Gilt (30 page)

I rolled off the roof toward the ground below.

Chapter 17

Thank you, Portia, for the hydrangeas
. The shrubs broke my fall but also poked me unmercifully with their woody shoots. Luckily, I landed on my back and not my front. Otherwise I might have lost an eye or a cheek. As it was, one particularly sturdy plant must have punctured my skin because a hot bolt of pain lanced into my uninjured left shoulder, competing with the pain in my right shoulder for attention.

I fought my way free of the shrubs and managed to get to my all-fours. I had deliberately aimed my shot away from Jack and the others and I thought I aimed well to the left of the man who was threatening them. I must have pulled the gun, though, because the man was staggering and screaming. He sounded more angry than hurt, but one glance at his leg told me that it was a combination of both. His leg was a mass of blood, ripped light-colored fabric, and flesh, blood streaming along his thigh to pool in the gravel of the barn yard.

"Holy crap." Where was the gun? It must have fallen somewhere nearby but where? If it were in the shrubbery I'd never find it, at least not until daylight. I gave up on the shotgun and started forward, holding on to the maple tree's trunk to keep my balance.

Jack barreled into the guard I shot, toppling him over. I peered beyond the sedan. Dan was grappling with another man in what appeared to be an all-out fistfight. Candace Denton cringed near the rear driver's side tire of the sedan, huddled into the smallest shape she could manage. I started forward to join her but stopped when I saw Amy standing in front of the sedan's headlights, standing as though pole-axed while she stared back into the barn.

The shrunken little man in the loose-fitting clothes came to the barn's entrance, a gun leveled at Amy.

"Holy crap." I looked frantically at Jack, but he was busy fighting the guard with the wounded leg. I took a step forward and my foot came down on the shotgun. I grabbed it and raised it to my shoulder, my arms trembling so bad that the gun wobbled.

"Hey!" I yelled. "Don't try it. I'll--"

"You won't do anything," the man yelled back. "A shot will kill her."

I sighted down the barrel. Damn. Amy and the man were only a few yards apart. I wasn't sure on the spread pattern of the gun, but I was pretty sure any shot I took would hit her as well. I moved forward, angling to my right, trying to get around Amy and Candace. The man anticipated me by shifting his position, keeping the barn behind him and his gun leveled at her.

"Tinsley!" he screamed. "Watch this! I'm going to kill her the way you killed everyone I loved. Watch it, you son--"

Part of his head exploded. A second later, the gunshot filled the barn yard with noise. I flinched, dropping the shotgun as the man toppled over, arms and legs stiff. His gun flew from his hand and landed inside the barn. He dropped to the gravel drive, blood streaming from his head to mingle with the muddy, bloody dust already there.

Dan straightened from the passenger side of the sedan, shifting his gun from the downed man to the barn. "Who else is inside, Amy?" he asked, his voice eerily quiet in the dense silence.

"I--I--no one," she managed to croak.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded dumbly. Candace jumped to her feet and raced to Amy, the two women wrapping their arms around each other. I took another lurching step forward. Dan kept the gun raised, his eyes flickering to me and to Jack, who straightened over the body of the man on the ground. "Genny? Did you call the police?"

It took three tries but I finally managed a feeble, "Yes."

Jack turned to go to Amy but stopped, eyeing me. "You're wounded."

I lurched ahead two more steps. "Just bruised."

"That's blood." He grabbed my shaking arm and led me to the sedan. Amy pulled open the back door as Jack steered me toward the seat.

"It does kind of hurt," I said. "I banged my shoulder with the shotgun. I didn't mean to hit him. I wasn't aiming at him. I was aiming as far from you guys as I could."

"Sit down." Tinsley held my arm as I sank back and closed my eyes.

When I opened them, Dan was bending over me, his face pinched with worry. I must have passed out because the yard was full of cars--police cars, an ambulance, an SUV with police insignia on it. The whole place was brightly lit and buzzing with energy and action. "Holy crap. When did that happen?"

Dan leaned against the side of the car. "About twenty minutes ago. Come on. The ambulance guys want to talk to you."

"I'm okay."

"Your shoulder is all bloody."

I peered at my left shoulder. "Well, damn. It is. What's that from?" I tried shrugging but a blinding pain made me gasp. "I wasn't shot, was I?"

"Shrubbery."

I looked to my left at the man who spoke. Police Chief McCord was tall and lean with an angular face, flat nose and the high cheekbones of the Ojibwe tribe, not uncommon for this part of Minnesota. His white hair made him appear older than he probably was, although with his Indian heritage it was hard to guess accurately.

"Say what?" I asked.

"Looks like you were stabbed by a branch. That was a good shot you made."

I grimaced. "I wasn't aiming at the guy. I guess I can't hit the broad side of a barn."

McCord's face creased briefly with a smile, dimples flashing at the sides of his mouth. It softened his face amazingly, making him appear mischievous. "Lucky thing for everybody you can't. You need to be checked by the EMTs before you can go. We'll need a statement from you tomorrow at the station." He stepped away from the car and strode off, talking to a uniformed officer who approached him.

"It's probably not necessary. The EMT thing, that is," I said, talking to his back.

Dan put a hand under my elbow. "It probably is."

I tried to stand but my legs didn't want to cooperate. I tried again and with Dan's help, I managed to wobble toward the ambulance parked near Portia's kitchen door. "What happened? Is Amy okay? Are you in trouble?"

"Everyone is fine," he said. "Amy and Candace aren't hurt, Michael Bennington is in custody, and Jack will be busy for a week with all the paperwork. And no, I'm not in trouble. I was deputized, remember? I'll be investigated but I'm sure it will be found that I acted in defense of myself and others."

"But--Michael, in jail? Where's Amy? Who poisoned Aunt Portia? How come--why--who--where--?"

"I'll give you the short version. I'm sure more details will be coming." He paused, which effectively paused me as well, about ten feet from the ambulance. "It was all about revenge. Four years ago, Jack killed Amy's son and he killed Nesbitt's son in a raid."

"But he was set up," I said. "You said that a rival person in that gang set up Mark and that other guy so Jack would kill them."

"Nesbitt lost his son and that's all that mattered to him. He was thrown in prison around that time. He wanted revenge, and for a while, he had it. Jack was demoted. He and Amy separated. Jack's life fell apart." Dan glanced toward the barn. "But Jack wanted revenge, too."

"And he got it," I said, a tiny bit of memory falling into place."You said he almost broke up the gang."

"Yeah. He killed Nesbitt's brother. But Jack didn't have a brother." Dan stared at me. "Amy did."

"But...but..." I struggled to articulate something,
any
thing. "You said they were businessmen. Why would they target Jack? Why would they come after him?"

"Nesbitt appeared weak. He was in a power struggle for control of the gang. He was being hamstrung by an FBI agent. He had to have revenge, especially when Jack killed his only remaining son." Dan glanced again at the barn. "This is speculation but I think we'll find it's true. They set up Michael Bennington so his investments soured. That brought Paul Denton into it. Denton had a connection to your husband. Your husband, who was also Amy's brother. They killed the little girl in the fire to scare Denton. And they killed Diane to scare Michael Bennington. It was an extra benefit that they were able to kill your husband." Dan's hand clutched his cane so tightly it trembled. "They waited. They planted evidence to frame John Carlson, and they waited. They knew Tinsley would take the bait. He would do anything to help Amy. They waited."

"What kind of evidence?"

Dan's mouth thinned. "The kind that would make an ex-cop suspicious."

"An ex-cop? You?"

He nodded.

"But why not just kill him?" I looked back toward the barn where Jack Tinsley stood, talking to McCord. "It's like one of those connect-the-dot pictures. It's too complicated."

"No, it isn't. It all comes down to love. Nesbitt may be a monster but he loved his family. Jack was responsible for Nesbitt losing his family. Nesbitt was going to make sure that Jack suffered the way he suffered."

"But Michael--he had to be more involved than simply making a few bad investments." I don't know why, but I really, really wanted Michael to be more than just a greedy asshole.

"Oh, he was. He did embezzle from your aunt and repay it. He did send threatening letters to her, trying to frighten her into selling the land. And he did consort with known criminals to attempt to establish a casino. That's a federal offense. Who knows what else might be uncovered once the feds really start digging?"

"Ma'am?" A short, stocky woman emerged from the ambulance. "We need to check that wound of yours."

Wow. I had completely forgotten about it. I started to mention this but at that moment, the throbbing became so awful I thought I might pass out. The power of suggestion, I guess. I plopped myself on the rear of the ambulance while Dan stood nearby.

"Sir? Maybe you can go inside and get the lady another shirt. We're going to have to cut away most of this one." The woman glanced at Dan and then resumed examining me, scissors briskly snipping away a large hole around the puncture in my dark green polo shirt.

Dan looked like he might protest until he caught sight of my shoulder. He hurried toward the house and I thought he was distinctly pale. Maybe he was one of those guys who couldn't stand the sight of blood. That would be ironic, since he was a cop. I glanced at my shoulder and swallowed hard. A gash arced its way from my neck to my armpit, slashing over the left breast--the pocket that had still held the remaining shotgun shell. "Holy crap," I muttered as the shell tumbled onto my lap.

The EMT eyed it, me, and my wound. "You were lucky. An inch higher and it would have gone in your throat. An inch lower and it would have punctured that shell. Two inches to the right and it would have gone in your heart."

"Yeah," I said faintly. "Lucky." I peered through the blaze of lights illuminating the farm yard and saw Jack, his arm around Amy's shoulders. "Lucky."

*****

Four days later after lunch, I waved good-bye to Jack and Amy as they left Portia's farmhouse, driving in Amy's rental car. Jack was taking a vacation and they were making a leisurely drive back to Baltimore. Neither of them discussed what the future might hold but my mother was smugly convinced that we would be making a trek to the East Coast for a wedding in the near future.

Penny and Portia were inside the house now, clearing up after our lunch. The mystery of Portia's illness was still officially unexplained but I overheard Dan and Jack talking (okay, I eavesdropped). It was being classified as a medication accident but Jack thought Portia deliberately under-dosed herself.

Why? I didn't have an answer until I read what she wrote me in that envelope I pulled from the safe. I confess I sneaked a peek at it before asking her what to do with them.

By now you know that Michael Bennington conspired with land developers to try to set a competency hearing to determine if I was bonkers or not. Well, my body may be worn out, but my brain still works. Those sons-a-bitches aren't going to pull a hearing on me and get away with it. I made sure my insulin dose was screwed up so I could land in the hospital. That will delay any action they might try. And if it kills me, well, I don't care. Either one will be okay. I trust you and Amy to take care of things. So far Mother Nature hasn't stepped in to take me away, so maybe I'll give her a shove. If it comes down to losing the farm or killing myself to make sure you get the land, well, I'll kill myself. I'm not going to let them win.

Poor Aunt Portia, fighting to hold on to the land, fighting to hold on to her dignity. If Michael weren't already in jail for fraud, I would have done my best to see him in jail for terrorizing an old woman.

Portia took the envelopes from me shortly after I was released from the hospital and that's the last I saw of them. I suppose now that Michael was gone and the Wicked gang in disarray with the death of its leader, she could rest at least somewhat easy.

The sound of a power saw came from the garage. Dan was there, puttering around with the tools he found tucked away, "making a few repairs before we go back home." He seemed to love it here and had made himself useful in the days since the
shootout at the Winslow barn
as it was being called in town. I had the feeling that if I inherited the place, he would be more than happy to make a switch and move.