One Hex of a Wedding

by Galenorn, Yasmine

  Jimbo let out a muffled grunt. “Okay, but don’t make it too long.” He steered me over to the all too familiar sofa in the waiting room and pushed me by the shoulders until I sat down. I leaned forward, head in my hands, trying to keep it together. My mind whirled with all sorts of possibilities—most of them bad—but I knew my fear was overriding my ability to sense how Joe was doing. I tried to tune in, but couldn’t push past the panic.

  “Tell me what happened. Talk to me.”

  Jimbo let out a long sigh. “We were getting ready for the barbecue, we’d carried the meat down to the lake and I was working on the grill while Joe was shucking corn. I turned around . . . I dunno why, but something felt off. Just then, there was a crack, and the next thing I knew Joe was on the ground, bleeding. He had his cell phone on him and I called 911 while trying to pull one of the barrels in front of us for cover.”

  I closed my eyes, imagining the scene. The lakeside area of Jimbo’s acreage was overgrown, wild and thick with cattails and long blades of canary grass. Skunk cabbage dappled the area with bright yellow flowers, and a rickety homemade dock led out over the lake to where he kept inner tubes and a canoe tied to the moorings. The meadow had been cleared and we used it for get-togethers and barbecues. I could see Joe standing there, shucking corn under the afternoon sun, and then a shot ringing out. Suddenly, the image was all too vivid and my eyes flew open.

  “Was he shot more than once?”

  Jimbo shook his head. “No. Whoever did it either disappeared or ran out of ammo. One shot, that’s all. I couldn’t tell if the bullet actually went in or not. I didn’t want to mess with the wound too much, so I just applied pressure where it was bleeding, and by the time the ambulance got there, I’d staunched the flow. Joe was awake.” He paused, then stumbling over his words, continued, “He told me to tell you that he loves you, O’Brien. That you’re the only woman he’s ever loved.” He stared at the floor.

  At that moment, Murray and Deacon appeared at the entrance to the waiting room. Murray rushed over and settled in on my other side. I caught her glance at Jimbo over my head, but she said nothing.

  Deacon motioned to Jimbo. “Now that Emerald’s here and Joe’s with the doctors, I need to get your statement.” Jimbo grunted and headed over to the other side of the room, followed by the careworn officer.

  Murray took my hands in hers. “White Deer says to tell you not to worry, that Joe will be okay. She took a peek.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. “Thank you, I needed to hear that. I trust her. I trust her—really, but . . .”

  “But you won’t know for sure until the doctors talk to you.”

  Miserable, I nodded.

  She pulled me into her arms and let me rest my head against her shoulder. “Harlow’s watching the kids. She convinced your family to go back to the hotel.”

  Family! Shit, I had to call Joe’s family. I grabbed for my purse and frantically began searching for the address book. “Joe’s brother is due in tomorrow—I have to call him.”

  She took my purse from me and set it on the seat beside us. “Wait until you know more about what’s happened. You don’t want to alarm them if it’s just a surface wound.”

  I let go of the book and she tucked it back into my handbag. “You’re right. I can’t seem to think straight. I’m so scared, Mur. What if he . . . what if something goes wrong . . . what if—”

  “What if you put those what-ifs on hold? Come on, I’ll bet you haven’t had a full breath since Deacon showed up at the door.” She made me turn around and began rubbing my shoulders. As the tension loosened, I inhaled deeply, realizing that she was right. As I coughed, I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye. A doctor had entered the room and was headed my way. I recognized him, too, from one of our numerous trips to the ER.

  Jumping up, I raced over, scanning his face anxiously. “Can you tell me about Joe?”

  He held out his hand and smiled. “You can relax, Emerald. He’s going to be all right. The bullet winged him, grazing his shoulder right below his collarbone, but it didn’t go in. Joe must have turned just as the bullet came whizzing by, because it caught him at the perfect angle—for him, not for whoever it was trying to shoot him. He’ll be fine, though he’s going to hurt like hell the next week or so.”

  Dizzy with relief, I felt my knees give way, but before I landed on my butt, strong arms buoyed me up. Jimbo had rushed to my side, catching me a second before I hit the floor. He helped me to a chair.

  The doctor sat down next to me. “Mr. Files is an athletic young man, and that worked in his favor. He has abrasions and a lot of bruising, but nothing that won’t heal.” He looked at Deacon. “Since the bullet didn’t penetrate, your men should find it out at the scene, Officer Wilson. My guess, from the wound, is that the gun was a twenty-two. If it had been a shotgun, there would have been a lot more damage, and the buckshot would have made a mess of his arm.” He consulted the file. “We’ll want to keep him for twenty-four hours for observation, but I think he’ll be able to go home tomorrow.”

  Breathing easier, I asked, “Can I see him?”

  The doctor put his hand on mine. “Of course, but give us about fifteen minutes to make him comfortable in a room. A nurse will come get you when he’s ready for visitors.”

  “Is he up to answering a few questions?” Murray asked.

  With a shrug, the doctor said, “I think a few questions will be fine, but don’t overtire him.” And with that, he left the room.

  “Thank God he’s going to be okay.” I slid back in my seat as the panic rushed out like a wave on the ebb. Tears streaked down my cheeks as I silently gave thanks to whatever force had saved my sweetheart. I could easily have been Joe’s widow before I’d even been his bride.

  Murray pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll let Harlow know so she can tell the kids,” she said.

  Jimbo gave me a thumbs-up. “I told you he’s tough. O’Brien, wipe your eyes and blow your nose and fix your makeup. Joe’s going to need cheering up and that long face of yours is about as cheerful as a hog on butchering day.”

  I narrowed my eyes, unable to keep from laughing. “Are you calling me a pig, biker man?”

  He grinned. “That’s the stuff. You’re a tough broad, O’Brien. And that is a compliment.”

  JOE WAS IN bed, propped against pillows, with an IV in his arm and a Telfa bandage covering the space just below his collarbone on his left side. He opened his eyes when we walked through the door. I raced over to his side, dropping into the chair next to his bed.

  He winced a little as he shifted to get a better look at me. “Hey, babe, good of you to visit.” His voice was groggy; they’d given him pain medication and it had made him tired.

  “Joe, don’t you ever do this to me again! I was afraid . . .” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t finish my thoughts. Sometimes saying something aloud made it all too real. I clutched his right hand, focusing on the feel of his fingers in mine, the warmth of his flesh against my own.

  “I know,” he whispered. “I know. I was thinking the same thing myself.”

  Murray and Jimbo hung back, but Deacon slowly made his way over to the bed. “Hey, Joe, I don’t mean to break up the reunion, but are you up to answering a few questions for me?”

  Joe cleared his throat. “I can try, man, but I don’t remember much. Jimbo had a much clearer view of what went down, considering I was preoccupied with keeping myself alive, rather than looking for whoever shot at me.”

  Deacon asked him if he’d noticed anything out of the ordinary, if there had been any strange sounds or events before the shot. Joe told him no, he’d just been shucking corn when he heard a loud crack and the next thing he knew, his shoulder was on fire in a blaze of pain.

  “Can you think of anybody who might be out to get you? You have any enemies, made anyone mad lately? Any threats?” Deacon poised his pen over his notepad.

  Joe looked at him sharply. “What do you mean? You think this was deliberate and no
t an accident? I thought it must be some neighbor kid out shooting birds or something, who didn’t look before he pulled the trigger.”

  As I mulled over Deacon’s questions in my mind, an ugly thought crept into the back of my mind. One I didn’t want to entertain. I hoped I was wrong. I’d better be wrong. But what if I wasn’t?

  Joe shook his head. “I can’t think of anybody who might be that mad at me. I’m in the business of saving lives, not making them miserable.”

  I had to speak up. “I know somebody who’s mad at you, Joe. I hate to even mention it—but maybe . . .”

  “Who?” Deacon looked at me, as Murray and Jimbo moved closer.

  I glanced up at Murray. “Roy. He was drunk last night, but he wasn’t incoherent. He threatened to ruin our wedding. You all heard him.” Once the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could take them back. What if I was right? But surely Roy wasn’t capable of murder. Or was he? I didn’t want to believe he could possibly pick up a gun and deliberately shoot someone but then again, I’d been on the receiving end of his fist several times and I knew he wasn’t above taking his anger out on anybody who happened to be within punching range. Was the leap so far from a fist to a gun?

  Murray’s eyes grew wide. “Shit, you’re right. Deacon, I want you to talk to Greg. I had him find out where Roy is staying. I sent him over to take Roy’s car keys back and tell him to watch himself. Ask Greg for the address and if Roy’s still there, tell him to stay put. We can’t rule him out until we investigate this further.” She turned to me. “Would Roy have known about the barbecue?”

  I shrugged. “Kip might have told him. He told him about the party. And it’s not that hard in this little town to find out what’s going on.”

  Just then, the door opened and a nurse walked in. She was carrying a bag with a bloodstained shirt in it. “The doctor wanted me to ask you if you’ll be needing Mr. Files’ shirt for evidence?”

  Murray glanced at it, then did a double take. “Jimmy,” she said to Jimbo, “that’s your shirt. I gave that to you for Christmas.”

  I peered at the Hawaiian print and frowned. “She’s right. I don’t think you own a shirt like that, do you, Joe?”

  Joe shook his head. “No, but when I was mixing up the barbecue sauce, I spilled it all over myself and had to borrow a shirt from Jimbo. My own shirt’s sitting on his kitchen counter.”

  Deacon took the bag. “We’ll just keep this as evidence.” He jotted down a few more notes, tucked his notepad away, and slipped on his hat. “I think I’ve got everything I need. Okay, I’m heading out. I’ll talk to Greg and Sandy, see if they found the bullet. Then we’ll go round up Roy and see what he’s been up to.”

  “Let me know what you find out. I’ll be home this evening,” Murray told him. He waved and disappeared down the hall. She watched until he was gone, then returned to the room.

  I sat beside Joe, parked on the edge of his bed, holding his hand. The thought that he might have died if he hadn’t turned to the side—exactly at the precise moment needed—ricocheted through me as surely as any bullet. One fraction of movement, one inch to the right, and it could have been all over. I stared at the snow white sheets, thinking how sterile they looked, and how clinical. I wanted to take him home, to tuck him into bed and take care of him till he was healed. But the hospital was the safest place for him right now, and spending one night alone was a small price to pay for peace of mind.

  Joe sighed. I could tell he was getting tired. “Do you want us to leave so you can get some rest?”

  He adjusted himself against the pillows and winced again. “No, not really, but I am tired. I just can’t figure out why somebody would deliberately shoot me. It had to be an accident. I can’t believe that I was the target.”

  “People are strange,” I murmured. “Their actions don’t always make sense.” But inside, somewhere deep inside, I knew that the shot had been deliberate. For some reason, Joe had ended up with a big fat target sign painted on his chest, and it was only luck that had kept him alive. “You sleep now. I have to go home to the kids, but I’ll tell the nurse to call if you need me.”

  Murray and Jimbo waved and slipped into the hall to give us some privacy. I leaned down and placed a lingering kiss on Joe’s lips. He started to reach up, to open his arms, but then stopped and moaned. The nurse entered the room at that point and shooed me toward the door.

  “Your young man needs his rest,” she said. “If you phone tomorrow around ten, we’ll be able to tell you whether or not the doctor will be releasing him.”

  “What medications is he on?” I asked, watching as she prepared a shot.

  “We gave him a broad-spectrum antibiotic to fight any impending infection and a pain reliever. He’ll remain on an IV drip through the night, to make sure he’s fully hydrated.” She held up the syringe. “This is a mild sedative. The doctor wants him to get plenty of sleep and this will put him out for the night.”

  As she prepared his arm for the injection, I blew him another kiss and then reluctantly slipped out the door to join Jimbo and Murray. We stood in the hall for a moment. “I need a ride home,” I said. “I came with Deacon.”

  “Actually, so do I. I rode in the ambulance with Joe.” Jimbo shook his head. “I hope nobody went out to my place expecting dinner. There wasn’t exactly time to leave a note.”

  “Sandy and Greg would have told them what happened,” Murray said. “But they wouldn’t be able to provide a status on Joe’s condition. If anybody showed up, they’re likely to be mighty worried by now.”

  “Can you drop me off at home before you head to the station, Mur?” We headed toward the exit. “I need to make sure the kids are all right and defuse the situation with my folks. This is so not going well. They want a nice, quiet life for their grandchildren and so far, I haven’t measured up in that regard.”

  With a laugh, Murray wrapped her arm around my waist. “Don’t sweat it, Emerald. Tell them that you get bored with quiet. Tell them that this is quiet for you! Tell them that . . . that you’re doing the best you can.”

  MURRAY AND JIMBO dropped me off, promising to call with any developments as soon as they heard about them. I steeled myself, expecting to find my parents, Grandma M., and Rose all waiting to pounce, and I dreaded the round of questions that was sure to follow. And to top it off, I had to call Joe’s brother and let him know what was going down. As I trudged up the porch steps, I let out a long, slow breath. Might as well get it over with.

  To my surprise, only Harlow, James, and my children were waiting for me. “Where is everybody?”

  Harlow grinned. “I figured you wouldn’t be up to facing all those questions so I told everybody to go back to the hotel. They didn’t want to, but James and Randa backed me up. We cleared the house out and I brought the kids back here.”

  I dropped onto the sofa, relieved. “Thank you. Thank you more than I can say.” Just then, Kip and Randa rushed in, worried looks creasing their faces. I opened my arms and they dove onto the sofa, curling up on either side of me. I held them for a moment, then explained what had happened.

  “So, he’s going to be okay?” Kip asked.

  “Yep, kiddo, he’s going to be okay.”

  “And they don’t know who shot him?” Randa asked.

  I shook my head. “No, but they’re looking into it. The bullet didn’t penetrate—it only grazed him—but that means they have to find it at the scene in order to be certain what kind of gun it came from.”

  Kip’s lip fluttered. “Did Dad shoot him?”

  Oh shit, so I wasn’t the only one who thought of that possibility. “Who suggested that?” I asked carefully.

  “Great-Grandma. She called Dad a bad name and then said she wouldn’t put it past him.” His eyes were wide and I knew I had to squash the situation before it became part of the rumor mill. Regardless of what I thought about Roy, until the cops excluded or included him in the list of suspects I had no right to tell my children that I secretly thought he m
ight be responsible.

  “Grandma M. has a short fuse. She’s speculating. That means she doesn’t know what happened, but is thinking about possible suspects.” I made them both face me. “Listen to me carefully. We don’t know who did it. Your father might end up being considered a suspect, but there are a lot of people who could have pulled the trigger. The shot could have been fired by a hunter or a kid out for target practice—it could just be an accident. Until we know more, I don’t want you repeating any rumors, okay?”

  Kip nodded. Randa frowned, leaning forward. “Did you tell them where Dad’s staying?”

  I gave her a sharp look. “Do you know where he’s staying? I didn’t even know he was in town until he showed up at the party last night.”

  Kip scuffed his foot against the carpet. “Yeah, he’s at the Four Seasons Motel. He told me he was coming into town on Wednesday, but he said he wanted it to be a surprise so not to say anything to you. I thought he was coming to see us, but he hasn’t called or nothin’.” Kip looked hurt, the way he always did when Roy screwed up.

  So, good ol’ Roy was playing my kids against me. I sighed and picked up the phone. No messages.

  “Do you have his number?” As Kip nodded, I grabbed a notebook and jotted it down, along with his room number. Murray said Greg had found out where he was staying, but it wouldn’t hurt for me to have the information, since I was planning to light into him myself. If he wasn’t already in jail, that is. He had to learn to quit breaking his promises to the kids.

  The phone rang and Kip grabbed it, but his face fell as he handed it to me. It was Murray.

  “Hey, chica, we found Roy,” she said. “He doesn’t have much of an alibi for this morning—he says he was sleeping off last night’s party. I’m inclined to believe him, but I’ve ordered him not to leave town until I give him the okay. You never know. Other than that, we found the bullet. The doctor was right, it came from a twenty-two. Joe’s just lucky it wasn’t a shotgun or he’d be in hurt-heaven by now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”