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He looked at her warily. “What are you going to cook?”
“I don’t know… I’ll see what we have.”
“I suppose we can always have something delivered if things go wrong—I’d better go.” He pulled on an overcoat, opened the door, and then shut it immediately. “Damn!”
“What’s wrong?” Theo asked, alarmed.
“The bloody snowplows have piled up the snow on the curbside. I’m going to have shovel if I’m going get out.” He grimaced. “Bugger!”
“I could help—”
“I can just imagine how the papers would caption a photograph of you with a shovel. You stay inside; I’ll deal with it.”
Theo watched through the curtains as Gus retrieved a shovel from outside the back door and then walked out into the waiting gathering, as if doing a media stop from your front porch was the most natural thing in the world. She couldn’t quite hear what he was saying. The reporters laughed, so she assumed he’d made a joke. Gus handed the shovel to one of them, a young man, who proceeded to shovel the curb while he answered questions. Once the driveway was clear, Gus headed calmly for his truck. The reporters followed him; some even waved as he reversed out.
Theo smiled. Gus had somehow persuaded a reporter to shovel the driveway—her brother was brilliant, and completely mad. The crowd on the lawn seemed less threatening now—just people doing their jobs. Perhaps she could just ignore them…like Horse, who seemed entirely indifferent to the strangers who were camped outside the house. Gus was right—aside from his growling trick, which was clearly just acting, Horse was a hopeless guard dog. But it was nice to have his company.
Theo spent the morning tidying up. The kitchen was spotless aside from what she’d used to make Gus’s vegemite sandwich. Mac had washed the dishes before leaving the night before. She noticed he was quite fastidious about washing up. Just the dishes, though…it did not seem to be a generalized compulsion. Perhaps it was something to do with not leaving a trail of DNA behind him. Theo shook her head, laughing at herself. She was becoming absurd. He was probably just neat.
It was when she’d finished vacuuming that Theo noticed the noise outside.
Curious, she moved the curtain aside an inch. She paled.
There seemed to be hundreds of people in front of the house. Not reporters. Many carried pickets. Some of the slogans proclaimed love for Dan Murdoch; others called for justice; still others bore images of his book jackets. Theo opened the curtain a little farther, incredulous. Where did all these people come from? The rally seemed to stretch down the street, but it was focused on number 211. Reporters were talking to the protesters.
Theo stepped back from the window, stunned by what was outside it and terrified now. And then the window exploded in. Glass shattered in all directions. Theo screamed. A pop from outside and the protesters began to scream and run. Theo dropped to the ground. Horse barked at the window. She called him back desperately. She heard sirens. She saw blood a few moments before she realized that it was hers.
CHAPTER 18
Gus ignored Mendes and walked straight into the hospital room. The doctor was just finishing suturing Theo’s arm and gluing the cut on her brow. Gus waited until he was done before he embraced his sister. She clung to him for longer than usual, but she was still the first to let go.
“Horse—” she began. It was muddled, but she could remember him growling at anyone who tried to come near her, and at Animal Control.
“Mac has gone to spring Horse,” Gus said, looking critically at the smaller cuts on her face and arms.
“That was the glass,” she said. “Someone threw a brick through the window before the gunshot.”
Gus rubbed his face, and then he swore.
Theo nodded in agreement. This was insane.
Detective Mendes walked in. “How are you feeling, Theo?”
“What the hell happened?” Gus demanded.
Mendes paused as if considering whether or not to tell them. And then said, “It seems Mr. Murdoch’s fans decided to protest outside your house. We’ve arrested the young woman who threw the brick, but she denies having anything to do with the gunshot.
“But someone must have seen the shooter pull his gun.”
Mendes shrugged. “If they did, they’re not saying.”
“So some lunatic is targeting writers in Lawrence,” Gus said angrily.
“Someone killed Dan Murdoch,” Mendes replied carefully. “Burt Winslow was not a writer.”
“Theo—”
“Seems to have been the victim of an overzealous protest over the murder of Dan Murdoch.”
