Troublemaker

  “We tried to hide a chair for you to sit on,” one of the boys told Bo apologetically, “but that would make your head stick up out of the decorations, so we put a cushion on the floor for you. Is that okay?”

  She smiled. “A cushion is fine.” Truthfully, she’d expected to be sitting on the trailer floor, so the cushion was a big step up.

  “Want me to take your bag?” Morgan asked.

  The thought of him with a purse hanging from his shoulder was entertaining, but she shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ll keep it with me. I’ll be sitting.”

  They all trooped to the float to take their places because the parade organizer had blown a whistle and bellowed “Five minutes!” through a bullhorn. Bo prepared to climb onto the trailer, but Morgan forestalled her by clamping his hands around her waist and swinging her on board as if she were a child. While her heart was still pounding in reaction, he picked Tricks up too and placed her on the trailer because all the tissue-paper flowers meant she didn’t have a clear shot for jumping up. Tricks darted to Bo and indulged in some excited licking because she was going for a ride. Bo found her place on a fat cushion in front of the raised dais where the male and female class favorites were standing. She could even lean back against the plywood dais. The decorations completely hid her from view on both sides though she could still see what was going on directly in front of her. The closeness of the decorations stopped any breeze from reaching her, but she’d asked to be as hidden as possible. The parade wouldn’t last that long anyway, maybe forty-five minutes—an hour if they stretched it out.

  Up ahead came the roar of the Shriners’ motorcycles as they were started. The VFW vets in their mismatched odds and ends of uniforms marched out in precision form, and the parade began.

  Morgan kept pace with the float, walking on the right; the parade was moving at a crawl, with periodic pauses for the marching band to do a dance routine or something. He wasn’t certain exactly what was going on up ahead because his focus was on watching Tricks. The crowd was sparse at first, with most people gathered down the main street, but the dog didn’t care. As soon as the first applause and calls of “Tricks!” started, she began her routine of woofing as she turned her head left and right, a happy expression on her face. Every woof generated more applause, which brought on another woof, so it was self-perpetuating.

  The girls positioned on each side of her were laughing and smiling as they waved, the boys were hamming it up with body-builder poses, the other girls were throwing candy to people. The kids were having a blast, maybe as much of one as Tricks was having.

  As the parade turned down the main street and the crowd became thicker, people lined up four and five deep, sometimes more in places, and with onlookers in the upper-story windows of buildings as well as some on the roofs, Morgan felt himself slip into hyperalert mode. Until now he’d been very relaxed in Hamrickville, but crowds always made his lizard brain nervous. People could get into arguments, or do stupid shit that would domino into disaster. The kids were taking care to keep Tricks from getting too close to the edge of the float, but if something startled them, or Tricks, what could happen? What if she jumped off the moving float? What if Bo made a headlong dive after her? He broke out in a sweat at the idea because he knew Bo wouldn’t hesitate.

  He was just looking for trouble, he knew. The girl on the left had a good grip on Tricks’s shortened leash, and the girl on the right was positioned slightly behind but with her leg touching Tricks’s side. They were both waving at the crowd, but they were also keeping a sharp eye on the dog. Then the one on the left even knelt down and put her arm around Tricks while still waving. The crowd was eating up having a canine “homecoming queen,” judging by all the laughter and applause. The idea was a hit.

  The main drag was about eight blocks long. Morgan hadn’t thought to ask where the parade would end, but the location didn’t really matter because he intended to follow it all the way. He settled into a combat patrol routine, his head moving on a swivel, automatically noting everyone and looking for anything that was out of the ordinary. He cared about both the woman and the dog on that float, and he intended to do all he could to make sure nothing happened to them.

  They were in the fifth block when he noticed the man about twenty yards ahead of him—young, tall, longish brown hair. It was his height that let Morgan key in on him because he was taller than most of the people around him. What set him apart was that he wasn’t cheering and clapping. Instead he was glaring . . . toward the float. Something had definitely pissed him off, and pissed-off people could be trouble.

  Automatically Morgan picked up his pace, threading through and around groups of people, wanting to get closer to the guy in case something happened.

  Then the guy turned and started down the sidewalk toward him. Morgan stepped aside, let him pass. The guy passed within inches of him and never glanced his way. Instead he was still watching the float; he was definitely keyed on that particular float, the one Bo and Tricks were on. And there was nothing good in his expression.

  The guy was wearing a jacket. Morgan’s spine began tingling in warning.

  He wheeled, began shadowing his target, working closer despite the milling crowd. People were jockeying for position so they stepped in front of him without looking, or he had to sidestep a kid. The good news was the guy in front of him had to deal with the same conditions and obstacles, so Morgan was gaining on him.

  Shit. That jacket was all wrong. The weather was too warm for anyone to be wearing a jacket. Everyone else was in summer clothes: short sleeves, shorts, sandals, lightweight stuff. In his world, people wore jackets when they shouldn’t be wearing them in order to hide firearms or bombs.

  The tractor pulling the float went past. Now the float itself was beside them, filled with waving teenagers. Toward the back was a built-up platform with two teens on top of it, and Bo was sitting with her back to the platform, out of sight. Through the profusion of colored tissue paper tucked into the holes of chicken-wire forms, he could see Tricks’s pale golden head lifting with each little bark as she woofed from side to side.

  The parade stalled again, the float stopped, and behind him the marching band swung into a lively tune. Applause burst out, but Morgan didn’t bother looking for the cause. All of his attention was focused on the man who was still pushing his way through the crowd on the sidewalk.

  The guy drew even with the end of the float, where Tricks and the girls were positioned, and he stepped off the sidewalk into the street. His gaze didn’t leave the float as he put his hand inside his jacket.

  Their forward progress had stopped again, but that didn’t matter to Tricks. As far as she was concerned, all the applause was for her. Bo had to laugh because Tricks was so into her role. She would occasionally look back to where Bo was seated, reassuring herself that her human mom was still there, but for the most part she was acting like the ham she was.

  The bright sun beat down on Bo’s head, making her glad for her sunglasses. This would probably last another half hour at the rate they were going. She was actually kind of enjoying it; one of the kids had passed her down a bottle of cold lemonade, and she had nothing to do but sit there, sip her lemonade, and watch Tricks have a blast.

  While they were stopped, one of the girls opened a bottle of water, produced a small bowl from somewhere on the float, and filled the bowl for Tricks to have a drink. The other girl held Tricks’s pink boa out of the way so it wouldn’t get in the water. Bo chuckled and started to take a picture, but Tricks stopped drinking before she could dig her phone out of her bag. She hoped people along the way were taking pictures they could share with her; if she’d thought, she’d have charged Morgan with the job of snapping a few photos. To be on the safe side, when they got to the end she’d take some pictures of Tricks before everyone got off the float.

  She settled back against the plywood dais, glad that this was working out so well. The cushion made a surprisingly comfortable seat, and darned if she wasn’t get
ting a little drowsy. She let her head rest on the dais; because of her sunglasses, if she closed her eyes no one would notice. The idea was tempting.

  Kyle Gooding stepped into the middle of the street right behind the float, just a few feet from the back of the trailer. She was so astonished she gaped at him. What was he doing, crossing the street in the middle of a parade? Had he flipped out?

  Then he pulled a pistol out from under his jacket. His good-looking face twisted into something ugly, and he pointed the pistol—

  —right at Tricks.

  Bo’s blood froze into icy shards of horror, and her heart stopped beating. Her vision narrowed to not much more than a pinpoint. With a guttural, inhuman scream she lunged forward, knowing she couldn’t cover those few feet in time to save Tricks, knowing she was going to see that bright little life destroyed, knowing too in that second that she would kill Kyle Gooding with her bare hands unless he shot her before she could manage it. Terrified, savage, she desperately clawed for inches, trying to grab Tricks. The air was molasses, dragging at her hands and feet, slowing her down.

  The two girls saw the pistol and screamed, ducking. Bo saw the flicker of Kyle’s eyes as their piercing screams cut the air, the split second of hesitation.

  Something blue sliced in front of her vision, just as the deep crack of a shot shattered the joy of the day, the peace of the town, her heart.

  Tricks yelped, just once.

  Still screaming, unable to stop the animal sounds coming from her throat, Bo reached Tricks.

  She threw her arms around her, hoping against hope the wound wasn’t fatal, searching through the golden fur with hands that were shaking so violently she couldn’t control them. Tricks leaned against her and licked her cheek. The awful screams had stopped and Bo heard herself babbling to Tricks, begging her to be okay, just be okay sweetie I’ll take care of you I’ll kill that bastard.

  Where was the blood? She couldn’t find any blood.

  “I’m so sorry!” one of the girls frantically apologized, kneeling on the float. She was crying. “I stepped on her paw!”

  Bo couldn’t get her thoughts ordered. What did stepping on Tricks’s paw matter when she’d been shot? But the girl—was her name Christa?—looked up at Bo with swimming blue eyes and said, “I saw the gun and ducked and that’s when I stepped on her paw and she yelped. She’s okay, isn’t she? I didn’t cripple her?”

  Bo was still caught in that damned molasses, unable to grasp any one thought, with time moving in agonizing slow motion. She turned her head to the right and saw Kyle Gooding, the bastard, face down on the street with Morgan kneeling on him and twisting his right arm up and back in an agonizing hold, if Kyle’s screams were anything to go by. “You’re breaking my arm!” Kyle howled. “Stop, you’re breaking my arm.”

  Morgan gave the arm a vicious twist and the howl became a scream. He looked up at Bo kneeling with Tricks in her arms, his face set in a savage mask, his eyes blue ice. “Are you okay?”

  She wanted to shriek and tear out her hair. How could she be okay when Tricks—but Tricks was sitting there leaning against her and giving her random licks, and Christa seemed to realize what was wrong because she put her arms around Bo. “It’s okay, Chief,” she said gently, with tears running down her face. “Tricks is okay. He didn’t shoot her. Mr. Rees stopped him.”

  Bo’s mouth worked as she tried to form words. She managed to get out, “The shot—” before her throat locked. She felt icy cold despite the sun. Her heart was beating again with heavy, sluggish beats.

  Morgan’s head swiveled as he looked around at the gathering swell of people, everyone murmuring and asking questions. Bo became aware of shouts and disturbance as others ran toward them, pushing through the milling crowd. She saw Jesse, his expression alert as he ran from the direction of the park. “Is anyone hurt?” Morgan barked. “The shot went wide. Did it hit anyone?”

  The shot had gone wide because he’d plowed into Kyle like a bulldozer. He’d been the flash of blue. Like a freeze frame Bo had a sudden clear image of him in the exact moment he hit Kyle, a lethal human missile with murder in his eyes.

  At his question people were looking around, calling out, but no one seemed to be hurt. Then there was a sudden outcry of “Oh my God, he’s been shot!” and her blood turned cold and sluggish again.

  “Ohh, shit, you’re breaking my arm,” Kyle moaned.

  “Shut up,” Morgan said, gripping Kyle’s hair and giving his head a short, sharp bang against the pavement. Kyle shut up, probably because he was unconscious.

  Bo was okay with that. If any questions were asked, she’d swear Morgan hadn’t done anything. What the people crowded around them would say was up in the air, but she didn’t hear any sympathy being expressed toward Kyle.

  She should get down from the float. She should stop holding Tricks and get down from the float, do her job, because she was the chief. But she couldn’t, couldn’t move, couldn’t care. She laid her cheek against the top of Tricks’s head, closed her eyes, and tried to concentrate on breathing.

  Then Jesse and Patrick were there, Jesse in his street clothes because it was his day off, Patrick officially taking charge. Patrick crouched beside Morgan and handcuffed Kyle, while Jesse stood at the rear of the float and said, “Chief, is everyone up here okay?”

  “I think so,” Christa replied in a shaky voice, as if she knew Bo was still incapable of doing so. “He was aiming right at us, then Mr. Rees hit him!”

  At Tricks specifically, though with the girls so close to her and Bo directly behind, she supposed any of them could have been hit.

  The shouts around the wounded person got louder, and Jesse took off in that direction. Bo was gathering herself—thinking about gathering herself—when hard arms closed around her and lifted her bodily off the float. Morgan’s scent and heat closed around her, thawing the ice in her veins. She managed a very weak, “No,” from her constricted throat, though she wasn’t certain what she was saying no to. Morgan stood her on her feet, said, “Can you stand?”

  She nodded. He took her hand and placed it on the float, just in case. Then he gathered Tricks in his arms and gently set her down on the street too. He looped her leash around his wrist, asked one of the kids to pass Bo’s bag down to him. He hung the bag off his left shoulder, scooped Bo up in his arms again, and called out, “Can someone open this store? The chief needs to get out of the sun.”

  Someone could. It turned out to be the hardware store. Morgan carried her inside with Tricks trotting along beside him. The store was cool and more private than the street. She didn’t even mind the somewhat funky smell that hardware stores always had, for some reason.

  A battered office chair on wheels was dragged out. Bo sat down, then leaned forward and looped her arms around Tricks, burying her face against the dog’s soft ruff. The weight of what had almost happened was so heavy that she could barely breathe, barely force her lungs to pump in and out. Tricks had been targeted because of her. Whatever maggot had gotten into Kyle Gooding’s brain, he’d known that the best way to get to her was through Tricks. It was common knowledge she doted on her dog, and bright, innocent, happy Tricks had almost been killed because of that.

  The realization devastated her, filled her with such pain and remorse she couldn’t get a grip on her emotions. She’d handled everything in life that had come her way: instability, betrayal, financial problems, deprivation, but she didn’t know if she could handle anything bad happening to Tricks because of her. But what had she done? What had so enraged Kyle that he’d decided to destroy something she loved?

  The son of a bitch! She wanted to choke him, she wanted to hit him with everything she had.

  She was jerked from her thoughts as Morgan squatted in front of her, his big warm hands cupping her elbows and his dark brows lowered over the blue ice of his eyes as he studied her face. “Bo—honey, everything’s okay. Tricks is fine.”

  He could have been killed, she realized—again. Jumping Kyle the way
he had, Kyle could easily have turned the weapon on him and pulled the trigger. He’d risked his life for her, for Tricks, for everyone on the float and everyone lining the street to watch the parade. Kyle could have kept shooting until he was out of ammunition. But despite nearly dying just a couple of months before, Morgan hadn’t hesitated.

  Sensing something was very amiss, Tricks laid her head on Bo’s thigh and looked up at her with worried dark eyes. Gently Bo touched Tricks’s head. “Why didn’t you shoot him?” she asked in a very low tone, because she didn’t necessarily want anyone else to know Morgan was armed.

  His hands tightened on her elbows. “I couldn’t get a clear shot with all the people around,” he murmured.

  He was watching her so intently she realized she had to get it together. She was the chief of police; she had to act like it. If Mayor Buddy and the town council wanted her to let Jesse and Patrick handle it because she was too directly involved, she was okay with that, but until they told her so, she had to do her job.

  She drew a deep breath, let it out, and firmed her jaw. She still felt like jelly on the inside, but on the outside she would show strength or die trying. “I’m okay,” she said, lifting her head and looking around at everyone who had crowded into the store, all the concerned expressions on the faces of people she knew and some she didn’t know. “If you can give Tricks some water, I need to get out there and do what needs doing.”