Too Close to Home (15 page)

Yeah, that would get to them. They’d feel so guilty for putting someone else in the line of fire, they might back off.

Then again . . .

Sitting ducks. Pigeons just waiting to be picked off. Who would get the first bullet?

Eenie, meenie, miney, moe.

Samantha led the way from the church and realized how much she respected this intriguing man. He’d done a good job talking to the teens about taking extra care, explaining the need for caution, but he hadn’t scared them to death.

Then he’d stepped down to sit in the pew to finish the service. The crossed arms and uncomfortable shifting didn’t bode well for a good report on what he’d thought about the service. Jenna, on the other hand, after her initial reluctance to attend, had seemed to loosen up and enjoy it. She’d followed the words on the screen during the singing, taken notes on the sermon, and had intently focused on every part of what went on.

“Jenna!”

The group turned at the sound of the voice. Samantha recognized the girl coming their way as one of the student youth group leaders, Maria Delgado. A sharp dresser, an honor roll student, and comfortable with herself even though she was about forty pounds overweight. She exuded energy, friendliness, and the love of God.

“Jenna, wait.”

Jenna eyed Maria, looking as though she’d like to crawl under a rock. Samantha just waited, not wanting to interfere, but neither would she let Jenna hurt Maria’s feelings. Connor and Andrew walked to the bottom of the steps and immediately fell into a deep discussion. Jamie fidgeted as though she’d like everyone to hurry up.

Maria stopped in front of Jenna. “Hi, I was so glad to see you in church.”

“Really? Why?” Jenna had her sarcasm reined in, and Samantha relaxed when she realized the teen wasn’t being mean; she was genuinely curious.

Maria shrugged. “It’s a fun place most of the time and I think you’d really enjoy it. Here—” she thrust a piece of paper into Jenna’s reluctant grasp—“we’re going camping next weekend. Why don’t you come with us?”

“Camping? I don’t think so.” Her body language shouted her need to escape. Yet she stayed, kept the paper with the information between her thumb and forefinger.

“Well, think about it. If you want to come, just bring your stuff to the church Friday afternoon at five. You don’t have to have a tent or anything. All that’s provided.”

“Well . . .”

“Why don’t you come back inside with me and fill out the paperwork? That way you’ll have a spot on the van if you decide to come.”

Jenna looked at Sam as though asking permission.

Sam stuttered, “Uh . . . sure, your dad and Andrew are still talking and don’t look like they’re in a hurry. I’ll wait here for you.”

“Um . . . well . . .”

Maria wasn’t taking no for an answer. She grabbed Jenna by the hand and led the way back into the church.

Samantha turned to walk over to the guys, heard the sound of a car backfire, then watched Andrew flinch and grab his chest.

14

Connor simply reacted. He snagged Andrew in a bear hug, pulling him, staggering under his buddy’s dead weight, his only thought to get behind the parked car three feet away. Shock, horror, disbelief slugged him, one emotion after the other, over and over.

He ignored them all.

As he pulled Andrew behind the cover of the car, he forced his brain to work, to think—then he was in cop mode. Where was Jenna? Samantha?

“Samantha!”

His ears rang, his throat felt paralyzed, his breathing restricted. Had he screamed her name out loud? Yes, he must have. But she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Where was she?

“Get down!” he screamed at the confused and terrified parishioners. “Down!”

Connor looked down at Andrew, prayers falling from his lips.
Oh please, God, let him live, please, please, please.

Andrew gasped, eyes open staring up at Connor, blinking rapidly. “Hurts,” he whispered. The undeniable smell of fresh blood grabbed his nose. Andrew’s blood.

Connor gagged, fear for his friend nearly strangling him.

“Hang on, partner. Don’t you dare die on me.” He yanked his shirt over his head and wadded it into padding, pressing it against the wound. He pulled his phone from the clip and punched in 911. He recognized the dispatcher. One he’d talked to several times and knew pretty well.

“I’ve got shots fired. East Henry and Main. New Life Community Church. Sniper across the street on the 2nd Northwest Bank building. Andrew’s hit! I repeat, officer down. 10-33! Get EMS rolling.”

“Connor?”

“Yeah, now get everyone rolling and seal off this area. Set up a perimeter and get me a chopper and a K-9 unit.”

“Rolling now. Oh no, Connor . . . Andrew?” Her voice held a plea Connor had to ignore.

“Get me the Life Flight chopper now!”

Looking up, Connor scanned the still screaming crowd, he saw parents hovering behind cars, shielding their little ones.

Children, oh God, protect the children.

“Connor, Connor! What’s Andrew’s condition?”

He snapped the phone shut and pulled his gun.

A toddler about eighteen months old wandered into the open. Where was his mother? Father? Connor panned the area, watched the child bend down to pick up a white piece of paper. A bullet pinged about a foot in front of him. Bits of asphalt flew up and stung him, startling him into a mad cry, one pudgy hand swiping at the offending pain.

Terror for the child closing his throat, Connor looked down at Andrew, back over at the baby. Another bullet spit the ground behind the child.

No choice; no time to think. Heart pounding, blood rushing, he darted out, expecting to feel a bullet split his skull.

Another crack puffed up the cement in front of an elderly lady who dropped like a rock. Connor knew she’d just fainted. He hoped the gunman thought he’d hit her.

Snatching up the child, Connor swerved back to the covering offered by the car. Back to Andrew.

Where his partner lay dying.

More bullets pounded the wooden doors of the church, one after the other, chasing the parishioners, mocking their assumption that they should even try to find a safe haven inside the building.

They ducked and scattered like ashes in the wind—some taking cover behind cars, others running for the nearest building, a telephone pole, behind anything that might stop the next bullet. In between the pops and the screams, Connor thought he heard a raw voice calling a name, ending on a sob. The child’s mother? Probably. She’d just have to wait.

The back of one man’s head exploded. As he dropped, more screaming ensued.

“Jenna!” He didn’t see her, wanted to yell at her to get inside the church. His heart pumped so hard he thought it might very well shatter the bones that protected it.

The child in his arms wailed, tears leaking down his now grimy cheeks. “Mama.”

Connor wanted to join the toddler, raise his own voice in agonizing denial. Instead, he held it together, his training kicking in as he went on autopilot. “Everyone down! Get down!”

With one arm still around the baby, Connor raised his weapon, looking for the sniper. His finger itched to return fire. But if the person was on top of the bank where he’d figured him to be, his pistol wouldn’t do much good. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he dropped to his knees beside Andrew, grabbing his friend’s hand. Pressing it against the wound.

“Angie . . .” Andrew’s grip slackened, his strength gone.

Connor looked down at him, saw the tears leaking down his friend’s temples.

“Angie . . . tell . . . love her.”

“Hang on, Andrew West, you hear me?” The child squirmed, kicking to get down. Connor tightened his grip and the boy sobbed louder.

Connor tuned it out.

“You gotta stop him . . . gotta find him.” Andrew’s breathing grew even more labored. He coughed and blood ran from his mouth.

Connor wiped it with his free hand, then swiped it against his khakis.

Sirens finally rent the air. It just sounded like more frantic screams to Connor’s already tortured ears.

Next he noticed the stillness. The bullets had stopped. Only the sounds of the crying, sobbing, frantic parents looking for their children. The intense wailing of the woman whose husband had just had his brains literally blown away.

Jenna, please be safe, please. And Sam. And Jamie. And Angie.
Where were they?

Another hacking cough from Andrew, more dribbling blood from the corner of his mouth. A punctured lung?

“Get him, Connor. But . . . no . . . revenge . . . just . . . justice. Unnerstand?” Words slurring, Andrew’s lids drooped, his breathing shallow, uneven, faltering. Then he forced his eyes open. “I’m going home, Connor. ’S my time. Don’t be mad at God . . . love . . . him . . . tell Angie . . . love . . .”

“Noooo!”

Time to go. The dogs and the chopper would be here soon. That was fine, he’d made his point. The dogs would look to pick up a scent, but they wouldn’t know which one to follow. It was hot, the sun beating down on the roof. That would evaporate his smell—and possibly the distractions he’d planted; nevertheless, he would escape. The CS powder would mess with the dogs’ noses, too, and buy him even more time. Packing up the rifle with the skill of a longtime user, he was off the roof and through the door, carefully following his plan to the nth degree.

The shooting had started almost as soon as Maria and Jenna had stepped back inside the church. Samantha had seen the bullet pierce the door beside Jenna’s head and pulled her to the floor. Then Samantha had grabbed her gun and headed for the nearest window. One eye on the outside, she looked at Jenna, Maria, Angie, and Jamie huddled under the pews in the sanctuary.

Jamie looked shell-shocked and disoriented. Grief blasted Sam as she realized her sister would probably be emotionally back at the beginning of her journey.

Then Jamie reached out and pulled Jenna and Maria to her, holding them, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Samantha stopped, stared, and blew out a breath as a fission of pure relief flowed through her.

Then again, maybe Jamie would pull through this.

Just now, she realized Angie was weeping, deep, desperate sobs. She heard the woman’s rasping breath hissing through her nose. Several others from the congregation had made it back inside and were now statues, prostate on the floor, listening for the pop of more bullets.

She heard none, just the sound of the aftershocks.

Chaos reigned. A rushing wave of emergency personnel dominated the scene. Screams echoed, people hollered, babies cried.

The sanctuary doors flew open. Samantha tensed and swung her gun around, Angie whimpered. Jenna and Maria hugged Jamie close.

At the sight of uniformed officers coming in through the back, Sam released the breath she’d been holding and quickly flashed her badge. They nodded and called it in.

Connor. Andrew.
Oh Lord, please.

But she knew Andrew had been shot. Visions of him flinching after the sound of what she now knew had been a gunshot, not a car backfiring, screeched across her memory. What about Connor? There’d been a whole lot more bullets after the one that had hit Andrew.

Angie bolted for the doors, only to be caught by an officer. “We need you to stay put, ma’am.”

“Andrew. He was shot.”

“The shooter’s still out there somewhere. I can’t let you leave.”

Samantha raced to the woman and pulled her away. “He’s right, you can’t go out there.”

Angie whimpered, fought a bit more, then gave in, leaning against Samantha’s shoulder.

Worry clawed her midsection as she walked Angie over to the others.

Jenna looked at her, fear darkening her eyes to stormy clouds. “Dad?” she whispered.

“I don’t know, honey. I’m going to find out.”

Angie’s makeup looked 3D on her completely white face. She clutched her stomach and moaned. “Andrew.”

Samantha gripped the woman’s fingers and looked at Jamie, who bit her lip and swiped a hand through her ragged curls. “Are you okay?”

“I’m shaking so hard I might fall apart.”

Sam held out a hand. It trembled as badly as Jamie’s. Adrenaline. “I understand, but you have to keep it together, all right?”

Jamie nodded.

“I want to see my dad. Now.” Jenna directed her words to the police officers standing guard just inside the door. His radio buzzed and he zeroed his attention in on that, listening to the voice in his ear. He looked at his partner as he spoke. “Shooter’s on the run. This area’s secure.”

Jenna darted under the man’s arm and pressed the bar on the door, swinging it open.

“Hey,” he shouted and grabbed for her.

The wiry girl slipped out the door. Sam raced after her, leaving the policeman cursing in their wake.

Once outside, Jenna plowed ahead. Samantha pulled to a stop, registering the carnage. A dead man; two wounded lying in the dirt, one clutching a shoulder, the other a leg. The woman who’d fainted groaned and sat up, only to cry out in agonized grief as reality hit her. Shocked parishioners did their best to help until the professional medical technicians could get through.

Someone yelled that the scene was secured, the shooter on the run.

Shattered vehicle windows littered the ground, shards of glass mingling with the blood, and an ambulance had stopped about thirty feet away, loading someone into the back. Connor stood, watching, clutching a child who’d—amazingly enough—fallen asleep on a broad shoulder.

Jenna ran toward him. “Dad! Are you okay?”

He never turned at the sound of his daughter calling him, just stared at the stretcher in front of him.

Fear clutched her. Andrew. Was he dead or alive? Had the sheet been pulled all the way up covering his face or not? She couldn’t remember.

“Andrew!”

The wail nearly pierced Sam’s eardrum, then Angie raced past her for the ambulance.

Connor looked up and the shattered look in his eyes told Samantha that Angie was now a widow. Her world shifted, spun crazily about her. Muscles lost their strength and she sank to the asphalt, covered her face, and wept.

15

For some reason, God must hate him, want him to be as alone and as miserable as possible. Connor stared at Andrew’s casket as it rolled past, wondering what he’d done to incur the Almighty’s wrath.