Frustrated, James W. signaled to Martens to launch the tear gas. Martens steadied his M4 Carbine that he’d equipped with the M203 launcher. He used the rifle magazine as a handgrip to fire the M203 and looked through the specially-designed sighting system.
His aim was dead-on. A window at the front of Zach’s trailer suddenly burst into a thousand pieces, and gas immediately poured through the broken window.
“Come on out, Zach,” James W. yelled. “Leave your weapons inside, and you won’t get hurt.”
The seconds turned into a minute. Finally, James W. signaled his men to put on their masks, and he and Martens crept cautiously to the trailer’s only entrance. James W. stood with his handgun pointed directly at the door and nodded for Martens to kick it in.
Tear gas poured out through the door, and James W. went in low trying to see through the smoke. Martens, directly behind him, turned right toward the cramped kitchen as James W. headed left into the bedroom.
Zach lay motionless on the bed.
“Hell,” James W. said. “Maybe he is passed out.” His pistol still pointed at Zach’s head, James W. nudged his way closer for a better look, Martens on his heel.
Suddenly realizing what he was looking at, James W. lowered his weapon. “We’re too late,” he said. “The sonuvabitch shot himself in the head.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Brackenridge Hospital
Angie woke with a start, then frowned at her strange surroundings. The curtained off medical bay was bathed in blue light, and the sounds of machines beeping and people murmuring behind the drapes were invasive. What was she wearing, anyway? She didn’t own a pink t-shirt. Then she saw the body on the hospital bed, and she remembered exactly where she was. And why.
Brackenridge Hospital. The Intensive Care Unit. The body on the bed was Matt’s.
She checked her watch and saw that it was six in the morning. She must’ve fallen asleep in the armchair. Ordinarily people weren’t allowed to stay in ICU with their loved ones. The nurse realized, however, that between Richard Dube’s deputy uniform and Angie’s insistence that she would protect the patient with her life, this might be a special case. Grudgingly the nurse pulled in a chair and told Angie in the strictest of terms not to go near the pastor.
But she could look at him. Matt’s head was wrapped in a huge white bandage that covered his eyes. His face was so swollen he was barely recognizable. Tubes protruded from both arms and bags dripped their miracle liquid into those tubes with nerve-racking rhythm.
The bag that held the life-giving blood garnered the most attention from the medical staff. Matt had almost bled out.
Someone pulled the curtain back, and Angie turned to see an exhausted James W. standing there, his sheriff’s hat in hand. She rose to hug him, then motioned to the chair. “It looks like you need that more than I do.”
“You’re right.” He sat down heavily. “How’s the preacher?”
“Stable. That’s the word they keep using. It’s getting pretty lame.” Since there was no furniture to lean against, she spread her feet and crossed her arms to get comfortable. “They finally brought him here about three hours ago. It took ‘em that long to do all of their tests.”
“And?”
“No word back, yet. Other than he’s stable.”
“At least that.” James W. sighed.
Considering the alternative, Angie was forced to agree. “What about you? Did you get Zach?”
“Not exactly. By the time me and the boys got to his place he’d committed suicide.”
“Zach’s dead?”
James W. nodded. “That dog’s not gonna kill no more.”
Angie relaxed a little. “So Matt is safe.”
“Looks like it.”
She thought that was an odd reply from her half-brother, but chalked it up to his weariness.
The curtain pulled back again, and this time a doctor, tall and lean, her blonde hair pulled back in a bun at her neck, entered. “I’m Dr. Ryan,” she said. “We’ve gotten some of the results back from the MRI and CT Scan.”
She moved to Matt’s bedside and did a perfunctory examination. The assessment where she pulled out a sharp device and pricked Matt’s foot interested Angie the most. His big toe moved.
“If you’ll pardon the expression, it looks like your man here has dodged a bullet.” Dr. Ryan turned and motioned to the curtain. “Let’s talk in the lounge.”
Obediently Angie and James W. followed her out through the curtains and beyond the doors into the ICU waiting area. Richard Dube jumped to his feet. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he said.
Which of course meant he had been, Angie knew. The deputy wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.
“Your man in there is very lucky.” Dr. Ryan appeared to be a no-nonsense woman, but her blue eyes were kind. “The bullet swiped off the top of the skull, but it never actually penetrated the brain. However, the brain did a lot of swishing around in the skull. That in itself can do a great deal of damage. One thing about a head injury of this nature, however, is there is a great loss of blood.
“Tell me about it,” Angie whispered.
“Just now, as you saw, he responded to stimulus. That’s a good sign. However.” She made sure she had both Angie and James W.’s attention. “We will not know anything for sure until he wakes up. There may be damage that we can’t see on the tests, or that hasn’t manifested itself as of yet.”
“How long will he be asleep?” Angie asked.
“That is completely up to his brain. It has suffered an incredible trauma. It must have time to heal itself. The concussion he suffered is, to say the least, monumental. The brain’s priority right now is to take care of itself, not to wake up. And we have to be patient with that. It knows what it’s doing.
“Now I need a few minutes to go in there and give him a thorough examination. I understand you are the next of kin?”
James W. stood tall. “He doesn’t have a family. This here’s his fiancé and I’m his best friend.”
Angie kept a straight face, but inside was stunned. James W. had taken a mighty far conjecture for the future of her and Matt. Only tonight had they shared their first intimate moment.
Dr. Ryan nodded to Angie. “I don’t have a problem with you staying in there with him. Do what the nurses tell you. And do not try to awaken him. Any outside stimulus would only cause him pain. The brain needs total quiet and darkness to work its way through this injury. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now let me get to work.” The doctor nodded.
“Thank you, Dr. Ryan,” Angie said, but the woman was already through the ICU doors.
James W. put his arm around Angie. “That’s good news, honey.”
“Yes. It is.” Angie wiped a tear from her cheek.
“And you.” James W. turned toward his tall, skinny deputy. “You don’t say a word about Angie and the preacher being engaged. Got it?”
“Yessir.” Richard Dube’s voice cracked.
“Now go home and get some rest. It’s been a long night.”
“Yessir.” The deputy picked up his hat and headed for the door.
Angie and James W. sat down in the fake leather lounge chairs. “So why did Zach shoot Matt?” she demanded.
“Matt visited the Pit Stop in Dannerton where Zach and Owen Seegler had their last meeting. Apparently Owen blackmailed Zach into killing him so his family would get his life insurance money to pay for all the things he couldn’t.”
“What?”
“Unfortunately for Matt, as he was leaving the Pit Stop, Zach Gibbons was going in.”
“So Zach figured Matt was on his trail.”
James W. nodded. “He shot the preacher to keep him from solving the murders of Melinda, Diane and Owen. Unfortunately for Zach he was too late. The preacher and I had already figured it all out.” James W.’s expression turned sheepish. “Okay, the preacher figured it out. He has incredible instincts when it comes to crime.”
“He has a past,” Angie said.
“Yeah, I know.”
The ICU doors opened and the nurse beckoned to them. “You can come back in now.”
James W. got up first and gave Angie a hand up.
“Now all you have to do is find out what Zach did with Diane’s body,” Angie said.
James W. sighed. “The preacher figured that out too.”
They entered the curtained area and immediately fell to whispers.
“Where is Diane’s body?”
James W. looked downright upset, Angie decided.
“Zach was working at my place the weekend he killed Diane and Melinda.”
Angie nodded. “That’s where he got all that cement to hide Melinda in the river.”
“The job they were doing, well, they were pouring the slab for our hot tub. Those things have to carry a lot of weight, you know. They’re over a foot deep.”
“Oh, my God. You think—?” Angie sat in the chair at the foot of the bed.
James W. stared at the preacher, but Angie knew his mind was looking at his back porch. “Yep. Diane’s buried beneath our hot tub.”
“Does Elsbeth know?”
“No. And I don’t know how I’m gonna tell her.”
James W. looked downright scared, and Angie swallowed hard when she felt a chuckle rising up her throat. “Elsbeth is going to have a fit.”
“I know. Lord, help me, I know.”
Forcing herself to keep a straight face, Angie turned her gaze to Matt. “Look. It almost seems like he’s smiling.”
“Yeah, it does.” James W. glared. “Holier than thou sonuvabitch.”
Acknowledgements
God has blessed me with supportive friends and family, as well as folks who know a lot and don’t mind talking murder with me.
Thanks so much to Dr. Bob Rice. He is always there for me whenever I call and tell him I need to kill somebody. Dr. Rice has a fascinating career, having worked with NASA and in top hospitals all over the country. His knowledge of the human body and how it reacts to trauma is a great source for understanding the results of gunshot wounds, stabbings, poisons—all manners of spewed carnage.
A special shout-out to my editor, Kay Hudson. Your support and insight are invaluable. See you next book!
My critique group here in Austin has been incredibly helpful in getting this story on the page. Thanks to Anna Castle, Bill Woodburn, Russell Ashworth, Donna Snider, Jerry Cavin, Connie Newton and Daniel Rosseler for week after week, month after month, helping me with your support, advice, critiques and senses of humor.
Special thanks go to my many friends whose irresistable personalities begged to be put on the page. Ken, Fred, Marge, Brooke, Dawn, Diana, B.Kay, thank you for teaching me about guns, grace and how to mix a drink. A special shout out to Robert (whose ponytail is two feet long) for your help with Chapter 3. As always, my friends at Backspin Bar and Grill are indeed the family described at Angie’s Fire and Ice House. Thank you, Trey and Brooke, for creating such a welcoming home away from home.
I am most grateful for the friendship and love of Bobbie. You are an incredible roll model. Thanks for your patience and input. Oh! And having Gloria!
To my dear friends at St. Mark, working with you was one of the highlights of my life. You all are the antithesis of Elsbeth—your service to the Good Lord is based on your faith and response to God’s incredible grace, not rituals or traditions. (Well, not too much. I suspect we Lutherans still all save the bows at Christmas for the next year’s packages.)
Kevin, my beloved husband, for thirty-seven years we’ve been together, and I think that makes you a saint. It was you who, years ago, picked up a story that I’d left out by mistake, and told me that I was a good writer. Your encouragement and support are the reasons I am published today. And to our daughter, Bethany. Your strength in the long journey that took you from high school to Baylor to China, through your car wreck, and into your astounding profession has motivated me to hang in there even when the world seems against me. You inspire me.
And finally, thanks be to God for putting all these incredible people in my life. I am blessed beyond measure.
About the author…
K.P. Gresham is the award-winning author of THREE DAYS AT WRIGLEY FIELD, a book she began while attending the Rice University Novels Writing Colloquiem in Houston, Texas. She is also the author of The Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery series of which The PREACHER’S FIRST MURDER is currently available. K.P. won awards in the Southwest Mystery Writers of America novel contest as well as First Place in the Bay Area Writers League Best Novel competition. A full-time writer, K.P. and her husband call the Austin area home.
Please look for THREE MUST DIE, the next book in the Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery series, in 2018.
Look for more information about the author on
www.kpgresham.com
Excerpt from THREE MUST DIE
next in The Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery Series
Chapter One
Michael Hogan, Jr., had returned to earth, that much was certain. He was pretty sure he was in a hospital bed. The buzzes and beeps around him suggested he was wired to some mighty expensive equipment, and when he tried to open his eyes he discovered a thick wrapping blocked his view. Which was fine with him. His head was spinning in waves of fog, and he’d just as soon go back to sleep. He had no idea what day it was, what time it was, heck, he didn’t even know what town he was in. He knew one thing for sure, however.
Mike Hogan had been to heaven.
Even now, he retained the feeling of being enveloped in a luminescent, pure, tangible love. There’d been a bright light, like at the end of a tunnel, luring him to its center, and as he’d drawn closer he realized that the light was really a man exuding an almost blinding radiance. And then he’d seen his dad. Michael Hogan, Sr. And his brother, Bryson. On earth, both of them were dead. Here, in this heaven, they were alive and smiling, and welcoming him to join them. Then others came into view. Some he recognized. His Grandpa Hogan. His best friend in the Police Academy. A woman with a soft braid surrounding her head.
But something had called him back. He experienced the deep feeling that he had to finish something. Had he said to his father that he was going back? Had he told his father and brother that he loved them? Or had Mike simply felt those things. He didn’t remember any sound, except the rushing fullness that encircled him, filling his eyes and ears and his mouth as if he was floating in a womb of love.
But now a sound filtered through the memory, and he was curious as to where he was. A woman was in the room, close by his bed. “Pastor Hayden?” the woman said. “I’ve just got to change out your IV’s, all right?”
How odd, Mike thought. She seemed to be speaking to him, but why was she calling him Pastor Hayden? He felt a pinch on the top of his hand. It hurt.
The woman spoke again, but this time her voice was further away. “You can come back in now, ma’am. Glad you found our vending machines.”
“A little caffeine and I’ll be right as rain.”
Mike started at the new voice, husky and distinctly female. He remembered red hair, flowing around a beautiful, Irish face. What was her name?
“The Good Lord’s surely been good to your Pastor Hayden. He’s doin’ just fine,” the first voice said. “I’ll be at the desk if you need me.”
There was a pause, then, “Matt. It’s me, Angie.”
Angie! Yes, that was it. Her voice was closer now.
“I got some coffee, but I’m back. Everyone says you’re a lucky man. The bullet took off the top of your skull, but never actually penetrated the brain. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed, Matt.”
Why was she calling him Matt? Mike wondered. He was Michael Hogan, Jr. It was all so confusing. But he knew Angie. And he knew he loved her.
“I’m here beside you. You’re not alone,” she continued. “And you’re going to be okay.” Now he heard a sob behind her words. “You just rest as long as you need t
o. I’ll be here.”
He felt a pressure on his hand and realized she’d taken his in hers. He was so very tired. He needed to go back to the sweet memories of heaven, but he didn’t want to leave Angie crying. Talking was too difficult; he wasn’t sure he remembered how. And the comfort of letting go was so enticing. With great effort, he squeezed her hand, then finally gave in to the simplicity of fog that beckoned.
***
My hands shake as I punch in the Chief’s number. I hope to hell he doesn’t pick up. How am I gonna tell him that Hogan is still alive?
My first shot got by him, but the second one—hell, if that stupid dog hadn’t started barking. That’s what made the preacher duck. I musta grazed him. But damn, there was so much blood.
I want to get drunk, but I have to keep my head clear. Gotta keep my story straight. If I play it right, I don’t need to let on to the Chief that Hogan might have recognized me. It was one in the morning, but that moon was full. Which was one reason I was sure I wouldn’t miss.
Damn that dog.
The Chief cuts me a lot of slack, as he should. But this is too big for him to let slide. One way or another I’m dead if Hogan saw me.
Please God, let that preacher man die in the hospital.
Other Novels by K.P. Gresham
Three Days at Wrigley Field
It’s 1989 and the owner of the Chicago Cubs is dying of cancer. He is desperate for his team to make it into the World Series, but the team’s relief pitching is hurting. Kevin Boswell, the slumping ace pitcher, stands to lose his job when a new pitcher tries out for the team.
Her name is Rachel Caravetti.
To what lengths will the devious manager of the Cubs, the commissioner of baseball, and the owner’s scheming granddaughter go to keep Rachel out of professional baseball?
The Preacher’s First Murder
Murder in the Second Pew: A Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery Page 25
