Star Witness (18 page)

“You saw them? What did you see?”

“I noticed the three-way flashlight was still on. I reached across the counter to turn it off and I saw dark shapes moving across the street.”

The flashlight. It had been on the soft setting, but still. What a stupid, potentially fatal mistake. From the street, the faint light probably looked like a beacon—the only speck of brightness in the unrelenting gray. He’d led their pursuers straight to them, because he’d let himself get distracted by his desire for Dani.

“At least you got it turned off.”

“They must have seen it,” she said shakily. “They know where we are.”

“Not for certain. And we don’t know for sure it’s them.” He laid his hand on her forearm. “But if it is, it won’t take them five minutes to find the back door. Follow me and stay down.”

They headed to the back, keeping low. When Harte opened the storeroom door, he saw that part of the roof had blown off and several pieces of rafters and broken plywood boards had fallen. He was glad they hadn’t stayed back there.

“Stay here. I’m going to check and see if the coast is clear.”

“Take the gun,” Dani said, pressing it into his hand.

“No,” he protested. “I’m not that good a shot.”

“We know they have guns,” she countered. “If they’re already back here, this gun may be our only chance. If you won’t take it, then move. I’ll go out and see if the coast is clear.”

He took it reluctantly, felt for the safety and thumbed it off. “What size magazine do you have in it?”

“Seventeen shots.”

He nodded, then, bracing himself, pushed the door open—or tried to. It felt stuck. What the hell? His pulse hammered. Had they already made it around back and blocked the door? He pushed harder and heard a scraping sound. Through the tiny crack he saw a purple glow. Early dawn. The sky was just bright enough to make the shadows darker.

He slid the door open a bit more, grimacing at the noise made by whatever was blocking it. He was pretty sure he knew what it was. It was big, and had a distinctive hollow sound as it scraped on the ground. It was a plastic trash can—the thick, industrial size.

Finally, he’d managed to move the can enough so he could look around. Then he ducked back in. “I don’t see anything. We need to run while we’ve got the chance.”

“Okay,” Dani said. “Which direction?”

“Straight back, between the two buildings right behind here. I’ve got to find the name of that street. Then maybe I can figure out where we are.”

She nodded.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready.”

Dani held her breath as Harte pushed open the door and went through it. She held on to the edge of the door for a couple of seconds. Once it closed, it would lock and they would have no place to hide. They could be picked off like plastic ducks at a carnival.

Harte gestured for her to wait. He quickly surveyed the alley, then moved forward cautiously. “Now,” he whispered.

Dani felt a prickling on the nape of her neck. It reminded her of when she was a child and had to go into a dark room. Just like back then, and in the dark Mardi Gras float warehouse, she felt as if monsters were breathing down her neck.

In front of her, Harte’s wide shoulders gave her a measure of confidence. He believed they’d be fine, and she realized
she
believed him. She trusted him.

Ten minutes before, when he’d tossed out that unkind remark about her granddad, she’d painted him with the same brush as his father and grandfather. Everything she’d ever heard about the Delanceys depicted them as ambitious, ruthless and violent. Con Delancey had died violently, and Harte’s dad, Robert, was rumored to have as violent a temper as Con.

But every time they were in a dangerous situation, Harte had protected her, so she felt confident and, yes, safe, as she stepped off the concrete stoop into the ankle-deep water that covered the pockmarked and cracked asphalt. Immediately, the cold water seeped through her already damp sneakers to soak her feet. Grimacing, she ignored it and followed him.

Just as they reached the center of the alley and Harte pointed to the left side of the building in front of them, Dani heard a noise. She couldn’t tell what direction it had come from.

Harte’s head snapped to the right. He’d heard it too.

Before she could even begin to decide how to react, he’d grabbed her upper arm and pulled her forward and down behind a stack of tires.

A loud pop echoed in her ears as she dropped to her knees, her fall partially broken by Harte’s body. Her brain clicked into instant-replay mode and she realized that just prior to the pop, she’d heard a zinging sound near her ear—way too near.

“Are you hit?” Harte demanded, his hand still on her arm in a punishing grip.

“No,” she panted. “You?”

He gave a negative jerk of his head. “Go!” he said. “Run to that alley and keep running.”

“Not without you.”

Another bullet whistled past them, then another.

“Dani, go! I’m right behind you.”

She met his gaze and saw his steely determination.

“I swear!”

With a horrible sense of foreboding, she ran. Behind her, Harte fired three quick shots, covering her.

“Harte, run!” she cried. She reached the building and ducked behind it, pressing her back against the wall. If she angled her head, she could see Harte.

He was inching up from behind the tires to check the shooter’s position. When he did, a shot rang out, but to Dani’s surprise, it ricocheted off the wall close to her head, sending shards of plaster flying. She ducked back.

“Bastard,” she heard Harte growl; then he vaulted up and ran, firing rapidly.

Dani backed up as Harte rounded the corner of the building and slammed back against the wall. “You okay?” he panted.

“Yes.”

“I know where we are. Through this alley is Tchoupitoulas Street,” he said, pressing the back of his head against the wall and angling around to fire off another couple of rounds, then ducking back. “Did you see the words painted on this building? This is the back of La Maisson Restaurant. La Maisson fronts onto Tchoupitoulas and it’s only about three blocks from my great-aunt Claire’s house.”

Gunshots peppered the corner where he’d just leaned out.

“Go through there. At the end of the alley, go left. Don’t look back. I’ll catch up.” He leaned out and fired again.

Dani ran as fast as she could, her sneakers squeaking on the asphalt. She heard footsteps behind her and prayed it was Harte and not one of the goons who were trying to kill them.

The air was filled with gunfire. Her neck prickled, her scalp burned and her lungs felt strained to the point of bursting, but she didn’t dare stop.

She heard a short, pained groan behind her and the footsteps stumbled unevenly. She dared a glance backward in time to see Harte regain his footing. “Harte—” she gasped.

“Don’t stop!” he shouted.

Sirens suddenly wailed behind them, and then Harte caught up with her. He passed her, pointing at a blue building. “Through that alley,” he shouted, and slowed down. “Go!”

She ran past him and into the alley, but she had no idea which way to turn out the other end, so she slowed to a stop.

The siren changed to short blasts. Maybe they’d caught the men.

Harte ran around the corner a few seconds later. He leaned against the wall, his chest heaving and sweat dripping in rivulets down his face. “Aunt Claire’s house is right behind here. White with green shutters. Come on.”

Dani frowned at him. Something was wrong. “Harte—?”

“Move! No time to talk.” He took off down the alley and she followed.

Then she saw it—the blood on his shirt. “You’re bleeding!” she cried.

He didn’t acknowledge her. He just kept on across the street, dodging tree limbs and trash and torn roofing shingles, then bounded up a set of stone steps to ornate double doors with stained-glass sidelights and transom.

He turned the handle and pushed against the door, but it didn’t open. He hammered on the wood with the gun. “Paul!” he cried in a strained voice. “Open up! It’s Harte.”

Chapter Fourteen

Harte pounded on the door again. “Paul!”

Before the word was out of his mouth, the door flew open and Harte’s cousin on his grandmother Lilibelle’s side, Paul Guillame, stood there, surprise and anger on his face. “Harte? What the—? Do you know what time it is?”

Harte pushed past Paul with Dani in tow. Paul’s strident voice penetrated the haze in his brain. “Good Lord! You’re bleeding! Is that a gun?”

“He’s been shot,” Dani cried. “We need to get him to a doctor.”

Paul sent her a quizzical look, then turned back to Harte. “Who is this? And what’s going on?”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, despite the bullet wound that hurt like hell, Harte shook his head at Paul’s blithering. But the black at the edges of his vision was growing and he knew he’d pass out if he didn’t sit or lie down. “Shut the door, Paul. We’ve got dangerous men after us.”

Paul’s black eyes widened, showing white all the way around the irises. “Dangerous men?” He craned his neck around the door, then pushed it closed and locked it with shaking hands. “Why did you come here?”

While Paul was talking, Harte felt Dani’s hand on his good arm. She pulled him through the foyer and into the large, too-warm front room. A fire was blazing in the large fireplace. He was already feeling light-headed from loss of blood. The heat made him feel as though he couldn’t get a breath. He stopped for a moment, leaning against the faux-finished walls of his aunt Claire’s house, trying not to pass out.

“Not in there!” Paul cried, hurrying toward them as Dani guided Harte toward an ornately carved sofa upholstered in ivory. “Take him to the kitchen. Through there.” He gestured in a shooing motion. “Put him in one of the kitchen chairs.”

Harte let Dani guide him through open French doors that separated the living room and dining room and on past the huge mahogany dining table into the dark kitchen. He sank into a chair with a pained sigh. His pulse was racing and he thought he could feel blood pouring out of his wound. There was a towel on the counter and he got his feet under him and reached for it, but Dani put her hand on his chest and pushed him back into the chair.

“You sit right there,” she ordered him. “And give me that!” She took the SIG out of his hand, thumbed the safety on and shoved it into her purse.

She straightened and turned to Paul, who had grabbed a candelabra in his hand—a real silver candelabra sporting eight blazing tapers. “Where’s your phone?” she demanded.

Paul set the candelabra in the middle of the wooden kitchen table. “Does it look like we have any of the conveniences?”

Harte squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get rid of the odd haze that was enveloping his brain. He dug out his phone and flipped it open. “Still no bars,” he said, hearing the strain in his voice. “And I’m about out of battery too.”

Dani had sat down next to him and was trying to pull the material of his shirt away from the bullet wound in his upper chest. “I need a first-aid kit,” she commanded.

Paul gestured vaguely with his right hand. “It’s up there—in the cabinet above the sink,” he said.

“Get it, please,” she said archly. “Hot water too, and cloths.”

Harte winced as another square inch of material tore away from the dried blood at the edge of his wound. He could barely swallow. He needed fluids. Blinking against the haze that seemed to be growing denser every second, he saw that Paul held a highball glass in his hand. “Hand me that drink,” he said.

“This is my Pimm’s and lemonade,” Paul said, glancing at Harte, then at Dani. “That’s the last of the ice.” With a shrug, he handed it to Harte.

The glass was about half-full and dripping with condensation. There were three tiny, melting ice cubes floating in it. When Harte wrapped his fingers around it, a chill slid through him. He turned it up and drank. The cool liquid burned his throat as rivulets of water dripped down his chin and neck. He shivered.

By the time he’d drained the glass and wiped his face with his wet hand, Paul had set a plastic box and a couple of kitchen towels on the table and was running water into a bowl. Dani grabbed scissors from the first-aid kit and started cutting Harte’s shirtsleeve off. “He needs more water,” she said.

Paul picked up the glass and went to the sink.

“Just wrap it—stop the bleeding,” Harte protested. “Paul, give me your car keys. We’ve got to get to a police station.”

“Harte, for crying out loud,” Paul snapped as he set the glass down in front of Harte. “Don’t you think if I could move my car we’d be in Biloxi—or Jackson—right now?”

“Why can’t you?” he asked.

“A branch fell right across the driveway.”

Harte took a drink of water. “How big is it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dani snapped. “
You
won’t be moving it.” She dipped a towel in the tepid water, then laid it like a compress over his wound. The little bit of heat felt wonderful and awful at the same time. He groaned.

Dani spoke as she pressed the compress tightly against his shoulder. “So, how big is the branch?” she asked Paul. “Could you and I move it?”

Paul’s eyes widened. “Certainly not. It’s huge—more of a tree than a branch.”

At that instant, Harte saw movement in the dim candlelight of the dining room. “Who’s there?” he demanded. Asking the question seemed to use up all his air.

Dani shot up from her chair and pulled the gun out of her purse. He heard the safety click.

“What are you doing?” Paul cried. “Put that gun away. Myron, you might as well come out. Harte, you’ve met Senator Stamps,” he said. “We were having a business discussion over dinner when the storm hit.”

Myron Stamps stepped out of the shadows and into the flickering circle of candlelight.

“Stamps?” Harte almost laughed at the irony. “Where’s your car?”

Senator Stamps shrugged. “Behind Paul’s in his driveway. You wouldn’t get very far, even if you had a car,” he said. “There are trees and billboards and who knows what other debris all over the streets. It’s awful. Our city isn’t ready for more destruction and tragedy.”