by Fran Stewart
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that those agents hadn’t found it. There’s a secret door. We found it. All clear. Only, police sergeant Marti Fairing felt fairly sure they’d found only the door to the main attic; it was sort of tucked behind a funny little alcove on the third floor. If they thought that was what she meant by secret, no wonder they’d scoffed at her.
No, they hadn’t found the secret room off the attic. What the kids called the second attic. It was a corner room that overlooked the meadow. A room with a window. A room that would be a perfect spot for a sniper. She wasn’t sure how Mr. Mug Shot had known the president would be here. But obviously something had been leaked. The more she thought about it, the more sure she was that those agents hadn’t been as thorough as they thought they’d been.
She looked around the meadow one more time and happened to notice the line of Porta Potties. They reminded her of the musician guy she’d seen that morning heading for the woods. There could have been a rifle in his violin case. He could have circled around and entered the Sutherland place through the back door. Nobody was watching. Nobody would have noticed. He could have sat there all day, quiet while the Secret Service examined the entire house. Almost the entire house.
The briefing had said the president’s helicopter would land on the other side of town and he’d be driven through Hamelin in a closed vehicle. Dallas, this wasn’t. No open convertible. No danger to the president. Except when he stepped onto the stage within clear sight of the secret attic room in the old Sutherland house.
She looked around for Murphy or Harper. Even Mac. But nobody was in sight except a few blue-suited guys, and they were all four headed toward the speaker’s platform.
Determined not to give herself away, she held her arms closely at her sides and headed diagonally across the meadow, nodding to people as she went, smiling until her cheeks ached. When she reached the woods, she skirted through the undergrowth until she was out of the sight line of the attic room. Overhead, she heard the whir of a helicopter. She called out the agent’s name and was surprised when it wasn’t Eggles who answered her. Shift change, she thought.
“I want you to go with me into the Sutherland house. The assassin is in an upstairs attic room.”
He eyed her with what looked like hostility, but Marti couldn’t figure out why. She was the one who’d been embarrassed, not him.
“We checked that house top to bottom.”
“I tell you there’s a secret attic. Come on. There isn’t much time.”
He waved a hand. “You wanna go in there, go ahead. But I’m staying here where I’m supposed to be.”
There wasn’t time to argue. You’ll be sorry, she thought as she moved away from him.
* * *
There were always the regular competitions and exhibition events for pipers and drummers, but I loved it when smaller groups of these competitors simply walked around entertaining people—rather like the fiddlers who played at the drop of a hat.
I gazed—probably with my mouth open—as a small cadre of just half a dozen drummers marched past. They were perfectly in step, and conversations ceased along the way as they went by, rat-a-tat-tatting in an intricate rhythm. It was rousing without being too noisy—I could still hear myself think. Anyway, it was fun to watch the tassels bounce on the sides of the drums. The whole group was terribly impressive. Usually Mr. Stone, the Hamelin Pipe and Drum Corps’ drum major, led them, with an enormous white tassel on his black fur hat, but I imagined he had plenty of other responsibilities during the Games. I’d never gotten to know him very well, even though his daughter Andrea and I had been friends starting in fourth grade. I’d been in and out of Andrea’s house all the time as a kid, when I wasn’t playing with my cousins. Mr. Stone was gone a lot, and when he was home, Andrea and I pretty much had to stay out of his way. He didn’t like to be disturbed, so it was really Andrea’s mother that I’d connected with. Andrea and I used to bake cookies with her. And she loved to read. She introduced me to a bunch of great books and we’d talk about them while we were helping her garden—although I doubt we were much real help with that endeavor. One of the worst things about the debacle with Andrea last year was that I’d lost touch with Mrs. Stone. I missed her.
I saw Harper nearby, outlined against the dark blue of the Farquharson tent. I couldn’t be certain, but it sure seemed like he was looking at me. Didn’t I wish. He was probably just watching the drum corps.
Andrea, all decked out in a ridiculously short tartan skirt, walked past Harper, and I bridled at the sultry look she regaled him with. Fortunately, he ignored her. At least, I hoped he was ignoring her.
“P? Are you listening to us?”
“Hmmm? What?”
“You’ll have to excuse her, Dirk. She gets that way sometimes—lost in a fog.”
Dirk nodded, like a Supreme Court justice, filled with import. “I am verra weel acquainted with Mistress Peggy’s propensity to listen to words no the one o’ us can hear.”
“Oh, hush, you two,” I said. “You sound like you’re paid by the word, Dirk.”
“Paid by the . . .”
“Like Dickens,” Karaline said. “Nineteenth-century writer. Paid by the word. Very long-winded.”
“Aye. I know Master Dickens.”
“How?” Karaline asked. “He was after you died.”
“Mistress Peggy has Oliver Twist, A Christmas Carol, and”—his voice took on the breathy tone of an avid fan—“A Tale o’ Twa Cities.” Even after more than a year in the twenty-first century, Dirk was still in awe of the printed word. I had to turn the pages for him, but it was worth it to hear his comments as events unfolded through the ageless stories.
The long winter evenings had been particularly good for Dirk to learn Dickens and for me to refresh my memory. Dirk would read aloud, and I’d knit and turn pages whenever he paused. He really was a very good ghost to have around.
* * *
A few minutes later I heard a whirring pulse of sound in the distance. “I sure hope that thing isn’t planning to land here.”
“What would be making that tumultuary noise?”
“Tumultuary? What a great word. The noise comes from something called a helicopter. It’s kind of like an airplane.” I’d explained airplanes to Dirk many months ago. “But helicopters can fly straight up and down.”
Dirk looked like he didn’t believe me. I couldn’t blame him. For a ghost from the fourteenth century, the concept of any type of flight in any direction whatsoever must have been hard to digest.
“It’s probably some big shot making a grand entrance,” Karaline said.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Archie Ogilvie, our moderator, was at the microphone. I hadn’t even noticed the dignitaries filing onto the platform. Sure enough, the governor looked stately, elegant. The congressman looked awkward—maybe he was aware that his knees weren’t nearly as good-looking as the governor’s. But where was Shay? I didn’t see her anywhere. I couldn’t think of a single reason why she’d miss the opening ceremonies. Short of death. Or the plague.
But then I remembered that she’d missed the opening four years ago when her sister died. I felt bad—but only for a moment—for having been so flippant. Nobody could have died this time around, though. We would have heard about it.
“Welcome to the sixty-third annual Hamelin Highland Games,” Archie bellowed. When the applause died down, he changed to what I always thought of as his radio-announcer voice. “We have a special guest tonight who will be arriving soon. I’m sure you noticed the sound of Air Force One.” He turned to face the lane behind the speaker’s platform.
As his words sunk in, the murmur of the crowd swelled to a surge of sound. Air Force One? The president. The president? The president!
Each voice gave evidence of the feelings of the speaker. Almost without planning it, we were all on our feet, watch
ing along with Archie.
Shay burst onto the field through the archway and ran toward the stage, but a blue-suited man blocked her as efficiently as a linebacker. For half a second, the setting sun glinted off something in her hand, just a bright spark of light. I had one of those insane moments of wondering if Shay had some sort of weapon. But the blue-suited man didn’t seem concerned with her hands. He wanted to stop her from getting to the stage. If she’d just walked in a dignified manner, I thought, she probably would have made it. Andrea was trying to force her way closer, too, but a different agent stopped her. It was good to see our tax money at work. Not that I was gloating.
* * *
Fairing didn’t dare wait to move quietly. She’d left this too long. She ran up the stairs. She paused just outside the tuck-away door that led to the first attic. She knew the man—or woman—in the second attic would be able to hear her clearly. She poured all the excitement she could muster into her voice: “I’m gonna watch out of that front window! Come on!” With the helicopter already landed, there wouldn’t be time for the gunman to leave his post, take her out, and get back up there. He wouldn’t dare risk it. She ran loudly toward the front window, trying to make her footsteps sound like two people. She squealed, “Perfect view!” and backtracked as quietly as she could to the attic door.
Thank goodness these old stairs only squeaked in places she was familiar with. She wished she were barefooted; these steel-toed boots could be noisy.
She could easily hear the murmurings of the crowd. That meant the window above her was open. It had to be. She had to be right. If she wasn’t, well—it wouldn’t matter much. There wouldn’t be anybody here to see her embarrassment. She hoped she was right. She wanted to catch this guy. She hoped she was wrong. She didn’t want there to be any sort of assassination attempt. God bless America—what if there were two of them? She crept up the stairs faster, happy now that she had her boots on. He—they?—mustn’t hear her, but she couldn’t sacrifice speed by trying to be quiet. And she just might need those steel toes.
* * *
With very little fanfare, a number of blue-suited men coalesced at the front of the crowd. Half of them faced us, and half had their backs to us. They were so obviously Secret Service agents—or maybe they were FBI—and so intent on their job, I almost laughed. What on earth did they think could happen here in Hamelin, especially when nobody knew ahead of time that the president was coming? But then I remembered Dallas. I looked around the meadow. We didn’t have a book depository, but we had the old Sutherland house. What a perfect place for a sniper. I looked back at the derelict building. It has great bones, my father always tells me, and I could see his point. But right at this moment it looked positively sinister.
Nonsense, I thought. The Secret Service folks would have checked that place out first thing. I turned back just as a large white car rounded the curve and pulled to a stop behind the platform. From where we were standing I had a good view of the president as he emerged from the car and raised his arms in a celebratory wave.
He headed up the steps onto the platform, where the governor stood with arm outstretched to shake the president’s hand.
* * *
Harper spotted Peggy across the field. She had turned away from the stage and seemed to be staring at the old Sutherland place. He looked at it, too, and seemed to see a breath of movement in one of the upstairs windows. No. It couldn’t be. Fenton and his men were watching the place. What if it was nothing? What if it was the Secret Service themselves looking out that window, scanning the crowd below? On the other hand, what if it was Bowman, the man with the dog, ready to assassinate the president?
Harper shouted, a sound that had nothing in common with the celebratory calls of the crowd around him. A sound of desperation. A sound that barely competed with the report of a rifle from the house beyond the meadow.
11
The play’s the thing,
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.
ACT 2, SCENE 2
To heck with subtlety. Fairing burst through the door and saw him jerk in surprise. The rifle shot in the tiny room deafened her. She prayed she’d ruined his aim. He whipped around, his weapon still in his hands. She knew the Secret Service guys would have already thrown themselves on top of the president. This guy wasn’t going to get another chance. Especially not if Marti Fairing had any say in the matter.
She launched herself at him, her ears still ringing from the shot. So much so that, as he turned, she could hardly hear herself say, “Bobby?” before her hands clamped on his wrists. Even with a scraggly blond beard, she recognized him. From fifth grade.
* * *
I heard Harper shout. I recognized his voice. But then it only took a moment for the crowd chanting the president’s name to morph into a panic-stricken mob. Karaline grabbed my arm and propelled me to the ground. As I landed, my head bounced up and I saw two blue-suited men grab the president, pull him from the platform, and hustle him into the car. It took only seconds, and he was gone. A blur of blue as other agents streaked toward the old Sutherland place.
My next thought was what Shay was going to say about all this.
“Are you okay, P?”
“I would be if you’d roll off me so I could breathe.”
Once she complied, I thanked her; but we both knew the danger might not be past. Nearby I saw Don and Brenda Marley cradling their two children between them, shielding their small bodies. Old Mr. Marley, with his leg still in a brace, had overturned his chair and dragged himself to them. He stretched out, forming a barrier with his body between his son’s family and the gunman behind us all. A gangly kid, high school age, vaulted over Marley’s whole family and tackled a little girl, pulling her to the ground. She wrapped her arms around his waist.
I spotted Leonzini’s head peeking over the back of the platform, but the governor lay facedown on the ground where the sword dancers had been such a short time ago. He lifted his head and turned it to his right, probably so he could breathe. I felt a surge of relief—almost of joy, although that emotion didn’t seem to fit with what was going on here. He was alive, but the upper arm of his white shirt was red. The red was expanding. Without thinking, I jumped up and ran to him.
Karaline shouted for an ambulance. Dirk handed me the shawl. I stanched the blood as best I could, but it kept pulsing out beneath my hands. His hand outstretched to greet the president. The bullet that came so close. Thank God the gunman’s aim had been off by—what?—twenty inches? Twelve? Dirk laid a ghostly hand over the exposed half of the governor’s forehead. I could hear the helicopter lift off, the sound fading quickly away.
“Governor!” Andrea stood beside me, her camera phone clicking away. “How did it feel to take the bullet meant for the president?”
The governor’s aide came pounding up, grabbed Andrea by the shoulders, and spun her out of the way. “I was in back watching the crowd. I couldn’t get here—”
“Help me put pressure here. I think he hit an artery.”
He leapt over the governor’s prostrate legs and wrapped his hands around mine. For such a short guy, he had enormous hands. And—thank goodness—an iron grip. And—double thanks—he’d gotten rid of Andrea. Well before the paramedics arrived, my fingers were numb.
* * *
Bobby Turner hadn’t been this strong when he was just a sullen fifth grader and they’d wrestled on the school playground. He’d pushed Marti’s best friend into the mud, and she’d tackled him. Then it had been a slam dunk to push him in the mud as well.
Now, though, he fought with the desperation of someone who couldn’t risk being caught. He tried to slam his forehead into Marti’s teeth, but she wrenched her head out of his way. He kicked at her as best he could from such close quarters and she twisted, pulling them both to the hard wooden floor. She hadn’t meant to land on the bottom. He grunted as something—probably his shin—slammed i
nto one of her steel-toed boots.
Before she could celebrate, he kneed her in the crotch.
“That’s what I’m supposed to do to you,” she growled, hanging on for dear life, refusing to let go. Because she knew if she lost hold of him, he’d finish her off, just like he’d probably done to the president. Why couldn’t she have gotten here sooner?
He bared his teeth, and Marti had a blinding vision of the time in third grade he’d bitten Georgie Martin’s ear. It hadn’t been a pretty sight.
“No wonder you knew about this room,” she said, and he closed his mouth far enough so he could grin at her. She wrapped her legs around him, yanked his wrists—and the rifle—closer, and threw her head forward hard enough to crash her forehead into his nose.
His blood sprayed across her face just as Davis, Eggles, and the other guy tumbled through the open door.
“Nice of you to show up,” she said when they’d hauled a broken-nosed Bobby off her. “Finally,” she couldn’t help adding, and wiped her face.
* * *
Archie Ogilvie’s voice boomed out over the meadow. “Let’s all settle down now, ladies and gentlemen. Everything is under control.”
Under control. Right.
One of our Hamelin police cruisers, followed by a black car so ostentatiously shiny it almost hurt the eyes, sped in back of the now-empty stage and across the far end of the meadow, dodging tents and pickups and travel trailers. Even though I was on my knees, most of the people in the meadow were still lying down, although most of them had their cell phones out, either talking, texting, or taking photos. Over their heads I could easily see the cars as they navigated the gentle slope up to the old Sutherland place, where a group of people was rounding the corner from the back of the building. A man obviously under restraint was herded into the cruiser, and the other people filed into the shiny car. A lone person, a woman, was left behind. She waited until both cars were out of sight and then limped our way. Danny Murphy sprinted past us and, as I watched, skidded to a stop beside the woman, whom I recognized as Marti Fairing, one of our police officers. He dug in his pocket and handed her something. It fluttered in the evening breeze. A handkerchief? “I wish I could hear what she’s saying,” I muttered, and turned my attention back to the governor.