Five
HOLLY PARKED HER CAR AT THE COURTHOUSE, checked herself in the mirror one last time and walked across the parking lot. Daisy trotted by her side, carrying the bouquet.
Helen, her secretary, and Hurd Wallace, her deputy chief, were waiting by the side entrance for her.
“Everybody’s here,” Helen said. “Except the groom, of course.”
“Oh, he’ll be along, eventually,” Holly said. “He had a closing this morning, and he had to go to the travel agent’s and the bank.” They walked through the courthouse doors and started down the hallway. “He still won’t tell me where we’re going on our honeymoon.”
“Gosh,” Helen said, “everybody else knows.”
“Even Hurd?”
“Yep,” Hurd replied, with a straight face. Hurd spoke only when necessary, and with an economy of words. Holly had never seen him laugh, or even smile.
“It’s outrageous,” Holly said. “Everybody knows but me. If I have the wrong clothes, I’m going to murder Jackson as soon as we get there.”
“I’d hate to have to extradite you,” Hurd said.
“Aha! It’s out of the country!”
“That’s why you needed a passport,” Helen said. “It’s not as though we’re giving anything away.”
They reached the courtroom and walked through the big double doors. Virtually the whole of the Orchid Beach Police Department was present, most in uniform.
“My God,” Holly said, “I hope the criminals are taking the day off, too.”
Everybody laughed, a little too heartily.
Her father, Hamilton Barker, a retired army master sergeant wearing an unaccustomed blue suit, stepped forward, took her shoulders and looked her up and down. “You look just like a girl,” he said.
“Thanks, Ham,” Holly replied, with a touch of sarcasm.
“Well, I can’t remember the last time I saw you in a dress. Was it your senior prom?”
“If my father says anything like that again,” she said to the assembly, “shoot to kill.”
“She doesn’t appreciate compliments,” Ham said to Helen.
The judge appeared from her chambers, wearing her robes. “All present?” she asked, looking at her watch. She was a sturdily built woman in her fifties, with a mound of snow-white hair.
“Everybody but the groom,” Helen told her.
She peered over the bench at Daisy. “I don’t usually allow dogs in my courtroom,” she said.
“She’s not a dog,” Holly replied, “she’s the maid of honor.”
“Oh,” the judge said. “In that case, I’ll make an exception.”
Ham looked at his watch. “Looks like he’s going to jilt you,” he said, grinning.
“What time is it?” Holly asked. She didn’t have a dressy watch, and she wasn’t going to wear her steel Rolex with her wedding dress.
“Two minutes to go,” Ham said.
Across the courtroom, somebody’s portable radio barked something.
Hurd Wallace leveled his gaze at the cop. “Turn that thing off.”
But the officer instead began speaking into the microphone clipped to his shirt, then he turned and walked toward an unpopulated corner of the courtroom.
Dammit, Holly thought, I’m not going to have this day ruined by some teenager in a stolen car.
Hurd walked across the room and stood next to the officer, cocking an ear toward the radio. He listened for a moment, then walked back to where Holly stood.
Holly put up her hands, as if to ward him off. “Not today, Hurd,” she said.
He leaned close to her. “It’s Jackson,” he said quietly. “He’s been hurt; he’s on the way to the hospital.”
Holly jerked her head back as if she had been slapped. “How bad?”
“Bad, but he’s alive. Come on, I’ll drive you.”
Holly started for the door, and Hurd turned to the crowd, motioning for Ham Barker to follow him. “Sorry, folks, the wedding is postponed. Everybody back on duty. Jenkins, get your crime-scene team and get over to the Southern Trust Bank on Ocean Boulevard, and be quick about it. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
Holly sat rigidly in the front seat of Hurd’s unmarked patrol car, willing Hurd to go faster.
“Any details?” Ham asked from the rear seat. Daisy sat quietly in the back, as if she knew something was wrong.
“There was a robbery at Southern Trust,” Hurd said. “Apparently, Jackson got in the way.”
Holly turned and looked at him. “Gunshot?”
Hurd nodded. “We’ll know more in a couple of minutes.” He whipped the car into the emergency entrance of the hospital. Everybody got out and ran inside.
A doctor stood just inside the doorway, wearing a white coat, its right sleeve smeared with blood. “This way, Chief,” he said, ushering her toward an examination room. Just outside the door, he stopped her. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he died three or four minutes ago. There was nothing we could do to save him.”
Holly turned to face the doctor. “Nothing you could do?”
“It was a shotgun blast to the chest; massive damage.”
Holly sucked in a big breath and put a hand on the door for balance. “I want to see him,” she said.
“All right,” the doctor replied. He opened the door.
Holly stepped into the room. An examination table was before her, and the body, draped with a sheet.
The doctor walked to the head of the table and took hold of a corner of the sheet, waiting for Holly.
Holly stepped forward, and her toe caught on something. She looked down to see a yellow knit shirt, covered in blood, at her feet. What? she thought. Jackson wasn’t wearing a yellow shirt; it’s the wrong man! She rushed to the head of the table.
The doctor pulled back the sheet, revealing only the head.
Holly felt as if someone had struck her in the chest. The tanned face was without color, the mouth slightly open, the eyes closed. It was not the wrong man. She reached out to pull the sheet back farther.
The doctor put his hand on hers. “You don’t want to do that,” he said kindly.
Holly placed her hand on Jackson’s cool cheek and began to sob.