Murder Came Second (33 page)

He wasn’t alone.

I was quite anxious to get to the end of this maelstrom also, before we were all dead. I lunged for the gun and got it before Hamlet could change his mind and pick it up again.

I noticed that Nick, the stage manager, had come out of the wings onto the stage, speaking sternly and calmly to Hamlet, apparently unaware that I now had the gun.

“Give me that gun, David. Somehow you got the wrong kind of bullets in there! I swear you can’t get anything right. You used real cartridges!” He shook his head in exasperation.

“No, I didn’t!” Hamlet was practically spitting with petulance.

I thought he was going to stamp his foot again. “I loaded it with the ones from the new box, just like you told me.” I couldn’t believe this conversation, casually taking place in front of a thousand people, a few of them bleeding badly.

“I didn’t say the
new
box.” Nick shook his head again impatiently. “I said the
blue
box . . .
blue!
You’re shooting all the wrong people.” He smiled ironically. “Now give me the gun before we have somebody accidentally dead.” He extended his left hand.

At this point, I became aware of two things. Nick was holding a thirty-eight revolver in his right hand, and I knew there was no question what kind of ammunition its cylinder held. I knew because suddenly, finally, I saw him. I grasped that I was actually looking at Bobby.

Not Hamlet. Nick. Nick Peters, stage manager with revolver, was Bobby Leonard, grown up little boy.

His child’s skinny body had not grown tall and willowy like his mother’s, but had stayed short and become thickset like his father’s. The tight blond curls had darkened to light brown waves, and only the beautiful blue eyes and full mouth had remained the same.

Jeanine was still angling here and there on stage, trying now for a clear shot at Bobby, and not having any luck there, either, because everyone seemed to keep moving. I now had Hamlet’s gun. Should I try a shot? My path was clear. If I missed, I wouldn’t hit anyone in the audience. I hated to shoot. He wasn’t really threatening anyone. At least, not at the moment.

“Bobby . . . Nick,” I tried to speak calmly. “How about giving me that gun you’re holding? We’ve got way too many people with guns out here. As you indicated, it’s getting dangerous.”

“Stay out of this, Alex. I like you. Anyway, this is strictly a family affair. None of your business. Remember Hamlet’s line . . . she doesn’t deserve to live? Keep it in mind.”

Bobby was now turned toward Elaine. “Well, Elaine, nothing to say? I thought you’d have a lovely soliloquy for us, telling everyone how good and noble you were and how awful everyone else was.”

He leaned nonchalantly against the back of a chair and continued. “And I really should thank you for that dramatic red herring you dragged all over town to make Terese’s demise look like a robbery gone bad. I assume it was to make people think you were protecting your crazy little brother. You had to know the cops would figure out it was phony. Didn’t you? They aren’t morons.” He paused and leaned forward slightly, obviously expecting a reply.

But Elaine had no words. She was staring stolidly into space, seeing . . . what? A little boy? A young girl? A crazed woman and a dismembered man? She looked like someone waiting for . . . for the lights to go off.

“Silence, Elaine? Well, you know you never deserved to live after all the lives you ruined. So I guess it’s time.”

I saw his arm start to straighten and I fired. I was rewarded by the click of an empty chamber. Hamlet hadn’t been playing with a full clip.

That figured.

But at least the sound threw Bobby’s aim off. When he shot, Elaine hardly moved. She lifted her lower left arm across her breast and looked disinterestedly at the fleshy part of her upper arm as a thin stream of blood began to trickle.

Jeanine had finally worked her way around to a clear shot, and she called out, “Okay, you, drop the gun or I shoot! Drop it now!”

Bobby smiled almost sweetly, shook his head and raised his arm again toward Elaine.

Jeanine fired.

At first I thought she had somehow managed to hit Hamlet, as he collapsed at my feet, but then I saw that he had simply fainted.

At the same time, Bobby’s white T-shirt blossomed into an obscene red rose. He took a slow step back . . . and fell.

If there was a hero in the following chaos, it was the conductor of the orchestra. People now realized that actual shooting was going on, and that real blood was being shed all over the stage and even into the audience. They were pushing to get up the aisles and out.

Pandemonium was seconds away, with all the injuries and even fatalities that could cause. Maestro got his people out of their terrified crouch, and seconds later, his first trumpet sounded the high, sweet notes of “The Star Spangled Banner.”

It worked. As other instruments joined in, some people stopped running, faced the flag flying above the theater and placed hands over hearts, or came to attention and saluted. Some began to sing. Most continued their exit, but in march-time and without panic.

When the anthem finished, “Colonel Bogey” followed. The large oval emptied, briskly and safely, of an audience which would doubtless claim to have seen the strangest
Hamlet
produced in four centuries.

Chapter 25

The waiting room at the clinic strongly resembled Grand Central Station at five p.m. on Christmas Eve.

We were all gathered nervously there to receive medical bulletins and, hopefully, eventually to see those we loved who had fallen in the Battle of the Amphitheater. From the number of people milling about, the casualty list would seem to be right up there with Gettysburg.

Mother, Aunt Mae, Trish, Cindy, Noel and I were waiting for news of Sonny.

Two stagehands and the electrician were waiting for Horatio, who, they said, should be released shortly. He had simply cut his head diving under the coffee table and needed a few stitches.

Another man waited quietly for information on Laertes, whose name, I had discovered from consulting Cindy’s
Playbill
, was Michael Novak.

221

And all of us, I was sure, were wondering at Bobby’s fate. From where I had stood on the stage, it did not look hopeful.

Carlucci paced the floor, genuinely concerned for all, I thought. He was a basically decent man with big dreams and an amazing facility to drum up the money to finance them. He was blessed with an imagination that made them somehow work, and had even more talent at not knowing when to shut up.

I heard him a few moments earlier, expounding to Mother that this whole event, while desperately tragic for the injured and their loved ones, was manna from heaven for the future of the play to a New York audience.

Mom and all the rest of us in earshot, looked bewildered, and he explained. The New York theater would be SRO for at least a year with people from all over the country who would want to attend the play where attempted murder for real had occurred right on stage, and to see the actors who had so bravely performed, even as the people around them had been cold-bloodedly shot down. The play would stand on its own, of course, but the publicity around it now was priceless and could be kept timely with occasional updates, such as ongoing physical recoveries, recurring nightmares, claims to have seen Bobby’s ghost, should he have passed on, etc.

Mom favored him with a dazzling smile and said she hoped Sonny and the others currently lying on operating tables would be as pleased at their contribution to the play’s success as Paul. Personally, she would be thrilled to trade her son’s leg to sell an extra block of tickets to Hamlet.

Carlucci turned beet red, muttered something about going out for a smoke and practically ran to the exit.

He caromed off Dr. Gloetzner, who was coming in from the parking lot, where he had just informed the ever-increasing number of media people that under no circumstances would any of them be allowed inside the hospital. If they caused any further disturbance outside, they would have to leave the premises entirely and that he, personally, would make only one statement: The staff were busy doing what hospital people do. Treating patients.

He looked at me and made a follow me motion. We went through the ER, which was busy with its ordinary nightly casualties of bar fights, falls, migraines, women going into labor and chest pains. In his small office, he motioned me to a chair.

“Well, Ms. Peres, again and again we meet under arcane circumstances. Have you ever consulted a spiritualist? Do you perhaps have some special wiring that places you here on evenings like this?” Before I could answer, he picked up a buzzing phone and asked, “Anything new?” He listened and looked strangely at me. Then he said, “Okay, she’s right here. We’ll be there shortly.”

Hanging up, he turned to me. “Lt. Peres is just now coming out of surgery. We’ve been like a MASH unit here tonight. Had to practice some triage, you know. As you are aware, our facilities are neither large nor heavily staffed. Sonny was in no danger and could wait a little while. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete floor and lost a lot of pizzazz. It hit the fleshy part of his calf, with no bone damage. There is minor muscle damage, and he may need a little therapy, but one hundred percent recovery is probable. He’ll be our guest for a day or so.” He made a little tick on the notebook he held.

I breathed deep in relief. “Mom will be glad to hear that. Has anyone told her?”

“As we speak.” He nodded. “The surgeon is entering the waiting room. I’m glad it’s good news.” He made a thumbs-up sign.

“Mrs. Fields, a member of the audience,” he continued, “Caught the piece of concrete that Sonny’s bullet dislodged, and it penetrated her . . . ah, sizeable
gluteus maximus
. Not seriously. She is already on her way home, counting up the numbers of people she can call to tell of her great adventure.” He took a drink of some coffee that was frighteningly black and thick.

“Also released is that young man who played Horatio. In an attempt to occupy a space much smaller than himself, he cut the top of his head, four stitches worth. Three of his raucous friends have rescued him and were last known headed for the Crown and Anchor. Not wise, but perhaps they celebrate life.”

“I’m glad he’s okay,” I said. “So he’ll have a headache. He would anyway.”

“Good thinking. Now, Ms. Edgewood has a slight flesh wound on the inside of her upper arm and can leave tonight if she wishes. That’s a tender spot and it’s going to hurt, but we can give her something to help that. She’s lucky it missed her breast. She must have been sitting crooked.” He checked his little book again.

“Mr. Novak’s shoulder is a mess. We are doing all we can, but at some future date, he will probably require additional surgery. He also lost quite a bit of blood, but we expect him to recover without incident.”

“By the way, Ms. Peres, what say we give that knee and elbow of yours a little wash up and some ointment and bandages?”

I sighed. “Wonderful! With everything that’s going on, I didn’t have the nerve to ask anybody. But the damn things hurt!”

“Oh, there’s nothing like a good scrape to hurt. I sometimes wonder how children survive so many of them. Come over here.”

I managed not to scream when he doused my knee and elbow with some solution I swear was Clorox. Then he put some soothing antibiotic ointment on them both and applied bandages. “Better?”

“Yes, much, thanks.”

“Change those bandages tomorrow, then the next day, leave them off to let it dry up. Do you have antibiotic ointment at home or do you need some?”

“No problem, I’ve got some Panalog,” I replied.

“A wonderful medicine. Is your dog injured? Here.” He handed me the partly used tube.

“Oh, God.” I laughed. “I’m so dicey I don’t know what I’m saying. Thanks.” I shoved the tube in my pocket. “Doctor, you haven’t said anything about Bobby—Nick Peters.”