Star Witness

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.”

Dani was wrapping gauze around a makeshift compress she’d placed against the wound in Harte’s shoulder. She paused and turned to look at the senator.

“Really?” she said archly as she ripped the gauze off the roll. “You’re practicing sound bites for a new campaign already?”

“Young woman,” Paul said. “I don’t know who you are, but you are out of line—”

Dani broke in. “You don’t know who I am?”

Harte grunted as she tied the loose ends of the gauze.

She stood. “Well, let me introduce myself. I’m Danielle Canto. I know he knows me,” she added, indicating Stamps.

Paul turned his gaze full on her for the first time. “Oh,” he said. “You’re Freeman Canto’s granddaughter?” He took a pair of glasses from the pocket of his lounging jacket and peered through them without putting them on. “Oh yes, I recognize you now.” He turned to Harte. “I’d heard you were handling Freeman Canto’s murder, but, Harte, what has this person gotten you into?”

“Hey!” Dani took two steps to plant her feet directly in front of him. She stared up at him, her chin thrust out. “How dare you! I’m the person who heard my grandfather’s murderers threaten him using your name—” She pointed a finger at him, then at Stamps. “And yours.”

“Dani!” Harte cried, forcing himself to his feet and grabbing her arm as his cousin’s face went deathly pale and Stamps made a growling sound deep in his throat. He knew why she was so upset, and he couldn’t blame her, but he had no idea what Paul or Stamps would do, and he was too weak to defend her if her accusations made them violent.

Dani whirled.

Paul cried, “Oh—no, no, no. I had nothing to do with all that. It was all between Yeoman and Myr—”

“Shut up!” Stamps yelled, lunging at Paul.

Paul screeched and hopped aside as Stamps, with too much forward motion to check himself, barreled into Harte, then stumbled over him and plowed into the side of the stainless-steel refrigerator.

Harte fell on his left shoulder. He felt gauze and tape tear. Blood, hot and wet, immediately soaked the bandage. Cold sweat popped out on his forehead and trickled down into his eyes. He blindly struggled up into a crouch, but nausea enveloped him and he wasn’t sure he could stay upright. As the red haze of pain faded from his eyes, a black halo started closing in around the edges of his vision.

Just then a deafening crash thundered through the house. Paul yelped as the front door shattered.

Men spilled through the opening, kicking splinters and planks of wood aside. The flickering light from the candles and the fire reflected redly off the metal of their guns.

A deep voice shouted, “You! Go around!”

“Dani, watch out!” Harte yelled. He grabbed the edge of the kitchen table and tried to lift it. Dani immediately saw what he was doing and ran to help him. The two of them upended the table with a bang. He crouched behind it. Dani threw herself down beside him.

“What’s going on?” Paul cried from behind the corner wall that opened onto the dining room. “Do something!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harte saw Stamps open the refrigerator door and hide behind it. Beside Harte, Dani pulled out her gun.

“Give it to me,” he said.

Dani gave Harte a sidelong glance. He was pale and his lips were pinched and white at the corners. He looked as if he would pass out any second. “Not a chance,” she snapped. “You’re wounded. Switch sides with me.”

“Dani—”

“Do it!” she hissed, and crawled behind him. “Move, Harte! I mean it. And stay down.”

She saw the irritation and resignation in his eyes as he acquiesced. It hurt him that she wouldn’t let him protect her, she knew, but she didn’t have time to argue or persuade. He was wounded and too weak to handle the gun, and she had to be able to aim and shoot with her right hand.

She clicked off the safety and sat up and held her gun in her right hand, steadied by her left. Carefully, she eased her head up enough to get a glimpse of the men. She needed to see their positions and, if possible, get a look at their armament.

There were two of them casting about blindly, working to get their bearings in the dark living room after being outside in the brightness of the rising sun. The one on the left was the brute who’d grabbed her. She could tell by his size and the tan raincoat. She aimed low and fired. He yelped and went down.

She ducked back behind the table.

“Paul!” Harte yelled. “Get out the back and go for help!”

“What?” Paul’s mouth fell open. “Me?”

“Hurry!” Dani snapped. “One of them is going around the back.”

“I can’t!” Paul gasped.

“Watch out,” Dani cried. “Duck!”

Sure enough, a firestorm of bullets peppered the walls, the tabletop and the stainless-steel refrigerator.

Paul cowered farther into the corner. With a moue of disgust for the man, she popped up again and fired off four quick bursts.

“Damn,” she whispered. She could tell from the weight of the weapon that the magazine was almost empty. Why hadn’t she counted how many times Harte had fired it? She slung her purse off over her head. “Get my other clip!” she told Harte.

She fired again, and again the men responded with a burst of pistol fire. As the noise from the explosions faded, she thought she heard police sirens. She exchanged a quick glance with Harte.

He handed her the fresh clip. When she took it, she felt the sticky slickness of blood on it.

Harte’s blood. Her pulse pounded in her throat as she ejected the nearly empty magazine and inserted the new one, then braced herself to rise and fire again. If she didn’t keep up a barrage of bullets, the men would rush them and kill them. She’d hit the brute who’d grabbed her the night before, but she wasn’t sure she’d hurt him.

She glanced behind her. Paul was still tucked into the corner and Stamps was still behind the refrigerator door. She didn’t see a back door. She’d just have to deal with the third guy when he showed up.

As she turned back to shoot another round at the men in front of them, a gun fired behind her. She jerked in surprise. Before she could distinguish where exactly the shot had come from, Paul let out a tortured cry and fell to the floor.

She turned her head, preparing to whirl and take out the shooter, but Harte yelled, “Got him!”

“No! Harte!” she cried, but it was too late. He had vaulted up. She heard a thud and two grunts and knew he’d connected with the shooter.

Don’t you dare get killed after all we’ve been through, she thought desperately as one of the men in front of them angled around the French doors and fired directly at her. She ducked behind the table, heard the bullet zing past her ear, then rose and shot several rounds at the open doors.

A startled cry told her that one of her bullets had found its mark. Suddenly, the staccato yelp of police sirens sounded, deafeningly loud, and a bullhorn roared.

They heard a voice, accompanied by more short bursts of the siren. “Police! Drop your weapons! Drop them! Now!”

Dani rose slowly, her gun at the ready, and pointed toward the two men. The man in the tan raincoat, the goon who had grabbed her in the alley, was on his knees. He dropped his weapon and leaned a hand against the wall. His pant leg was soaked with blood.

The second man stood, feet splayed apart, his gun aimed directly at her. Blood dripped from his left hand. She straightened, her barrel pointed right at the space between his eyes.

“Drop it,” she growled, just as two uniformed policemen appeared at the front door.

“Drop it!” they shouted in unison. “Now!” One officer advanced as the other continued to shout.

“Drop it and hit the floor,” the advancing officer yelled. “Do it or I’ll shoot.”

The first officer stepped past the brute and kicked his gun at least four feet across the living room floor. He stopped just out of arm’s reach of the man who was still aiming at Dani. “Drop it or you’re a dead man,” he said.

The shooter jerked, startled that the officer was so close to him. He let the gun dangle by the handle from his hand. The officer grabbed his arm. The gun hit the floor and the officer slammed the man against the wall and cuffed him.

Dani gasped for air. Had she been holding her breath or had fear sucked all the oxygen from her lungs?

At that instant, a tall man with blazing blue eyes and an NOPD badge pinned to the waistband of his jeans stepped into the room, breathing hard. “Where’s Harte?” he demanded.

Dani was wondering the same thing. She turned around and what she saw shocked her. Harte was on the floor, holding someone in a half nelson. That someone was grunting and snuffling like a pig headed to slaughter. To her surprise, she realized it was Myron Stamps.

“Lucas,” Harte wheezed as he let go of Stamps. His pale face and labored breathing told her there was something terribly wrong.

The detective stepped past Paul, who was writhing on the floor whimpering, and grabbed hold of Stamps’s collar.

“Gun!” Harte rasped.

The detective dropped the man like a hot potato and put his foot on his neck. “Don’t move,” he barked. Bending, he wrenched the gun from Stamps’s hand.

As he cuffed the senator, he glanced at Harte. “How you doing, kid?” he said.

“He’s shot,” Dani cried. “He’s bleeding.” She crawled toward him on her knees.

From the corner of the kitchen came a whining voice. “Lucas, help me. I’m shot too,” Paul squealed. “I think it’s serious.”

Lucas. The detective was Harte’s older brother. “How’d you find us?” she asked.

Lucas knelt next to Harte. “Got your messages and went to the drugstore. Then I heard gunshots. I called for the closest police cruiser.”

“Thank goodness you got here,” Dani said as more sirens filled the air.

Lucas jerked his head in the direction of the sound. “That’s the EMTs,” he said shortly. “I was afraid they wouldn’t be able to get through. Kid? How’d you get yourself shot?”

“I’m okay,” Harte said weakly, lifting his head. “Just my shoulder.”

Dani crawled over to him and cradled his head. “It’s not his shoulder. It’s his chest. See?” She showed Lucas the bandage. “He’s lost so much blood.”

Harte shook his head. Then it hit her. Lucas was his oldest brother. He was the one Harte had told her gave him such a hard time for becoming a prosecutor instead of a cop. Harte didn’t want to look weak in front of him.

No danger of that, she thought. He’d taken care of her, saved her more times than she could count and fought off the men who were trying to capture her or, worse, kill her. Even after taking a bullet in the chest, he’d still fought to keep her safe.

She looked up at Lucas, who met her gaze. She saw in his expressive face that he was thinking the same thing. Then he leaned over his younger brother. “Somebody get those EMTs in here now! My brother’s been shot.”

Harte lifted his head. “Paul’s wounded,” he gasped, “and Dani took down at least one of the shooters.”

“Yeah,” Lucas said, frowning. Then he added louder, “Get the damned EMTs!”