by Julie Hyzy
Frances gave me a skeptical look. “He’s making that up, isn’t he? He has no idea what’s going on over there.”
As she spoke, I thought about Pierpont’s assertion about the back gate having been left unlocked the night of the murder, and it being mysteriously secure when the police checked it out. “I bet that’s not all he made up,” I said. I hadn’t shared my suspicions with anyone, and I had no intention of confronting Pierpont myself. With him onstage addressing his troops, I felt safe. As soon as this event was over, however, I planned to share everything I’d learned about Pierpont with Tank. I was about to start back, intent on talking with her, when Pierpont’s speech stopped me.
“Thank you all for your support,” the little man was saying, “especially in the wake of all the unpleasantness we experienced this week. Additionally, I’m sorry that my friend Jim Florian had to give up his candidacy. That was a very moving speech you gave, Jim.” He sent a meaningful glance to his right, where Jim Florian leaned sloppily against the stage, looking wretched and very drunk. Addressing the crowd again, Pierpont said, “Jim would have made an excellent general. His father and I were friends from way back when and I remember watching Jim grow up, go to college, and get his great job at NASA.”
Pierpont sent another meaningful glance toward Florian, who was attempting to right himself. He scratched the back of his head, took a few shaky steps away from the stage, then stopped. Nodding to no one in particular, he turned back.
Pierpont continued to address the audience. “The truth is, with our Gettysburg event coming up next month, I’m particularly delighted to remain in the position of general . . .”
With drunken determination, Florian boosted himself onto the stage. “Now just you wait a minute,” he said.
Pierpont stuttered as Florian advanced. He sent a panicked look toward the crowd. “Another round of applause for Jim, everyone?”
The audience complied. Florian turned, blinking at the burst of noise, then shook off his confusion and yanked the microphone out of Pierpont’s hand.
“Somethin’ I forgot to add . . .” he said.
Pierpont reached to grab it back. “Maybe later, Jim.”
Dulled reflexes notwithstanding, Jim lifted the microphone out of Pierpont’s reach, grinning. “Uh-uh,” he said, “my turn, shorty.”
The look on Pierpont’s face sent a chill up the back of my neck. Unable to drag my attention away, I whispered to Frances, “This could get ugly.”
She nodded.
Catcalls ranging from: “Sit down, Florian!” to “Had enough to drink?” bubbled up from the audience. He ignored them.
Waving a finger, he said, “Here’s what you all don’t know. I didn’t step down from the election because I wanted to . . . Oh no.”
Pierpont made another lunge for the mic, but Florian stumbled sideways, keeping it out of the other man’s reach. He stepped up to the very edge of the stage and I worried he might pitch forward, but he seemed to be looking out, searching. “Any of you got kids still hanging around, you better take them back to your tent.”
Nobody moved.
“I mean it,” he shouted, making us wince. “This isn’t going to be a PG-rated show. Not tonight.” Backing up to the middle of the stage, he chuckled to himself. “Pretty funny, huh? PG?” He pointed to Pierpont. “Nobody in the Civil War would have heard about PG. That would be farby.” He elongated the word. “And old Pierpont over there is probably having a hissy fit right now. But you all notice how it’s okay we have a microphone here tonight? How come? Because it suits the little general’s pursp . . . pruspi . . . purposes.” He shrugged. “You know what I mean.” He cupped his eyes. “Now get the kids out of here.”
Some of the parents, looking confused, complied.
Apoplectic, Pierpont started toward Florian again, but Hennessey had come up behind him and grabbed Pierpont by the arm. From where we stood it looked like Hennessey said, “Let him talk.”
Pierpont continued to struggle. I hoped Hennessey held on for the rest of the night.
“Okay, so here it is, folks,” Florian said. He pointed to Pierpont. “I hate that guy. Probably even more than the rest of you do. Know why? Not because I can’t have a cooler in my tent. Nope. Something bigger. Waaay bigger. He made me step down.” Nodding, slurring his words, he went on. “Blackmail. Yep. You heard right. Mr. Dictator knows how much you all deps . . . dssip . . . despise him. Knows it full well and knew his days were numbered. That’s why he wanted me to be the new general. So I would be the face, but he would still be in power. You understand this yet?”
I was beginning to.
“But when he found out I was planning to relax the rules from his dictatorial standards, he took it all back. Told me I had to give up.”
The crowd had gone utterly silent.
“And I did. Because of what he was holding over me.” Florian stared out, looking morose. “But not anymore. Nope. I’m here to tell you that I lied. Okay? Got that? This won’t mean squat to any of you, but I lied a really long time ago. I got my job at NASA based on a little, itty-bitty falsehood.” He held his index finger and thumb very close together, then moved them apart, then spread his arms wide. “Maybe not so itty-bitty. You see, I didn’t graduate from MIT like I told them. I had a friend who worked in admissions though. He fudged the records and that got me the job. That was years ago, y’understand. But if it ever got out even now, I’d never work in my field again.” His eyes widened. “You getting all this? I would be ruined. Like I am now.”
I didn’t know exactly what I’d expected, but it hadn’t been this.
“Pierpont’s known me since I was a kid. We were neighbors and he worked with my dad. Pierpont knew I didn’t go to MIT. Didn’t know I lied to NASA, though, until I told him once when I was drunk. Ever since, he’s made me his little puppet.” He seemed to find that funny. “Kinda ironic that I’m drunk again and telling all of you.” Growing serious again, he shouted, “But no more!”
Wild-eyed, Pierpont struggled against Hennessey, but was clearly outmatched.
Florian was rambling now. “I’ll tell you how bad it got. He made me lie for him all the time. He told me he saw someone here at our camp the day of Zachary’s murder. But he said it would look fishy if he went to the police so he told me to do it. I didn’t want to, but . . .” He shrugged. “Blackmail is a real killer,” he said. “For all I know, Pierpont made the whole thing up and I was just being his puppet again.”
Florian hung his head down for a breathless moment. I wondered if he was about to pass out, but then he looked out at the crowd again. “So now you know the truth. And now you know that my career with NASA is shot. My life is shot. Just like I’m about to be shot.”
With that he pulled a handgun out from his pocket and raised the barrel to his head.
Everyone screamed and I started toward the stage, knowing I would be too late to stop him. But Hennessey wasn’t. Dropping his hold on Pierpont, he hit Florian in a flying tackle, the pair falling to the ground with a heavy double thud. The gun went off, but I saw them both move.
I didn’t stop to see if they were okay. I figured with all those people around, someone would take charge. I had to move because Pierpont was taking advantage of the chaos. He ducked behind the stage, making a break for a clean escape.
“Call the cops,” I said to Frances as I scooted through the crowd to follow him. I didn’t shout, didn’t warn, I just followed, trusting that my long-legged strides would outpace his before he got to the parking area. A heavy weight bounced against my leg as I ran. I still had Davey’s gun.
Although it was dark, the meadow was wide open and there was enough light from the moon to keep him in sight. He glanced back and saw me, redoubling his speed, but I was younger and taller. Now I did yell, “Stop, Pierpont. You know you can’t get away.”
I didn’t have a plan, unfortunately. The parking lot was still a long way off and by this time we were far away from any other people. No one would see
us here. Too late I realized I’d rushed headlong into danger, yet again.
But this time I had a gun. He had nothing.
To my surprise, Pierpont stopped. “Okay,” he said, bending over, pressing his hands to his knees. He wheezed, then crouched and rocked in place. “I can’t run anymore.”
“No you can’t,” I said, easing my hand into the pocket of my dress and wrapping my fingers around the grip of the gun. It never hurt to be prepared. “It’s over.”
We were about fifteen feet apart in the center of the meadow. He stood up slowly. “You should have stayed out of it.”
In that breathless silence after he spoke, I heard the snick of a switchblade. Moonlight slid along its metal edge. Instinctively, I backed up. “Don’t,” I said.
“I may be small, but if I took Kincade down, I can certainly handle you.”
“Kincade was drunk,” I said, “you couldn’t have done it otherwise.”
He came at me, slicing the air with his knife. I dodged the blade but in my haste to jump away, I’d caught my foot on a branch and tumbled left.
I managed to get up, scrambling away from him as I did so. The moment I was back on my feet, I pulled the gun from my pocket. Relief made me glib and I pulled a line from memory, “It’s a mistake to bring a knife to a gunfight, Pierpont.”
The moment he saw the weapon he froze in place. He looked back the way we’d come. I knew what he was thinking: that it could be quite a while before anyone thought to look for us out here. “You know how to use one of those?” he asked as he started to circle clockwise around me.
“Point and shoot,” I said, keeping the gun trained on him. “Just like a camera.”
“That’s a semiautomatic,” he said conversationally, still moving—edging closer as he did so.
“Stand still,” I said.
“Why? Are you planning to shoot me? I sincerely doubt you will, Ms. Wheaton. You don’t have the stomach for it.”
“Don’t bet on it,” I said with far more nerve than I felt.
Still circling, he pointed to the gun. “You need to chamber a round before it will fire.”
I moved with him. “So?”
“Did you?”
I had no idea if Davey had chambered a round before he’d handed the gun to me. I assumed he had. I blustered, “Only one way to find out, isn’t there?”
Pierpont chanced a look back. I didn’t waver an inch.
I knew Frances would notice my absence the minute she returned to the group with the cops. With Pierpont missing, too, she’d be on our trail like a hound dog.
“It’s not going to be much longer,” I said.
“I agree with you, Ms. Wheaton. Not much longer. For me at least. But for you, it will be forever.”
Pierpont became a blur as he leapt at me, switchblade slashing. I ducked to my right, out of harm’s way, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
I didn’t know how I’d been knocked to the ground but I got up fast. My left forearm was suddenly scalding and wet, like I’d fallen against a searing hot stove. I still had the gun in my right hand, and although I willed my left arm to come up, it was reluctant to behave as ordered.
Pierpont, just as surprised as I was by the gun’s dry-fire, had backed away when I’d tried to shoot. He came at me again, screaming and hacking the air like a madman.
I took off running with him right behind me. “Help!” I screamed into the darkness, hoping someone would hear. Picking my feet up as I ran, I prayed to avoid any roots or stones that might cause me to stumble like women always did in slasher movies. “Help!” As I ran, blood—my blood—dripped down my arm, and landed on the front of my dress with heavy splatters I could feel. I managed to grasp the gun’s slide and, with enormous effort—my left arm screaming with delayed pain—pull it back until I felt the satisfying chink of a round being chambered.
I angled away, turning to face him. “It’s chambered now,” I said breathlessly. “Don’t move.”
He hesitated, looked back toward the camp, then back at me. We were close enough for me to see his wild expression. “This is my battlefield,” he said, inching closer, “but your blood.”
I backed away.
In the distance I thought I heard someone call my name. But all my attention was on the little man with the knife in his hand and hatred in his eyes.
“Don’t do it, Pierpont. Please.”
“You’ve taken my life. Now I will have yours.”
When he came at me again, I pulled the trigger, aiming center mass. A burst of fire shot from the barrel of the gun. The recoil sent my arm flying back. The noise made me scream.
I couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear anything, so I backed away, calling for help. I closed my eyes for a precious second to try to reestablish my night vision. “Help!” I shouted. Why was my voice so muffled?
When I opened my eyes, I saw Pierpont on the ground. He grasped his leg, writhing in pain. I backed away. “Here! Over here!”
Maybe I was shouting to no one. But I had to try.
Pierpont was up on all fours now, crawling toward the parking area, moving like a broken toy. I pulled my finger away from the trigger into the safe position, but kept the gun aimed at him as he wheezed and crept away. I stayed far enough behind to feel secure, hoping someone would come to my rescue. Pierpont turned and spoke to me. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I couldn’t even read his lips.
I chanced a look back toward the camp. Someone was coming. Finally. From the looks of it, a lot of someones.
Pierpont saw them, too. Finally giving up, he turned onto his back, raised his hands to his face, and began to weep.
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG FOR THE POLICE TO ASSUME control and call for another ambulance. With the cops arriving en masse with flashlights, it looked like we were about to be attacked by a giant swarm of lightning bugs. I couldn’t have been happier.
The medic—who was probably having the busiest night of his re-enactment life—tossed me a roll of bandages and began ministering to Pierpont.
I sat in the damp grass, attempting to roll the gauze around my arm. Not having much luck.
“How is Gordon?” I asked Rodriguez when he showed up.
“Mr. Embers is stable,” he said. “Where’s the gun?”
It was lying next to me on the grass. I pushed it toward him. He picked it up, removed the magazine, racked back the slide, and dumped the remaining round into his hand. “All better now,” he said.
Giving my bandaging efforts a scornful look, he pushed my right hand away and took control, proceeding to wrap my arm snugly and quickly with confident expertise.
“There you go,” he said. “But you better have that looked at as soon as possible. You’re going to need stitches.”
He was about to say more, when Tank strode over. “Weren’t you supposed to stay out of this one?” she asked.
“I tried to,” I said. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be at the hospital with Gordon Embers.”
“He’s too weak to give an official statement yet, but he’s going to be okay. Guards are watching him round-the-clock.”
“You think that’s necessary?” I asked.
“Procedure.” She pointed at my arm. “Nice field dressing.”
“Thanks to Detective Rodriguez.”
He waved my comment away as an ambulance bounced over the grass, headlights glaring. I started to shield my eyes with both hands, thought better of it, and used only my right. One of the uniformed officers trotted over as the paramedics spilled out of the vehicle.
“It appears the victim sustained a gunshot wound to the thigh. The doctor here was able to staunch the blood loss, but his pressure’s dropping and he may go into shock.”
Tank nodded. “Thanks.”
Rodriguez patted my shoulder.
A shrill voice blared from the darkness. “Where is she?”
I turned toward the sound. “I’m over here, Frances.”
She made her way
toward us, tolling bell dress gripped in both hands, held high as she gingerly chose her footing. Hennessey trailed behind her. “For heaven’s sake,” she said, “you could have at least told me you were planning to run off like that.”
“It was a surprise to me, too.”
She came close, inspected my bandaged arm and said, “You just can’t help getting into the middle of these things, can you?”
“I guess not.”
Frances sniffed, then turned to Hennessey. “Told you she’s nothing but trouble. She’s just lucky she has me to back her up.”
I laughed. “That I am, Frances. That I am.”
RODRIGUEZ ACCOMPANIED ME TO THE EMERGENCY room and stayed in the tiny examining area while I waited to be seen. “You want to talk about it?” he asked.
I found that I did. We sat behind a striped ceiling-mounted curtain that was pulled closed to provide privacy and I told him everything that had happened since I ran off to find the medic.
He nodded and took notes. “I know I don’t need to tell you not to talk to the media,” he said. “There’s already a bunch of reporters outside asking what new excitement Marshfield Manor is up to.”
I groaned. “We only have one local paper. How come the news media seems to expand whenever we have a crisis?”
“Human nature,” he said. “Know how we pull from other departments to arrange a task force? They must do the same thing. Cover the big stories that way. And not much happens around here.” He gave me a dire look. “Well not until recently, that is.”
“I guess.”
“Anybody I should call?” he asked.
“No, I’ll be going home soon enough. Can I hitch a ride with you?” I asked. “No need to get my roommates riled up.”
“You got it.”
“Why don’t you go get a cup of coffee or something, I think it’s going to be a while.”
He stood up, clearly relieved. “You want anything?”
“No thanks.”
“You sure? I’ve been here enough times. I can get the cafeteria ladies to whip you up something special.”