Troublemaker Read online

  CHAPTER 18

  SHE STEPPED OUT INTO THE BRIGHT SPRING DAY WITH Morgan close behind her, Tricks’s leash in his hand. Tricks had lapped up some water, then refused to let Bo leave the hardware store without her, as if she knew how upset Bo was.

  Once again, because of Kyle Gooding, she heard the sirens of multiple patrol cars and medics racing to Hamrickville. This time there wouldn’t be any dropping of charges, at least not on her part. She intended to nail him with every possible charge and let the district attorney sort it out.

  The street was clogged with people milling around, and the parade floats were blocking traffic in every direction. The VFW guys and the Shriners were trying to clear the street by moving the floats out of the way, which met with some difficulty because in several cases the men who had been driving the tractors had left their vehicles to go see what was going on. But the front end of the parade was beginning to move, so the clearing out had started.

  There was a concentrated group around the end of the float where Kyle was, and another one across the street, presumably where the gunshot victim was. With Morgan and Tricks beside her, she started across. She didn’t want to see Kyle’s face now because if she did she might snap. Not only that, she didn’t care if the son of a bitch died.

  She waded into the crowd, aided by Morgan’s strong arm reaching out ahead of her and moving people aside. Some people glanced at her and said, “Sorry, Chief,” as they moved. Some of them glanced at Morgan, then their eyes widened and they muttered, “Sorry,” as they too moved away. She didn’t have to imagine what his eyes looked like because she’d seen that lethal iciness before. She didn’t know if she actually needed his interference, but she was glad to have it.

  A man was lying on the ground, his face and shirt a bloody mess. Several people were kneeling beside him, and one woman was pressing some cloth to his head. The man’s eyes were open and he was talking, which was good.

  She did what she knew to do: she moved the crowd back, she crouched down and got the man’s name—Jeff Simmons. She didn’t know him, but his wife, the woman who was holding the cloth to his head, looked familiar. In short order, she discovered that Mrs. Simmons was a teacher at the local school, which explained her familiarity.

  Mrs. Simmons was holding it together and began giving Bo a coherent statement, but then she lifted the soaked cloth, and her husband’s head wound immediately started pouring blood again. She made an inarticulate sound of distress and burst into tears.

  “Let me take over,” Morgan said, crouching down beside the wife and angling his body between Tricks and the wounded man. “I have some medic training.” He slapped the bloody cloth back over the wound and in about thirty seconds had commandeered someone’s tank top to cover that, which he held in place with someone else’s tie. Who had worn a tie to a parade?

  Bo shoved the errant thought aside and concentrated on the task of getting a statement. Mr. Simmons was remarkably calm. “I don’t think I’m shot,” he said. “I mean, we all heard the shot, but there was a kind of sharp ping, then something hit my head.”

  Still holding the makeshift bandage firmly in place, Morgan looked around. “Were you standing beside that light pole?”

  “Yeah,” Mr. Simmons affirmed.

  “I think the bullet hit the pole and a big splinter of wood tagged you in the head. Maybe not. The bullet could have ricocheted and grazed you. Either way, this isn’t a penetrating wound.”

  “Oh, thank the Lord,” sobbed Mrs. Simmons. She wiped her eyes and face, which was a waste of time because she was still crying. Someone passed her a handful of tissues.

  Then the real medics arrived; they’d parked on a side street and run the rest of the way. Bo and Morgan stepped back. Tricks pawed Bo’s leg and whined; the atmosphere was far different from the parade, and she didn’t like it. Either that, or she needed to pee. Looking down at her, Bo broke into a wobbly smile; it was a definite “I need to pee” signal because if a dog could be said to be squirming, Tricks was.

  “You need some time alone with her,” Morgan said, having followed the unspoken communication. “Take her to the side of that building. I need to see about something. Where will you be?”

  “Right here,” she said, stepping up onto the sidewalk. “I figure I should stay far away from Kyle.”

  “I’ll be right back. Fifteen minutes, tops.” He hooked his hand around the back of her neck and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, regardless of who might be watching. At this point she didn’t care, and she didn’t think he ever had. All she wanted to do was what had to be done so she could go home.

  Morgan threaded his way through the crowd; Hamrickville wasn’t a big town, but most of the population seemed to be standing in the street. That slowed him down some, but not by much. He had something to take care of, and he wanted to do it now. The look on his face had some of the more perceptive citizens moving out of his path. He could feel the ice settling in his veins, the hyperawareness of all his senses, the way he always reacted when things went to shit and it was fight or die.

  Jesse and Patrick were still at the float, though Kyle Gooding was now sitting on the ground with blood dripping from his nose and chin. Morgan eyed him dispassionately, wishing he’d put more force into slamming the asshole’s head against the pavement. If he had, this would be finished already, so that had been a slight miscalculation on his part.

  Patrick had pulled up his patrol car, easing through the crowd with his blues flashing and occasionally tapping the horn. Morgan waited while they hauled Kyle to his feet and opened the back door of the cruiser, easing him into it even though Morgan suspected they both would have liked to drop-kick him into the seat. Kyle sat sullenly, staring down at his feet.

  Morgan approached Jesse. “I need a private word with the asshole. Okay for me to get in the car?”

  Jesse turned, eyed him, studied his face. “You can’t kill him.”

  “Don’t intend to.” Not yet anyway.

  “You can’t even touch him. I’m not giving him any avenue to get off the hook this time.”

  “Don’t intend to touch him either.”

  “Okay, then.” A faint wintry smile touched Jesse’s face. “I would say record everything on your phone, but I probably don’t need to know. Tap on the window when you want out.” He nodded; Morgan opened the back passenger door on the other side and slid onto the seat beside Gooding. He closed the door with a controlled thud.

  Kyle lifted his bloody face and snarled at him, “Who the fuck are you?”

  I’m your worst nightmare. The line from the movie popped into Morgan’s head, but he resisted the temptation. Looking out the window instead of at Kyle, he said offhandedly, “I’m the man who plans to kill you.”

  “What? Who—?” The words were kind of blubbered thanks to the swelling of Kyle’s mouth, which gave Morgan a great deal of pleasure.

  Now Morgan looked at him and smiled. He knew it wasn’t a pretty smile because Kyle visibly recoiled. “You tried to kill the chief. I happen to be in love with her.” He was distantly astonished at the words coming out of his mouth but went with it anyway. He’d think about it later.

  “Wasn’t trying to kill her,” Kyle mush-mouthed sullenly. “The dog. I was gonna shoot the fucking dog. This was all her fault; if she hadn’t jumped me, I never would have hit her, and my family wouldn’t have made me sign those fucking divorce papers to keep from being arrested. I lost my house, she should lose her dog. Nobody cares about a dog, you can’t even sue for ‘emotional harm,’ or anything like that. I looked it up.”

  “Well, see, that’s the law—but I don’t give a fuck about the law. I happen to be real fond of the dog myself. She’s smarter than you are. Better looking, too.”

  “Fuck the damn dog. You’re threatening me. That’s against the law.” Blood and spittle dripped down Kyle’s chin. “I’ll have you arrested.”

  “Good. I can arrange to be in the same cell with you.” Casually, Morgan looked back out the w