11

The play’s the thing,

Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.

ACT 2, SCENE 2

To heck with subtlety. Fairing burst through the door and saw him jerk in surprise. The rifle shot in the tiny room deafened her. She prayed she’d ruined his aim. He whipped around, his weapon still in his hands. She knew the Secret Service guys would have already thrown themselves on top of the president. This guy wasn’t going to get another chance. Especially not if Marti Fairing had any say in the matter.

She launched herself at him, her ears still ringing from the shot. So much so that, as he turned, she could hardly hear herself say, “Bobby?” before her hands clamped on his wrists. Even with a scraggly blond beard, she recognized him. From fifth grade.

*   *   *

I heard Harper shout. I recognized his voice. But then it only took a moment for the crowd chanting the president’s name to morph into a panic-stricken mob. Karaline grabbed my arm and propelled me to the ground. As I landed, my head bounced up and I saw two blue-suited men grab the president, pull him from the platform, and hustle him into the car. It took only seconds, and he was gone. A blur of blue as other agents streaked toward the old Sutherland place.

My next thought was what Shay was going to say about all this.

“Are you okay, P?”

“I would be if you’d roll off me so I could breathe.”

Once she complied, I thanked her; but we both knew the danger might not be past. Nearby I saw Don and Brenda Marley cradling their two children between them, shielding their small bodies. Old Mr. Marley, with his leg still in a brace, had overturned his chair and dragged himself to them. He stretched out, forming a barrier with his body between his son’s family and the gunman behind us all. A gangly kid, high school age, vaulted over Marley’s whole family and tackled a little girl, pulling her to the ground. She wrapped her arms around his waist.

I spotted Leonzini’s head peeking over the back of the platform, but the governor lay facedown on the ground where the sword dancers had been such a short time ago. He lifted his head and turned it to his right, probably so he could breathe. I felt a surge of relief—almost of joy, although that emotion didn’t seem to fit with what was going on here. He was alive, but the upper arm of his white shirt was red. The red was expanding. Without thinking, I jumped up and ran to him.

Karaline shouted for an ambulance. Dirk handed me the shawl. I stanched the blood as best I could, but it kept pulsing out beneath my hands. His hand outstretched to greet the president. The bullet that came so close. Thank God the gunman’s aim had been off by—what?—twenty inches? Twelve? Dirk laid a ghostly hand over the exposed half of the governor’s forehead. I could hear the helicopter lift off, the sound fading quickly away.

“Governor!” Andrea stood beside me, her camera phone clicking away. “How did it feel to take the bullet meant for the president?”

The governor’s aide came pounding up, grabbed Andrea by the shoulders, and spun her out of the way. “I was in back watching the crowd. I couldn’t get here—”

“Help me put pressure here. I think he hit an artery.”

He leapt over the governor’s prostrate legs and wrapped his hands around mine. For such a short guy, he had enormous hands. And—thank goodness—an iron grip. And—double thanks—he’d gotten rid of Andrea. Well before the paramedics arrived, my fingers were numb.

*   *   *

Bobby Turner hadn’t been this strong when he was just a sullen fifth grader and they’d wrestled on the school playground. He’d pushed Marti’s best friend into the mud, and she’d tackled him. Then it had been a slam dunk to push him in the mud as well.

Now, though, he fought with the desperation of someone who couldn’t risk being caught. He tried to slam his forehead into Marti’s teeth, but she wrenched her head out of his way. He kicked at her as best he could from such close quarters and she twisted, pulling them both to the hard wooden floor. She hadn’t meant to land on the bottom. He grunted as something—probably his shin—slammed into one of her steel-toed boots.

Before she could celebrate, he kneed her in the crotch.

“That’s what I’m supposed to do to you,” she growled, hanging on for dear life, refusing to let go. Because she knew if she lost hold of him, he’d finish her off, just like he’d probably done to the president. Why couldn’t she have gotten here sooner?

He bared his teeth, and Marti had a blinding vision of the time in third grade he’d bitten Georgie Martin’s ear. It hadn’t been a pretty sight.

“No wonder you knew about this room,” she said, and he closed his mouth far enough so he could grin at her. She wrapped her legs around him, yanked his wrists—and the rifle—closer, and threw her head forward hard enough to crash her forehead into his nose.

His blood sprayed across her face just as Davis, Eggles, and the other guy tumbled through the open door.

“Nice of you to show up,” she said when they’d hauled a broken-nosed Bobby off her. “Finally,” she couldn’t help adding, and wiped her face.

*   *   *

Archie Ogilvie’s voice boomed out over the meadow. “Let’s all settle down now, ladies and gentlemen. Everything is under control.”

Under control. Right.

One of our Hamelin police cruisers, followed by a black car so ostentatiously shiny it almost hurt the eyes, sped in back of the now-empty stage and across the far end of the meadow, dodging tents and pickups and travel trailers. Even though I was on my knees, most of the people in the meadow were still lying down, although most of them had their cell phones out, either talking, texting, or taking photos. Over their heads I could easily see the cars as they navigated the gentle slope up to the old Sutherland place, where a group of people was rounding the corner from the back of the building. A man obviously under restraint was herded into the cruiser, and the other people filed into the shiny car. A lone person, a woman, was left behind. She waited until both cars were out of sight and then limped our way. Danny Murphy sprinted past us and, as I watched, skidded to a stop beside the woman, whom I recognized as Marti Fairing, one of our police officers. He dug in his pocket and handed her something. It fluttered in the evening breeze. A handkerchief? “I wish I could hear what she’s saying,” I muttered, and turned my attention back to the governor.

Karaline held the governor’s other hand and kept up a running patter. “You’ll be all right. Help is on the way. Just try to breathe evenly. We’ll get you to the hospital . . .”

Thank the Lord for paramedics. Surely it had been only seconds we’d held the governor’s arm, but I was never so happy as when I heard, “You can let go now. We’ll take it from here.”

I clambered to my feet, wondering what I was going to do about all the blood on my hands. The good thing about wearing an arisaidh is that you always have a lot of extra fabric around. I lifted one corner of it, but before I could start wiping, Dirk placed his hands over mine.

“I maun be able to help a wee bit.” His cool watery touch felt so very different from the urgent hands of the aide.

He rubbed gently, and the blood dissipated. “How did you do that?”

I was whispering, but the aide beside me, busy wiping his own hands with what looked like an entire packet of tissues, must have heard. “Got here so fast, you mean? I think I ran a couple of people down on the way.”

“I dinna ken.” Dirk looked at his hands, and I was pretty sure he was thinking about when he’d helped Karaline last winter. “It felt the right thing to do.”

“Well,” I said, knowing full well that I was speaking to both men—man and ghost, that is—at the same time, “thank you.”

“Could you make a little room for us, ma’am? Sir?” The paramedics rolled a gurney up beside the governor, lifted him onto it, and strapped him down. One of them handed back my shawl, and the ambulance headed toward Arkane. The hospital there was a good one—I knew from personal experience.

“As you can see” came Archie’s voice over the speakers, “the president is safe and the perpetrator has been apprehended.” Perpetrator? Apprehended? Archie’s been watching too much TV. “Our governor sustained a small wound, but he’s receiving expert medical care, thanks to our alert and well-trained ambulance crew.”

Small wound? I looked down at the bloody shawl in my hand. Absentmindedly I handed it to Dirk. A woman beside me gasped, and I couldn’t say I blamed her. After all, shawls don’t usually disappear into thin air.

Dirk laughed. “Ye maun be a wee bit more careful.”

I turned to the woman. “I’m an amateur magician,” I said, “and I finally got that trick right.”

She looked doubtful. “Can you make it appear again?”

Half a minute ago people were terrified, and now I was doing fake magic? I arched an eyebrow at Dirk. “It depends on whether the forces of magic in the air will cooperate.” Where on earth did that bit of blather come from? Dirk and I ought to have been in a circus. I held out my hand behind me, Dirk placed the shawl in it, and I produced it, noticing that Dirk had folded it so the blood didn’t show. “Ta-da!”

“That was really good! Will you do it again? Let me get my husband over here.”

I didn’t have to respond because Shay chose that moment to wrest the microphone from Archie’s grasp. “Lads and lassies!” The mike squealed and Shay grimaced. “Sorry about that.” She pointed to her right. “Porter,” she ordered, “bring your pipes up here and give us ‘Amazing Grace’ in honor of the brave Secret Service agents who averted this possible crisis, and, uh, in honor of our brave governor who, uh, who bravely took the brunt of the attack as he, um, bravely saved the president’s life in such, uh, in such a brave way.”

Find another adjective, Shay.

People pulled themselves to their feet as Porter Macnaughton mounted the stage and made those preparatory bellows that everyone who’s heard a bagpipe knows all too well. One lone drummer from behind the crowd began to strike the beat, and we all quieted. A great many people sang along as the time-honored strains of “Amazing Grace” soared across the crowd. For a moment we had been at risk. Horribly at risk. And now we felt safe. What a good reason to sing. Shay’s voice at least was in tune. Now that I was closer to the stage, I could see what had caused that blink of light from her hand. She turned the microphone slightly, and an enormous diamond ring sparkled with sudden fire. I’d never seen her wearing that monstrosity before. I heard a deep melodious bass voice just behind me and looked over my shoulder.

Harper.

Beside me, Dirk muttered in Gaelic, and I couldn’t help wincing. I was glad I didn’t understand a word.

*   *   *

Harper had been headed toward Peggy and the governor, but then another man had vaulted into action. Harper knew better than to overcrowd a crisis scene. He did his best to calm the people around him, quietly working his way closer to where she bent over the governor’s body. Paramedics. Ambulance. Exit. Some woman beside her looking excited. What was all that about? And then he stood behind her, ready to reach out. He felt glad the gunman hadn’t been Bowman, the Santa with a Scottie. But he was more glad to be here almost within touching distance of the woman he loved.

Shay’s voice. The shuffling of the crowd. The drum beat. “Amazing Grace.” He could wrap his voice around her.

She turned and looked at him. He was so ready to fold her in his arms right that moment. But then she grimaced. Maybe he should have left her alone. So much for the ring he’d carried in his pocket for months.

He kept on singing, but more softly now. His heart wasn’t in it anymore.

*   *   *

Last winter I’d had a conversation with Harper. He’d told me some things about himself, and I’d been all ready to tell him about Dirk, but somehow the look on his face hadn’t been the kind I wanted to dissipate by saying, By the way, I have a fourteenth-century ghost who follows me around everywhere. Once that chance was gone, there just hadn’t been a right time in the intervening months to introduce the topic.

Now I felt like maybe we were back on track, but then something in his voice shifted—I didn’t know why—and he looked away from me, so I turned back to face the piper.

When the song concluded, Shay snatched up the microphone again. “We’re going to continue the Games, lads and lassies!”

Continue? Is it safe? I wondered. What if there’s another assassin?

“I conferred with Archie a moment ago,” Shay said, “and he’s been assured by the Secret Service that the perpetrator has been arrested. We will not let the actions of a lone criminal stop the Hamelin Highland Games.”

A roar of approval went up from the crowd. I could feel the palpable relief overflowing from them. After all, a lot of these people planned their vacation every year around this event. Why would they want to lose their fun? It would have been different, I was sure, if the president had been shot or the governor had died. But both men were safe, the weasel who’d shot at the president had been caught, and Shay was acting in full cheerleader mode as the late-summer sun sank behind the mountain to the west of town. Lights around the meadow came on as Shay called out, “Let the Games begin!”

As soon as Shay’s final word faded, the drummers began. Fiddlers dotted around the meadow struck up “Scotland the Brave,” something they did every year as if it were spontaneous, even though I’d heard them timing it. Four beats later, the bagpipes were going at full blast. It never failed to thrill me.

Off to my left, I heard a sour note. Several sour notes, in fact. Shoe. I should have known he’d try to join in. Dirk had explained to me that the leumluaths were either three—or was it four? I wasn’t sure—trilling notes played very quickly. And the taorluaths were four—or three?—sort of like grace notes, only he hadn’t used that term. It hadn’t been invented yet when he was alive.