Читать книгу House of Secrets - Ramona Richards - Страница 11

June’s head cracked against a rock on the edge of the ravine and she went silent as she tumbled over. Scrambling but still trying to hold on to the car door, Ray frantically snatched at her arm but missed, and she slid away into the ravine. Ray let go of the door, dropping out of the line of fire and sliding down the rock-lined slope. He stumbled on the rock bed at the bottom, twisting his right ankle and hitting the ground hard. The rocks had punctured deep gashes in his right arm, but he clambered to June’s side, calling her name and checking her pulse.

June, limp, pale and unconscious, had a deep cut on her forehead and abrasions on her right cheek and arms. Blood streamed down her face and Ray pulled his shirt open and ripped away part of his undershirt, pressing it hard against her forehead. Her pulse felt thready and uneven, and Ray yanked his cell phone from his pocket.

As he called into the station for backup and an ambulance, Ray drew in several deep gulps of air to steady his voice—and his nerves. Flipping the phone shut, he pressed the cloth against June’s face again, then turned his attention up the ravine’s bank. Using the cruiser for cover, he climbed the embankment slowly, ignoring the increased throbbing in his head and arm.

Peering around the rear tire, Ray spotted the assailant on the foliage-covered hillside that rose steeply away from the other side of the road. The yellow-white late-morning sunlight glinted off the grille of an SUV—and a rifle barrel. About ten yards below the rise of the hill, and camouflaged by thick brush, the sniper still sat, apparently waiting to make sure they had not survived.

“How did you get here so fast?” Ray muttered under his breath as he pulled his pistol from its holster. Bracing his arms, Ray took careful aim and fired three times.

The rifle went airborne with the first shot, and the assailant—a slender, wiry white man with dark, shaggy hair—scrambled after it. Ray could hear the raw, explosive words that burst from the gunman. The second and third shots shattered one headlight and the grille on the SUV and, Ray hoped, the radiator.

The assailant clawed the SUV’s door open and slammed the vehicle into Reverse as Ray fired again, aiming for but missing the windshield. The SUV roared away as sirens filled the air, and Ray lowered his gun, sliding back down into the ravine toward June.

Pressing the cloth against her head again, Ray checked her pulse. Weak, and her breathing was shallow and slow. All his training, all his knowledge, fought desperately with his urge to gather her up in his arms and clutch her to his chest.

Instead, Ray clenched one fist at his side and waited for the sirens to close in, for the first responders who could truly rescue this woman. And in his mind he made plans for the man who’d tried to kill her.

“Where is she?” Ray winced as Fran Woodard cut his sleeve and peeled the cloth away from the gash on his left forearm, and the demanding tone in his voice lessened. “Who’s seeing her?”

As a nurse, Fran had been taking care of Bell County’s law enforcement officers since long before Ray had been on the force. Her hands were always firm but gentle, and her straightforward manner kept any attitude in line. She’d already cleaned and rebandaged the gunshot wound on the side of his head, and now she used a dampened gauze pad to loosen a bit of cloth stuck to his arm by clotted blood.

Ray sat on the bed in the E.R., his arm resting on one end of a rolling table, Fran’s tray of supplies on the other. She picked up a cleansing antiseptic to use on the gash. “We’re seeing too much of you boys lately. You need to be more careful.” Fran clucked her tongue at him. “Stop fretting and sit still. Dr. Collins is in with her right now. The X-rays are back.”

“Is she still unconscious?”

“Last I heard, she was awake and being stubborn about treatment.”

Ray’s quick grin shifted to a grimace as Fran began to clean the wound. “That’s a good sign.”

Fran shrugged. “Maybe. She needs to rest, not resist.”

“Not June’s style.”

“Yeah, well, she won’t have much choice if Dr. Collins decides to keep her overnight. That was quite a knock on her head.”

Ray took a deep breath and steeled himself as Fran reached for tweezers.

“Hold still. You’ve just got a couple of pieces of gravel embedded.”

Ray didn’t want to close his eyes, even against the pain. Every time he did, he replayed the scenes from the shootings. “How did he get there so fast?” Ray muttered.

Fran cut her eyes toward him briefly, then focused again on the cut, pulling free the last bit of gravel. “I don’t think I’m the one to ask.”

In spite of it all, Ray almost grinned. Instead, only the corner of his mouth jerked. “Thanks, Fran.”

She paused, watching him for a moment.

“What?”

“Do you think he was shooting at you or June?”

Ray scowled. “Why?”

Fran shrugged one shoulder again. “It’s a little unnerving to know someone’s out there randomly shooting at folks. I mean, it’s easy to assume that it was because of Pastor Gallagher’s murder, but was it really?”

Ray’s eyes narrowed. “Fran, for all our sakes, let’s hope it’s connected. I’d hate to think we’ve got two nut-cases running around in Bell County.”

Fran stood. “You’re going to need four or five stitches in this arm, so sit tight. Dr. Collins will be over here in a few. Do not go wandering around looking for June. Even if she is nearby.” She winked at him, then left the room.

Ray twisted his forearm, tipping the gauze onto the tray where his arm rested. His muscles still twitched from the pain. Much of the blood had clotted, but a few places still glistened red from the cleansing of it. It was only three inches long, but deep in the center. Scrapes surrounded the primary wound, and a bruise had started to form.

Ray looked up at the room. How he hated being in the hospital. It reminded him of pain and loss—nothing good, that was for sure. The last time he’d been stuck in the hospital was with Anne, when she was dying of cancer. He’d done everything he could since his wife’s death to avoid the place. But now it was June who brought him here—how strange.

He stretched his fingers out, then made a fist, grateful that the tendons remained unscathed. He repeated the action, imagining his grip closing on the man who’d shot at June….

“Don’t you dare undo all my work.” Fran’s scolding drowned out the greeting of Dr. Collins, who followed the nurse into the room.

Ray focused on the doctor, whose busy night in the E.R. showed in the shadows around his eyes. “How’s June?”

Nick Collins plucked a pair of latex gloves out of a box on the wall and stretched them over his hands. “Obstinate. She’s not thrilled about being kept overnight.”

“You’re keeping her for observation only?”

Nick nodded, then peered over his glasses at the tray Fran had prepped. “They’re moving her to her room. Go see her when we’re done here. Hopefully, you can save the second-shift nurses some grief.”

June’s head throbbed, and every time she moved it, a new wave of vertigo slammed into her, making the room spin.

“You missed lunch, but I can order you a tray for later. What would you like for supper?” the nurse’s aide asked.

June closed her eyes and pressed her head against the pillow, hoping it would stop. “A bucket.”

In the silence that followed, she relented, opened her eyes and squinted at the aide, who waited next to her bed. “I’m too dizzy to eat. Don’t order anything.”

“The meds will take care of the dizziness. You’ll be hungry later.”

“I’ll order out for pizza.” She closed her eyes again and scratched idly at the heart-monitor patch peeking out of the top of her gown. Near the head of the bed, the monitor blinked, its bright green sinus-rhythm line showing steady and even. “Please go away.”

“I’ll be back later.” The aide’s shoes squeaked lightly on the floor as she turned and left the room.

Before the door could shut, however, someone caught it and entered the room. June started to repeat her command to go away when she realized that her new visitor had arrived with the scent of sweat, musk, dirt, gunfire residue and the faint odor of cologne that somehow still lingered after the day’s events.

“Hi, Ray.”

“You had to get hurt, didn’t you?”

“I guess it does sort of put a damper on the possibility of me as suspect.” She opened her eyes and peered at him through the pain.

“More or less.” He stepped closer to the bed. “How do you feel?”

“Like a major-league baseball after the World Series.”

“Mets or Yankees?”

She grinned, which made her wince. “Red Sox. Don’t make me laugh.”

Ray returned the smile, then reached for her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh? You put the sniper on that hill?”

“I dropped my guard. Our cruisers don’t just suddenly have flats.”

She glowered at him. “Sniper. Lying in wait. Nothing you could have done.”

“I could have called—”

June clutched his hand. “Stop it, Ray. You start getting all overprotective on me and we’ll never solve David’s murder.”

Ray’s eyes narrowed. “We.”

“I’ve been thinking about something—”

“You’ve been smacked in the head.”

“Doesn’t stop me from thinking.”

He pointed at the badge on his chest, then at her. “Me, sheriff. You, witness. Solving this is my job, not yours.”

“Don’t worry, Tarzan, I’ll let you be the hero.” June tugged on his hand to pull him closer. “But there are some things you don’t know.”

Ray listened silently as June spoke. He knew that her mind never stopped, that she always had some project, some plan in the works, whether it was remodeling a Victorian parsonage or a craft session for the kindergarteners at the church. Apparently, her brain had been spinning about David’s murder from the moment she’d found the body. Her ideas were astute and in many ways mirrored his own thinking about the murder.

She felt it wasn’t random, but local, intentional and related to David’s newfound political ambition. As far as she knew, nothing else had changed in his life. And she also felt that she had not interrupted the murder itself—but possibly the reason for it.

“If you had interrupted the murder,” Ray said, “there would have been less blood and probably no footprints. Whoever bolted out that door did it without caring that he’d stepped in the blood.”

“I barged in because I saw the footprints on the porch. And someone was still there.”

“Ransacking the study.”

She nodded, then pressed her palm to her forehead. Ray could see that pain still raged inside her. She took a deep breath, wiped her face with one hand and sat straighter in the bed. She won’t give up. Or give in.

“I must have interrupted the search in David’s study.”

Ray pulled a chair next to the bed and sat. “The way they left, as well as the evidence, definitely points to a division in the team. Whoever went out the back ran first or you would have run into him. Probably the mastermind was more afraid of getting caught. The person who left out the back may have been the killer since there was blood evidence in the tunnel. He left last, more determined to finish the job.”

“He was just the muscle.”

Ray’s mouth twitched at June’s use of the term, and he shifted in the chair. “And not as concerned about you catching him. He may have planned on killing you, then heard us in the driveway.”

June’s eyes watered again, and she looked down, plucking at the blanket across her lap. “David once told me he could hear the Corvette turn into the driveway. Teased me that it gave him plenty of time to escape out the back.”

Ray gave her a moment of memory. “Is that why you went to the back door?”

Her gentle smile revealed her deep affection for David Gallagher. “Yes. After he said that, I always went to the back. It made him laugh.”

“Didn’t most people go to the back?”

June’s hands stilled and her brow furrowed. “No.” She looked up at Ray, a light of realization in her eyes. “No, they didn’t. When JR and I first remodeled, people got in the habit of coming to the back, but JR didn’t like it. He wanted to be accessible to everyone but not encourage folks to think they could just walk in any time. At that time, the driveway came around behind the house, so he solved the issue by putting in the patio there at the side of the house and improving the sidewalk in the front. Even though the driveway still went around it to our garage, people started coming up the front walk.”

“So instead of building a physical barrier or offending people by asking them not to come to the back, he built a psychological barrier.”

“And most people got the message.” June pushed herself up in the bed. “And David carried that tradition forward after JR died. The only people who came to the back were people he knew extremely well. He’d never have opened the back door to a stranger. And he was austere enough in the pulpit that casual acquaintances never even thought about it. Except for his political cronies, you’ll have to look at his friends.”

“Our friends.”

They both fell silent, well aware of how small the Bell County community was. The population of the three small towns of the county—White Hills, Caralinda and the county seat of Bell Springs—remained tiny enough that most people knew everyone in the area. That was one reason that June remained a respected voice in Bell County.

Ray cleared his throat. “You were David’s psychological barrier.”

June scowled. “What?”

“The reason he wanted you on Hunter’s side. Like it or not, people still listen to you in Bell County. If you come out in a vocal way against Hunter, he’ll have a hard time advancing politically.”

“Ray, I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

Ray shook his head. “No, I’m not. Do you still blog every day?”

June hesitated a moment, then nodded. June’s online diary had begun almost as self-therapy after JR’s death. Titled “June’s Bell County Wanderings,” she had started it in an effort to connect with other pastors’ widows. Granted, at thirty, she was younger than most of them. But sharing her grief, however, had soon turned into sharing her life in Bell County, and the popularity of the blog had soared. She entertained people with tales of life in a small Southern town, and she now had more than one thousand followers, most of them in the county.

“I’m fairly sure David wouldn’t want you talking about Hunter’s exploits online.”

“Ray Taylor, I do not gossip, thank you very much. I do not—”

Ray took her hand. “I know that. But if you had supported Hunter openly…”

She hesitated, looking down at their intertwined fingers. “People might listen. Might.”

“Right.”

“Which explains David’s actions toward me, but—” She paused and her eyes widened. “You think Hunter will ask me to support him?”

Ray squeezed her hand. “Hard to say. But if he does approach you, you may be able to expand on any information we get from him.”

June took a deep breath. “How? Do you think Hunter would tell me if he knew what the killer was after?”

Ray watched June’s face closely. “What do you think he was after?”

“You’re asking what a pastor keeps in his study?” She shrugged. “Depends a lot on the pastor. And the church. Gospel Immanuel is small enough that JR did most of his work at home.”

“So he kept anything valuable in his study?”

“And anything private.”

“What kind of private information did JR have?”

“Counseling. He helped a lot of people, and he was a fanatic about people’s privacy. Any notes he kept from counseling sessions were locked away in a fireproof box and stored in one of the dozens of hiding places in the house. He didn’t even tell me where they were.”

Ray shifted, then stood, reluctantly letting go of June’s hand. Counseling records could provide a motivation for murder. David, what in the world did you get into? What got you killed? “Did JR tell David?”

She shrugged. “No way of knowing now.” She plucked at the sheet again. “I don’t know if David took on any of JR’s folks for counseling. That’s not the kind of information anyone shares.”

Ray nodded. “There were a lot of hiding places in the house?”

“It’s an old Victorian, and the original owner, Sieg fried Osborne, was a little nutty. Siegfried, as you know, was the grandfather of Rosalie Osborne. Poor thing just vanished into thin air. Her disappearance was never solved, right?”

Ray shook his head. “And we’ve got enough to worry about without adding anyone else to the mix, June.”

June gave Ray a small smile. “Anyway, we uncovered at least a hundred secret cubbyholes, rooms and sliding panels. Every time we moved a wall or redid paneling, we found something.”

Ray stared. “You found stuff?”

“Oh, yeah. That house is a time capsule. Letters, diaries, dried flowers. Jewelry, silver, candlesticks. JR once found a tin box full of papers that…” As her voice trailed off, June grew still and the color left her face.

“What was in the box?”

“I don’t really know. He wouldn’t let me see it. We’d discussed everything else, but he wouldn’t let me see that one box. He said he planned to destroy it, the box and all the contents.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” June clutched Ray’s hand again. “He just promised to get rid of it, said what was inside was far too dangerous to keep in the house.”

Ray closed both hands around hers as they turned to ice in his grasp. “Looks like he may have been right.”