High in Trial

by Donna Ball

  Maude said, “No, nothing that I know of. Do you think…? Is there cause to be concerned?”

  Buck’s lips tightened grimly. “Raine needs to know about this,” he said. “You handle it any way you want, but she’s going to have to know.”

  Maude’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Is she in danger, Buck? Is she in danger because of me?”

  “Not now,” he said. “Not yet. But twenty years in prison is a long time to hate somebody who did you wrong, and it must’ve made him even madder when the judge died before he could get out and get even. The obituary would’ve listed the details about his survivors. That’s why he carried it around for so long. That’s what he meant by ‘sins of the father.’ He’s a long way from here now, and maybe we’ll catch him before he finds Raine, but she’ll have to be warned. And sooner or later she’ll want to know why.”

  Maude said softly, “It will break her heart.”

  For a moment her pain was reflected in Buck’s eyes. “I know.”

  Maude nodded slowly and turned back to the window. “I’ve a brother in Florida, you know. He’s just bought a hotel, and he asked me to consider helping him run it. Perhaps it’s time for a change.”

  Buck knew he should say something, but he didn’t know what. In the end, all he could manage was, “You do what you have to do. But tell Raine to give me a call when she gets in, will you?” He started for the door.

  Maude said, “That won’t be until Sunday.”

  He looked back her.

  “She’s at an agility trial in South Carolina,” Maude said. “I should think she might’ve mentioned it to you. It’s all she’s posted about on Facebook for days. Cisco won a blue ribbon.”

  Facebook. For some reason that word seemed to echo in his head and along with it a dozen police bulletins he’d received over the past year, all of them jumbled up and unrelated to each other. Everything within him seemed to go cold. He said, “Where in South Carolina?”

  “Pembroke. It’s the big season opener at the agricultural fairgrounds there. She always—”

  Buck snatched out his phone and started dialing, his heart going like a freight train. Maude moved toward him in alarm.

  “Buck?”

  “Damn,” he said tightly. “Voice mail. Damn it…” He pushed out the door with Maude following helplessly. “Raine, listen to me. You’re in danger. Get in your car and drive to the nearest police station, do you hear me? Call me from there. Do it now.”

  “Buck,” Maude called after him. “Is there anything I can do?”

  But he was already on another call, lengthening his stride until he was almost running as he moved toward his car. “This is Sheriff Lawson, Hanover County, North Carolina. North Carolina ID NC7548—”

  The rest was cut off as he slammed the door of the cruiser and spun the car around in the narrow parking lot. He sped down the driveway, leaving a plume of dust and gravel in his wake, and all Maude could do was watch.

  ~*~

  SEVENTEEN

  Eight minutes before the shooting

  Jeremiah Allen Berman once again admired the wonder of this fine new century into which he had been released: the ease with which people moved to and fro, the determination that allowed them to focus only on themselves and not on what was going on around them. He’d been born for this time. He had.

  It had taken him less than an hour to get to the park. No one had stopped him. Why should they? At first he’d worried about how he would transport an assault rifle across an open parking lot and into a pavilion crowded with people, but it turned out to be amazingly simple. This was a dog show. People were carrying all kinds of crazy things—pop-up tents, oversized coolers, foldaway dog houses with air-conditioned fans, roll-up mats, and collapsible canvas chairs. He walked to a vendor’s booth, spent twenty dollars on what looked like a yoga mat printed with dog paws, went back to his car, and concealed his weapon inside. The yoga mat had a shoulder strap. No one looked at him twice as he climbed to the very top of the bleachers and settled the mat between his feet, waiting for a certain woman with a brown ponytail in a golden retriever sweatshirt to arrive.

  Last night it’d been dark. The mistake was easy to make. But he had over a dozen pictures of her now, scrolling over and over on the wallpaper of his phone. He knew his target. And by now he was just mad enough to enjoy a little collateral damage.

  He was calm; he was ready. He didn’t break a sweat as he saw her cross into the shadow of the pavilion with the yellow dog. A man was walking toward her. Not a problem. Collateral damage. He began to unwrap his weapon from the paw print mat. No one even glanced his way. His hand where the dog had bitten him hurt like a son of a bitch, and his trigger finger was swollen to twice its normal size. That only made him madder. He hoped he’d be able to pick off a few black and white dogs while he was at it.

  He slipped down behind the bleacher seat in sniper position. He lifted the rifle, sited his target, and waited for his shot.

  * * *

  I reached automatically into my pocket for my phone and remembered too late it was tucked inside my day bag, which was secured inside Cisco’s crate, because that was what I always did with my valuables at a trial. The big-shouldered man kept coming toward me, mouth grim, eyes cold. My hand tightened on the leash and I glanced around a little frantically, but where could I go and what would I do when I got there? There were people everywhere, setting up the course, watching from the stands, gathering in groups outside the ring. Surely I was safer here in front of all these witnesses than anywhere else, and besides, what could he possibly do to me? Then I remembered Neil’s knee and one swing of a lead pipe from those powerful arms, and I took an involuntary step backward.

  He was upon me.

  “Raine Stockton?” he said.

  He reached inside his jacket and I drew a breath to scream, but suddenly Cisco gave a happy bark and lunged forward to the end of the leash, sending me stumbling after him. At first I thought my brave dog was protecting me, but then I saw Sarah and Brinkley cross the pavilion toward the practice jump, and Cisco’s gaze was rapt upon them. I burst out, “Damn it, Cisco!” and then I realized the man hadn’t pulled out a gun, but an ID wallet.

  He said, “I’m Special Agent Seth Ledbetter, with the State Bureau of Investigation. I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute.”

  I stared at him. More importantly, I stared at the badge and the photograph ID inside the wallet. I’d seen enough law enforcement badges to know this one was authentic. Nonetheless, I said, “No, you’re not. You were with Marcie yesterday at the hotel. I saw you.” Cisco barked again and I said sharply, “Cisco, sit!” He complied automatically, but his attention was on the opposite side of the ring and he licked his lips anxiously. I ignored him and looked back at the man opposite me suspiciously. “How did you find me?”

  He put away his ID. “I spoke with the detective on the case, who told me you found Marcie Wilbanks’s body. And the gentleman at the hotel, Mr. Young, told me you were here.”

  I knew if I checked my messages I’d find one from Miles. Still, I was cautious. “What were you doing with Marcie yesterday?”

  An expression of such raw grief and regret crossed his eyes that I knew that whatever he said next would be nothing but the truth. He frowned a little, as though in attempt to hide the emotion, and his lips tightened. “I’ve been trying to bust a loan sharking ring for over a year now, and Marcie—Ms. Wilbanks—offered to help us set a trap. Over time… we probably became closer than we should have. Yesterday… we were within hours of closing in on them, and the stress was getting to her. No one expected her ex to throw a monkey wrench into the plans with the dogs, and she was upset.”

  My head was spinning. “Wait a minute. Marcie was working with you? She wasn’t in debt to loan sharks and she wasn’t trying to fix the Standard Cup?”

  He said, “It was a setup. We were trying to get the guys to tip their hand by actually extorting money from her. We didn’t count on them going after
Kellog, but when they did… we rounded up every one of them within hours.”

  My mind was busy trying to rearrange the puzzle pieces that had once fit together so well into an entirely different picture. I wasn’t having much luck. “But I don’t understand. I saw Marcie at dinner last night. I could swear she didn’t know anything about Neil being attacked, and she was as nervous as a cat.”

  He nodded. “She knew it was coming to a head this weekend. We both did. But we didn’t learn they’d moved in on Kellog until the police were called after the attack. The hit man still had the bloody tire tool in his car.”

  “Tire tool?” I repeated. “Not a lead pipe?” Was it possible Cisco had uncovered nothing of more significance than an old piece of construction debris? I’d been wrong about everything else; it hardly seemed far-fetched that I’d been wrong about this too.

  He said, “I called Marcie to let her know it was all over about nine last night, and…” He shifted his gaze away, but not before I saw the jagged scar of pain there. “That was the last time I spoke to her.”

  I said slowly, “But… if you arrested everyone who was involved in the scam, who killed Marcie?”

  He said, “That’s what I was hoping you could help me figure out.” He gestured toward the bleachers. “Could we sit down? I know you’ve already gone over this with the police, but if you could tell me again everything that happened from the time you got back to the hotel last night until you found her this morning, maybe…”

  The ring steward called, “Standard Open! Judge’s briefing in five minutes!”

  Everyone started moving, hurrying to crate their dogs, put away their course maps, double-knot their shoelaces, pull back their hair, and reassemble in the ring. I felt a pang of jealousy. I’m ashamed of it, but I really did. One more run…

  And then I saw Miles, leaning with one shoulder against the pillar where Cisco’s crate was set up, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his navy windbreaker, Atlanta Braves cap shading his eyes, waiting. How much of his time had been spent waiting for me since we’d met? And how much longer could I reasonably expect him to continue to wait?

  I said, “Um, sure. Just a minute, though, okay? I need to put my dog away.”

  I said, “Cisco, with me.” And we started toward Miles.

  We’d gone less than a dozen steps when the inevitable happened. Brinkley sailed over the practice jump, made a perfect loop to return to Sarah, and Cisco thought it would be a great idea to join him. Completely forgetting about the leash that connected me to him, he spun around and lunged toward the practice jump and his best friend, jerking me completely off course and very nearly off my feet.

  That was probably what saved my life, because it was at that very moment that the ground exploded in a pop of dust less than six inches from where I was standing.

  People say at first you don’t know what’s happening. I’ve been around gunfire all my life and there was a part of my brain that knew exactly what was happening. And there was a part of my brain that was saying, No, no, not here, it can’t be, while yet another part registered screaming and running and people falling on the ground. Milliseconds, only milliseconds passed while dirt exploded all around me and people fell and dogs barked and legs ran and voices screamed. Agent Ledbetter reached for his gun but spun to the ground before he could draw it. Somewhere close a siren screeched and then another. I heard a name—my name—and suddenly Miles barreled into me, not just pushing me, but throwing me toward the shelter of the bleachers with such force that I thudded into a support post and lost my breath. I lay gasping like a beached whale and everything was in slow motion, slow desperate motion because Cisco was no longer with me. His leash had been torn from my hand and now I could see him standing in the middle of the pavilion looking confused and uncertain, looking for me. Inside, I screamed, Cisco! But I had no breath to make words. Miles pushed away from me and rushed toward Cisco.

  He went down in a rain of gunfire, and that was when I found the breath to scream, “Noooo!”

  But it was too late.

  ~*~

  EIGHTEEN

  The Aftermath

  I remember the wail of sirens was like the howl of coyotes, drawing closer and closer and louder and louder in those endless seconds of death-quiet before the world started spinning again. Suddenly no more gunfire. Suddenly only broken sobs in the stillness, the thin high bark of a small-breed dog. The smell of cordite and dust and spicy nachos. The drone of a distant RV generator. And then somewhere above my head was a sharp command that had the word “Secure!” in it. I remember that, even though before it was spoken I was already half-running, half-crawling, stumbling and falling, heaving great big choking, horrified gasping breaths, and then I was in Miles’s arms.

  I remember that it was like being squeezed by a boulder. I remember the taste of his jacket and the salt of my own tears in my mouth, the rock-hard pressure of his chest and arms, and whispers in my ear, something like, “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. It is.” And Cisco, my big golden guy, worming his way between us, his hot breath on my face, his thick silky fur clasped in my fist. The sound of my ragged breath filled my ears. My face, slick with mucous and tears and mud, pressed first against Cisco’s fur and then against Miles’s chest. My throat was thick with sobs and I clung to them both, hard. I banged one fist feebly against Miles’s chest.

  “You went back for him, you idiot.” The words were a muffled string of slobber and sobs. “You went back for my dog. You saved him. You went back for my dog.”

  “Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You scared me so much! You idiot!” I tried to hit his chest again, but my fist went flat against it, pressing deep into his heartbeat instead. “You scared me so much.”

  I felt his fingers threading through my hair, cupping my scalp. His voice was husky. “Now you know the feeling.”

  “It’s not just something people say,” I whispered wetly. “It’s not!”

  Miles took my face in his hands and he kissed me, there in the dust in the middle of an AKC trial, mud, mucous, tears, and all, and he said, “I know.”

  I clung to them, the two guys I loved, until the noise and the shuddering and the terror subsided. We were okay.

  We were all okay.

  * * *

  Four people were taken to the hospital, most with minor injuries from falls or shrapnel. A bullet had grazed Agent Ledbetter’s shoulder, but he considered the injury minor and was back on the scene with his arm in a dark sling long before the questioning of the witnesses was complete. No dogs were hurt, although some escaped their handlers and were so agitated it took hours to find them. The timely intervention of the SWAT team, who were on site only minutes after Berman arrived, could be thanked for the lack of significant casualties. And, though it was never widely known outside the law enforcement community, Sheriff Buck Lawson of Hanover County, North Carolina, could be thanked for alerting local authorities to the likely whereabouts and intentions of the perpetrator.

  Jeremiah Allen Berman was taken down by a single bullet to the head seventeen seconds after his shooting rampage began. It seemed much longer than that.

  “The browser history on his stolen cell phone showed he’d been stalking you for weeks,” Agent Ledbetter explained. He’d been our liaison for information, keeping Miles and Cisco and me separated from the others while still making sure we were informed. “Probably since he got out of prison. You’ve had links to this dog show on your website since February, and it was easy to track your movements on Facebook.”

  Though the April afternoon was at least as mild as it had been yesterday, it was cold in the shadows where we sat on the bleachers, or at least it seemed so to me. Even with the jacket Miles had draped over my shoulders and the paper cup of coffee that warmed my hands, even with the gentle happy heat of the golden retriever who pressed against my legs, I couldn’t stop the occasional shiver.

  “Berman acquired some basic computer skills in prison,” Ledbetter wen
t on, “and probably picked up the rest while he was living with his brother in Georgia. The phone belonged to his fourteen-year-old niece. But there’s no doubt he’d been planning this for a long time.”

  I had managed to get a call through to Buck. He explained that Berman had sworn vengeance on my father, who was the judge who sent him to prison, but he’d been annoyingly vague on the details. I supposed he was right—details didn’t matter. What mattered was that no one had been seriously hurt, and Berman would never threaten anyone else again.

  Miles said, “So it was Berman who tried to get Raine to leave her room last night?”

  Ledbetter nodded somberly. “Most likely. One of the hotel guests was able to identify him as the man who tried to get her to let him into the building yesterday, as well.”

  “Sarah,” I said softly, repressing a shudder. “She was so lucky he didn’t hurt her.”

  “There were quite a few people around yesterday evening, and he probably wasn’t willing to take that chance. If he could’ve gotten her alone inside the building, though, it might have been another story.”

  His face tightened, though whether the white lines that appeared around his lips were from the pain associated with his wound or from the memory of Marcie, I couldn’t tell. “Apparently,” he went on, “Marcie left her room to walk her dog shortly after Berman called your room last night. We’re still matching DNA, but I suspect it will show it was Berman who attacked her. He had a picture of you on his phone with Marcie’s dog, and she was wearing a sweatshirt and baseball cap just like yours. In the dark, he may have mistaken her for you.”

  I closed my eyes and had to take long, deep breaths to keep down the bitter gorge that wanted to rise in my throat. Miles’s arm went around my shoulders.