Tribe
Page 24
“That's exactly what I mean—I'm supposed to wait in the car like a good dog. And here all of you are, up here in this bar, every one of you, including my baby!”
Shocked, Zeb looked out, then in a small voice said, “Hi, Suzanne.”
“Oh, Zeb…are you all right?”
He nodded.
“And Ribka?”
Still tight in Rick's grip, Janice asked, “Please, Rick, just let me give the baby to her mother.”
“No!”
“Rick—” began Paul.
“Don't come any closer, Paul. All of you just stay where you are! Anyone touches me and I'll kill her!” he shouted, pressing the barrel firmly against Janice's head.
Todd could barely breathe. He saw the pistol buried against Janice's head, saw the fear strip her face of any color. Sweat burst across Todd's brow. He glanced sideways, saw Rawlins out on the main floor, tense and ready to dart forward. But they were too far away. There was nothing they could do.
“This is not God the Father's way,” said Paul.
“Shut up!”
“You've strayed, Rick. You no longer stand on The Promises.”
“How dare you!”
“Give me the gun!”
Maybe he'd really do it, maybe he'd really shoot, and Todd's voice, little more than a whisper, said, “Wait, I—”
“You pull that trigger, Rick,” continued Paul, “and you will have the wrath of the Lord upon you.”
“Stop!”
“No.”
“I'll shoot her!”
“Then we'll know where Satan truly lurks.”
“Stop it! Just stop it!” shouted Suzanne, running forward and reaching into her bag and pulling out a pistol of her own. “Anybody hurts my baby and I'll kill him!”
Swinging his gun at her, Rick yelled, “You ignorant slut!”
“Dad, no!” cried Zeb, lunging forward.
But it was too late. Rick took aim at Suzanne and squeezed the trigger. Todd flinched, expected a blast. There was, however, none. Rick pulled the trigger again and again. Still not a single bullet fired, and Rick was paralyzed.
Paul calmly said, “I've never had it loaded. Never.”
“You fool!”
Rick threw Janice and Ribka aside and darted toward the edge of the stage, rushing at Suzanne and her gun.
“Don't!” shouted Suzanne. “Don't! Stay back!”
Charging her, he leapt off the stage. Suzanne focused the gun right on him. And fired.
38
Todd ripped up one of Jeff' s old gowns, a white cotton summer dress, and Rawlins, using a first aid technique he'd been taught down at the police station, held the bleeding in check until the paramedics arrived. Nevertheless, the loss of blood was extreme, for the bullet had struck Rick just beneath the left shoulder. Bending over the wounded man, who lay on the floor between a couple of round cocktail tables, Todd first feared that an artery had been pierced. When Rick had trouble breathing a few minutes later, Todd guessed that a lung had been punctured.
“Just hang on, Dad,” begged Zeb, clutching his father's hand and trying to hold back the tears. “Help's on the way. The ambulance is coming. You're going to be okay. Just…just hang on.”
Rick tried to speak, stared at Zeb for several seconds, then closed his eyes and nodded.
“One of the best trauma centers in the country is only a few blocks away,” added Todd. “We'll get you there in a few minutes.”
Relieved, concerned, amazed, Todd stood up and glanced across the room. Not too far away, Paul had his big arms around Suzanne, who was sobbing, horrified that she'd actually shot someone, while the grandmothers, Janice and Martha, tried to calm Ribka, who'd been so terribly startled by the gun blast and the ensuing commotion. At least, thought Todd, no one else was hurt.
In a few minutes the ambulance arrived and two men and a woman came bounding up the stairs of the Gay Times and into the Show Room. They took over then, slowing the loss of blood even more, putting an oxygen mask on Rick, then lifting him onto a gurney.
“I'm here, Dad!” shouted Zeb, refusing to let go of his father's hand. “Dad, I'm right here!”
This time, however, he got no response, not even a nod.
“We've got to take him now,” said one of the medics, a tall guy with red hair.
Zeb demanded, “He's going to be all right, isn't he?”
“I think we've got him stabilized. We'll do all that we can.”
Janice came up behind Zeb, placed a hand on either of his shoulders. “Do you want to go with him in the ambulance?”
“Yeah.”
“That would be great,” the female medic, an athletic woman with brown hair, said to Zeb. “Your father's going to need a transfusion, and blood from a relative is always best.”
“Sure, but…but…I can't.”
Todd saw this ripple of panic wash across Zeb's face. Or was it helplessness?
“What are you trying to say, Zeb?” asked Todd.
“I can't give him blood—he's not my birth father. His blood is type O, mine's AB.”
Janice, clearly shocked, demanded, “What? How do you know that?”
Zeb stated simply, “When Mom told me I was adopted, she gave me a whole file on me. The letter from you and all the legal stuff was in there. Everything, including Mom and Dad's wedding certificate. They got married by a judge, and their blood types were written down.”
Todd looked at Janice, the shock shooting through them both. Todd knew what Zeb was saying, what it meant. Janice was type A, Rick was O. They couldn't have produced a child who was AB. But Janice and Todd could have, because Todd was type B.
As the medics started rolling Rick out, Zeb called across the room to Martha, “Mom, I'm going to the hospital. Are you okay with Ribka? You and Suzanne can watch her?”
“Of course, dear. She'll be fine.”
Without hesitation Zeb hurried after the medics and the gurney, but Todd didn't move. Nor did Janice.
Once Zeb was out of earshot Todd asked, “If he knows that much, does he know about me?”
“No. Not yet anyway.” She reached over and took him by the hand. “Come on, Zeb shouldn't be alone at the hospital. You'll drive me over there, won't you?”
“Absolutely. And I'll stay too, that is, if three won't be a crowd.”
“Don't be ridiculous. I think this is going to be a long night, and hell, we've got to talk about something, don't we?”
Todd glanced back at Rawlins, who'd overheard most of the conversation and assured Todd that things were well taken care of.
“I had Jeff call the station, so there'll be a couple more cops here in a minute.” Rawlins grinned. “Hey, good luck, man. I want to hear all about it—I'll be waiting.”
“You'd better be.” Todd reached over, pulled Rawlins into his deep embrace, and into his ear whispered, “I'm scared.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
R.D. Zimmerman is the Lambda Award-winning and Edgar-nominated author of numerous mysteries. Under the pen name of Robert Alexander, he is the author of The New York Times bestseller, The Kitchen Boy, and other historical novels. For more info: www.robertalexanderbooks.com