Eleventh Hour
Page 93
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Weldon had to be just ahead, not that far. Wait, she couldn’t hear him crashing through the trees anymore. Had he fallen? Was he hiding, lying in wait for her?
Before she could react, he grabbed her around the neck and hauled her back against him. His other hand was on her arm, trying to pull the SIG out of her hand. But she wasn’t about to let go. She pulled and twisted, but he pulled his arm tighter. “Damn you, be quiet. Let that gun drop. Now!”
Nick yelled at the top of her lungs, jerked as hard as she could, and drove her elbow into his stomach. He yelled, his hold loosened just a bit. She jerked the SIG down and pulled the trigger. She shot him in the foot.
He screamed, released her. He was dancing in place, trying to grab his foot, his eyes wild with pain.
Sherlock, Savich, and Dane saw the dance, saw her standing there, the gun dangling in her hand, breathing hard, staring at Weldon DeLoach. Flynn and Delion came up to stand beside them.
“Jesus, woman,” Dane said, reaching her first. She turned, white-faced, and he forgot every curse word he’d stored up. “Ah, dammit, Nick,” he said, and pulled her against him. “Just look at you. You’re freezing, you twit.”
“No, I’m not,” she said against his shoulder. “Be careful, Dane, you might hurt your arm.”
“My arm? You’re worried about my arm?” He couldn’t help it, he started to laugh. He saw Flynn and Delion pull Weldon DeLoach to the ground, Flynn pulling off the guy’s boot to wrap his parka sleeve around the wound.
Flynn looked up, grinned at her. “Congratulations, Dr. Campion, you brought down the perp. They don’t exactly teach you that a foot wound is the way to go, but hey, I’m not about to argue with success. Okay, Weldon, shut your trap.”
“You know,” she said.
“Yeah,” Dane said, “we know, but it’s not important now.”
“It hurts, dammit!”
“Yeah, I’ll just bet,” Flynn said, and came down on his haunches beside Weldon. He looked straight down into that face, and read him his rights.
“No, I don’t need an attorney. I didn’t do anything. You’ve got to listen to me.”
Savich, who was standing over him, said in a quiet voice, “So now you didn’t do anything?”
“I didn’t commit those script murders! Yes, I came up with the idea for the series, but I had nothing to do with those murders. They’re horrible. I don’t know who’s responsible. It may be someone at the studio, someone who worked on the series. But I don’t know who.”
Sherlock said, “I see. So it has nothing at all to do with the fact that you seem to be trying your best to murder your father?”
“No, dammit. Do you have any idea what he’s done to me all my life?”
Weldon looked ill, but he held on, sucked in a deep breath.
“No, no one knows anything,” Delion said. “Listen, Weldon, someone murdered four people in San Francisco. You hired that moron Milton to kill Nick at the funeral because she saw you in the church. Then there’s Pasadena. It’s times like this I’m really glad I live in California and we’ve got the death penalty. They’re gonna cook you, Weldon.”
The pain was glazing his eyes. He was holding his foot, crying, pleading. “No, listen to me, I wouldn’t kill anybody. I’m not like that.”
Savich said, “Tell us exactly why you tried to kill your father. This time in nice plain English.”
Weldon’s voice was soft now, so quiet it was like listening to him again on the video. He was getting himself back in control. He’d finally managed to regain some calm, control the pain in his foot. “I can’t. There’s too much at stake here.”
“That’s not a very good start, Weldon,” Dane said.
Weldon lowered his head and moaned at the pain in his foot.
Delion snorted, stood, his hands on his hips. “Sherlock has called on her cell phone and rounded up a doctor for you. Let’s get you back to the parking lot. Detective Flynn and I will help you.”
Weldon DeLoach tried to get up on his own, but ended up moaning again, clutching his foot. Flynn and Delion got him up and half carried him back to the facility.
Dr. Randolph Winston, a geriatrician, was waiting for them at the front entrance to attend to the foot, a thick black eyebrow arched. “A woman shot him in the foot? Here, at Lakeview?” The eyebrow went even higher when Detective Flynn just shrugged.
“No elderly person I’ve treated has ever been shot in the foot. Let’s get him to the hospital.”
Before she could react, he grabbed her around the neck and hauled her back against him. His other hand was on her arm, trying to pull the SIG out of her hand. But she wasn’t about to let go. She pulled and twisted, but he pulled his arm tighter. “Damn you, be quiet. Let that gun drop. Now!”
Nick yelled at the top of her lungs, jerked as hard as she could, and drove her elbow into his stomach. He yelled, his hold loosened just a bit. She jerked the SIG down and pulled the trigger. She shot him in the foot.
He screamed, released her. He was dancing in place, trying to grab his foot, his eyes wild with pain.
Sherlock, Savich, and Dane saw the dance, saw her standing there, the gun dangling in her hand, breathing hard, staring at Weldon DeLoach. Flynn and Delion came up to stand beside them.
“Jesus, woman,” Dane said, reaching her first. She turned, white-faced, and he forgot every curse word he’d stored up. “Ah, dammit, Nick,” he said, and pulled her against him. “Just look at you. You’re freezing, you twit.”
“No, I’m not,” she said against his shoulder. “Be careful, Dane, you might hurt your arm.”
“My arm? You’re worried about my arm?” He couldn’t help it, he started to laugh. He saw Flynn and Delion pull Weldon DeLoach to the ground, Flynn pulling off the guy’s boot to wrap his parka sleeve around the wound.
Flynn looked up, grinned at her. “Congratulations, Dr. Campion, you brought down the perp. They don’t exactly teach you that a foot wound is the way to go, but hey, I’m not about to argue with success. Okay, Weldon, shut your trap.”
“You know,” she said.
“Yeah,” Dane said, “we know, but it’s not important now.”
“It hurts, dammit!”
“Yeah, I’ll just bet,” Flynn said, and came down on his haunches beside Weldon. He looked straight down into that face, and read him his rights.
“No, I don’t need an attorney. I didn’t do anything. You’ve got to listen to me.”
Savich, who was standing over him, said in a quiet voice, “So now you didn’t do anything?”
“I didn’t commit those script murders! Yes, I came up with the idea for the series, but I had nothing to do with those murders. They’re horrible. I don’t know who’s responsible. It may be someone at the studio, someone who worked on the series. But I don’t know who.”
Sherlock said, “I see. So it has nothing at all to do with the fact that you seem to be trying your best to murder your father?”
“No, dammit. Do you have any idea what he’s done to me all my life?”
Weldon looked ill, but he held on, sucked in a deep breath.
“No, no one knows anything,” Delion said. “Listen, Weldon, someone murdered four people in San Francisco. You hired that moron Milton to kill Nick at the funeral because she saw you in the church. Then there’s Pasadena. It’s times like this I’m really glad I live in California and we’ve got the death penalty. They’re gonna cook you, Weldon.”
The pain was glazing his eyes. He was holding his foot, crying, pleading. “No, listen to me, I wouldn’t kill anybody. I’m not like that.”
Savich said, “Tell us exactly why you tried to kill your father. This time in nice plain English.”
Weldon’s voice was soft now, so quiet it was like listening to him again on the video. He was getting himself back in control. He’d finally managed to regain some calm, control the pain in his foot. “I can’t. There’s too much at stake here.”
“That’s not a very good start, Weldon,” Dane said.
Weldon lowered his head and moaned at the pain in his foot.
Delion snorted, stood, his hands on his hips. “Sherlock has called on her cell phone and rounded up a doctor for you. Let’s get you back to the parking lot. Detective Flynn and I will help you.”
Weldon DeLoach tried to get up on his own, but ended up moaning again, clutching his foot. Flynn and Delion got him up and half carried him back to the facility.
Dr. Randolph Winston, a geriatrician, was waiting for them at the front entrance to attend to the foot, a thick black eyebrow arched. “A woman shot him in the foot? Here, at Lakeview?” The eyebrow went even higher when Detective Flynn just shrugged.
“No elderly person I’ve treated has ever been shot in the foot. Let’s get him to the hospital.”
