Shooting Starr (6 page)

Charly was right; it wasn't any of his affair. He had a
load to deliver, an exam to take. A semester to finish. A final to pass. A law degree to earn. A life to get on with.

As for a hijacker with a fairy-tale face and unforgettable eyes…well, he'd find a way to forget her. Somehow.

 

During the next five months or so C.J. concentrated hard on doing that, which, if nothing else, had a beneficial effect on his study habits. He got his law degree in June and spent the summer cramming for the bar exams, which he was scheduled to take the last week in September and as a matter of principle was determined to pass on the first try. He still had a lot to prove, mainly to himself.

What he mostly learned during that long, hot summer, in addition to a whole lot of law stuff, was that it was one thing to
try
to forget somebody and another to actually succeed.

His task wasn't helped any by the fact that hardly a day went by he didn't hear the name Caitlyn Brown or see her face on the nightly news—that same file footage of a handcuffed prisoner in a hooded sweatshirt being hustled into a police cruiser. It seemed to be one of those stories the media had sunk its teeth into and wouldn't let go, and why not? It had everything: a mysterious billionaire, his ex-stripper wife, a beautiful young woman with connections to one of the most famous families on the planet, and, of course, a missing child.

Everyone with any connection at all to the case, no matter how dubious, had been interviewed over and over and
over
again, on the network morning shows and the primetime news magazines as well as the major network and cable news.
Biography
had done a two-hour piece on the former president, featuring his entire family and making a big deal of their Iowa farm beginnings. The tabloids trumpeted wild and improbable theories from their racks beside the grocery store checkout lines.

And night after night reporters stood in front of file pho
tos of the red brick courthouse in South Carolina, faced the cameras and told the same story: Caitlyn Brown still wasn't talking. The
Today Show
reported that office pools had sprung up around the country, and that betting on how long the holdout would continue was more popular than playing the lottery.

C.J. had taken to avoiding television sets the way certain celebrities and mob bosses avoided cameras.

That particular afternoon, though, he was a captive audience. He was in a truck stop in Virginia, having his usual truck-stop lunch—a club sandwich on white bread with potato salad and sweet tea—and no matter which way he turned there was a wall-mounted TV set looking down at him. Normally they'd be tuned to the Weather Channel or some sporting event or other, but today for some reason they all seemed to be set on CNN. And sure enough, there was the same reporter standing in front of the same damn red brick courthouse he'd been looking at for months, no doubt saying the same damn thing. At least the sound was turned off, and he didn't have to read the closed-captioning if he didn't want to. Stubbornly he pulled his eyes from the screen and scanned the dining room instead.

When he noticed every set of eyes in the room except his was riveted on those television sets, a chill ran down his spine. It reminded him of another bright and beautiful September morning not so long ago. The bite of club sandwich he'd just swallowed made a lump in his throat as he forced his eyes back to the television screen, dreading what he was about to see, preparing himself for unthinkable disaster.

The familiar white-on-black letters of the closed captioning darted across the bottom third of the picture:

“…the scene earlier today, as Caitlyn Brown and Mary Kelly Vasily left the courthouse to return to their jail cells under heavy police guard. It was the same scenario that has played out so many times before during the last months,
only this time something went terribly, terribly wrong. As the two women, flanked by police officers, made their way down the courthouse steps, shots rang out….”

The words ticked on across the screen, but C.J. wasn't watching them now. His eyes were riveted instead on the pictures behind them, jerky and incoherent pictures of unexpected violence captured live on videotape. Pictures of pushing and shoving and falling bodies, of horror-stricken faces, of arms waving and fingers pointing and mouths opened in silent shouts. The chill in his spine ran into his very bones. Around him the clatter of dining room sounds retreated to a humming silence.

The melee on the screen gave way to the reporter's face, mouthing words. C.J. jerked his eyes back to the closed captioning.

“…on the exact number or condition of the injured at this time. We do have information that at least four people have been taken to a local hospital, but that has not been officially confirmed. Police and hospital personnel have refused to comment on reports from eyewitnesses. Repeat, these are unconfirmed reports, that at least one of the prisoners—one of the women—has been killed in this brutal attack.”

“Do police have any idea who might be responsible for the attack, Vicky?”

“As you can imagine, things are still pretty chaotic here, Tim. It does appear the shots were fired from the bell tower of a church across the street from the courthouse—that's about half a block down from the police station—but as far as we know no traces of the gunman or a weapon have been found.”

“Any indication as to whether this was a random shooting? Or if it was deliberate, who the intended target might have been?”

“No, Tim, and police are refusing to speculate—”

“'Scuse me, hon', were you needin' your check?”

“What?” C.J. looked down at the waitress, frowning in confusion; he didn't know when or how he'd come to be standing up. He blinked what was left of his club sandwich into focus and mumbled, “Yeah, that'd be great…thanks.”

His skin felt clammy. Barely aware of what he was doing, he dug his wallet out of his hip pocket and randomly selected some bills, which he thrust at the waitress with a muttered “Keep the change.” Next thing he knew he was outside, gulping air like a netted fish and soaking the September heat into his chilled body. Ninety degrees, it had to be, and it wasn't warm enough. He felt he was never going to be warm enough again.

You just don't know what it is you've gone and done.

He felt as though he might throw up but made it to his truck before the shakes hit him. He climbed into his seat and spent the next five minutes or so fighting for control the way most men of his acquaintance did, those that weren't smokers: he swore. And swore. And swore some more. When he ran out of cusswords, some of which he'd never used before in his life, he ran a hand over his face and reached for his cell phone.

“Charly?” he croaked when he heard his sister-in-law's voice. His own was probably unrecognizable, so he added for good measure, “It's me, C.J. You heard?”

“Yeah, I did, sugar, just a little while ago. Troy called me.” Charly's voice was low and urgent, like a conspirator's.

“They said somebody'd been killed, some more injured, but they aren't saying who. You don't—”

“No. I don't know any more than that, either. I've been in court all morning, I just got back in the office a little while ago. There's supposed to be a press conference at the hospital any minute now.” Her voice turned sharp. “C.J., honey, don't you go and blame yourself for this.”

I'm not blamin' you, Mr. Starr….

“I didn't believe her,” he muttered, shaking his head
like a dazed boxer. “She told me he'd do it and I didn't— I thought she was just—”

“She, who? He, who? Do what?”

“She told me he was going to kill his wife, but I just thought she was…you know—”

“Who, you mean
Vasily?
” Charly lowered her voice even further, as if she thought somebody was going to overhear. “You think that's who did this? My God, C.J.—”

“Who the hell else?” He spat the words into the phone.

There was a pause before she said, cautiously at first, “I know the husband is always the first suspect, but that's assuming Mrs. Vasily was the target, and even if she was—” she was arguing, now, with herself as much as him “—my God, C.J., the man's a billionaire. A friend of the governor. He's had dinner at the White House. He's—”

He is also a charming and intelligent, violent and dangerous—very dangerous—man.

“I don't care who he is, Vasily set it up.” C.J.'s voice was stony. “You can bet on it.”

“Even if he did, there's no way on God's green earth they're ever gonna prove—”

“I know.” He cut her off, calmer now, his brain beginning to function again. “Hey, look, Charly—I gotta go. Do me one favor, would you? I'm going to try and find me a news station on the radio, but if you find out anything, could you let me know? Call me on my cell.”

“What are you going to do? You're not fixin' to go down there now, are you?”

There was a long pause, and then: “I have to, Charly. I need to find out what's going on.”

He heard a sigh. “C.J., you're just gonna insist on blamin' yourself for this, aren't you?”

The only reply he could manage was a sharp and painful laugh as he disconnected.

He called his dispatcher and told her she'd need to find another driver to pick up his load, then fiddled with the
radio for a few minutes trying to find an all-news station. Antsy and impatient to be on the road, he gave it up and settled for a golden oldies station he knew would have updates on the hour, then rolled his Kenworth out of the truck stop and back onto the interstate, heading south.

A long hour later his cell phone tweedled, interrupting tumultuous and totally useless thoughts. He mashed the connect button and barked, “Yeah!”

“C.J., I thought you'd want to know—they're having that press conference at the hospital. It's still going on, with all the questions and such, but they've made their statements. The official toll is, three injured, two critically, one dead….”

“Yeah?” He stared at the road ahead, flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. Preparing himself. As if he could.

“C.J., honey, it was Mrs. Vasily who was killed. The mother. Mary Kelly Vasily…”

A cool rush of feeling blew through him, like a breeze through a stuffy house. He nodded, though there wasn't anybody to see, and his mind filled with images: Mary Kelly's face, Southern magnolia-type pretty, almost lost in billows of fluffy red-brown hair…a tentative smile as she shook his hand and murmured polite phrases like a well-brought-up child…lips forming
No!
as she shook her head in fear and rejection…then quiet eyes, accepting smile.
I'm not blamin' you, Mr. Starr.

But the feeling, that cool, lightening wind in his soul—he knew what it was, and it shamed him so that he slammed the doors of his mind to it, tried every way he could to deny it. Shaken, he tried to explain to himself why he should feel relieved when a good woman had just been killed. But he was. Relieved it wasn't Caitlyn Brown who'd died.

“C.J., are you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Honey, I'm sorry—I know how you must be feelin'. I just feel so bad for that little girl….”

“What about the others?” He made his voice hard and clipped off the words, leaving no room for emotions. “You said two were critical?”

“One of the guards was shot in the arm—he's not serious. The other took a bullet in the chest and is still in surgery.

His chest tightened; he forced a deep breath. “Caitlyn?”

“They just said her condition is critical. No details. C.J., there's no point in you going down there. There's not a thing you can do except get yourself into trouble.”

His vision shimmered. He blinked the highway back into focus and mumbled, “I just want to talk to her.”

“How? They're never gonna let you in there, you know that, don't you? I mean, seriously—a stranger? After somebody just tried to kill her? The president's niece? I wouldn't be surprised if they've got the Secret Service, the FBI—”

She broke off, then was silent for so long C.J. prompted, “Charly?” and was ready to start mashing buttons on his cell phone, thinking maybe they'd got disconnected the way cell phone calls do sometimes.

“C.J., I'm gonna have to call you back, okay?” She sounded rushed and distracted. “Just…don't do anything until you hear from me. Promise? This is your lawyer speakin' now.”

“Yeah,” he grunted, “I promise.” He disconnected and settled back, trying hard to concentrate on driving and on not letting himself think about what
critical condition
might mean. Trying not to think about a fairy-tale face, silvery eyes, a light-as-a-feather touch. One thing he didn't have to try very hard to avoid was thoughts of that exquisite face and graceful body bloody and torn…ruined by violence. His mind cowered and protected itself from those images, like eyes avoiding the sun.

Though it seemed longer, it was barely half an hour later when his phone chirped at him again.

“C.J., it's me.” Charly sounded out of breath and in a hurry. “Hey, I'm gonna meet you there, okay? If you get there—”

“Meet me there…”

“The hospital. If you get there before I do, sit tight. Okay? Don't do anything until you hear from me, you hear?”

“Charly, what're you up to? I don't think I'm gonna be needing a lawyer for this.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I've got somebody who can get you in to see Caitlyn Brown.”

 

The woman in the hospital bed stirred. Her fingers plucked at the sheets, rearranging them needlessly across her chest.

“The thunderstorm…” Caitlyn murmured, and closed her eyes. After a moment she asked in a slow, drug-thickened voice, “What is it you want? Absolution? You have it, okay? I told you, I don't blame you for anything. In fact, I suppose it was bound to happen…someday. When you go against violent people… I just…” Her voice cracked and dropped to a whisper; her lips quivered. She turned her face away. “I didn't expect it to come quite this way.”