live in a scary world. Can’t be too careful.”

Spencer looked at the large pile of weapons on the ground. “You’re a very careful man, Mr.—”

Mr. Steve introduced himself, and Spencer took him aside under some trees to interview him. Meanwhile, Fred put the bodybuilder in the back of a police car, and the guns were bagged and driven off to the police station.

“Do we just stand here?” asked the woman in the maxi dress.

“Maybe we should sit down,” I suggested. Nathan was dead on his feet, and Tim was green around the gills. The night had taken a toll on all of us. I was surprisingly well, considering a woman got shot right next to me. The alcohol and Spencer’s kiss seemed to have dulled my trauma. Either that, or I was getting used to my bit part in my new
Reservoir Dogs
life.

We arranged the chairs and sat in a circle like we were at a Girl Scouts meeting. It was almost congenial. I caught Holden’s eyes, but he slid his attention away to Mr. Steve and Spencer. I didn’t know which one he was focusing on, but I figured it would be a long time before I ate duck again.

Spencer spoke to Mr. Steve for about ten minutes before he released him. Holden watched him go. I tracked his line of sight, studying Mr. Steve’s back as he walked to where the tent had stood, his posture relaxed as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Holden’s posture was different. Rigid, his jaw clenched, his bloody hands splayed, outstretched on his lap so as to
not infect the rest of him. Saving Holly’s life had been hard work, and despite the chilly evening, his shirt stuck to him, wet and transparent with sweat.

He wasn’t as big as the bodybuilder or even Spencer, but he was all muscle. Long and lean. Heroic. It was hard to imagine hiking could make a Holden body. I wondered if my kiss with Spencer had lost me my shot at having Holden’s body on top of me ever again.

“I hate you, Spencer Bolton,” I muttered. Nathan’s head whipped around toward me, and I blushed.

“Do you think Holly will be okay?” he asked me. Nathan was fragile and about to break apart into little pieces, I thought.

I wished Spencer would hurry up the process and let us all go home. He was walking our way while reading through his notes. He seemed relatively calm, but that was destined to change.

Rosalie Rodriguez was running full out, closing in fast on Spencer’s back. She was a woman on a mission, that much was clear. She was impeccably dressed, running a nine-minute-mile in four-inch pumps. She had murder on her mind, or something worse, her face set firm with determination. Spencer had finally come out of hiding, and she was not going to miss her chance. Luckily, she left her knife set at home, but she was armed with acrylic nails that could take down a man with little effort.