Gilt

by JL Wilson

  Dan leaned against the side of the car. "About twenty minutes ago. Come on. The ambulance guys want to talk to you."

  "I'm okay."

  "Your shoulder is all bloody."

  I peered at my left shoulder. "Well, damn. It is. What's that from?" I tried shrugging but a blinding pain made me gasp. "I wasn't shot, was I?"

  "Shrubbery."

  I looked to my left at the man who spoke. Police Chief McCord was tall and lean with an angular face, flat nose and the high cheekbones of the Ojibwe tribe, not uncommon for this part of Minnesota. His white hair made him appear older than he probably was, although with his Indian heritage it was hard to guess accurately.

  "Say what?" I asked.

  "Looks like you were stabbed by a branch. That was a good shot you made."

  I grimaced. "I wasn't aiming at the guy. I guess I can't hit the broad side of a barn."

  McCord's face creased briefly with a smile, dimples flashing at the sides of his mouth. It softened his face amazingly, making him appear mischievous. "Lucky thing for everybody you can't. You need to be checked by the EMTs before you can go. We'll need a statement from you tomorrow at the station." He stepped away from the car and strode off, talking to a uniformed officer who approached him.

  "It's probably not necessary. The EMT thing, that is," I said, talking to his back.

  Dan put a hand under my elbow. "It probably is."

  I tried to stand but my legs didn't want to cooperate. I tried again and with Dan's help, I managed to wobble toward the ambulance parked near Portia's kitchen door. "What happened? Is Amy okay? Are you in trouble?"

  "Everyone is fine," he said. "Amy and Candace aren't hurt, Michael Bennington is in custody, and Jack will be busy for a week with all the paperwork. And no, I'm not in trouble. I was deputized, remember? I'll be investigated but I'm sure it will be found that I acted in defense of myself and others."

  "But--Michael, in jail? Where's Amy? Who poisoned Aunt Portia? How come--why--who--where--?"

  "I'll give you the short version. I'm sure more details will be coming." He paused, which effectively paused me as well, about ten feet from the ambulance. "It was all about revenge. Four years ago, Jack killed Amy's son and he killed Nesbitt's son in a raid."

  "But he was set up," I said. "You said that a rival person in that gang set up Mark and that other guy so Jack would kill them."

  "Nesbitt lost his son and that's all that mattered to him. He was thrown in prison around that time. He wanted revenge, and for a while, he had it. Jack was demoted. He and Amy separated. Jack's life fell apart." Dan glanced toward the barn. "But Jack wanted revenge, too."

  "And he got it," I said, a tiny bit of memory falling into place."You said he almost broke up the gang."

  "Yeah. He killed Nesbitt's brother. But Jack didn't have a brother." Dan stared at me. "Amy did."

  "But...but..." I struggled to articulate something, anything. "You said they were businessmen. Why would they target Jack? Why would they come after him?"

  "Nesbitt appeared weak. He was in a power struggle for control of the gang. He was being hamstrung by an FBI agent. He had to have revenge, especially when Jack killed his only remaining son." Dan glanced again at the barn. "This is speculation but I think we'll find it's true. They set up Michael Bennington so his investments soured. That brought Paul Denton into it. Denton had a connection to your husband. Your husband, who was also Amy's brother. They killed the little girl in the fire to scare Denton. And they killed Diane to scare Michael Bennington. It was an extra benefit that they were able to kill your husband." Dan's hand clutched his cane so tightly it trembled. "They waited. They planted evidence to frame John Carlson, and they waited. They knew Tinsley would take the bait. He would do anything to help Amy. They waited."

  "What kind of evidence?"

  Dan's mouth thinned. "The kind that would make an ex-cop suspicious."

  "An ex-cop? You?"

  He nodded.

  "But why not just kill him?" I looked back toward the barn where Jack Tinsley stood, talking to McCord. "It's like one of those connect-the-dot pictures. It's too complicated."

  "No, it isn't. It all comes down to love. Nesbitt may be a monster but he loved his family. Jack was responsible for Nesbitt losing his family. Nesbitt was going to make sure that Jack suffered the way he suffered."

  "But Michael--he had to be more involved than simply making a few bad investments." I don't know why, but I really, really wanted Michael to be more than just a greedy asshole.

  "Oh, he was. He did embezzle from your aunt and repay it. He did send threatening letters to her, trying to frighten her into selling the land. And he did consort with known criminals to attempt to establish a casino. That's a federal offense. Who knows what else might be uncovered once the feds really start digging?"

  "Ma'am?" A short, stocky woman emerged from the ambulance. "We need to check that wound of yours."

  Wow. I had completely forgotten about it. I started to mention this but at that moment, the throbbing became so awful I thought I might pass out. The power of suggestion, I guess. I plopped myself on the rear of the ambulance while Dan stood nearby.

  "Sir? Maybe you can go inside and get the lady another shirt. We're going to have to cut away most of this one." The woman glanced at Dan and then resumed examining me, scissors briskly snipping away a large hole around the puncture in my dark green polo shirt.

  Dan looked like he might protest until he caught sight of my shoulder. He hurried toward the house and I thought he was distinctly pale. Maybe he was one of those guys who couldn't stand the sight of blood. That would be ironic, since he was a cop. I glanced at my shoulder and swallowed hard. A gash arced its way from my neck to my armpit, slashing over the left breast--the pocket that had still held the remaining shotgun shell. "Holy crap," I muttered as the shell tumbled onto my lap.

  The EMT eyed it, me, and my wound. "You were lucky. An inch higher and it would have gone in your throat. An inch lower and it would have punctured that shell. Two inches to the right and it would have gone in your heart."

  "Yeah," I said faintly. "Lucky." I peered through the blaze of lights illuminating the farm yard and saw Jack, his arm around Amy's shoulders. "Lucky."

  *****

  Four days later after lunch, I waved good-bye to Jack and Amy as they left Portia's farmhouse, driving in Amy's rental car. Jack was taking a vacation and they were making a leisurely drive back to Baltimore. Neither of them discussed what the future might hold but my mother was smugly convinced that we would be making a trek to the East Coast for a wedding in the near future.

  Penny and Portia were inside the house now, clearing up after our lunch. The mystery of Portia's illness was still officially unexplained but I overheard Dan and Jack talking (okay, I eavesdropped). It was being classified as a medication accident but Jack thought Portia deliberately under-dosed herself.

  Why? I didn't have an answer until I read what she wrote me in that envelope I pulled from the safe. I confess I sneaked a peek at it before asking her what to do with them.

  By now you know that Michael Bennington conspired with land developers to try to set a competency hearing to determine if I was bonkers or not. Well, my body may be worn out, but my brain still works. Those sons-a-bitches aren't going to pull a hearing on me and get away with it. I made sure my insulin dose was screwed up so I could land in the hospital. That will delay any action they might try. And if it kills me, well, I don't care. Either one will be okay. I trust you and Amy to take care of things. So far Mother Nature hasn't stepped in to take me away, so maybe I'll give her a shove. If it comes down to losing the farm or killing myself to make sure you get the land, well, I'll kill myself. I'm not going to let them win.

  Poor Aunt Portia, fighting to hold on to the land, fighting to hold on to her dignity. If Michael weren't already in jail for fraud, I would have done my best to see him in jail for terrorizing an old woman.

  Portia took the envelopes from me shortly afte
r I was released from the hospital and that's the last I saw of them. I suppose now that Michael was gone and the Wicked gang in disarray with the death of its leader, she could rest at least somewhat easy.

  The sound of a power saw came from the garage. Dan was there, puttering around with the tools he found tucked away, "making a few repairs before we go back home." He seemed to love it here and had made himself useful in the days since the shootout at the Winslow barn as it was being called in town. I had the feeling that if I inherited the place, he would be more than happy to make a switch and move.

  That is, of course, if our relationship found solid ground. We had no opportunity to pursue anything remotely romantic with the house full of people, but I knew he was there, waiting for me. It was a comforting feeling. There was no pressure but there was possibility.

  A faint breeze helped dissipate the crushing humidity of the day while high scudding clouds hid then revealed the sun. Far away, beyond the road, I saw a farmhouse but otherwise the landscape was a mosaic of crops, sunlight, and sky. I crossed the drive, lured by the sound of Dan's saw in the garage. I looked upward, amazed by the expanse of blue. Last night Dan and I sat on the back porch and stared into the distance. It seemed so black until your eyes got accustomed then you saw the stars that blazed so brightly. I forgot how dark it was in the country at night and how the stars glowed with life once you got beyond the range of human lights.

  The saw stopped its grinding. Bruce Springsteen's wavering voice drifted from the old boom box in the garage. I paused in mid-step, suddenly paralyzed by sadness as the words from Into the Fire strengthened with the breeze. I had tried to avoid Springsteen's Rising album when John was alive because it dealt with subjects that so involved me--rescue workers and firemen. And I avoided it completely after John's death because I was afraid of the memories it might invoke.

  I stared, unseeing, at the barn in the distance as the haunting words reached me, words about love and duty, smoky graves and fear. Was that what John felt? Did he feel a need to give his life in order to save the poor child and her puppy? A tear wound down my cheek, almost keeping time to the wavering music.

  It had been a long, long time since I cried for John. I hadn't allowed myself to imagine how he felt or what he encountered while he ran up those stairs to rescue that child. Prior to this, I thought of him in abstract terms: the man I tried to leave behind. My husband who died. I never thought of him as a fireman who died doing what he was trained to do.

  Was he frightened when it happened? Did he try to console that poor little girl? John loved animals, and his pity would have been for the puppy almost as much as for the child. How did he find them in all that smoke and chaos? Did he reassure them? I imagined the horror, the smoke, and the crushing sense of failure he must have endured--and finally, at the last, the fear. For the first time I felt I finally grasped it. John was a man who lived for duty, honor, and love. That was the way he would want to die.

  "It's okay, Gem."

  I turned. John moved from the shadows of the garage, the sun glinting on his turnout coat. "I did what I wanted to do. You had nothing to do with it. Move on now."

  "I'm afraid to, John," I whispered. "I don't want to lose you."

  "Afraid of losing me? Or are you afraid of the future?"

  "I don't know," I admitted. I moved closer to him and did something I wanted to do since that first moment he appeared to me. I touched his face, feeling cool flesh under my fingers. "I thought I loved you, John. But I'm not sure any more if I know how to love."

  His hand encircled mine and he gently kissed my fingers, his lips like a warm breath of air on my flesh. "You loved me as well as you were able, and that's all that anyone can ask for."

  "Was it enough for you?"

  He smiled. "Yes. If we had more time, I think we would've worked it out. But we didn't have the time. It's your time now. Do what you want to do. Be who you want to be."

  Bruce Springsteen's voice behind me held all the pain and fear that I imaged John had felt. My throat tightened with grief but then I looked up into his face. He smiled at me, and suddenly I knew that Dan was right. John was a fireman. It wasn't what he did. It's who he was. He died the way he wanted to die, doing his job. I suddenly felt lighter, free. "Thank you, John." I wiped at a tear. "Good-bye."

  John laughed softly. "Not good-bye, Gem. I'll see you later."

  He always said good-bye to me when he went on-shift and I knew why. He was never sure if he would come home. But now, this cavalier see you later was a promise.

  The sun popped out from behind a cloud and I closed my eyes, suddenly dazzled by brightness. When I opened them, John was gone. The saw resumed its buzzing as Bruce Springsteen launched into Waitin' on a Sunny Day.

  I turned to the garage and walked toward my future.

  The End

  About the Author

  J L Wilson writes mystery novels, paranormal romance novels, and the History Patrol series which features romance, reincarnation, and time travel. She also teaches writing in a series of workshops and blogs on a regular basis in a variety of spots online.

  Want to know more? Catch up with her here:

  Her web site: http://www.jayellwilson.com

  Twitter: follow her @JLwriter.

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jayellwilson

  And Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/JLWilson

  Would you like to read more about Jack Tinsley's story? Check out Twistered, which provides details about Jack before this story. Check J L's web site for the details.