W e walked back along the tent. Em had the gun. My fantasy of wearing a shoulder holster and working for the FBI was thwarted by my girlfriend. Go figure.
“Exactly what are we going to say to Cashdollar?” James, who wanted all the answers, had no idea what to ask.
“Damn it, we’re going to ask him why we’re being targeted.” Em was riding high on adrenaline.
“With a gun in our hand?”
“Jesus Christ, Skip, somebody almost killed you. I think we ought to have some protection.”
I couldn’t argue with her. But I was getting dangerously close to suggesting the cops get involved.
We kept close to the yellow canvas, walking slowly. I don’t think any of us knew exactly how to handle things.
“Technically,” James said, “we beat the snot out of two of the full-timers. I suppose they have a right to be somewhat upset with us.”
“Technically,” Em replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “ we didn’t.”
“No. Styles put Dusty in the hospital. That wasn’t our idea.” I agreed with her. “And if it hadn’t been for Em and the skillet, we might not be here right now.”
We turned the corner and I could see the trailer. The Cadillac limo was parked on the side and the door was wide open, a soft light emanating from within. Em stopped about thirty feet from the trailer, apparently losing some of her courage. James and I stopped too. Without the gun, or even with the gun, we didn’t feel like bursting in on the scene. As we huddled by the tent, the first shot rang out.
The explosion, like an M-80 firecracker, scared all three of us, and the bullet hit the metal Cadillac body, ricocheting off the car.
“Jesus.” James dove to the ground, and I stood there, frozen in place, not totally understanding what was going on.
“Skip.” Em grabbed my hand and together we fell to the ground.
Then a second shot was fired, and a third. I heard the crunch of glass and a loud bang.
His head buried under his arms, James whispered loudly. “Was that the Caddy?”
I raised up and looked. The big car listed to the right, the windshield a spider web of cracks. “Somebody shot a tire.” Trying to keep my voice as soft as possible.
He slowly raised his head and looked at the damage. Not more than three feet from me, he grimaced and whispered. “Not to worry. Thomas LeRoy will buy him a brand new tire.”
The next shot sounded louder than the others and I wondered whether the shooter had moved closer to us.
Then everything was quiet. I could smell the acrid odor of gun smoke and realized we were probably way too close to the action.
No one came out of the trailer. No one set foot out of the car.
“Should we see if anyone is inside? Someone may be hurt.” Em’s voice barely rose above a whisper.
We didn’t go. We waited for somebody else to make the next move.
James raised his head, staring at the Caddy. He whispered. “Damn. It’s a waste of a fine car.”
We waited what seemed like minutes. I could feel my heart racing, thankful that we’d stopped in time. Another ten or fifteen steps and we would have been in the path of the bullets.
Light no longer streamed from the Cadillac. It appeared that one of the shots had taken out whatever light source there had been. Finally we saw movement in the office doorway and a large silhouette appeared, highlighted from the back by a faint yellow light. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it appeared to be Cashdollar. I wanted to crawl under the tent and hide, but it was impossible. Whoever it was turned his head and scanned the surroundings. How he didn’t see us is still a mystery. Apparently he had only one focus. The limousine.
“Are you sure we have to do this?” The big voice. It was Preston Cashdollar.
“We’ve talked about this. I think it will help the situation.” The voice from inside the trailer sounded like Thomas LeRoy. I wondered where the bodyguards were. Especially when someone was shooting up Cashdollar’s car.
The big man walked down the wooden steps, apparently not afraid of another barrage of gunshots. A burly man in what seemed to be a gray suit stepped from the shadows beside the trailer. In the dim, early morning light, it appeared to be one of the bodyguards we’d seen yesterday.
“Are you ready, Reverend?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Cashdollar stood by the door of the Cadillac. “Don’t mess this up.”
“No, sir.”
“Laying flat on the ground, my head slightly raised, I watched in horror as the man raised a pistol, aimed it at Cashdollar and pulled the trigger. From only fifteen feet away he couldn’t miss. Cashdollar grunted, staggered, and fell to the ground. I heard Em gasp. I lay there in shock, trying to figure out how we were ever going to explain this to the authorities.
With my head just slightly raised, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the scene. Thomas LeRoy stepped from the trailer as the light from the office trailer highlighted his frame.
“Give me the gun, Walter.”
The shooter handed the gun to LeRoy. I could see the deacon more clearly as he walked down the steps. He had on a jacket, maybe a tie. Formal attire for early in the morning. As he took the gun, I noticed he wore gloves.
“Two more steps, Walter, and we should be done. Go see how he’s doing.”
The bodyguard, Walter, walked over to Cashdollar, on his back on the ground. He leaned down, touched Cashdollar’s face. “You all right, rev?”
Thomas LeRoy, division head of financial affairs, walked up to Walter, raised his arm and pulled the trigger on the pistol. I watched the gun jerk in his hand as the bullet hit the bodyguard in the side of his head and he went down like a ton of bricks. In the dim light I could see blood and brains spattered against the limo door. I thought I was going to be sick on the spot.