High in Trial

SEVENTEEN

Eight minutes before the shooting





Jeremiah Allen Berman once again admired the wonder of this fine new century into which he had been released: the ease with which people moved to and fro, the determination that allowed them to focus only on themselves and not on what was going on around them. He’d been born for this time. He had.

It had taken him less than an hour to get to the park. No one had stopped him. Why should they? At first he’d worried about how he would transport an assault rifle across an open parking lot and into a pavilion crowded with people, but it turned out to be amazingly simple. This was a dog show. People were carrying all kinds of crazy things—pop-up tents, oversized coolers, foldaway dog houses with air-conditioned fans, roll-up mats, and collapsible canvas chairs. He walked to a vendor’s booth, spent twenty dollars on what looked like a yoga mat printed with dog paws, went back to his car, and concealed his weapon inside. The yoga mat had a shoulder strap. No one looked at him twice as he climbed to the very top of the bleachers and settled the mat between his feet, waiting for a certain woman with a brown ponytail in a golden retriever sweatshirt to arrive.

Last night it’d been dark. The mistake was easy to make. But he had over a dozen pictures of her now, scrolling over and over on the wallpaper of his phone. He knew his target. And by now he was just mad enough to enjoy a little collateral damage.

He was calm; he was ready. He didn’t break a sweat as he saw her cross into the shadow of the pavilion with the yellow dog. A man was walking toward her. Not a problem. Collateral damage. He began to unwrap his weapon from the paw print mat. No one even glanced his way. His hand where the dog had bitten him hurt like a son of a bitch, and his trigger finger was swollen to twice its normal size. That only made him madder. He hoped he’d be able to pick off a few black and white dogs while he was at it.

He slipped down behind the bleacher seat in sniper position. He lifted the rifle, sited his target, and waited for his shot.



* * *



I reached automatically into my pocket for my phone and remembered too late it was tucked inside my day bag, which was secured inside Cisco’s crate, because that was what I always did with my valuables at a trial. The big-shouldered man kept coming toward me, mouth grim, eyes cold. My hand tightened on the leash and I glanced around a little frantically, but where could I go and what would I do when I got there? There were people everywhere, setting up the course, watching from the stands, gathering in groups outside the ring. Surely I was safer here in front of all these witnesses than anywhere else, and besides, what could he possibly do to me? Then I remembered Neil’s knee and one swing of a lead pipe from those powerful arms, and I took an involuntary step backward.

He was upon me.

“Raine Stockton?” he said.

He reached inside his jacket and I drew a breath to scream, but suddenly Cisco gave a happy bark and lunged forward to the end of the leash, sending me stumbling after him. At first I thought my brave dog was protecting me, but then I saw Sarah and Brinkley cross the pavilion toward the practice jump, and Cisco’s gaze was rapt upon them. I burst out, “Damn it, Cisco!” and then I realized the man hadn’t pulled out a gun, but an ID wallet.

He said, “I’m Special Agent Seth Ledbetter, with the State Bureau of Investigation. I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute.”

I stared at him. More importantly, I stared at the badge and the photograph ID inside the wallet. I’d seen enough law enforcement badges to know this one was authentic. Nonetheless, I said, “No, you’re not. You were with Marcie yesterday at the hotel. I saw you.” Cisco barked again and I said sharply, “Cisco, sit!” He complied automatically, but his attention was on the opposite side of the ring and he licked his lips anxiously. I ignored him and looked back at the man opposite me suspiciously. “How did you find me?”

He put away his ID. “I spoke with the detective on the case, who told me you found Marcie Wilbanks’s body. And the gentleman at the hotel, Mr. Young, told me you were here.”

I knew if I checked my messages I’d find one from Miles. Still, I was cautious. “What were you doing with Marcie yesterday?”

An expression of such raw grief and regret crossed his eyes that I knew that whatever he said next would be nothing but the truth. He frowned a little, as though in attempt to hide the emotion, and his lips tightened. “I’ve been trying to bust a loan sharking ring for over a year now, and Marcie—Ms. Wilbanks—offered to help us set a trap. Over time… we probably became closer than we should have. Yesterday… we were within hours of closing in on them, and the stress was getting to her. No one expected her ex to throw a monkey wrench into the plans with the dogs, and she was upset.”

My head was spinning. “Wait a minute. Marcie was working with you? She wasn’t in debt to loan sharks and she wasn’t trying to fix the Standard Cup?”

He said, “It was a setup. We were trying to get the guys to tip their hand by actually extorting money from her. We didn’t count on them going after Kellog, but when they did… we rounded up every one of them within hours.”

My mind was busy trying to rearrange the puzzle pieces that had once fit together so well into an entirely different picture. I wasn’t having much luck. “But I don’t understand. I saw Marcie at dinner last night. I could swear she didn’t know anything about Neil being attacked, and she was as nervous as a cat.”

He nodded. “She knew it was coming to a head this weekend. We both did. But we didn’t learn they’d moved in on Kellog until the police were called after the attack. The hit man still had the bloody tire tool in his car.”

“Tire tool?” I repeated. “Not a lead pipe?” Was it possible Cisco had uncovered nothing of more significance than an old piece of construction debris? I’d been wrong about everything else; it hardly seemed far-fetched that I’d been wrong about this too.

He said, “I called Marcie to let her know it was all over about nine last night, and…” He shifted his gaze away, but not before I saw the jagged scar of pain there. “That was the last time I spoke to her.”

I said slowly, “But… if you arrested everyone who was involved in the scam, who killed Marcie?”

He said, “That’s what I was hoping you could help me figure out.” He gestured toward the bleachers. “Could we sit down? I know you’ve already gone over this with the police, but if you could tell me again everything that happened from the time you got back to the hotel last night until you found her this morning, maybe…”

The ring steward called, “Standard Open! Judge’s briefing in five minutes!”

Everyone started moving, hurrying to crate their dogs, put away their course maps, double-knot their shoelaces, pull back their hair, and reassemble in the ring. I felt a pang of jealousy. I’m ashamed of it, but I really did. One more run…

And then I saw Miles, leaning with one shoulder against the pillar where Cisco’s crate was set up, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his navy windbreaker, Atlanta Braves cap shading his eyes, waiting. How much of his time had been spent waiting for me since we’d met? And how much longer could I reasonably expect him to continue to wait?

I said, “Um, sure. Just a minute, though, okay? I need to put my dog away.”

I said, “Cisco, with me.” And we started toward Miles.

We’d gone less than a dozen steps when the inevitable happened. Brinkley sailed over the practice jump, made a perfect loop to return to Sarah, and Cisco thought it would be a great idea to join him. Completely forgetting about the leash that connected me to him, he spun around and lunged toward the practice jump and his best friend, jerking me completely off course and very nearly off my feet.

That was probably what saved my life, because it was at that very moment that the ground exploded in a pop of dust less than six inches from where I was standing.

People say at first you don’t know what’s happening. I’ve been around gunfire all my life and there was a part of my brain that knew exactly what was happening. And there was a part of my brain that was saying, No, no, not here, it can’t be, while yet another part registered screaming and running and people falling on the ground. Milliseconds, only milliseconds passed while dirt exploded all around me and people fell and dogs barked and legs ran and voices screamed. Agent Ledbetter reached for his gun but spun to the ground before he could draw it. Somewhere close a siren screeched and then another. I heard a name—my name—and suddenly Miles barreled into me, not just pushing me, but throwing me toward the shelter of the bleachers with such force that I thudded into a support post and lost my breath. I lay gasping like a beached whale and everything was in slow motion, slow desperate motion because Cisco was no longer with me. His leash had been torn from my hand and now I could see him standing in the middle of the pavilion looking confused and uncertain, looking for me. Inside, I screamed, Cisco! But I had no breath to make words. Miles pushed away from me and rushed toward Cisco.

He went down in a rain of gunfire, and that was when I found the breath to scream, “Noooo!”

But it was too late.



~*~