Her eyes widened. “You mean you’ll tell me?”
“Well, it is Christmas, after all. Almost. So you’re investigating the Cantrell shooting?”
“Right.” There was precipitation in the air, a bit too cold and dry to be rain. It was definitely going to snow. “Do you know who shot him?”
“No. And I’m not likely to find out through ballistics analysis, either.”
“I thought every gun left individual markings on a bullet that could be used to trace it back to the gun that fired it.”
“That’s true. But the bullet has to be found in a condition such that it’s possible to read those markings. This bullet was found lodged in the bark of a tree.”
“Blast.” Megan’s fists clenched up. “I knew it passed through Carl’s body, but I didn’t know about the tree.”
“I’m afraid the bullet was squashed on impact. The markings are absolutely unreadable at this point. For all I can tell, the bullet could have come out of any of a million guns.”
“And there was nothing unusual about the caliber?”
“No. Exactly the same bullet all the city cops are firing.”
Megan wrapped her arms around herself. All of a sudden she was feeling the cold. Even though she didn’t know what it was, she had thought she was getting close to something. Now it seemed she had come up against a brick wall. “I had hoped I might learn something by talking to the police officer who actually shot him.”
“Police officer? What do you mean?”
“I mean, if I could talk to the officer who fired the bullet-”
“Oh, no. There’s no chance of that.”
“I don’t understand. You said the bullet was the same caliber-”
“And it is. But that doesn’t mean he was shot by a cop.”
“But … then who?”
“I can’t tell you. But I can tell you this. I was with Barney when he inspected the wound and took pictures for the evidence file. The entry wound was in the forearm, in the front. The exit wound was in the back.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“I was given to understand the man was running toward the house when he was shot.”
“That’s true. He was.”
“And I assume he wasn’t running backwards.”
“No, of course not.”
“Then there’s no doubt about it.” He folded his arms firmly across his chest. “The bullet was fired from the house.”
“What?”
“The police were behind him. They may have fired, but the bullet that hit the man came from in front of him. And that means it came from the house.”
Megan grabbed his arm. “Have you told this to anyone yet?”
“Told who? Everyone’s gone. It’s Christmas Eve, for Pete’s sake. I filed my report. And I expect the detectives working on the case will read it-when they get back after the holidays.”
A sudden frisson of horror shot down Megan’s spine. “That won’t be soon enough.” She spun around toward her car on the other side of the parking lot. “I have to tell Carl.”
“Carl?” Collins called after her. “Carl Cantrell?”
“Right.”
“Haven’t you heard?”
Megan froze in her tracks. What now? “Heard what?”
“It was on the radio. Carl Cantrell broke out of protective custody. Eluded his guards and snuck away from the hospital where he was recuperating.”
Megan’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, no!”
“I’m afraid it’s true. So you’re not going to be able to tell him anything. Unless you know where he’s going next.”
The short hairs rose up on the back of Megan’s neck. Something was bringing goose bumps to her skin, and it wasn’t the cold. “I only hope I don’t,” she said, and without saying another word, she raced across the parking lot to her car.
21
Bonnie gazed into the mirror on the sun visor above the passenger seat and reapplied her lipstick. Too many Chicken McNuggets had undermined her cosmetic work.
She smeared on the ruby-red, pressed her lips together, and frowned. She hated McDonald’s. The only edible food in the whole restaurant was the french fries, and they weren’t exactly conducive to a 114-pound hourglass figure.
Still, Frank had seemed to think it was important that they all trudge out to the dreadful place, not that he’d bothered to explain why. She thought it was strange. But not as strange as this business of stopping at a church-First Presbyterian, just off Robinson. As far as she knew, Frank never went near churches, and for a reason. But today, when probably half the congregation was crowding in for the Christmas Eve service, he did.
But even that was not as strange as what happened next. Frank returned from his brief sojourn inside the holy halls-wearing a Santa suit.
“I know the man who plays Santa here,” Frank whispered to Bonnie when he returned to the car. “He’s a good guy. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
Bonnie shook her head in quiet amazement. Curiouser and curiouser.
Frank shut the door behind him, then twisted around to face Tommy, who was slumped down in the backseat. “Hey, Tommy. Tell Santa whether you’ve been a good boy this year.”
Tommy barely raised his eyes. “You’re not Santa.”
“But of course I am. Don’t you see this beard?” He pulled it down by its elastic string and popped it back against his chin. “Ho, ho, ho.”
Tommy averted his eyes and made a nasty face.
“Now, son-”
“I’m not your son!”
Frank lowered his chin. “Tommy, you have to answer Santa’s question. Naughty or nice?”
“Leave me alone.”
Frank made a tsking sound. “Naughty. Definitely naughty.”
They drove the rest of the way home in silence. Bonnie still didn’t know what was going on, so she decided to stop worrying about it. She tilted her seat back, relaxed, and waited to see what Santa would do next.
When they arrived at Bonnie’s house, Frank parked the car in the driveway. Tommy cracked open his car door.
“Not yet,” Frank instructed him.
Tommy frowned. “What are we waiting for?”
“You’re waiting till I say you’re not waiting.” Frank checked his watch.
A few minutes later, when the watch read almost nine-thirty, he spoke again. “All right then. Let’s get out now.”
Tommy sprang out of the backseat. He had almost reached the front door of the house when he heard Frank calling him.
“Tommy? I have something for you.”
“What?”
“This.” The instant Tommy turned around, Frank smacked him hard across the face.
Tommy staggered backward. He lost his balance and fell in a heap onto the concrete steps below the front porch.
Bonnie was utterly bewildered. “Have lost your mind, Frank?”
He looked pointedly at her. “Carl,” he said. “Have you lost your mind, Carl.”
Bonnie stared at her Santa-suited boyfriend, and suddenly, she understood. All the pieces fell into place. “Carl,” she murmured, and then she turned the volume up. “Have you lost your mind, Carl?” she shouted.
“Yeah,” Frank muttered. “I’m out of control.” He reached down and hit Tommy again, this time clubbing him on the other side of his face.
Tommy screamed, but Bonnie screamed even louder. “Help! Someone help! He’s hurting my baby!”
Lightbulbs flickered on the porches of some of the neighboring houses.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Frank said. He raised Tommy up by the collar, then punched him in the soft part of the stomach.
Tommy hurt so badly he couldn’t speak. He doubled over and fell to the grass.
“You miserable brat,” Frank bellowed. “I’ll beat you till you can’t see straight.” He reared back a foot and kicked Tommy in the side.
“No!” Bonnie glanced over her shoulder. She could see silhouetted figures standing in the windows of other houses. The audience was assembling. “I can’t control him, Tommy! Run! Run!”
Tommy staggered to his feet and limped toward the house. Frank made a show of starting after him, and Bonnie made a show of trying to restrain him. “No, Carl. I won’t let you hurt my boy!”