There were people between me and Isabelle.
“Move! Move!” I yelled, but most of the patrons were focused on the competition.
One fat man shoved me back as I tried to pass. “You ain’t blockin’ my view.”
Then I pulled out Leber’s gun. He stepped back, raising his hands, spilling his cup of beer over his shoulder onto someone’s back. The victim of the spill turned and shoved the fat man. A commotion erupted as everyone joined the fray. Isabelle was nocking her arrow, ready for the final shot. She raised her elbow, just like Harold had taught her, just like he’d shown me. Her form really was perfect, even to my untrained eye. She had red facepaint on, a line in each direction. She had feathers in her hair, like extensions. She looked every bit the warrior her uncle had formed her into. She breathed calmly, exhaling as she pivoted on her right leg and planted her left, a slight bend in her knees. Perfect balance. The arrow centered on its target, right above the paper that said the name of the judge. I slid to a stop, also planting in a shooter’s stance, my gun held firm. I squeezed the trigger, felt the recoil and saw my target jerk at the last possible second, the arrow flying upward and over the judge’s head, glanced off a metal railing and landed harmlessly on a patch of grass.
Before I could see anything else, I was gang-tackled from behind and held down by three people. Harold charged up beside the woman and the two men holding me. The woman had already wrested the gun from my weary hand. I did not resist.
Harold yelled, “It’s okay, it’s okay. He’s a private detective. Man, he’s cool!”
They did not listen. They held me fast until Leber arrived. Leber must have heard my description over the radio because he was first on the scene.
“How’d you get here so fast?” I asked.
“I was here. Thought I should see this guy’s daughter shoot.” Then, as he put me into the front seat in handcuffs, he said, “I had a feeling about you and that gun.”
“Is she dead?” I asked, feeling sick to my stomach.
“Nope. Where were you aiming?”
“Center mass, where else?”
“You a bad shot. You hit her thigh. She’ll live.”
I breathed a thick sigh of relief.
Chapter 38
Aweek later, I paraded about in a pirate outfit for a party at Dana’s place. Pickering had paid me, but refused to give me my so-called bonus, claiming I’d technically failed to meet the criteria of one week. I took what he offered and paid my rent at both The Manner and my office.
Harold Bacon, true to his surfer nature, was casual about the whole thing, including paying me the remainder of my fee. I had amassed many hours on the case, exceeding his initial retainer.
I repeatedly tried to contact Junior. After leaving a dozen voicemails, my last call was met with the “I’m sorry, but this number is no longer in service” greeting. The Bacons refused me entrance through their main gate. Hillary had needed me at the end, but any illusions of us being long-term friends was madness. Then, I got a call from her late one night. I was dozing off on the used couch I’d gotten for my office while contemplating which straw fedora on my hat rack I’d wear the next day.
“Boise? This Boise?”
“Yes, it’s Boise. Who’s this?”
“Hill Bacon. You remember me?” She laughed knowing I would not forget her. She slurred the next sentence. “You ruined our family, you little bastard.”
“Hillary, are you hitting the bottle?”
“No. How dare you! I’m, I’m tired. I take medication. It makes me drowsy.”
What Hillary didn’t know was that I was also a bit plastered on nine Guinnesses and a shot of vodka the bartender had poured as the last “I’m-cutting-you-off” shot. My stomach wailed like a cat in heat, which was why I hadn’t lost consciousness yet, but had chosen to crash at my office which was a lot closer than The Manner. On the other hand, I held my liquor better than Aunt Hillary.
“Hillary, since I’ve got you on the line, what’s the deal with Junior? I tried to come see him, but your bulldogs wouldn’t let me on the property.”
“Junior. You mean my son that I never got to raise, who I don’t even know.”
She paused. I imagined her taking a drink, probably champagne or white wine. Auburn lips against her pale skin. She was attractive in a broken and battered way, like a chipped and used piece of expensive china. I waited, willing her silently to tell me about Junior and maybe feel some guilt about being cheap.
“Taking a pill ... with water. Helps me sleep. I don’t sleep much anymore.”
“Uh-huh.” I wandered over to my desk and looked down into the wastebasket. I swore under my breath.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, Hillary. That wasn’t for you.”
“You are a cheeky bastard, aren’t you? Junior’s gone. So’s his father. Herbie never could take it when things got hard. As long as he got to play the dutiful father and I resigned myself to playing the withering aunt, all was well. Once I told the truth, well, you can guess how that turned out. Like father, like son.”
“What about their inheritances?”
“I’m sure they’ll turn up in time to collect that, but the lawyers say it’s going to be some time. This whole thing is a mess, and I plan to contest.”
“Hillary. Please don’t do that.”
“Why-ever not?”
“Because the reparation package that
