The Guardian

by Dee Henderson

She made a side note to put this fiber strip at the front of the queue to be analyzed.

  Having covered the carpet by the bed, she began working toward the wall.

  “Lisa, we’re negative for blood traces in the bathroom.”

  With the entire room wiped of fingerprints, the news was disappointing but not surprising. “I don’t suppose he left the obvious? Something in the trash can?”

  “Not even a gum wrapper.”

  “I would have preferred he left the gum,” Lisa replied with a smile as she carefully lifted another tape. It was rough as she smoothed the tape against the paper. A closer look tilting it to the light showed it glittered. Glass fragments?

  She looked with curiosity back at the carpet. A foot from the wall and the carpet was smooth. The shards weren’t crushed deep into the fabric as if they had been vacuumed over. It was an odd place to find glass.

  “Is there a glass missing from the set on the bathroom counter?”

  Walter checked. “All four are here, still wrapped. What do you have?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you still carry that jewelers eyepiece?”

  “Sure.” He passed it to her.

  The light refracted through the shards captured under the tape. She looked up at the wall, saw a faint stain on the wallpaper. “Someone got mad and shattered a glass against the wall?” It would take some force to break one of the thick hotel drinking glasses.

  “Walter, the housekeeping records for this room—they’ve got a missing and restocked items checklist on the back of the forms. Did they replace a glass recently? And have we done an inventory of the room? Towels, soaps, those plastic dry cleaning bags, the contents of the minirefrigerator—I’d like to know if anything is missing.”

  She worked twenty minutes lifting glass, finding nothing larger than slivers. Someone had spent time trying to clean this up. “Let’s kill the room lights; I want to look again at this area.”

  Nothing showed when they sprayed the surface of the carpet. Lisa used a straight ruler edge to rifle the carpet fibers. A few faint glimmers appeared down in the carpet. She nodded, pleased. He’d cut himself picking up the shattered glass, probably no more than a paper cut, but it was there.

  “Think there will be enough to test?” Walter asked.

  “Doubtful. And it’s odd that there isn’t a glass missing from the room. This may be old. Mark, give us room lights.”

  She eased back to her feet. “Check the trash bag for any hint. And swab that stain on the wallpaper. It looks like a liquid splash the way it trails down.”

  She took a step back trying to get perspective on what she knew from what she suspected. No fingerprints. Everything else maybe. If she made the wrong call . . . “Walter, I’m going to go give Dave a heads-up. I want the room sealed when we’re done and an officer assigned to sit outside the door and make sure it stays that way. Get a forensic team working on the paper trail—the guest signature card that was filled out, anything with room service.”

  “Will do.”

  She clipped on the security badge needed to get her past the security one flight up. The command center had moved to the telecommunication conference room on the fourteenth floor, freeing up the Belmont Room for the hotel and letting Dave coordinate easier an investigation now active in four states.

  As soon as she entered the room, Lisa knew something was going on. The tension was palpable.

  “Any word from Marcus and Quinn?” Dave asked, pacing.

  “Not yet,” Mike replied. “The situation is still fluid.” The large screen at the far end of the room was shifting satellite feeds. “The local television station has a cameraman at the scene; we’re tapping into their uplink to get a firsthand look.”

  It emerged out of the snow on the screen, the picture zooming in on the building, recognizable as a church even in the fading light. The audio was that of the reporter and cameraman talking to the station manager; this feed was not going out to a live audience. When the camera panned left to right, the back of the building appeared dark.

  “Tactical is there,” Mike observed. “There’s Quinn.”

  “Dave.”

  “Not now, Lisa. Someone took a shot at Shari.”

  “We found the room.”

  “I’ll be done—” He spun around. “What did you say?”

  * * *

  Marcus found Quinn walking across the church parking lot. “He got away.”

  “Left the sandbag he used to brace the rifle and walked away,” Quinn replied. There was a touch of admiration in his voice; even the hunter could appreciate when an adversary made a smart move. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Quinn led the way from the church grounds across a footpath that ran to the nearby ball diamond into a grove of elm trees. Marcus could hear the faint sound of water in the quiet night. There was a drainage tile forming a narrow ravine. Quinn stepped over it and up a slight rise. Large spotlights had been set up with bright yellow crime scene tape wrapped around a section of tree trunks.

  The rifle lay on the ground in the underbrush, the barrel resting on a twelve-inch wide, rough fabric sandbag. Someone would have noticed a guy carrying a rifle, but leaving it and just walking away—it showed cool nerves. And the fact the shooter wasn’t worried about it being traceable.

  “The clear weather worked in his favor, the sun behind him, the elevation giving line of sight into the sanctuary. It appears he walked out after the shooting by circling around the shed used to hold the groundskeeping equipment for the ball diamonds. The SUV was sighted there.”

  “Our patrols?”

  Quinn tipped his powerful flashlight to the right and luminated a crushed path through the tall grass going through the grove. “Our two man patrol. The guy was fifteen feet away and wasn’t seen. He probably had his blind in place before dawn.”

  Marcus swore.

  “We’ve got an APB out on the black SUV, it had local plates but we don’t have the tag numbers. No one apparently saw him but we’re canvassing for a mile. And I’ve got men getting copies of all the video shot by both the news media on the ground and the helicopters flying over this area.”

  “Is it the same man?”

  Quinn handed him a .308 shell casing. “Someone that gets flustered enough to miss at close range and someone skilled enough to miss by an inch at two hundred yards on a windy day through thick glass?”

  “Two shooters.”

  “Two shooters.”

  Marcus crumpled the soda can in his fist.

  “Make them disappear,” Quinn advised.

  “You have a preference?”

  “Both shooters have shown they can blend with the city. Let’s get them on our turf.”

  “Agreed.”

  “How bad were you hit?”

  “It hurts,” Marcus replied tersely. “Quinn, I’m tired of being on the receiving end.”

  “Tell me about it.” Quinn rubbed his own arm. “They’re two for two, and next time it’s not going to be one of us.”

  “Have we ever had a case where we both got winged?”

  “No. And it’s beginning to make me mad,” Quinn replied. “Did you hear the news from Dave? Lisa thinks she found the room.”

  It was the first good news of the evening. “I knew she would come through.”

  “Stubborn lady. I’m going to owe her dinner.”

  “If you’re lucky, she’ll collect on the debt.”

  Quinn smiled. “True. Listen, head back to the house and get the Hanfords ready to move at first light. There’s not much else to do here. We’re going to stay and canvas again at daybreak, but this scene looks contained. We’ll start tracing what we’ve got down to the type of sand used in the bag. The rifle, the bag, even the way he set up to make the shot—something is going to register with an existing MO. This wasn’t his first time; it’s too high profile an attempt.”

  “Agreed. Find him, Quinn.”

  “Between Lisa and me, these two shooters are going to wish they had never th
ought of reaching out to kill a judge, let alone threaten a lady you like.”

  Marcus shared a look with his partner, then simply slapped Quinn’s shoulder and turned to head back to the van. Quinn knew him. This case had long ago become very personal. He’d like to wring the neck of the man who had gone after Shari. He’d settle for putting him behind bars for life.

  * * *

  Shari carefully lowered herself to the edge of her bed, her back muscles aching. The headache had grown in intensity.

  God, I’m sorry. You’ve got a generous, merciful heart. Forgive me for being a jerk. I’m sorry I turned a cold shoulder to You. Not talking to You only hurt me.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist. The man who had killed Carl and her dad had tried again to kill her. That fear made it hard to think. She wished Marcus were here. Even though he had been injured, she knew he wouldn’t let that danger push him away. He would know what she needed to do.

  She was worried about him, out there tracking the man who had done this. She was only now beginning to appreciate the fury she had sensed in Marcus this evening as events had unfolded. She hoped he wouldn’t take any undue risks. She didn’t want anyone else hurt because of her.

  She couldn’t stay here with her family. She was putting Josh and Mom in danger. She didn’t know how to deal with that fear.

  It was so confusing, everything that had happened. All the way back to Sam. Her life was in tatters. God, I need time to figure this out and deal with all these emotions. And I need You to keep me safe. I’ve been hurt and angry, but now I’m scared and I’m rushing back to You because I know You are the One who is my refuge.

  There was a tap on the door. She looked up and smiled slightly. “You look like you feel worse than I do.”

  Josh crossed the room to join her. “I sometimes think the doctor’s help is worse than the injury. And it takes forever for the muscle relaxants to kick in. How are you doing?”

  She knew her face was bruised and swollen. And her jarred back and spine made movement come at a high price. “I’ll be okay.” She looked at her brother as he sat down. “What are we going to do, Josh?”

  “First, get that tone of defeat out of your voice. We’re okay.” He brushed back her hair. “He won’t get another chance at you. We’ll make certain of that.”

  “Josh, he almost shot Mom. Another few inches to the left—”

  “He didn’t.”

  “I can’t take the chance he’ll try again.” She wanted to run and didn’t know how or where.

  “We’ll let Marcus make the recommendation on what we do next.”

  Her brother was handling this so much better than she was. He hadn’t once complained about the fact he had been shot, and his recovery had been far from easy. She sighed. “Tomorrow, I want you to update my will.”

  “Shari!”

  She shook her head. “It’s not morose thinking. I want to know everything is in order. Because Dad’s is so out of date it’s making dealing with the estate a problem. And he is listed as my executor.” Somewhere in the house a phone rang. “You should probably forward the phone to the answering service again.” Their phone number was unlisted, but that hadn’t mattered. The press had found it. They had hired a firm to take messages.

  “Mom is waiting on a call from Margaret.”

  “Josh, it’s for you,” Beth called from downstairs.

  He got to his feet. “Come downstairs. It’s not good to brood.”

  She smiled when he ruffled her hair. “In a minute. Thanks, Josh.”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  Shari was still up. Marcus had been expecting that, even though it was close to midnight. She wouldn’t find sleep this evening easy.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” she offered, getting up from the kitchen table where she had been sitting, reading a book.

  “Please.”

  Shari poured him a cup.

  He hadn’t seen her before he left to return to the church; what he saw now made him wince. He had really done a number on her face. “Let me see.” He crossed over to her and tipped up her chin. “You need some ice on that cheek.” He rubbed his thumb very lightly across the darkening bruise, absorbing the pain of what had happened. He’d hurt her. It left a deep ache inside. If only he had been able to react faster . . .

  “Marcus, don’t worry about it. It’s like walking away from a car wreck with only a bruise—you definitely don’t mind the bruise. You saved my life.”

  “I think the wind and a thick plate glass window did that. I just helped.”

  She smiled, reached up, and kissed his cheek. “I’ll take helped. And I will let you get me that ice. It’s starting to ache again.”

  He hesitated for a moment, feeling an unexpected warmth roll through his chest. Shari, you have the habit of slipping under my guard. I don’t mind, but I wish I deserved it. I let you and your family down.

  He had been afraid she would come out of this crisis quivering in shock, but she was rolling with it. When it was her family in danger it was one thing, herself another. He felt the same kind of admiration coupled with unease he felt with Kate. His sister never let the danger she was in bother her, and Shari was mirroring that by trying to keep a strong front in place.

  He shook off the distracted thoughts and moved to the freezer. He improvised an ice pack with a clean towel. “Try this.”

  She winced when she touched the cold to the soreness. “It will help.” She sat back down at the table and watched him. “This is proving to be a very rough day.”

  “A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day,” Marcus replied, borrowing a line from the children’s story. It was that or apologize again, and he was starting to sound like a broken record.

  “No luck with the shooter?”

  He shook his head, debating with himself how much to tell her. He wasn’t ready yet to tell her they suspected there were two shooters. Not until he had spoken with Josh. “There is a lead on his vehicle. We’re looking.” He sat down with his coffee. “In the morning we’re going to be moving you from this house to a place that is more secure.”

  “All of us?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would prefer not to be near Josh and Mom.”

  “I can understand why you feel that way, but I think it’s best if you stay together. Once you’re tucked somewhere that hasn’t been broadcast by the media to the world at large, the situation will be much easier to manage. Your mom needs the rest, and she won’t get it if you’re someplace else and she’s staying here amid the security we would have to bring in. Josh needs to focus on regaining his strength, and being battered by the press isn’t going to help him out. Think of it as a much needed family vacation.”

  He watched her rub her forehead with her hand before she looked up at him. “I don’t mean to make this difficult, but how long do we plan for? Days? Weeks? I’ve got two estates to deal with. My job. The campaign. It’s not like I can walk away from all of this and come back later. In an election, every day is critical. I need to give John and Anne some idea of what I can do, what has to be transferred to others.”

  “When you are out on the campaign trail, you’re working by phone, e-mail, and fax. Pack up what you will need and plan to work that way for the next few weeks. You can still work behind the scenes, just not from here.”

  “I’m going to have to go through all the paperwork here just to know what I need for Dad’s estate, the same at Carl’s home office.”

  “Ask your secretary to box it up and we’ll arrange to transport it; you and Josh can go through it together.”

  “Can I at least sleep in tomorrow morning before I have to pack?”

  He smiled at that. “Sure, as long as you’re packed by seven. This is for the best, Shari. I wouldn’t ask it if it wasn’t.”

  “I know. I don’t have to like it, but I do believe you.”

  * * *

  “You killed a judge! Just like that . . . poof. I will kill a federal j
udge!”

  Connor had walked into the family estate prepared for this explosion from his father. The demand that Connor come had arrived with blunt intensity within minutes of Titus’s return from Europe. For ten minutes he had taken it . . . but no more. “He sent my brother to his death. Your eldest son. But you ignore that. You let it pass without reply. Someone has to look at what that means for the family name. You make it weak!”

  His father turned at that, swift as a cobra, his voice cold. “Because you are my son I will forget that you said that. But do not push me again. We are not too weak to act . . . we are too powerful! This family cannot afford the ire of the government, and you have brought it to our front door. This is no longer a business where passion rules but pragmatic power. You learned nothing from what I have spent fifteen years teaching!”

  Connor was aware of Anthony, his father’s first lieutenant, pacing outside the room, and for the first time he felt the touch of fear cross his spine as he faced his father’s anger. For the first time he felt the irreversibility of what he had done. He braced his feet.

  He had been in this study since his childhood answering to his father. Anthony would understand why he had acted and killed, Anthony was the old school. But he was left cooling his heels outside, which said his father had already overruled Anthony’s suggestion for what should be done.

  “Who helped you?”

  Connor thought about lying but knew it would be useless. “Frank.”

  “I’m glad you admit it.”

  His father tossed the newspaper onto the desk, the hated sketch on the front page below the fold. “You were careless.”

  “There is no evidence connecting me to the shooting. There is only one witness. The others didn’t see me,” he replied, willing to placate. “She can be eliminated.”

  “So I see,” Titus replied with great irony. “You did a great job with that too.”

  “Frank missed. He won’t next time.”

  “Frank has been taken care of.”

  Connor blinked. Titus had killed his cousin? A chill crossed his spine at the dismissive way his father had said it.

  “Did you really think you could set me up, Connor?”

  Still feeling the cold of the previous comment, this one caught Connor off guard. “What? I didn’t—”