Santa's Subpoena Page 10

  “No,” he said, reaching for his door handle.

  “Who’s Gutter?” I asked, taking advantage of his lowered inhibitions.

  He paused in shuffling out of the SUV. “Bucky Gutenfold. Guy’s a loan shark over in Spokane. They call him Gutter not because of his last name but because he likes to leave people in gutters if they don’t pay him.”

  I grimaced. Hopefully I’d never meet Gutter. “I take it Hoyt owed him money?”

  “That was the rumor, but he should be able to pay Gutter off now that he has that inheritance, even though Florence got a bunch of it. From what I heard, Hoyt got enough to get clear. Well, probably.” Bernie snaked out of the car, planted his boots on the snow, and instantly went down.

  I sighed and stepped out of the vehicle, holding onto the freezing metal of the hood to make my way over the icy ground to the other side. The wind pierced through my jacket and straight past my muscles, freezing whatever that stuff was inside my bones. My hands hurt, and my legs shook, but I kept going until I could reach him.

  Bernie just lay in the snow, the car door open next to him, looking up at the thick clouds and dark night. Snow fell all over him, but he didn’t wipe it off his face. Instead, he just emitted a deep-throated hiccup.

  I reached him, shut the door, and planted my hands beneath his shoulders. “Get up. You’ll freeze to death out here.”

  “Who cares?” he mumbled, his scuffed black boots kicking against a clump of dirty ice that looked like it had dropped from nowhere. “I’ll just stay here and freeze. I’m Santa. That’s how Santa is supposed to go.”

  Oh, for goodness’ sake. “You’re not going anywhere.” I tried to pull him up, but my boots slid on the ice, and I landed on my butt with a hard oof. Pain ticked up my spine, attacking each vertebra systematically to my neck. I released him. That was it. Just plain and simply it. “What about the threesome with Thelma and Georgiana?”

  He rolled over onto his stomach, settled his elbows in the snow, and shoved himself up to his knees. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d been reduced to pimping out my friends. Clamping my freezing hand on the top of the iced over front tire, I pushed myself to my feet. My head hurt, my ass ached, and my temper was trying to warm my chilled body. “If you don’t go inside right now, I’ll tell them you decided you couldn’t handle them both.” Now I was just making crap up.

  He scrambled to stand, slipping and falling several times until finally making it, holding the door handle for balance. “Let’s go there now.”

  I looked over his dirty and snowy form. “You can’t visit two ladies looking like that.”

  He brushed ice off his nose. “That’s a good point.” Then he swayed and caught himself with his other hand flat against my window. Snow slid down into his sleeve. He shook it out and fell on his butt, right onto the ice he’d been kicking. He howled.

  I picked carefully toward him and slung my arm through his. “Come on. We’ll get there together.” With that, I pulled.

  He stood, wavered, and then centered himself. We slid together toward the broken railing.

  An engine gunned down the road. We both turned to see a lifted red truck, dented and rusted, zoom down the street way too fast for the icy conditions.

  “Damn kids,” he muttered, shaking his head and losing his hat. “Think they’re selling meth, too.”

  I leaned over to fetch his hat just as a pattering ripped through the snowy night. Yelping, I grabbed his shoulders and yanked him down, knowing that sound. Knowing it all too well. He landed on top of me, his fur smothering me.

  Bullets pinged the snow and ice all around us, impacting the metal railing and cracking it in several pieces. The shards flew toward us, and a piece cut into my forehead. I screamed and twisted my head, trying to breathe beneath the fur.

  The truck careened down the street and took a corner too fast, hitting a tree and then punching forward.

  I shoved Bernie off me and scrambled back to my car, yanking my purse through his door and pulling my gun free. Panic heated my breath and spiraled through the frigid air. Then I crouched with my shoulders to the vehicle, my heart racing. Were they coming back? How many had been in the truck? I thought maybe two people, but I wasn’t sure. “Get over here,” I hissed.

  He rolled my way, leaving a Santa-sized indent in the scattered snow. Then he sat up, his expression dazed. Finally, he looked down at his chest. “Whoa. I got shot.” His eyelids fluttered shut, and he passed out, his head clunking soundly on my car.

  Crap. I scraped my boots along the ice, using my shoulders on the car for balance. “Bernie?” I shouted, fighting the snow to get to him. Panic heated me, blurring my vision. “You’re okay. Tell me you’re okay.” My lungs burned and my throat hurt. Holding my gun in my right hand, I leaned down and felt for his pulse. Weak. My hands were starting to go numb, but I reached for my phone and punched in 9-1-1, my senses reeling. I reported the shooting, crying and coughing, giving our location.

  The red truck barreled around the same corner and clipped a different tree before spinning onto Nineteenth Street. I dropped the phone in the snow and then knelt to peer over the hood of the car.

  The driver’s window was open. A ski mask was pulled over the driver’s face, and black swimming goggles concealed his eyes. His left hand controlled the steering wheel while his right crossed over, gun in hand. I lifted my gun, and it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. My fingers slipping, I squeezed the trigger, aiming for his face. My bullets hit the side of the truck. Then I ducked down, trying to shield Bernie with my body. He coughed, and blood gurgled through his lips, sliding along my neck.

  Bullets impacted my SUV and a window shattered. Something hissed. I tried to protect both of our heads, my hands clamped against his snow-covered hair.

  The truck burst down Nineteenth Street, jerking a right on Albert Avenue.

  Sirens trilled in the distance.

  “Bernie?” I couldn’t feel my hands, but I leaned down, trying to see if he was breathing. His blood darkened the already red Santa coat, seeping into the white fur. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” While my body had frozen, my head spun, and my heart rammed wildly against my ribcage. Fear fuzzed the moment while snow billowed all around us. “Bernie?” I leaned down and placed my hands over the blood, trying to find the wound. “Hold on. Just hold on.” Where were they?

  Red and blue spun through the billowing snow as police cars slid to rapid stops. I recognized Bud Orlov the second he leaped out of his car. Bud was a solid bear of a man with blond hair, black eyes, and seriously wide shoulders. He’d provided cover for me before, and I’d gotten him shot.

  He was the first to reach me, his gun in his hands. He was wisely wearing gloves. “Shooter?”

  My nose ran, and I wiped it on my sleeve, getting ice on my face. “Red truck, lifted, no plates. I think just one shooter, wearing a mask. No plates,” I repeated. “I didn’t see plates.” Were there plates? I’d looked, right? “Yeah. No plates.”

  The ambulance screeched to a stop and slid several feet, nudging a patrol car. Then the paramedics were out and taking care of Bernie.

  Bud holstered his weapon and set his hand beneath my elbow, lifting me to my feet. “You hurt?”

  I looked down at the snow, ice, and blood covering me. There was a fair amount of dirty gravel as well. “I don’t think so?” The world morphed in and out, narrowing from the edges. I gulped, and Bud’s face wavered before splitting into two distinct parts.

  I’m pretty sure he caught me before I hit the ground.

  Chapter 15

  I had just finished giving Detective Pierce my report when Aiden burst into the examination room. His gaze swept me head to toe. His expression was ATF agent hard, meaning he had no expression, but those blue eyes sizzled. “You hurt?”

  I gingerly touched the bandage on my head. “No. Maybe a slight concussion, and I’m freezing.” I’d huddled beneath several warm blankets, and I’
d checked out okay for frostbite, but I couldn’t get warm.

  Aiden turned to Pierce. “Suspects?”

  “Not yet,” Pierce said, still leaning against the wall.

  Aiden’s temper swelled through the room, heating every inch. “Any idea if Anna was the target?”

  Pierce cut me a look, his green eyes as pissed as Aiden’s. “Not yet. I’d say it’s fifty-fifty between Anna and Bernie, considering he’s caught up in a murder investigation right now, and she’s, well, Anna.”

  I frowned but didn’t have the energy to berate him for the comment. I still couldn’t feel my feet, although the heated slippers the nurse had put on me would soon help, I was sure.

  Dr. Springfield walked inside the room, scanning through a tablet in his hands. He’d let his white beard grow for the holidays, while his hair had always been a little shaggy. He looked me over. “Your MRI came back fine. You might have a small concussion, but the rest of you checks out. Keep an eye on it, and if you get dizzy or nauseated, come back in.”

  I clutched the heated blanket with my still shaking hands. “How is Bernie?”

  Springfield set the tablet aside and walked toward me, looking more like Santa than anybody I’d ever seen. “Bernie is out of surgery and is going to be okay. The bullet went through the upper part of his shoulder, and we had to stitch him up. His blood had too much alcohol in it, so we had to be careful.” Sorrow filled his eyes. “Let me take a quick look at the stitches.” He dragged on blue gloves and gently removed my bandage. “Ah. That’s a nice job. The new doctor is working out well.” He replaced the bandage.

  I swallowed. “You’re in the Kringle Club. I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

  He patted my shoulder, his touch light. “How about we speak when you aren’t in a hospital bed?”

  Aiden and Pierce nodded in unison, short quick lifts of their chins. Tough guy nods.

  I could feel Aiden’s tension from across the room, and my heartbeat quickened in response. My legs shifted restlessly beneath the blankets. He looked perfectly calm to anybody who didn’t know him.

  I knew him well. He was three steps away from losing his temper, and if there had been somebody around to hit, he would’ve already put them flat on the ground.

  I wished the shooter was present because I’d love to see Aiden kick his ass.

  Pierce ruffled his hair with his hand. “You’re sure you didn’t hit the shooter when you fired?”

  “I’m not sure.” My eyelids started to feel heavy. “I think I just hit the truck, but I can’t guarantee it.”

  Pierce looked at Aiden. “We have all hospitals, doctor offices, and vets in the area on alert just in case.”

  Aiden didn’t twitch.

  A ruckus sounded outside in the hall. “Oh my. Bernie? Where’s my Bernie?” Florence ran into the room, her hair in curlers, a man’s overcoat covering what looked like a long flannel nightgown. “Anna. Oh, my.” Her boots slipped on the now wet floor, and Aiden caught her arm before she could fall. She centered herself and walked carefully toward me, a thick white night-time lotion over her pasty face. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. It took me a moment to figure out what was off with her face. She didn’t have any eyebrows. Oh. She must draw them on. She was good at it because I hadn’t even noticed the other day. “I am, and Bernie is out of surgery and will be fine.” My voice was still hoarse.

  She dropped into the one guest chair, and some of the dried white lotion on her face flaked off. “I was so scared.” Her voice shook, and she looked older than she had the other day. “Who shot at you? Was it Hoyt?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “The man wore a ski mask.”

  Pierce zeroed in on her. “Do you have any reason to believe Hoyt would shoot at Bernie?”

  Florence’s hands fluttered together on the olive-drab overcoat. “Nothing concrete. It’s just that Hoyt was so angry after the reading of the will, and he said he thinks Bernie and I killed Lawrence.” Tears filled her eyes, turning the lotion right beneath her lower lashes to paste.

  “Did you?” Pierce asked

  Florence’s body jerked. “No. Of course not.”

  It took me a second to remember that I represented her, but my brain was still fuzzy.

  Pierce angled his body so he could better see her expression. “Who do you think killed Lawrence?”

  Florence turned to look at him, her shoulders shaking. “You already interviewed me, Detective Pierce. I’m going to tell you right now, just like I did then, that I can’t imagine anybody wanting Lawrence dead. He was a kind man.”

  Pierce scratched his chin. “Was he? You know he left a substantial sum in his will to Sharon Smith, right?”

  “Yes,” Florence said, pivoting to face me. “But we don’t know who she is or how Lawrence knew her.”

  I hadn’t had a chance to speak with Florence yet about Sharon, and apparently neither had Bernie. “Pierce? That’s enough.”

  Pierce was a decent man and a phenomenal detective. “Sharon Smith is the woman who slept with Bernie McLintock when you were married to him. She is the reason your marriage broke up.” He watched her carefully.

  I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Florence paled even further. She frowned, and more of the white lotion flaked off. “What?” Her voice shook.

  “Pierce,” I snapped, putting as much bite into my voice as my exhaustion would allow. “Leave my client alone. Now.”

  He apparently had gotten what he’d wanted, so he nodded and then exited the room.

  Florence’s eyes filled with more tears. “I don’t understand.”

  Neither did I, but I was going to figure it out. No matter what.

  Aiden sighed from over by the doorway.

  I awoke from a dead sleep, my skin prickling and my breath stilling. Quiet pounded through my cottage. Heat seeped into me from the hard male body hogging my bed. I breathed out, forcing my lungs to start working again. Aiden slept quietly on his stomach, his head turned the other way, one arm beneath his pillow.

  My head hurt.

  Holding my breath again, I slowly lifted the covers and slid out, my feet touching the cold floor. I was wearing one of Aiden’s T-shirts that reached almost to my knees, but my legs were bare and the world cold.

  Even so, I padded quietly out of the bedroom and shut the door, wandering to my sofa to stare at the Christmas lights twinkling on my tree. I liked to leave them on at night and most of the day, wondering why we didn’t have sparkling lights all year long. I sat and reached for the hand-knitted blanket that my Nana had given me last year. It was white and green with Celtic knots strewn throughout, and I snuggled deep into it, holding the soft material up to my neck.

  Tears filled my eyes and I batted them away.

  It was late morning outside, and I tried to match my mood to a sleepy wintery day.

  My blood snapped and cracked through my veins, my heart racing and little beads of sweat popping onto my forehead. It wasn’t my first panic attack, and it wouldn’t be my last. Even so, each time I wondered if I was having a heart attack. My chest did hurt. And my left arm ached. Of course, my right arm hurt as well. I’d tightened so hard that all of my muscles ached.

  My head thrummed and I tried to breathe. My lungs compressed, not filling at the bottom. Only barely filling at the top. The panic strengthened, and I gasped, my fingers curling into the throw blanket.

  “Angel,” Aiden said drowsily from behind me.

  I yelped and then stopped breathing completely, my arms floundering.

  He said something sharp in Gaelic and rounded the sofa, lifting me and sitting back down. “I’ve got you.” He wore only boxer briefs, and his skin was both scarred and warm. Heated, even. He cradled me on his lap, pulling the blanket up to my chin. “You’re safe. Now shut your eyes.”

  I did what he said, letting him take my weight.

  “Good. Now I want you to slowly breathe in, not worrying about your lungs. They’ll fill. You can breathe.�
� He spoke softly, his breath brushing my hair. “Now, Anna.”

  I opened my mouth and tried to take a breath.

  “Good. Now through your nose,” he said quietly.

  I closed my mouth, and my heartbeat pounded through my ears. Then I breathed in through my nose, and my lungs filled. All the way.

  “Hold for a second and then let it out of your mouth.” His grip remained firm but not constraining.

  I did so, following his instructions for several moments. My heart rate slowed down and the buzzing dissipated. I swallowed, my face against his chest, embarrassment heating my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

  His chest contracted. He took a moment and then shifted his weight, placing a knuckle under my chin and lifting my face so I could meet his gaze. “Sorry for what?”

  I floundered. Heat still burned my earlobes. “I, well, I don’t know.”

  He smoothed my hair back from my face, his touch gentle. “Why do you have to be so tough all the time?”

  It was probably a question I should ponder with my shrink, Cousin Wanda. “I don’t,” I said, my voice weak.

  “Yeah, you do.” In the semi-darkness, his eyes were an animalistic blue. Deep and sharp. But his voice was soft and his body comforting around me. “You were just shot at and had to return fire. The guy with you took one. Yet you act like it’s a normal day and you don’t need anything. That you don’t need anybody.”

  I’d just proven otherwise. “I need you.”

  Surprise lifted his brows.

  I shifted uncomfortably for a minute, my panties on his bare legs. “I needed you before when we were young, and you had to leave.” Before he could answer, I held up a hand. “I know that wasn’t your fault.” He’d been eighteen. I’d been twelve and thought the world bowed to him, and he’d gotten in trouble and had to leave town. We’d been friends, and I’d missed him. More than I’d realized.

  “Are you afraid I’m leaving again?” he whispered.

  I was. I hadn’t realized it until just that second, but the idea terrified me. My world was complete when he was with me. When he wasn’t, I was off. Was this how everyone felt when they really cared about somebody? I didn’t know. This was new. “I guess I am,” I admitted. “It’s possible your job will take you somewhere else for good.” I could move as well, but then I’d be leaving my entire family. For Aiden, I’d do it. That scared the hell out of me, too.