“But...I’m alive,” she said.
“Yes, you’re alive, and we’re keeping an officer in the hospital, so you’ll stay alive. I’ve given orders that no one else be told that you’re awake,” Sloan explained. He squeezed her hand. “Jennie, you’re going to be okay.”
She nodded. “I love that theater, Sloan. I was never an actress. But I love working with the actors. I love fixing the costumes, fixing the props.”
“That brings me to another question, Jennie. Henri told me you loaded the guns for the annual duel.”
“I did. With blanks.”
“One of the guns had live ammunition, Jennie.”
“Sloan, I did not load a gun with live ammunition. I don’t even have live ammunition!” she said indignantly.
“When did you load the guns and where did you leave them?”
“I always prepare for every day’s performance the night before,” she told him. “It might have been an hour or so before I went down to the basement.”
“Where did you leave the guns?”
“On the prop table. It’s backstage left, in one of the theater wings. Even if we—or the actors—are performing outside, we stick to protocol with the props and costumes.”
The prop table. Not helpful. Anyone could’ve gotten to them. But no, that wasn’t really true; it had to be someone who could move through the theater unnoticed. The cast and crew had been working outside most of the day, but they certainly went in and out. The housekeeping staff went in—and anyone might duck their head in. But only someone who knew the theater would know where to look for the props.
“Sloan, I would never, ever hurt an actor! Please, you have to believe me,” Jennie begged.
He squeezed her hand reassuringly.
Maybe Jennie wouldn’t, but someone would.
He stood. “Jennie, anything you can think of, please call me.”
“It was the clown, Sloan. I’m telling you. It was the clown.”
“Thanks, Jennie. Now rest. Get better,” he said, and left.
He reiterated to the staff and the officer on duty that he didn’t want anyone else knowing that Jennie was conscious. He checked in on Jimmy and Zoe Hough, but both were soundly asleep. The resident told Sloan that the Houghs were both doing fine and could be released; Sloan asked that they be kept at least one more night, giving him time to talk to Newsome about arrangements for their protection.
He finally walked out of the hospital and headed for his car. The moon was high, the landscape glowing with its silvery light. But as he drove out, the desert seemed cast in shadow and mystery. The sand, he knew, hid many secrets of the past. Not some of humanity’s finer moments, he thought drily. Moments of brutality and bloodshed.
He was eager to get back to town.
*
The show had let out when Jane returned downstairs from her room at the Gilded Lily, her bag stuffed with an oversize T-shirt for the night and the few toiletries she’d need.
She hadn’t heard from Sloan yet, and she knew Kelsey and Logan would remain at the theater, alert to all possibilities, so she called Logan and told him she was going over to the Old Jail. He gave her his customary admonition to be careful; she promised she would be.
One of Mike Addison’s night managers was on duty when she entered the Old Jail. He greeted her cheerfully, but she felt she was being watched. She wondered if Mike had warned that the “agent” who had rented Trey Hardy’s cell had already caused trouble.
There were Do Not Disturb signs on the other cell doors she passed; she was obviously the last one in for the night. Turning her key in the door, she stepped in, then sat on the bed. “I’m here. I wish you’d talk to me. I wish I could understand what you want me to know.”
There was no response. She stood, brushed her teeth and prepared for bed. She left only the small night-light on in the bathroom and lay down in the bed. Everything was quiet. She waited. Lack of sleep took its toll and she dozed off long before she intended.
She became aware of a weight settling by her side. Half-asleep, she assumed that Sloan had returned from the hospital and decided to join her. When she rolled over to touch him, she felt as though she’d slipped her hand into something thick and icy, and she jolted awake, barely managing to suppress a scream.
He was back. Trey Hardy.
He was at her side. He watched her gravely for a minute.
“I see you,” she told him. “I see you clearly.”
He reached out a hand, as if he wanted to stroke her face. She felt the sensation of something there—and not there. But the room was dark, and he suddenly seemed as solid as any breathing, living human being. He got up, waiting for her. She did the same. He walked back into the bathroom.
“Please!” she whispered urgently. “Don’t bang the walls!”