Familiar Stranger (16 page)

A woman drove up just as he was heading to the store.

"Do you have a cell phone?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Then call nine-one-one. The store is being robbed."

She looked askance, staring wildly at the gun he was holding and then at his face.

"Not by me," he said shortly. "The doors are locked and the cash registers are open. I'm going to try and get in, but I need you to help me, understand?"

She nodded, her expression startled.

"After you make the call, drive your car to the street and keep everyone else away. We don't need any innocent bystanders getting hurt, do we?"

"No! Oh, my! I can't believe…"

"Lady! Just make the call and then get the hell out of the way."

She bolted for her car.

Satisfied she would do as he'd asked, he headed toward the front doors again. He wouldn't let himself think of what might have already happened. Instead, he palmed the lock pick and with a few deft strokes, opened the door and quietly slipped inside.

He stood against the wall, his gun raised, listening for something that would tell him where everyone had been taken. The silence was more horrifying than any scream would have ever been. When he finally heard angry shouts coming from the back of the store, he closed his eyes momentarily, recalling the layout of the floor plan from his earlier visit, then started to move.

* * *

"Damn it, Travis, shut that woman up now or I'm gonna do it for you," Darryl Wayne shouted.

Cara flinched as the short man, the one who was shouting, grabbed a can of peas from a shelf and threw it at the hostages. Cara ducked, covering her head as the can sailed past her ear, only to hit one of the grocery clerks on the head. The woman never saw it coming, and when it hit her, it knocked her out cold. She dropped to the floor in a slump.

Cara scrambled over to her side, trying to staunch the flow of blood with the tail of her shirt, and was backhanded for the trouble.

"I told you people not to move and I meant it."

Pain-filled tears blurred her vision as she grabbed the side of her face. Already it was beginning to throb.

"Please," she begged. "Her head … it's bleeding badly."

Darryl gabbed her by the hair and yanked her to her feet.

"Look at me!"

Cara stared, too frightened to move.

"Can you see my lips?"

She nodded, wincing when be tightened his grip on her hair.

"I'm telling you for the last time, don't move. Can you do that?"

She nodded again.

He shoved her hard. She fell backward over the unconscious woman's feet, then onto the floor. From where she was lying, she could see the third mm in the office with the manager, holding a gun to his head as the manager opened the safe. Never in her life had she been so certain she was going to die. The moment that safe came open, they were all expendable.

Oh, God! Oh, David! Where are you?

"Hurry up with that safe!" Darryl shouted. "We ain't got all day."

The third man stepped out of the office. "He says he can't get it open."

"Bull!" Darryl yelled, turned toward the hostages and fired at the nearest one, who happened to be the Methodist pastor's wife. The bullet tore through her shoulder and ricocheted against the concrete wall behind her. She slumped over without a sound. "One down, ten to go," he yelled. "Now see how fast he can open that safe."

The third man grinned and stepped back into the office. A horrified silence permeated the area. No one dared look up for fear they would be next. And because their heads were bent, they didn't see the man who slipped through the open door of the loading area and disappeared behind a stack of wooden pallets.

* * *

David's gut was in a knot. He'd been only feet away from the door when he'd heard the shot, and even though he knew there was bound to be other hostages, his heart sank. All he could think was,
Please, God, don't let it be Cara
.

A second later he was peering through the half-open door. He counted eleven hostages, two unconscious, maybe dead. When he saw the top of Cara's head and realized she wasn't one of the bodies on the floor, he said a quick prayer of thanksgiving, then slipped into the room behind a stack of pallets.

Two gunmen had their backs to him, and they were still talking to a third, who he figured must be in an office somewhere nearby. He glanced at his watch, trying to figure out how long it would be before the sound of police sirens alerted the men to their arrival. He'd been inside for more than four minutes, and if the police were on the ball, he didn't have much time.

Suddenly, a third man came into view, holding another at gunpoint. David froze. With less than five feet between them, he could have reached out and touched the back of the gunman's head.

"I got it!" the gunman shouted. "Let's get the hell out of here now."

David held his breath. If they would just leave, it would be the safest move for all concerned. Unfortunately, the short, stocky one who seemed to be in charge had other ideas.

"No witnesses," he said abruptly, and took aim at the people on the floor as calmly as if he was about to squash a bug.

To David's horror, Cara was the closest to the gun. There was no time left to wait.

David coldcocked the man closest to him on the back of the head, then grabbed him before he fell, using him for a shield as he took aim. He fired twice in rapid succession, hitting the short man first and the next mm as he was spinning around.

A stunned silence momentarily enveloped the hostages, and then they erupted into a melee of shouts and screams. Several started to run. David stopped them all with one shout.

"Wait."

They froze.

He looked at Cara, who was on her knees, trying to stop the blood pouring from the shoulder of one of the victims.

"Cara!"

She looked up, her eyes filled with tears, but there was a look on her face that told him she was all right. He yanked his T-shirt over his head and tossed it to her.

"Use pressure, honey. Help is on the way."

One of the stock boys followed suit and removed his T-shirt for her, as well. She nodded, quickly folding the shirts and pressing them against the front and back of the wound. The woman who'd been knocked out was coming around. To David's dismay, he realized it was the young cashier he'd teased only the other day. The one who had welcomed him to Chiltingham.

"See about her, too," he ordered, and immediately, a couple of the other hostages began to attend to her.

David motioned to the manager.

"I hear sirens. Go up front and meet the police and the paramedics. Make sure they know everything is under control. We wouldn't want anyone to be mistaken for a bad guy, would we?"

The manager nodded, still wide-eyed and shaking, unable to believe the ordeal was over. He bolted for the front of the store without looking back.

The man David had hit was moaning at his feet. He grabbed some reinforced strapping tape from a nearby shelf and quickly bound his hands and feet, then checked the two that he'd shot. They were dead.

Confident now that danger was past, he moved toward Cara, needing to touch her. When he knelt beside her, she looked up.

"I knew you would come."

He cupped the back of her head and pulled her to him, kissing her quick and hard.

"Let me help," he said quietly, and took over the job of keeping the pastor's wife alive while Cara rocked back on her heels and started to cry.

"It's all right, baby," he said quietly, as he inspected the woman's wound. Satisfied that it was a through shot and high enough that nothing vital had been hit, he kept pressure on the makeshift bandages and waited.

As they waited, the young clerk who'd been knocked out began to sit up. Looking around in stunned confusion, she saw Cara's face and then the blood all over the dress the preacher's wife was wearing and started to cry.

"Hey!" he said quickly. "Look at me!"

She blinked as recognition dawned.

"I know you," she whispered. "You're the new guy who moved to town."

"And it's a good thing he did," one of the hostages said. "They were going to kill us. He saved us all."

"Oh, my," she said, and then clutched her head and closed her eyes.

"Are you feeling sick to your stomach?" David asked.

She nodded.

"Put your head between your knees," he said, and then pointed with his chin toward a couple of the young grocery sackers. "Isn't that an ice machine over there?"

They nodded.

"Get a plastic bag, fill it with ice and put it on her head."

They did as he ordered, thankful to have something to do besides stare at the blood pooling beneath the two dead men.

David looked at Cara and the mark upon her face. "Bring two of those bags of ice, will you? Give one to Mrs. Justice so she can put it on her face."

Cara tried to whisper a thanks, but she knew if she talked, she would scream. The horror of what had just happened was finally sinking in.

When one of the boys suddenly thrust the cold, wet plastic into her hands, she laid it against her face in mute thanksgiving.

Chapter 9

«
^
»

M
oments later, they heard shouts at the front of the building, then the sounds of running feet. Suddenly, the back room of the supermarket was overflowing with uniformed officers as well as medical personnel.

"Here!" David called. "This woman is hurt the worst. She has a clean shot all the way through the shoulder but she's lost a lot of blood." Then he nodded toward the young clerk who was holding a bag of ice against her head. "She was knocked out for a short while. Might have a concussion."

"What about those two?" one of the paramedics asked, looking toward the two men on the floor.

"They're dead, and it's a better fate than they deserved," David muttered, then got to his feet and got out of their way.

A second later, Cara was in his arms, her face pressed against his chest, the melting ice clutched tightly in her hand. David could feel the cold against his bare back. But didn't give a damn for the discomfort. Nothing mattered but Cara's welfare.

"It's all right now, honey," he said softly, holding her tight. "It's over."

"You saved us, David. You saved us all," she muttered. "Yes, God bless you, mister," someone said, and patted him on the back, their hands warm against his bare flesh.

One after the other, the hostages thanked him, some hugging him, some unable to do anything but touch him as they were led away.

Just when David thought it was over, another set of officers arrived. These were in suits. He sighed. Detectives. Now the questions would really commence. But how to answer? Identifying himself and not giving himself away could be tricky, especially since he'd only left them with one live body to take to trial.

"So where's this Rambo they're all talking about?" one of the men asked.

"It was him, Robert! That's the man who told me to call the police."

David turned around. It was the woman from the parking lot. He looked back at Cara, assessing her condition. Her face was swollen where she'd been hit and she was still shaking. He needed to get her out of the building, but it wasn't going to happen. Not yet.

The detective looked first at David, then at the woman in his arms. Surprise spread over his face.

"Mrs. Justice, is that you?"

Cara looked up. "Oh … Robert, I should have expected you, but this all seems so surreal. I still can't believe it. If it hadn't been for David, we would all be dead." Then she laid her hand on David's arm. "David, darling, this is Robert … oh, excuse me, Robert. I forget all of you boys have grown up. It's Detective Foster, now. He and my son, Tyler, grew up together."

David shook the man's hand.

"Detective," he said, reluctantly acknowledging the man's need to be here.

Robert Foster nodded cordially.

"Care to tell me what happened?" he asked, wondering about David's lack of shirt, and then saw one wadded up on the floor where the paramedics had discarded it. It was stained with blood. "Is that your shirt?" he asked.

But David was more concerned with the trembling in Cara's muscles than his lack of clothing.

"Can we go somewhere and sit down?" he asked. "Cara is going into shock."

"I'll be fine," Cara said, but when she started to walk, her legs went out from under her.

David caught her before she fell. "Are you sure he didn't hurt you?"

She shook her head. "Just a slap across the face. It was nothing compared to Margie being shot." Then she started to cry again. "My God … my God … I thought we were going to die."

David held her close against him and headed for a nearby stack of boxes. He sat, still cradling her in his arms.

"She probably needs to see a doctor," Foster said.

"No," Cara muttered. "I wasn't hurt, just terribly afraid."

"He could give you something to sleep, though," Foster insisted.

"I don't need anything but David."

"Look, could you make this kind of quick?" David asked. "If there are any details you need to fill in later, you can reach me at Cara's. I'll be there another day or so."

"You're leaving town?" Foster asked.

David felt Cara stiffen in his arms, but there was no denying what had to be said.

"Yes, but only for a few days."

"Then could you tell me … briefly of course … exactly how you got involved in this?"

David gave Cara a quick, gentle squeeze as he settled her securely within his embrace.

He went into a brief, but concise account of what had occurred, right down to the moment he made the decision to fire the first shot.

"The short, stocky perp had already shot one hostage and knocked another unconscious. When he said no witnesses and turned his gun on Cara, he lost whatever breaks I might have given him."

"I see," Foster said, then picked up David's gun, turning it over in his hands and casually eyeing the weapon. "You must be a good shot."