Whiskey Island (2 page)

Niccolo could see the little girl shrinking back against a booster seat. “No!”

“Do as I say, Ashley.”

The child wailed. “Don’t let them take me!”

Peggy leaned in farther, untangling the child from her restraints and pulling her resisting body forward. “Stop it, Ashley!” she pleaded.

“No!” the little girl cried as the young woman lifted her from the car. “I want my mommy!”

“Please. Just let the three of them come over here now,” Niccolo beseeched the gunman. “I’ll be sure they don’t do anything stupid.”

The dark-skinned carjacker, who seemed to be the more reasonable of the two, motioned the woman and child toward Niccolo. “Get over there.”

Clutching her burden, Peggy stumbled to Niccolo’s side. But he wasn’t watching. His eyes were on the blond carjacker, who still had his gun pressed against the driver’s throat. As Niccolo watched, the driver unfolded her arms and held out a key ring.

“Let her go, please. She’ll be out of your way over here,” Niccolo said, as calmly as he could. “We’re not going anywhere until you’ve driven away. Like your friend said, it’s just a car. Don’t hurt anybody.”

“Yeah, let her go,” the other carjacker echoed. “Let’s get going.”

“I don’t know,” the blond man said, running the barrel of his gun up and down the driver’s throat. “She’s kinda cute, don’t you think? Maybe we oughtta bring her along for company.”

The little girl struggled in Peggy’s arms. “I don’t want to go back—”

“Hush, Ashley,” Peggy murmured. “Hush.”

Niccolo glanced sideways and caught the terror on the young woman’s face as she pressed the child’s against her shoulder. The little girl, who was too young to understand that she was in no immediate danger, began to moan.

“Ah, let the bitch go,” the black man said, louder this time. “Let’s get going.”

The blond gunman hesitated, then he stepped back to let the driver escape. For a moment Niccolo thought the worst might be over, that this random act of violence would end with nothing more than a stolen car. But before the driver could take two steps away, the blonde slammed his palms against her shoulders and knocked her against the door again. Her head snapped back. “I tell you to do something, you do it,” he shouted in her face. “Got it?”

“Yes…” Her voice wavered.

“Next time I tell you to get outta the car, you get outta the car.”

“Sure.”

“Next time I tell you gimme the keys, you gimme the keys!”

“Whatever you say.”

“I say maybe you ought to come with us. Maybe we ought to see just how willing you are!”

“Shit, man,” the other gunman said. “You trying to get us caught? There ain’t gonna be a next time. Let’s get outta here!” He backed up slowly toward the Mazda, aiming alternately at Niccolo and the females beside him in warning.

Niccolo gritted his teeth, but he knew better than to utter another word. The blond carjacker was on a power trip, and the next logical step was to kill somebody to prove what a big man he was. Even the child seemed to sense the import of the moment and ceased her moaning.

“Oh, go on!” The blonde grabbed the driver’s arm and flung her roughly in the direction of the hood. “Get over there.”

Niccolo saw relief flit across the other carjacker’s features. The Mazda’s driver stumbled across the lot to join Niccolo and the others. Niccolo’s own relief was short-lived. The quiet of the street was split by the banshee wail of a siren, and the night was tinged with swirling ruby light.

“Deliver us from evil…” Niccolo whispered.

“Fuck it all! We gotta get out of here. Grab the kid,” the blonde shouted, waving his gun at his partner.

“Are you crazy?” The second carjacker looked terrified now.

“Get the kid! They won’t let us out of here if you don’t!”

Niccolo stepped sideways to shield Peggy and the child in her arms. “No! Just get going. I’ll tell the police you didn’t hurt anybody. I’ll keep them here while you—”

For the second time that night the black man whirled and pointed his gun at Niccolo’s chest; then he started toward him, covering the ground in long steps. “Get outta my way!”

Fired at close range, a bullet would pass right through his own body and probably hit the little girl or one of the two women behind him, Niccolo knew. He had no doubt that if he stood his ground, a bullet
would
be fired. As the gunman drew closer, Niccolo could see the frantic twist of his asymmetrical features. The man was desperate. He would shoot anybody who got in his way.

Niccolo stepped aside, his decision made. The blonde had already planted himself behind the Mazda’s steering wheel. In a moment the other gunman would wrench the child from Peggy’s arms. By then the Mazda would be pulling toward them. Niccolo knew he could not let the men take the child.

“I’ll come with you instead….” Peggy was sobbing now. “Take me….”

At the same moment that the car should have roared to life, the black gunman stretched out one arm to grab the child, but the only audible sound was another blast of the siren, followed by the blare of a police radio.

Niccolo waited for the second when the gunman would be off balance and his aim askew. “Down!” he shouted to the women as the gunman leaned forward. At the same moment, with all his considerable strength, Niccolo slammed his fist against the gunman’s wrist.

The gunman spun with the force but didn’t lose his balance. As the copper-haired driver threw herself against Peggy and the child to knock them to the ground, the gunman swung his gun at Niccolo and fired.

Niccolo didn’t have time for a better plan. He lowered his head and charged, using his head like a battering ram. The gunman fell backward under the impact of Niccolo’s blow just as the police cruiser pulled into the lot.

Doors slammed. Someone grabbed Niccolo’s elbow, and he staggered upright. “There’s another one in the car.” He was surprised to hear himself. His voice seemed to have lost power. “Another carjacker. He’s got a gun….”

He pointed at the Mazda, which, surprisingly, hadn’t moved from its parking space. As he tried to focus on the car, he saw a shadowy figure disappear behind the Dumpster, glimpsing only enough detail to see that the figure seemed to be wrapped in layers of clothing.

The night’s events had clouded his thinking. For a moment Niccolo wondered where the blond carjacker had found clothes to disguise himself and why he was escaping unnoticed.

One cop handcuffed the man at Niccolo’s feet. The second, gun drawn, started toward the Mazda.

“He already got away….” Niccolo’s head was filling with gray fog. “He ran away.”

“You’ve been shot.”

Niccolo recognized the driver’s voice and felt her hand on his shoulder. He realized that his right arm burned, and that this, like the buzzing in his head, wasn’t normal.

He heard the driver’s voice again. This time she was shouting. “Megan…Oh God, Megan, help this man inside! He’s been shot.”

The cop at their feet rose unceremoniously, dragging his prisoner with him. “Better not move him, miss. Sir, please sit down. We’ll call for help.”

“Everybody get out of my way!”

This time Niccolo heard a different female voice. Not the pale-haired driver, not dark-haired Peggy, who was sobbing somewhere behind them, and certainly not the child, Ashley. This voice was new and husky, a musical and temporarily booming alto. He lifted his head and was certain he glimpsed Joan of Arc thundering into battle, her fists clenched and the light of righteousness blazing in her eyes.

St. Joan took charge. “You go ahead and call anybody you want, but I’m going to take care of this man myself! The rest of you clean up the damned mess in my parking lot!”

The ground seemed to rise to meet Niccolo, and he felt arms attempting to break his fall. As his eyes closed, he wondered why the illustrated book of saints he’d received at his First Communion had portrayed Joan of Arc as a blonde.

St. Joan was a sturdy little woman with hair the color of the flames that had devoured her.

2

“T
his is not a way station for gawkers, Sam Trumbull. Either help these people get settled or move out of our way. Scoot. Scoot!”

Megan Donaghue shooed Whiskey Island’s steadiest customer to one side so that the cop who was assisting the bearded stranger to the saloon’s corner table would have a clear path.

The workday had been slow. A gray day, a dark night, no football game on television, no band on the schedule. The luncheon special had been their ever popular potato chowder, but Megan had badly overestimated. She still had five gallons left, and potatoes turned to sand in the freezer. Now she would have to freeze the soup and serve it for the next month to family, who knew better than to complain.

Under no circumstances had it been a stellar Tuesday. Her daytime bartender had given notice, the jukebox was out of order, and while she was in the kitchen, someone had pulled out a cigar to further choke the air. Still, nothing had prepared her for the sound of a police siren in the saloon parking lot. And even that hadn’t prepared her for all she had found.

The tail end of a carjacking.

A wounded stranger.

Somebody’s terrified little girl.

And, almost more extraordinary, her sisters—one of whom hadn’t been home in more than a decade.

Megan did what she always did when her world turned upside down. She took charge.

“Casey, sit. Don’t get up for at least ten minutes. I’m warning you.” Megan motioned her younger sister to a table beside the one the stranger would occupy. It hardly seemed to matter that Casey hadn’t been in this room since she was seventeen. Once again she needed looking after.

Megan turned to her youngest sister, who was clutching the unknown child. Peggy, who was supposed to be in Athens attending Ohio University. “You sit, too. No arguments. I don’t know what the heck you and Casey are doing here, but whatever it is, you’re in no shape to do anything about it right now.”

Peggy Donaghue and child dropped into the nearest chair. “We wanted to surprise you. Casey drove down from Chicago and picked me up at the bus station.”

“Well, it was certainly one of the night’s surprises.” Megan squatted in front of her sister but aimed her attention at the little girl in her lap.

She dropped her voice. “Scary moments there, huh? Would you like a Coke? Popcorn?”

The little girl, brown haired and solemn faced, just stared, her eyes huge and surprisingly dry. At last she gave one shake of her head but didn’t utter a word.

“I bet you have a lovely name,” Megan said. “And a lovely reason for being here.”

Casey, who was still standing, answered for her. “Her name’s Ashley. I’m taking care of her for a while. And you can stop worrying about
me,
Megan, I’m fine.” She dropped into the closest chair anyway, before the words were out of her mouth.

Megan ached to gather Casey in her arms to comfort her. Casey and Peggy were the blood in her veins, the beating of her heart. The bonds that united them were sturdy, but over the years they had been sorely tested. She knew better than to test them again.

Instead she turned her attention away from her sisters and Ashley to the stranger, who was now seated at the table. And the man
was
a stranger. She had a saloon keeper’s memory for faces, and she was sure she had never served him. He was a big man, with wide shoulders, but definitely not overweight. He had a long face with strong features, and his hair, eyes and neatly trimmed beard were just a shade shy of black.

The cop, a rookie with a swagger and a crew cut, frowned as the stranger rested his head in his hands. “I’d feel better if he went into emergency.”

Megan waved away his words. “The paramedic said he’ll be fine right here for a while. I’ll clean his arm, then he can go in for stitches when he’s feeling better. Somebody will take him over and wait with him.”

“He’s lucky the bullet just grazed him.”

The stranger lifted his head. “You know, it
didn’t
affect my hearing.”

Megan squatted beside him. “How do you feel?”

“You tend to take over, don’t you?”

“Somebody has to.” She allowed herself a smile. “You’re a hero, isn’t that enough to keep you busy?”

He grimaced. “A fallen hero.”

“So you fainted, or nearly did. Get over it. You got shot. We all faint when we’re shot.”

“You’d know about that…?”

“Stands to reason. Who are you, by the way?”

“Niccolo Andreani. Nick.” He lifted a brow, as if to ask the same of her.

“Megan Donaghue. The car those creeps were after belongs to my sister Casey. She’s the driver. My baby sister Peggy’s the one with the kid welded to her lap.”

“’Pleased to meet you’ falls flat somehow.”

Megan liked his voice. It was pitched low, but more soothing than thunderous. “Did you just walk into this? It must have been a nasty surprise.”

“He didn’t walk into it,” Casey said from the other table. “I saw him come into the lot with his hands raised. You saw we needed help, didn’t you?”

Megan got to her feet. “Well, we’re lucky you were willing to take the risk.”

“I’ve got to get back outside,” the cop said. “You’ll call us or come down to the station later if you think of anything to add?” His gaze included everyone but Megan and little Ashley in the question.

Niccolo nodded.

“I want to know what happened to the other gunman,” Casey said, before the young cop could leave. “I want to know
exactly
what happened.”

Megan turned to her sister, surprised by Casey’s tone.

“Well, it’s something of a mystery, ma’am,” he said. “When I got to the car, he was slumped over the wheel, and his gun was lying on the seat. He had a goose egg on his temple. That’ll be one fierce headache, you can bet on it. You sure you didn’t hit him when he yanked you out of there? Some sort of delayed reaction, maybe?”

“She didn’t hit him,” Niccolo said. “He had a gun at her throat.”

“I would have, if I’d had the chance.” Casey wasn’t a beautiful woman, but the perfection her features lacked was normally enhanced by sheer animation. Now Megan thought she looked depleted and older than her twenty-eight years.