SHATTERED

by Alice Sharpe

  “I think the bullet entered and exited the fleshy part of your arm,” she said.

  He flexed his hand and tried out a smile. “It must not have hit anything too important on its way. It looks more like a graze to me. More of a nuisance than a danger.”

  “Spoken like a true he-man.”

  “Spoken like a guy stuck in the middle of a shoot-out.”

  “I’ll wrap it with gauze.”

  A few intense minutes later, his biceps was bandaged and she’d found a wool shirt of her dad’s with the tags still attached. “I sent him this for Christmas,” she said. “I guess he didn’t like the color.”

  The color looked fine to Nate, kind of a deep blue. She guided it gently over his bandaged arm, then insisted on buttoning it for him. Once again, her face was close to his as she performed this chore, and once again, every one of his senses jumped into hyperdrive.

  He caught her hand as she straightened up. “I could tell it was an...unpleasant...task for you,” he said, running his thumb over the tops of her fingers. “Thanks.”

  “No big deal,” she said. “I’ve always tended animals, you know. In fact, I wanted to be a veterinarian.”

  “What happened?”

  “Life,” she said. “Now I work at animal clinics. Anyway, I’ve seen my share of bloody messes.”

  “Still, your hand shook,” he said. “Maybe human gore is worse than animal.”

  She shrugged and looked away. It was obvious to him that she wanted to let matters drop, but he couldn’t quite dismiss the feel of her fingers against his skin. Nevertheless, there were more urgent matters at hand. “I assume that old truck parked out front was your father’s only vehicle?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because someone took his keys and wallet.”

  “His keys.” If possible, she went whiter still. “Oh, my gosh. His garage.”

  “What garage?”

  “One of those storage units over in Shatterhorn. Maybe someone wanted access to it. I didn’t even think of that.”

  “What did he keep in it?”

  “Who knows? When I was a kid he kept business-related items there. I’m not even sure he still has it.”

  “Okay, well, try this. Did he ever say anything to you about someone threatening him?”

  “Not directly, but I know he’s felt restless and out of sorts since Labor Day and the mall shooting. Being the closest in proximity when the shooter killed himself really affected him, especially after the carnage the guy had created. And there was that last word the man spoke, too. It worried Dad.”

  “You mean pearl,” Nate said.

  “Yeah.”

  One of the mall jewelry stores had contracted to keep a pricey shipment of Tahitian black pearls that were in transit to a big casino down in Vegas. The police had voiced the theory that the kid planned to steal them, but it seemed unlikely to Nate. Since when did a nineteen-year-old bring two loaded weapons to a shopping mall on the busiest afternoon of the summer to steal pearls? And if that had been his plan, why kill four people before taking his own life?

  “I don’t know,” Sarah said. “Since the shooter never got around to actually stealing the pearls, Dad worried someone else would step in and try to do it. For a while he drove into town almost every day, watching and waiting. I tried to tell him the pearl shipment had been sent away the very next day, but he didn’t believe me, even when I sent him the newspaper article.”

  “I didn’t know he was that troubled,” Nate said quietly, but it didn’t surprise him. When something horrific happened to a person, they were often driven to try to make sense of it. And sometimes, there just wasn’t a way to do that.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “he’d been questioning everyone, making a nuisance of himself—at least that’s what I heard.”

  “From who?”

  “Someone told me.”

  “Someone reliable?”

  “More or less. My, er, source said Dad nagged the newspaper, the mayor, the police—anyone he could get to sit still while he expounded on his theories. I don’t think he made a lot of friends lately. And, of course, he knew Thomas Jacks. Everyone knew him.”

  Thomas Jacks was the name of the gunman. Nate should have realized that in a town the size of Shatterhorn, people were likely to know one another.

  “He just couldn’t get over the fact that boy caused all that heartache,” Sarah continued, “and not to just himself, but to his family. Even his past schoolmates, like Jason Netters. People kept asking themselves if they should have seen this coming, but by all accounts, Thomas was a good kid who loved his family and his country—it just didn’t make any sense.”

  Was that why Jason had survived the barrage of bullets that had killed the two girls who had fled the protection of the cookie kiosk with him? Had Thomas spared his friend, or was it even possible Jason had been part of the crime?

  “Did your father know Jason?”

  “I don’t know. He knew Thomas because I babysat for him and his brother a few times. But Jason’s dad, Stewart Netters, is the newspaper editor, so I’m sure he got to know him recently.”

  “I remember Netters,” Nate said. “He interviewed me and your dad and Alex after the shooting.”

  “I read the article. Mayor Bliss hailed you guys as heroes. He said the whole thing would have been worse if the three of you hadn’t kept everyone calm. Dad said he didn’t deserve any accolades, that it was you and Mr. Foster who had police experience.”

  “Your dad underestimated his role,” Nate said. The intended compliments she’d passed on about Nate made him cringe inside. He’d lost the lives of the two kids he felt responsible for—he was no hero. Desperate now to get the topic off of that day, he abruptly changed the subject. “Did you happen to find a camera anywhere?”

  “It’s in the bottom drawer of his dresser,” she said. “Why?”

  “Precaution,” he said, recovering the camera and checking to see if it contained film, which it did. From the corner of his eye he could see Sarah dividing her attention between him and her watch. What had she stuck in her pocket? Would she tell him if he asked? He doubted it, so he didn’t ask.

  For a few minutes when she’d been helping him, he’d glimpsed a calmer, gentler side of her, but the nervous one was emerging again, complete with quick glances and fidgety hands.

  “I need to get out of here,” she said under her breath.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “I don’t have time to talk. I have to get back to Reno.”

  “Listen, if you won’t tell me what’s making you so damn anxious to leave in the middle of this storm, will you at least explain why you tried to ditch me and who the heck our visitor was?”

  “I don’t know who it was,” she said with a subtle shift of her gaze that told him she was hedging at best, probably lying.

  “Then why did you say my getting shot was your fault?”

  “I said that? I don’t know.”

  “You have an idea who this assailant is, don’t you?”

  “No, none. How could I? Like I said, I hadn’t seen Dad in a while.”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  “I just wanted to talk to him.”

  “About what?”

  “How is that any of your business?”

  They were back to square one, her defiantly standing her ground, him floundering around in the dark. He shook his head and headed toward the door. “You know, you’re a beautiful woman, Sarah Donovan,” he said, pausing by her side to look down at her. Big mistake—those eyes looked so innocent and guileless. “Under other circumstances I bet you’re fascinating company,” he added, “but right now, I’d settle for some straight answers.”

  “Unfortunately, I have nothing to offer.”


  “How about ID? Where is your purse or wallet or whatever?”

  “It was taken from me. I have no identification with me.”

  “And yet you managed to rent that bucket of bolts in the barn?”

  “My stuff was taken after I rented the car.”

  “So the rental agreement is in the car?”

  “No, it was in my purse.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “Will you try to stop me if I leave?” she asked.

  “Unless you can fly, I don’t see how you’re going to get out of here. But, yes, I will stop you.” He continued on his way.

  For the next few minutes, he busied himself taking pictures of Mike’s still form and the surrounding area, covering his friend’s hands with plastic bags from the kitchen. He committed to memory any detail that might someday be relevant. While he did all this, he kept an ear out for Sarah, but things had grown very quiet. He was angling a shot from near the fireplace when a photograph propped up on the mantelpiece caught his attention, and he paused to study it.

  There was Mike, not too long ago from the looks of things, and standing with him, Sarah. They stood side by side but not touching or looking at each other, and Nate could practically feel the tension between them. The photo looked as though it had been taken out in the yard. A black horse with a white blaze stood near Sarah. Fall colors in the deciduous trees indicated it was October or November—after the Labor Day shooting, after Mike got caught up in the life-and-death drama. After things changed. There was nothing written on the back of the picture, but at least it proved Mike had known Sarah and that she was probably exactly who she said she was.

  He put the photo down, grabbed the throw from the chair and floated it gently atop Mike. Was Mike dead because he’d been poking around, because he’d been asking questions? How unlikely was that? The kid behind the shooting was dead, so who would care that Mike asked questions?

  Jason Netters?

  Or was Mike dead because of Sarah? Wasn’t it pretty coincidental he should wind up murdered on the very night she came for a visit?

  He took the film out of the camera and pocketed it. In the hall closet he found several old jackets, hats and wool scarves, even a fur-lined pair of gloves. He borrowed a little of everything and somehow managed to bend his arm to get it into the jacket. He also found a small flashlight with a good beam.

  Behind him, he heard a sharp intake of breath and turned. Sarah stood with her mouth open. “You’re wearing his work clothes,” she said after a moment. “For a second I thought...” Her voice trailed off as she glanced down at her father’s covered form. It crossed Nate’s mind to ask her about the photo, but really, what was the point? So far she’d told him very little and the truth of what she had said was open to question. “Where are you going?” she added.

  “Outside,” he said, moving toward the kitchen. This room was a great deal colder due to the blown-out window.

  “Are you sure you’re up to that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, thank you for covering Dad’s body,” she added, pausing a few feet away from him.

  He turned around and looked at her. “You’re welcome. Did your father keep some kind of tool chest in the house?”

  “In the laundry room. There’s not much in it—or at least there never was.”

  “Would you get it for me?”

  She scooted into the laundry room and returned a second later with a rusty-looking metal box. Opening it revealed a few old nails, a measuring tape, chisel, screwdriver and a hammer. That would have to do.

  “What are you up to?” Sarah asked as he chose the tools.

  “I’m turning myself into a foreman. Unscrew the biggest cabinet door you can find. That one down there looks about right.”

  When the board was free, he told her to hold it over the yawning hole where the door windowpane had once been. She hefted it into place and he held it there with one hand while she hammered in every nail they could find. The end result wouldn’t win any decorating awards, but at least it gave a sense of security and blocked the cold wind.

  “Lock the doors behind me,” he cautioned, setting the tools aside.

  Her brows furled as she quickly turned, straining to see through the window over the sink, which was acting more like a mirror than a portal. “Why are you going out there? Is the gunman back? Did you hear something?”

  “I’m just going to look around. Maybe I’ll find something that will tell us who it was and why he left so suddenly. You could save me the effort if you would supply a name and a motive.”

  She bit her lip as her shoulders rose fractionally. “Sorry.”

  “I’d dim the lights a little if I were you and stay away from the windows.” Without another word, he opened the door, straining against the pile of broken glass that caught under the panel. He switched on the pocket flashlight and shone it into falling snow. Visibility sucked, but recalling where he’d seen the flash of their assailant’s shots, he made his way down the cement steps and trudged out into the weather, looking for who knew what.

  * * *

  SARAH STARED AT Nate’s retreating figure, then took the small paper-wrapped bundle from where she’d quickly stuffed it out of sight. Unfolding it, she found a silver key. Scribbled on the attached tag was the number 118. Maybe everything she was looking for was in the garage her father rented in Shatterhorn, but she doubted it. He’d sat on his treasure for years—it was extremely unlikely he’d have moved it into a rental unit, of all places.

  She rewrapped the key and pushed it back into her pocket, then hurried down the hallway. A few minutes ago, she’d remembered a crawl space above her old closet.

  She moved the boxes she’d already emptied out into the room, then shoved the nightstand into the closet to create a makeshift ladder. Climbing up on that, she slid open the panel on the top and then had to take time to track down a flashlight in the kitchen.

  The flashlight lit up the crawl space above her room. Not tall enough to be called an attic, just two feet or so into which she’d crammed any number of things when she was growing up. It was empty now, dusty and dirty, cobwebs shimmering in the light.

  She wasn’t sure how long Nate had been gone, just that time was slipping away at an alarming rate. Once he got back inside this house, she’d have a horrible time exiting, and even if she did, what would keep him from tracking her down?

  She climbed off the nightstand and kicked aside the boxes she’d searched hours before, sick at heart, scared out of her skull. Then she walked back down the hall.

  If the people she feared were behind the shooting, they would return. She had to leave, storm or no storm, Nate or no Nate. She took a steadying breath, her mind racing through nonexistent options, searching for a means to leave and, even as important, a way to salvage her mother’s precarious situation, since Sarah was going to be leaving without finding what she’d come for.

  Unless the key held the answer, but in her gut, she knew it didn’t hold all the answers. It couldn’t.

  Confide in Nate Matthews.

  The thought ran through her mind and it was the only option that seemed to have even a remote chance of making a difference. He seemed to know how to do everything—no, that was just an illusion created by this insane situation. He wasn’t a superhero; he was just a man—albeit a very well put-together one with muscles in all the right places and skin that felt warm even though he had to be as cold as she was.

  That was why she’d trembled. Touching him had been like opening a window of some kind, like stumbling across the threshold of an unexpected journey.

  All an illusion. Anyway, what could Nate do? What could anyone do? All he’d want was to detain her because the bottom line was he was a cop and he thought like one. On top of that, he was injured. She was first on the scene of a murde
r. She was obviously evading questions. Why should he trust her? She didn’t even trust herself at this point. And hadn’t her original plan been to drive him into leaving first?

  She had no right to be in her father’s house, and yet every right. No right to take what wasn’t hers, and yet again, every right. Besides, at this point, what was the difference between right and wrong? What did it matter?

  If Nate wasn’t here, she could start tearing up the floors and walls. At this point, that was about the only place she hadn’t looked except for the acres of land around the house, where anything could be buried. And the ground itself had currently disappeared under the snow.

  At the back of her mind, an ugly little question bit at her sanity. Why would someone who wanted the very same thing she was looking for try to shoot her before she found it? The only way that made sense was if he’d already killed her mother and he was cleaning up loose ends. And now she was supposed to try to reason with him? That stood about a zero chance of working, but if not that, what?

  All she could do was get out of here and try.

  There was one last thing she had to do before she left. Well, two more things. The first one was undoubtedly the most difficult task she’d ever done in her life, but she could not leave her father in the middle of the living room for a whole lot of reasons. The most important one being it was wrong. She’d witnessed Nate taking pictures and studying the scene—that would have to be enough for the police. Lifting his hands, she dragged her father down the hall and into the spare room he used as an office, then got a good-sized blanket from the closet and covered him properly.

  For a second, she knelt next to his body. “’Bye, Dad,” she whispered. “Maybe this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t double-crossed Mom. Maybe it would have. I don’t know. But I’m sorry I wasn’t here to save you.” She added a silent apology to Nate, too, for what she was about to do to him, then squared her shoulders and did what needed to be done.