Dead Shot Read Online Free Page B

she spoke to me earlier,” Gillian said, still stunned. Despite weathering virulent protests, she’d never been physically attacked before. “She admired my work.”
    “Yeah?” Sweat streaked down the side of his face. He hardly seemed to hear her. He was watching the crowd intently, drawing her back, the other men—three of them— coming with them out of the room. But he had heard. “A few hours before he killed him, Mark Chapman asked John Lennon to autograph an album for him.”
    She repressed a shudder. Hushed murmurs now replaced the shouting and the screams. Through the wall of bodies shielding her, she glimpsed people staring and whispering. They gaped fearfully at the men beside her and their drawn weapons. Looked over their shoulders toward the lobby, trying to decide whether to flee themselves.
    Ray backed her up against a wall, around a corner, out of sight. His body shielded her, his hand gripped the gun conspicuously. The other three men formed a screen around them. “Landowe,” Ray said. “What do you see?”
    From over his shoulder, one of the men said, “Nothing.”
    Ray spoke into what looked like the air, but what quickly became apparent was a wireless radio mike. “Carlson, what’s going on? Everyone okay? Yes, she’s fine.”
    One of the other three circled a finger in the air, signaling okay. Only then did the men around her holster their weapons and relax their stance.
    The man Ray had called Landowe spoke. “You got her?”
    “Yeah,” Ray said.
    The men eased away, and she headed back to the exhibit room, Ray shadowing her. A crowd had gathered around the wall that held her photos, blocking her view of them. When they saw her, they stepped back, parting like the Red Sea. Davenport was there. Even paler than usual.
    “I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” he murmured as Gillian stepped closer.
    The view to
Kitchen in Suburbia
was unobstructed. Dripping streaks of red blotched the photograph and spattered the wall beside it.
    “We’ll take it down,” Will said. “Get it cleaned up.”
    Gillian contemplated the damage. The fake blood marring the fake death scene struck her as perfect commentary.
    “No. Leave it. Let it become part of the piece.”
    Will opened his mouth to object, but before he could, Maddie elbowed her way in. “Gillian!” She gasped. “Oh, my God.” Flinging an arm around Gillian’s shoulders, she pulled her close. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
    Ray stepped back, gave the two women room.
    “Don’t be.” Gillian straightened. “This is what we live for. I’m fine.” She stood square-shouldered and stiff. But he’d felt the tremors as he held her. And she was breathing hard. She was breathing very hard. And she didn’t shrug off Maddie’s comforting arm.
    Carlson ran up to him. “She okay?”
    Ray assured him she was. “That piece of crap though . . .” He indicated the marred photograph and the fake blood, which dripped down, a bright, ugly mess.
    “Yeah. The woman was one of Dobie’s.” Matthew Dobie was leading the pack outside. Head of the self-proclaimed Citizens for American Values, he’d brought his show to Nashville and, abetted by area churches, had been drawing crowds all day. “We got her stashed in an office upstairs until your friends from Metro get here.”
    A pulse of fury was throttling Ray. “How the hell did she get in?”
    Carlson looked rightly upset. “Came with the wait-staff.”
    “You’re kidding.” Ray shook his head, looked away. “That’s what comes of letting the client do the vetting.”
    Carlson’s eyes flashed with the implied criticism. “You like that new pickup you bought?”
    “What the hell does that—”
    “We don’t work for free, Ray, and we’re expensive. The museum cherry-picked the services.”
    Ray didn’t answer. In security, as in everything else, money talked.
    “Gotta go,” Carlson said. “Police won’t release the crowd until a detective gets here.” He nodded to Gillian. “Keep