Lethal Little Lies (Jubilant Falls Series Book 3) (5 page)

              “What are you going to do?” he asked softly.

              “I don’t know. I’ve got a politician who took a bullet, the one who could have done it is missing and no one to cover the story. Right now, I gotta go.”

Chapter 6 Kay

            
 
Oh God, I hurt. God, I hurt.

              Cold wind hit my face as the sirens stopped and the doors of the ambulance opened. Warm blood crept across my right side, pain shooting through me as the wheels of the gurney hit the pavement. Though I was lying still, I felt like I was flying. There was the sound of sliding doors opening, more wheels turning.

              Voices gave sharp commands—

              “White female, gunshot wound, right quadrant. Facial injuries consistent with assault.”

              Someone—a man—leaned over me.

              “You’re at the hospital now. We’re going to take good care of you.”

              Other people, men and women, gathered around me.

              “OK, one, two, three—” I felt myself lifted and placed on something, a bed. There were bright lights.
God, I hurt. Somebody please—tell Marcus where I am.

              “Mrs. Henning, can you hear me? Mrs. Henning?” Somebody squeezed my hand.

              I must have said something. The voice kept talking.

“You’re going to be OK. You’re not going to die, but we need to get you into surgery. Hang in there for me, OK?”

              I felt a needle slide into my arm and then peace.

Chapter 7 Marcus

              My fictional hero, ace reporter Rhys Chapman, was equal parts Bob Woodward, Don Juan and Sam Spade.  Tall and red-headed, Chapman was sharp—he asked all the right questions, and knew instinctively where to dig when a story was thrown in his lap.

              He was the darling of his fictional newsroom. Dressed always in the best suits, he was a crack shot, drank only the best scotch, lived in a big city loft furnished in modern style and made all the ladies swoon. No one knew about his secret romance with a blonde police dispatcher known only as Badge Number 3260 on the radio and 'the Doll' to other cops.

              He said her name only in dark, soft moments when she was off duty and he was off deadline.

              There were moments when Rhys needed the Doll, like I needed Kay, times when, better man that he was, he could reach out and say what he needed. Not at all like I'd handled my marriage.

              In short, the hero of
Death on Deadline
was everything I wasn't.

              Now, it was Monday evening and I was wading through Kay's dirty laundry basket in the corner of our walk-in closet, trying to find something the cop standing behind me could take to aid a dog in searching for her. I settled on a cotton tee shirt with coffee stains on the front, dropping it into the brown paper bag he held.

              She put it on Saturday morning, before she went to the grocery. I’d come around the corner, coffee cup in hand, and half awake from a late night writing binge—I would later delete it all. I’d run right into Kay.

              She’d been upset, but never yelled. The gap between us was too cold and deep.

              “I’m sorry!” I called after her. “Kay—honey? I said I’m sorry.”

              There’d been no answer, except the sound of the garage door slamming.

              Wherever Kay was, I only hoped the cops could make contact with her. Her Blackberry was still active, they said. They’d “ping” her phone number off the closest cell towers to find her, use the search dogs and bring her home. Until that happened, cruisers were scouring the city and sheriff’s deputies were prowling the county’s back roads, looking for my old battered van she’d left in.

              Just please bring her back, I prayed to no one in particular. Maybe then I could begin to make everything up to her. Provided she was still alive.

              The memory of her scream echoed in my head.

              "We'll be in touch," the cop said.

              I nodded.

              "We’re doing everything we can, sir."

              "I know."

              The cop closed the front door behind him and I leaned against the wall, sighing heavily.

              My cell phone rang again. It was PJ.

              “I'm on the next flight home, Dad. Can you pick me up at the airport?"

              “Sure, son."

              "Lillian said she's going to be on the flight from New York that lands about a half hour after mine."

              “OK. I'll be there."

              "Dad?"

              "Yes?"

              "I quit school.”

*****

              “You know we always called you guys “Ron and Nancy” behind your backs, don’t you?” PJ said.

              “Excuse me?” I asked

Two hours later, the four of us—me, PJ, Lillian and Bronson—huddled around the kitchen island, clutching coffee mugs. Andrew had called—he would be coming into the base on a military flight the next morning. His commander had given him compassionate leave.

              The conversation had stalled as I unburdened myself about Kay's unhappiness and my neglect that led to this. It was awkward talking to my children as fellow adults, hearing adult marital problems.

              Lillian's eyes were red from crying, but she smiled.

“You know, Daddy—after the Reagan’s. We knew that we were loved as kids, but we also knew that when you two were together, we were outside
that
orbit.”

              “I’m sorry—I didn’t think.” I stammered. I opened the door to a more grown-up conversation and this was the consequence.

              Lillian laughed. “When you only had eyes for each other, even as kids we could hear the sizzle.”

              “You think we didn’t read your book?” PJ grinned sheepishly.

              I felt my face redden to the roots of my thinning hair as I thought of
Death on Deadline’s
steamier sex scenes.

              Her Aryan-blonde boyfriend Bronson, the only one without coffee, stood mutely hanging his head, his hand on her shoulder, but even he had to smile.

              The conversation stalled again. There was nothing else to say, nothing else left to explain.

              PJ stared into his mug.

              “I’m sorry, kids, ” I said.

              "Daddy, you know it's not your fault," Lillian said after a moment. "She never told you she was going to MIT."

              This time, I hung my head.

              "I should have known," I said. "We should have been able to talk about it."

              PJ lifted his head. "No. I told her not to say anything to you."

              “Why not?" It was an indignant chorus and he shrank back into his hooded sweatshirt.

              "It was supposed to be just a day trip," he said. "We were going to have lunch, talk it over, and I was going to have a decision for her when she got off the plane back here. She was going to tell you only if I decided to quit school."

              "Which it sounds like you've decided to do," I said.             

              PJ nodded.

              "You want to tell us why you're giving up a full ride to MIT to come back to this God-forsaken hole of a town?" Lillian demanded. "You're giving up the chance to go to college to come back to Jubilant Falls?"

              She threw her hands in the air like the New Yorker she wanted to be.

              "Lil, we all know you don't like it here, but—” PJ began.             

              "How could anyone like it here? There are no jobs, there's no culture, no elegance, no—” Her voice escalated with each word.

              "Lillian—” Bronson whispered.

              "No, I won't! I've always hated this town! And now somebody here has kidnapped my mother and probably killed her—”

              "Don't you say that! You don't know that!" PJ jumped from his seat, knocking it backward onto the floor, moving threateningly toward his half-sister.

              "Stop it, you two." I stepped between them. "Until we find out exactly what happened to your mother, we will not speculate and we will not turn on each other."

              "I'm sorry," Lillian began to cry again. "I'm just so scared."

              “We all are," I answered. "We all are."

              Silence sank around us again.

              "Tell me, PJ, why you want to quit school," I said. "I know we're worrying about your mother right now, but tell me why you want to come back here."

              "I don't think it's the school for me, that's all. I don't want to major in some science. I'm tired of living with a bunch of geeks with no social skills and questionable hygiene."

              "What do you want to do?" I asked.

              "I want to be a reporter. I want to do what you do, Dad."

              Before I could answer, the cordless phone, lying in the center of the kitchen island, rang. It had been an hour since the last phone call from Detective Mike Birger, who'd been put in charge of the search. I snatched it up, pressing the talk button with my thumb.

              "Hello?"

              "Mr. Henning, it's Detective Birger. We've found your wife."

              "They've found her!" I called over my shoulder. The kids broke into loud cheers and hugged each other. "Is she OK? Where did you find her? Did you catch whoever took her?"

              "She's injured, but she's alive. If you could meet us at the hospital, she's en route there now."

*****

              Detective Birger met us at the emergency room’s glass doors at the Plummer County Community Hospital.

              “Can we see her? Is she OK? Where did you find her? Did you arrest anybody?” Our questions all ran together—I don’t know who asked what.

              Birger held up his hands. Our excitement at having Kay back was tempered—he didn’t smile.

“Mrs. Henning was found in a hotel room near the highway,               at the county line—she’s been shot.”

              “Oh my God!”

              “She took one shot in the right side. She’s got some internal injuries, some facial injuries—maybe from an assault—but the doctors think she’s going to be fine.”

              I sighed. “Thank God. Do you know anything else?”

              “It looked like she was held there. If you hadn’t called her, we wouldn’t have found her.”

              “What about the shooter?” I asked.

              Birger shook his head. “The shooter wasn’t there when we got there.”

              My shoulders—and the kids’—collectively sank.

              “When she’s out of surgery and able to speak, we’ll interview her and maybe she can give us some more information. We won’t give up.”

              Once inside, Birger led us up to the waiting room outside the surgical suite. As he waited outside, a nurse briefed us on Kay’s condition.

              “The detective told us Mom was shot?” Lillian spoke first.

              The nurse nodded. “Yes. It was a small caliber bullet that punctured her right side. She’s got some facial injuries, a broken nose. She’s just starting surgery, but should be out within a few hours. The doctors think she’ll be fine. If you’d like, there’s time for you to go get something to eat. The cafeteria is on the lower level. It’s open 24 hours.”

              “Why don’t you guys go get something to eat?” I said. “I’ll wait up here. I’ll call your cell if she comes out sooner.”

              “OK.” They gathered up their coats and stood. We walked out of the conference room, strolling toward the elevator. The door opened and I hugged Lillian.

              “I’ll call you when she’s out of surgery,” I said.

              She nodded. “I love you, Daddy.” She smiled wistfully and the three of them stepped into the elevator.

Detective Birger met me as I came back to the waiting room.

              “I didn’t want to say this before, but we do have some other information,” he said. “Did you know that there were apparently ten voicemails on your office phone today?”

              “I knew some guy kept trying to call me, but since my book was published, I get a lot of those.”

              “So you ignore them?”

              “For the most part. We’re short-staffed at the paper. Addison would kill me if I spent my days talking up fans and signing autographs.”

              “Maybe you should have answered these calls. We think they could have been from the man who shot your wife.”