A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (32 page)

All the while, I realized I’d been screaming for Emma. Emma and Julie.

Suddenly from beneath the refrigerator burst a small, filthy cat, flushed out from its hiding spot by all the noise. Terrified, it streaked across the kitchen floor, cutting a path directly beneath the tiger’s hind feet. The tiger turned with a predator’s precision instincts and pounced. The house cat was too quick, though, and shot into the living room. The tiger charged after it.

I grabbed the chair that protected Lucy and tried to yank it from her, but she fought me, holding fast. I don’t know what I said to her, but she looked me in the face, trusting, and let go. I swung around and smashed the chair against the kitchen window, once, twice, and then it shattered. Shards fell outward, and I used my fist to break the remaining piece. Then I had Lucy in my arms, and I threw her out the window.

I don’t remember going out the window myself, but suddenly I could breathe fresh air, and my hands were full of grass. Lucy was clinging to me, climbing around my neck in hysterics.

I hugged her fast and scrambled to my feet. I’d lost my shoes somehow, but didn’t stop. With Lucy in my arms, I ran across the garden, sure the tiger would be following me out the window any second. Julie stood spraddle-legged in the garden, shocked by what she’d done. Then she turned and ran for the carriage house.

I lugged Lucy as far as Emma’s truck and grappled with the door handle. The spaniel was at my heels, and he jumped up against the door, yelping. In another moment, all three of us were inside the truck, and I slammed the door behind us, safe.

The driver’s-side door opened.

“Oh, Em,” I said. “Get in, and hurry—”

But it wasn’t Emma who climbed into the front seat of the pickup.

It was Potty Devine. He got into the truck and slammed the door. In his lap, he held a shotgun. The double barrels were so long they struck Lucy’s knees. I pulled her tighter into my arms.

“Cousin Nora,” Potty said. “Ha-ha.”

Lucy buried her face, wet and hot, against my neck. She was crying so hard I could barely hear Potty.

But I could see the look on his face, and it frightened me.

He said, “How much did she tell you?”

“Potty, please—”

“Julie’s not very bright, you know. And probably deranged. She doesn’t understand the consequences.”

“Potty—”

“But she’s a good girl.”

“She told me what happened, Potty,” I said. “That Vivian was the one who shot Kell.”

“It wasn’t me,” he said. “That stupid Vivian has been such a do-gooder all her life. Funny she was the one to pull the trigger, right? Ha-ha. Good thing the police arrested her. She’ll go to jail.”

I wanted the whole story, but the presence of the gun stopped me. He might not have killed Kell Huckabee, but Potty looked capable of killing me. Or Lucy. Toby whined beside me.

“So,” Potty said. “What are we going to do, Cousin Nora? Now that Julie has spilled the beans?”

I didn’t have a clue.

Then Emma, behind the wheel of Vivian’s truck, drove up the driveway.

“Oh, hell,” Potty said. “What is it with you Blackbird girls?”

He wrestled the shotgun up onto the dashboard as if to point it at Emma. I reared back in my seat and kicked at the gun. Potty cursed. Lucy screamed.

Emma downshifted and pointed Vivian’s truck at her own pickup. I had just enough time to snap the seat belt around Lucy before Emma gunned the engine, and the larger truck surged forward. I braced myself for the impact—one hand against the dashboard, the other against the seat.

The crash was so hard I cracked the side of my head on the window. Lucy cried out. I saw Potty’s head slam against the steering wheel. The dog hurtled through the air and struck Potty’s shoulder before landing in a squirming tangle in Lucy’s lap. The pickup spun, then came to a rocking stop.

I grabbed Lucy, unsnapped the seat belt and dragged her out of the pickup. The dog followed us, and half a minute later, we were inside the second truck with Emma.

“What the hell?” Emma cursed as the dog clambered into her lap and peed on her leg.

We watched Potty climb out of the pickup, holding one hand to his bleeding forehead and the gun cradled clumsily in the crook of his elbow. His walk was unsteady, but he launched himself in our direction.

Which was the moment the tiger came stalking out of the garden. He halted, nose to the wind, and watched Potty lurch toward us. Slowly, he sank into a pouncing position.

“Oh, hell!” Emma put the truck into gear again and tried to maneuver the vehicle between Potty and the hungry animal.

The tiger flinched back from the truck.

Potty finally realized he was in mortal danger. He staggered in place and tried to shoulder the gun. But he bobbled it, saw he was doomed, then turned and ran clumsily for the safety of the carriage house. In three long, loping strides, the tiger was on him.

Emma swore. I hid Lucy’s face in my lap and held her there for a long time.

I remembered to use my cell phone a little while later. I called 911. We stayed in the truck until help arrived. Later, they took us to a police station.

It was hours later when Libby finally came. Her daughter, who had clung to my neck since I’d landed on the grass outside the trailer, finally caught sight of her mother and let go of me. Lucy ran across the parking lot of the suburban police station and threw herself into Libby’s arms, weeping.

Emma patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Sis. You did great. Lucy’s been through an ordeal, and at times like this, a kid just needs her mom.”

Yes, I thought.

Detective Bloom came over and told Emma she could leave. “We’ve got to keep your truck overnight, though,” he said. “We’re collecting evidence.”

“Doesn’t look like it’s drivable now anyway,” she said grimly. “Guess I’ll hitch a ride with Libby. You coming, Nora?”

Bloom said, “I’ll see that Nora gets home.”

Emma gave him an appraising stare. At her side, the spaniel looked as if he had decided to become permanently attached to my sister. He hung at her knee, watching her face for clues that she might abandon him.

“I’ll be fine,” I said.

“Don’t be long,” she warned. “Somebody’s waiting for you at home.”

She strode over to Libby’s minivan, her new companion hot on her heels.

When we were alone, standing on the asphalt beside a bench that was surrounded by cigarette butts, Bloom said, “As a matter of fact, that somebody needs your help.”

I sighed and rubbed my forehead to dispel the headache that thumped behind my eyes. I was very tired. But Bloom appeared to be full of untapped energy. “Can you put it in plain English, please?”

“It’s Mick,” Bloom said. “He’s figured a way to draw the Pescaras out in the open.”

“What?”

“He’s put together a little sting operation, and tonight’s the night. We’re going to tag along and make an arrest. He’s cooperating with us for once.”

I processed all that information and felt what small supply of adrenaline that was left in my body give my heart a kick. I tried to fathom what Bloom’s agenda could be, but my brain was fuzzy.

“Is it safe? Will he—he’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”

Bloom shrugged. “Mick made all the arrangements. And if I know him, he’s thought through all the possible angles. I figured you might like to come along. Watch your boyfriend in action now that he’s doing the right thing. Are you up for it?”

“Ben,” I said.

I felt all my self-control waver.

“He’ll need you there,” Bloom said.

He put one arm around me and pulled me close. Beneath his superhero coat, his striped shirt smelled of coffee and pencils like a college freshman’s. Against my hair, he said quietly, “You can do this.”

His lean body had more tensile strength than it appeared to have, and I let myself absorb that. He shared a bit of calm with me in that moment, and I took it. Whatever Michael did always had complications. But Ben had the law on his side. Surely he would make the right choice.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

We drove for more than an hour in rush-hour traffic, finally reaching New Jersey just as the cars began to thin out on the highway. We stopped at a state-police barracks and met up with two more cops—one from Pennsylvania, the other from Jersey. Ben went inside to talk with them, and I waited in the car with the window rolled down.

What was Michael up to now? It would be like him to take matters into his own hands, to find a way to solve his own problems. But a persistent voice in the back of my mind insisted an alliance with the police was not in Michael’s nature. And he’d never want me around for some kind of showdown.

Ben came out looking eager for action, and he handed me a package of crackers with orange goo layered between them. I dropped them onto the seat between us. We got into a convoy of cars with a total of five police officers.

“Tell me again what’s going to happen,” I said.

“It’s simple. We’re going to arrest some of the Pescaras. Mick set it up for us. He arranged the meeting, and all we have to do is swoop in and make the arrest. He’ll be a hero.”

“Why am I here?”

Bloom reached for the radio and spoke to the officers in the other cars. They talked in coded numbers that made no sense to me. He never answered my question.

At last we reached a long, flat plain that ran alongside the Delaware River. To the north I could see a stretch of water ideal for fishing, hung over with leafy trees. To the distant south stood the shapes of warehouses and a faraway silver skyline of city skyscrapers. The water was shallow and ran swiftly over flat rocks.

On a sandy berm alongside the road, a lone man in biker leathers hunkered beside a motorcycle, tinkering with its engine.

When he straightened up, I realized he was Michael.

I got out of the car and ran to him.

He caught me by my wrists. “Oh, my God,” he said. “What happened to you?”

I had forgotten that both my forearms were bandaged. Breaking the window of Vivian’s trailer and climbing out through the shattered glass had cut me. Even the sleeves of my sweater were slashed and stained with blood.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Where are your shoes?”

I had lost them, of course, and Emma had loaned me a pair of her riding boots, dug out of the back of her truck. I made a ridiculous fashion statement, but Michael guessed the worst.

“I’m fine,” I said. “But Potty Devine is dead.”

“Jesus. What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter now. Vivian Devine killed Kell Huckabee, and Potty helped cover up the crime. He and Julie made—oh, it really doesn’t matter. What are you doing here? Please, Michael, don’t tell me you’re doing something dangerous.”

Michael’s face was deeply carved with lines that told me he was still in terrible pain. The pants of his biking clothes had been slit up one side to accommodate the cast on his leg. He had zipped his jacket up tight to his throat.

He looked over my shoulder and said in a growl, “Take her out of here, Bloom.”

“We’ll make sure she’s out of the line of fire.”

Ben came to stand beside us, and I was aware of the other cops climbing out of their cars, too.

“This isn’t what we agreed on,” Michael said.

“It’ll be fine,” Bloom replied. “Give us a few minutes to take up positions and clear the cars out. We’ll hang around until your family reunion starts, and then we’ll move in.”

“To pull that off, you should have been here hours ago. They’re way ahead of you.”

“We were a little busy.” Bloom manufactured a smile. “Since when did you get so jumpy?”

I said, “What’s going on?”

To Bloom, Michael said, “You brought Nora along as some kind of insurance to make sure I do everything right. Well, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

Bloom shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. “Okay, I don’t trust you. What’s so surprising about that?”

“I’m the one who came to you, remember? I said I’d bring Pescara in, but I had to do it my way. If he knows you’re here, this powwow is going to get ugly. And you’ll lose your promotion.”

“Since when did you start doing me favors?”

“I don’t care who gets credit.” Michael was impatient. “I just want this whole situation over.”

“Family trouble is getting bad for business, isn’t it? Know what I think? This is your big power grab. If you can settle matters with your cousins, suddenly you’re the top dog. No more pretending your old man is in charge.”

“Take Nora out of here,” Michael snapped. “I can’t negotiate anything as long as she’s at risk.”

“Take a deep breath, Mick. We just came to watch you in action. Hell, today could be some kind of historic moment. You can get rid of all the Pescaras
and
put your pop on the back burner. And it all happens with police approval. Nicely strategized.” Bloom glanced at me, with no apology. “Wait here, Nora. I’ll be right back.”

When he walked away, I said, “I’m sorry. I should have known Ben was using me. I’ll go now.”