Dead Shot (4 page)

But her lungs felt like they were going to collapse. He was a big man, over six feet if she judged correctly, which meant nearly a foot taller than she. With all the extra pounds to go with it. He was squeezing the breath out of her. She pushed against his shoulder again. “I can’t breathe.”

He didn’t seem to care. “Don’t move.” He looked around wildly. People scurried toward them. “Get back!” He reached beneath him, pulled out a gun, and waved it at them. More screams. People ran away. Someone dropped a glass, and it shattered against the marble floor. Feet gathered in a rush around her. Shiny shoes topped by pants with tuxedo stripes. More security circling close.

A shout. People pointed. Between black-clad legs, she saw the waitress dash across the room, chased by two uniformed guards. The crowd slowed the pursuers, and the waitress darted away. Almost made it out of the exhibit room. The security men shoved, pushed people aside, cleared a path. One leaped and brought the fleeing woman down.

She sprawled on the floor. Two seconds later, her hands were imprisoned behind her back in plastic cuffs. One of the men hauled her to her feet.

“Poison!” she screamed in Gillian’s direction. “You’re poison!”

“Shut up!” Her captor shook her.

A few minutes ago, her face had been shy and polite. Now it was screwed into a vicious snarl. “Pig! Rich fucking pig!” Her screaming accusations faded as they dragged her away, but everyone could hear her distant rant: “De-cen-cy! De-cen-cy!”

Only when the sounds had disappeared did Ray roll off Gillian. He stood, held out a hand to pull her up. “You all right?”

She nodded grimly within the circle of men that enclosed her. The open plastic bag of whatever it was lay crushed at their feet. Ray had taken the brunt of the goop—paint, blood, thick, colored water. Oh, God. She swallowed. His neck and chest were soaked with it.

“She . . . she spoke to me earlier,” Gillian said, still stunned. Despite weathering virulent protests, she’d never been physically attacked before. “She admired my work.”

“Yeah?” Sweat streaked down the side of his face. He hardly seemed to hear her. He was watching the crowd intently, drawing her back, the other men—three of them— coming with them out of the room. But he had heard. “A few hours before he killed him, Mark Chapman asked John Lennon to autograph an album for him.”

She repressed a shudder. Hushed murmurs now replaced the shouting and the screams. Through the wall of bodies shielding her, she glimpsed people staring and whispering. They gaped fearfully at the men beside her and their drawn weapons. Looked over their shoulders toward the lobby, trying to decide whether to flee themselves.

Ray backed her up against a wall, around a corner, out of sight. His body shielded her, his hand gripped the gun conspicuously. The other three men formed a screen around them. “Landowe,” Ray said. “What do you see?”

From over his shoulder, one of the men said, “Nothing.”

Ray spoke into what looked like the air, but what quickly became apparent was a wireless radio mike. “Carlson, what’s going on? Everyone okay? Yes, she’s fine.”

One of the other three circled a finger in the air, signaling okay. Only then did the men around her holster their weapons and relax their stance.

The man Ray had called Landowe spoke. “You got her?”

“Yeah,” Ray said.

The men eased away, and she headed back to the exhibit room, Ray shadowing her. A crowd had gathered around the wall that held her photos, blocking her view of them. When they saw her, they stepped back, parting like the Red Sea. Davenport was there. Even paler than usual.

“I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” he murmured as Gillian stepped closer.

The view to
Kitchen in Suburbia
was unobstructed. Dripping streaks of red blotched the photograph and spattered the wall beside it.

“We’ll take it down,” Will said. “Get it cleaned up.”

Gillian contemplated the damage. The fake blood marring the fake death scene struck her as perfect commentary.

“No. Leave it. Let it become part of the piece.”

Will opened his mouth to object, but before he could, Maddie elbowed her way in. “Gillian!” She gasped. “Oh, my God.” Flinging an arm around Gillian’s shoulders, she pulled her close. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Ray stepped back, gave the two women room.

“Don’t be.” Gillian straightened. “This is what we live for. I’m fine.” She stood square-shouldered and stiff. But he’d felt the tremors as he held her. And she was breathing hard. She was breathing very hard. And she didn’t shrug off Maddie’s comforting arm.

Carlson ran up to him. “She okay?”

Ray assured him she was. “That piece of crap though . . .” He indicated the marred photograph and the fake blood, which dripped down, a bright, ugly mess.

“Yeah. The woman was one of Dobie’s.” Matthew Dobie was leading the pack outside. Head of the self-proclaimed Citizens for American Values, he’d brought his show to Nashville and, abetted by area churches, had been drawing crowds all day. “We got her stashed in an office upstairs until your friends from Metro get here.”

A pulse of fury was throttling Ray. “How the hell did she get in?”

Carlson looked rightly upset. “Came with the wait-staff.”

“You’re kidding.” Ray shook his head, looked away. “That’s what comes of letting the client do the vetting.”

Carlson’s eyes flashed with the implied criticism. “You like that new pickup you bought?”

“What the hell does that—”

“We don’t work for free, Ray, and we’re expensive. The museum cherry-picked the services.”

Ray didn’t answer. In security, as in everything else, money talked.

“Gotta go,” Carlson said. “Police won’t release the crowd until a detective gets here.” He nodded to Gillian. “Keep your eye on her.”

Carlson left, and Ray maintained a clear view of Gillian. Maddie’s arm was still around her, and she still stood stoically in front of her bloodied photographs. Ironic, that.

A woman in a shiny dress approached. “Excuse me. I think this is Miss Gray’s.” She held out a tiny glitter of a purse, and Ray took it. “Thanks. I’ll see she gets it.”

He stared down at the feminine thing, barely bigger than his hand. Reaction set in all of a sudden, and the shakes started. It was only adrenaline again, and he knew it wouldn’t last, but Jesus, the line between safe and unsafe was slim.

7

“I think we should go,” Maddie said. She’d seen Gillian like this before—terrified and damned if she’d admit it—but it had been twelve years ago, when they were both fifteen and roommates at Hadley. Back then, Gillian was shut down so far the only place she’d open up was on her own skin. Maddie didn’t think anything could bring Gillian back to that place, but seeing her blood-spattered dress and the haunted gleam in her eye, she was suddenly not so sure. She touched Gillian’s elbow, guiding her from the people staring at her.

Gillian skittered away. “I need a minute.”

But Maddie knew better. How many times in school had she seen Gillian spiral down the dark rabbit hole inside her own head? How many times had Maddie lugged her out of the quicksand? Besides, Maddie had her own part to answer for. A flicker of guilt touched her, and she made a more concerted grab for Gillian’s arm. “No, you don’t.”

Too late. Gillian slipped away, leaving Maddie to distract the crowd.

“All right?”

Gillian’s shadow, the security man—Ray—watched her with sharp brown eyes as she crossed into the lobby and found a vacant corner.

She smoothed down her dress, ignoring the dots of fake blood, which were already drying. “Of course. Nothing like a little assault to liven things up.”

“I can have one of the men bring you a glass of water if you—”

“I’m fine.” But her voice was a little too loud, a little too definite, and those keen brown eyes didn’t miss it.

“Sure you are.” Meaning the opposite. “Able to leap off a tall building, too, I bet.”

She gave him a swift, assessing look. How dare he see through her? Before she could respond, she saw Genevra approach, and groaned inwardly.

“It’s time we left,” her grandmother said. She had that determined look in her eyes. The one that brooked no arguments. The one that made Gillian want to try.

But Ray, her new savior, did it for her. “Sorry,” he said, his voice equally firm, “but no one’s leaving. Police will want to talk to everyone first.”

“Everyone?” Genevra managed to get both concern and disdain into the one word. “What is there to talk about? Isn’t it clear? We all saw . . .”

But she didn’t have time to finish. Chip Gray and Will Davenport closed in on them.

“Are you all right, Gillian?” Chip breached the gap between himself and his granddaughter in three hefty steps.

“Can I get you anything?” Will asked.

“I’m fine.” The phrase fell off Gillian’s lips with practiced ease. Because what else was she going to say? That the woman who was happy to pour fake blood over her self and take pictures was now a jellied, shaking blob just because someone else had done it? She’d deny it. She’d defy anyone to say it.

Never mind that in the pictures she was in control. She said when and how much. It was her choice, always her choice. That was half the point, wasn’t it?

“Would you like to sit down?” Davenport said. “We could go to my office.”

“What the hell happened?” Chip was hectoring Ray. “How could you let that lunatic in here?”

“You will not make a scene,” Genevra said. “The police can handle this. We are going.” She turned, but no one followed.

“Uh . . . my office is just upstairs,” Will offered again.

“I want an answer,” Chip said, badgering Ray with a pointed finger.

“Try saying thank you, first,” Gillian said.

“Talk to Carlson,” Ray said calmly, and Gillian was impressed. Wasn’t easy to keep your cool when Chip Gray was bullying you into losing it. “He’s the boss. He’ll explain it.” Ray gave Will a severe look that Will didn’t see.

“I will,” Chip was saying. “You can bet on it.”

“Miss Gray?” A compact man in a blue velvet tuxedo elbowed his way over to her. His perfectly round shaved head popped out of his jacket like a melon in the moonlight, and with his silver mustache, he looked like the reincarnation of Hercule Poirot, only less Poirot and more Pierrot. “Benton James,
Tennessean.
So sorry about the . . . incident.” He smiled and didn’t appear sorry at all. “I wonder, could I ask you a few questions?”

“For God’s sake, Benton,” Will Davenport said, “leave her alone.”

“Might be best to wait somewhere else,” Ray said to her in a cool, low voice.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Maddie hurrying over. Gillian extended a hand to the reporter. “So nice to meet you.” She smiled and walked past him. Ray was right behind her.

Maddie stepped in front of Benton, preventing him from following. “Miss Gray will issue a statement later,” she said, and whatever the reporter replied was lost in the growing distance between them.

Gillian glanced at Ray. For all that had happened, she hadn’t really studied him, and now she wanted to. What kind of man risks himself to save a stranger?

The ones she knew never put themselves on the line for anything, least of all her. Then again, that was why the last of the rat bastards was six months gone.

But this man . . . Ray. More fair than dark, with a broad face that looked corn-fed and farm-raised. The kind of face that should have freckles and didn’t. With the wrong kind of food and a desk job, it could go to fat and sink into his neck, but that didn’t look imminent. At the moment his jaw was hard-edged, the hair close-cropped, the brown eyes alert.

“I haven’t thanked you,” she said.

He nodded. “Glad it wasn’t more serious.”

She waved a hand toward the mess that was his jacket and shirt. “You can send me the dry-cleaning bill.”

“No big deal. Carlson will take care of it.”

She’d never felt comfortable with large men. They were like trees, tall and straight and impossible to see what lurked behind.

But Ray put her at ease. Even with blood all over him, he was direct. Quiet. Purposeful. His calm detachment grounded her. Hard enough to handle her own reactions, let alone someone else’s.

They left the reception area and turned into the hallway that led to the front entrance. Footsteps echoed behind them. Ray turned, stepped behind to shield her. But it was her grandparents.

“Will the car be waiting?” Genevra said without preamble as if Ray had stopped to speak to her.

“When Metro releases you, I’ll have the driver paged,” Ray answered.

“I want to go now,” Genevra insisted. “We can talk to the police in the morning.”

“You can make a run for it.” There was muffled amusement in Ray’s voice. “But I don’t think you’d get past the sentry.” He thumbed over his shoulder. Beyond the metal detector an officer in the dark blue uniform of Nashville Metro Police stood guard.

Genevra wobbled, clutched Chip’s arm.

“Genevra!” Chip buoyed her up.

“Whoa.” Ray took the older woman’s weight. “Here, sit down.” He led her to a bench against the wall.