“Missing sleep. I’m tired.”
It sounded like a car backfired, and then Blake was pulling at the steering wheel of the truck to keep it from turning into the ditch. Shelby banged against the door with her shoulder, and then was yanked back the other way. Good thing she still had on her seatbelt. He slammed on the brakes, and skidded to a stop.
“What the…?”
Blake flung open the door and jumped out. At the front of the truck he bent low. “The tire’s blown. I’m going to have to change it out here. Can you get me a flashlight out of the cubby?”
Shelby opened the glove box and moved things around looking for a flashlight. “I don’t see one.”
He came back to the open door, and ducked his head inside. “Not the glove box. The cubby.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” She unbuckled and turned to open the lid of the console. “You have a lot of junk in here.” She handed him the flashlight.
“It’s not junk. It’s stuff I need for emergencies. Like the chocolate you keep in the glove box.”
“That’s totally different.”
“I’ll get the spare off the back.”
He closed the door before moving around the side of the truck. Suddenly, the rear side window shattered, and Shelby screamed and ducked as glass flew over the seats. Blake was yelling something, but she didn’t understand. Why would the window break? Did he hit it with something?
“Stay down!” He opened the passenger door behind her. The overhead light blinked on, and was quickly extinguished when he smashed it.
“What are you doing? What’s going on?” She trusted him enough to stay down, but was still frightened enough to ask inane questions.
“Someone’s shooting at us. I’m getting my weapon.” Blake kept a lockbox bolted under the backseat. He never went anywhere without his gun.
“What should I do?”
His breath came heavy and fast like he was pumped up on adrenaline. “Just get down as low as you can, and stay quiet.”
He softly closed the door.
She slid off the seat and crouched on the floor of the truck. Staying down and being quiet didn’t seem like something a private investigator would do. If she was half of this team, she needed to be more involved. Blake was outside like a sitting duck. She opened her purse, found her cell phone, and rang the number of the last person she’d called.
“Hey, Shelby. What’s up?”
“Tucker,” she whispered, franticly listening for sounds outside the truck. “We’re in trouble. Someone is shooting at us, and Blake is outside hunting them down.”
“What?” She had his full attention. “Where are you?”
“We took a drive down that little road that follows the lake. About a half mile east of town. Hurry!”
“I’m coming,” he promised, and a moment or two later she heard him slam the door on his pickup. He was a man of his word and obviously quick to action. “No, wait here,” she heard him say to someone with him, and then directly into the phone, “Stay on the line. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
“Tucker,” she whispered, lifting her head to peer out the bottom of the window. Trees darkened the night sky on her side of the truck. Someone could be hiding a few feet away and she wouldn’t be able to see them. “Do you have a gun?”
“I got a rifle in the back. Let’s hope I don’t need to use it. I’ve never been as good a shot as Blake. But I’ve got a better idea.”
Another shot rang out, thunking into a nearby tree. She instinctively jerked her head down, and stifled a scream. Blake was out there, unprotected. There had to be something she could do besides hide like a mouse.
Blake called out from somewhere up the road. “Put down your gun and come out with your hands up. I won’t give you another chance.” He’d obviously distanced himself from the truck, to draw gunfire away from her. He’d never been one to make rash decisions, but keeping her safe was always his top priority. Another shot rang out, but she didn’t hear it hit anywhere nearby. The shooter had changed targets. He was trying to kill her husband.
A loud stereo filled the night air, thumping bass and heavy metal shrieking through the open windows like a banshee in the throes of death. She dared a glimpse through the front windshield, and saw approaching headlights. For a split second, Blake stood exposed in the light, pressed up against the trunk of a tree. He dove for cover, probably thinking the pickup was a secondary attack.
Over the sound of the stereo, Tucker laid on the horn, causing enough noise to wake any bodies buried in the depths of Lake Superior. He pulled behind the Bronco and revved his engine. If the shooters hadn’t noticed his approach, they certainly would now.
Flinging open the door, he stumbled out of the truck as though he were drunk. “Get out of my way!” he yelled over the noise, waving his arms and doing some over-the-top acting. “This ain’t no parking lot!”
Shelby couldn’t help breathing a laugh through her nose. In the glare of the headlights, his skinny frame was accentuated. Even in jeans and a t-shirt, he really did look like a skeleton. She yelled loud enough for him to hear over the music. “I’m in here!
Moments later, Blake appeared beside her window, breathing hard. He yanked open the door and pulled her out, crushing her to his hard chest with enough force to take her breath away. “Thank God you’re all right.”
She hugged him tight, pressing her face into his neck. “I thought they were going to kill you.”
Tucker shut off the music but left the headlights on.
He hurried over and wrapped lanky arms around them both. When he pulled away, his gaze scanned the dark tree line. “What’s going on? Did you see the shooter?” He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and shivered, staring wide-eyed at the shattered windows.
One arm still wrapped protectively around Shelby, Blake shook his head. “I heard a motorcycle race off through the woods. I ran up to where the shots came from, but all I found was a couple of empty beer bottles.” He looked down at Shelby. “The same brand left on the service road where Clara was killed.”
“You think it was the same person?” A flicker of disbelief crossed Tucker’s features. “A hit-and-run is a whole lot different than taking potshots at someone. Maybe it was just a couple of stupid kids having some fun.”
“Maybe. Or we’re getting a little too close to the truth.”
“Good thing your wife called when she did. They had you nailed to that tree. You might have been here all night.”
Blake slapped his friend on the back. “Thanks for scaring away the animals again. Your horrible taste in music is a life saver.”
“Heavy metal is my weapon of choice. It’s saved your butt more than once.”
“So true.”
“I don’t know what you two are talking about, but thank you, Tucker.” Shelby leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
He seemed embarrassed and moved off to inspect the damage to the Bronco.
Blake followed, shaking his head. “Oh, man. This is not okay. Why would someone shoot up a collector’s vintage Bronco when they could use your hunk of rust for target practice?”
“I don’t think the Bronco was their target.” Tucker stopped in the glare of the headlights, his gaze narrowed with concern. He reached out and tentatively touched the sleeve of Blake’s jacket. “Achy, you’ve been hit.”
“Blake!” Shelby hurried to his side and inspected his arm, eyes wide with fright. A dime-sized hole marred the sleeve in the front and back, and blood had saturated the soft glove leather.
He lifted his arm and watched blood drip slowly off the tips of his fingers, surprised. “What the heck?” With the utmost care, he slipped out of the jacket. Pain etched his features with the movement, but he remained stoic as they both leaned in for a look. “Good thing my biceps are solid steel.”
“I’ve never seen a bullet wound before. This happen to you a lot?” Tucker was obviously impressed.”
“Too much for my liking.” Shel
by took hold of Blake’s other arm as though he were suddenly unable to walk without support. “Drive us to Dr. Morgan’s house, Tucker.”
“I’m all right. You don’t have to coddle me. The bullet went straight through. It didn’t hit anything major or I’d be unconscious by now.”
Shelby felt anger rise up her neck. “Let me guess… it’s just a flesh wound, right? Tough guys die too. Now get in the truck.”
Blake pulled back, eyeing the Bronco. “We can’t just leave her here unattended. The windows are blown out. What if it rains?”
“I don’t care about the truck. I care about you!” Her voice rose to a crescendo and they both looked at her like they thought she was losing it. Maybe she was. Her husband had nearly been killed. Again.
Tucker opened the door and jerked his chin. “Do what she says. I’ll come back later and tape something over the windows. Tomorrow morning we can get it towed back to town.”
Blake reluctantly climbed in and waited, while Shelby ran back to the truck for her purse. Tucker let her in the middle and settled behind the wheel beside her. He pulled past the Bronco, and found a spot to turn around. The cab was quiet, except for the creaking of metal, as they bumped over the uneven road. No one said a word until they turned into town and headed down Silver Street.
“I’m sorry about interrupting your date with Alice tonight, Tucker,” Shelby said.
“How’d you know…?”
“Woman’s intuition?”
“More like woman’s manipulation. Are you totally oblivious to my wife’s plotting, Tuck? You and Alice don’t stand a chance.”
“Some things are too important to leave to chance.”
Tucker laughed, slapping the steering wheel with one hand. “You two are funnier than a barrel of monkeys. You come here to buy a bed and breakfast, get tangled up in an unsolved hit-and-run, try to bring a homeless man off the mean streets of Port Scuttlebutt, and play cupid with other people’s love lives. Is it any wonder you end up getting shot at for sticking your noses where they don’t belong? What’s next on your agenda? Overthrowing the mayor’s office?”
“We’re going to build a community theatre in the old boathouse. Ever done any acting? After that impromptu performance I just saw from you, I think maybe you should try out for a part.”
<<>>
Doctor Morgan grudgingly let them in his front door and hurried them through the house to his kitchen. The lights were bright, the countertops pristinely white, and the appliances spotless, stainless steel. He opened a cupboard and pulled out some medical supplies, cleaned and disinfected Blake’s wound, gave him a shot of antibiotics, and wrapped it with gauze. When he was finished, he wrote out a prescription for painkillers, but Blake shook his head.
“I’ll take some aspirin if it hurts. It’s not that bad.”
“Have it your way.” The doctor directed them back through the house. “As someone who has been in law enforcement, Mr. Gunner, you do know I’m required to report a gunshot wound.”
“I do.” Blake nodded. “Thank goodness this isn’t a gunshot wound.”
The doctor crossed his arms, and regarded Blake over the top of his bifocals. “Isn’t it?”
“Nope. This is a foil wound. We were having a little fencing practice, and my wife accidentally ran me through.”
Shelby gave a tight smile. “Luckily, it’s just a flesh wound.”
“Uh huh.” Dr. Morgan yanked open the front door. “I’d appreciate if in the future you take your foil accidents elsewhere. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.”
The door banged shut behind them.
Blake waited until after Tucker dropped them off at the B&B to get into it with Shelby. The house was dark, except for the porch light Alice had left on. As they climbed the steps, a dog barked in the distance.
Shelby glanced back. “Did you hear that?”
“It’s just a dog.” He pulled open the screen door. Alice had told them where the key was hidden if they were out past ten. He reached up and felt along the frame. It was a predictable hiding place, but this was Port Scuttlebutt after all. He put the key in the lock.
“Not the dog. That.” She pointed toward the path that led down to the lake. “Don’t you hear it?”
“I don’t hear any…” He turned toward the lake. A crackling sound, like someone eating rice cereal. Then the faintest hint of smoke on the air. Was somebody on the beach having a bonfire? He pulled the key out of the lock and stuck it in his pocket. “Come on. Let’s have a look.”
Shelby followed, taking his hand as they descended the slope. Orange flames licked the air when they were within sight, already engulfing the side door of the boathouse. He started to run, hearing Shelby yell something about getting help. Was Jack inside? He didn’t want to think what that meant.
He remembered seeing a bucket hanging somewhere. Inside or outside the building, he didn’t know. Pulling off his jacket as he ran, he skidded to a stop at the end of the dock and dropped to his belly, dipped his coat in the lake and let it soak up as much water as possible. Then he ran back to the boathouse, and whipped the coat at the blazing door with wild abandon.
On his third trip to soak the coat, he heard yelling. He looked up and saw Shelby and Alice running down the slope, taking the rickety wooden steps faster than deemed safe. They carried buckets and blankets. He took some more swipes at the burning building before they joined him.
“I called the volunteer firemen,” Alice said, joining the water soaking and swiping brigade. “They’re on their way.”
“I don’t see how that’s going to do any good. It’s a long way down here for a fire hose to stretch.” Blake stood back, breathing hard.
She pointed over his shoulder past the dock. “There they are now.”
A boat came into view, cruising toward the boathouse. The volunteer fire department of Port Scuttlebutt was prepared. They opened up the hose, and lake water was sucked up and sprayed over the fire in a long arc. Flames sizzled and sputtered, and minutes later the old wood, charred black in places, was safely sodden and spewing smoke on the cool breeze.
Blake dropped his coat in the sand, and waved to the men manning the fire hose vessel. “Good work, fellows! Thank you!”
The biggest guy, a burly redhead in overalls and a yellow raincoat, gave them a thumbs up. He called out orders to the other men, and they turned the boat and headed back toward port.
Shelby came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “You saved it,” she said. She released him and hugged Alice next. “I was scared to death. My dreams were almost burned to a crisp.”
Alice planted hands on her hips, and stared at the blackened hole where the door once was. “How in the world could a fire start here without help?”
“I’m pretty sure it had help.” Blake pointed at the base of the door. An orange lump of something had been melted onto the remaining wood. He stepped closer, and bent down, sniffing. “I think it was a gas container.”
Alice wore a hooded sweatshirt over her pajamas, and rubber rain boots. She’d obviously been getting ready for bed, because her hair was loose around her face and down her back. She started to shiver, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Thank God no one was in there.”
Blake took one of the wet blankets, wrapped it around his shoulders, and pulled it up over his head. “I’m going in to make sure.”
“You don’t think…”
“I don’t know.” He stepped through the smoldering doorway, careful not to touch anything. Heat emanated from the charred wood, and smoke filled the inside of the building in a hazy fog. He covered his mouth and nose with the edge of the blanket.
The long, narrow building was originally built for small boats and equipment. There was a drop out section down the middle of the wood planks for a boat to be easily maneuvered from the lake into its resting bay. He skirted the sunken floor and stepped over fallen ceiling tiles, to the place where Jack sometimes slept.
This side of t
he building had not been touched by flame, but if the old man was in here he could very well have been overcome by smoke. He stumbled over a sodden mesh of nets and tarps and nearly fell onto the pile of blankets. He coughed, his eyes burning and watering at the same time.
“Blake!” Shelby called from the doorway. “Maybe you should wait until the smoke clears.” But knowing he wouldn’t leave until he’d inspected the entire building, she said, “Just be careful!”
He reached down and patted the makeshift mattress, feeling nothing but blankets. Forcing himself to open smoke-irritated eyes, he tried to see if anything was different than the last time he was here. Shining through the open end of the boathouse, the moon tried to compete with the haze of smoke, but fell short of actually penetrating the murky darkness. Blake groped around a bit more, making sure there was no body within reach, then finally straightened, allowing himself a moment of heart-warming relief.
“Blake?” Shelby called again.
“It’s okay. There’s nobody here. I’m coming out!” He stifled a cough into the blanket and made for the door. His wife grasped his arm as soon as he stepped through the opening. He yanked off the blanket and moved away from the dock, sucking in fresh air with grateful lungs and coughing until his throat was raw.
Alice gathered up the wet blankets. “Nothing else we can do here tonight. You two should clean up and get some rest. From what Tucker told me on the phone, you’ve had a rough night.”
“That’s an understatement,” Shelby said, for once not finding anything positive in the situation. “I’m beginning to feel like perhaps Port Scuttlebutt doesn’t want us here.”
Blake looked back at the damaged boathouse, his jaw clenched tight. He had been annoyed with Shelby on the way home for announcing her plan to build a local theatre, because she hadn’t discussed it with him first, but now he was furious that someone had destroyed her dream with the flick of a match. “Somebody doesn’t want us here. They certainly don’t like us asking questions. And they’re going to great lengths to make us feel unwelcome. I don’t think that’s very neighborly.”
Roadkill (Double Barrel Mysteries Book 1) Page 19
