The Dreeson Incident(153)

She wondered what Gina was thinking. She glanced over that way. From the expression on Gina's face as she looked at Will, probably the same thing as she was.



Jenny's mind clicked along. In a way it was too bad that Gina hadn't shot Velma when she had a chance, before she messed up a couple of other marriages, but then who would have taken care of Brette? The judge had probably realized that Gina wasn't a danger to anyone but Will. He'd put a restraining order on her along with the probation.



Why had the UMWA sent Will over to Brandenburg, anyway? He'd been there, in Berlin or somewhere near it, for months. Politics. Jenny didn't even try to keep up with politics.



It was finally Inez who said something.



"You'll have to go home, Will. Over to the house and get his other suit. The keys are in my purse. That's back at the church. Ask Idelette Cavriani to take you to the committee room where the Red Cross was meeting. She's in the other parlor, with Veronica and Annalise. You haven't been there since we remodeled it so much. You'll have to bring his other suit for him to wear."





After Denise made her second call up to the storage lot, Christin George rode down to the bridge on her own motorcycle, ignored the "pedestrians only" prohibition, and pulled up right in front of Cora's. By then, Denise was waiting inside the café. As soon as Christin appeared, she ran out.



"They took him into Central Funeral Home," she said. "For the usual reason."



Christin looked her over. Denise's clothes were pretty well blood-soaked. "Are you okay?"



"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine. The blood's all Daddy's. Well. Some of it's probably from some of the men he killed."



Christin nodded. Like daughter, like mother. She wasn't given to public histrionics either. "We'd better go find out how much it will be, then."



"Daddy didn't believe in funerals. He always said he wanted to be cremated. Or just put out in a garbage bag."



"Grantville never had a crematorium. They'd have had to take him out of town, even up-time. I don't think they have them at all around here. Or plastic sacks, either. We ran out of those a long time ago."



"I don't want to see him in one of those satin-lined things. He'd have hated it, Mom. You know he would."



"Jenny ran out of those a long time ago, too. It's plain wood boxes now, and linen sheets. We'll do the best we can to keep the frills off, but this is going to hit Johnnie Ray hard, especially with Julia passing last fall. I ought to at least ask him what he wants, since he's Buster's grandpa."





By mid-afternoon, the Grantville police appeared at the synagogue in force, if somewhat belatedly, after finishing up at Leahy. They rounded up the casualties—in addition to the twenty-two dead goons and four badly injured ones who'd been involved in the fighting with Buster and the Hebraic defense guard, there were twelve others who'd been wounded earlier. Not badly enough to die, but badly enough not to run away. They were being held by the informal posse of Jewish defenders.



Then, the police started scouring the town. They arrested any of the attackers still on foot who had not managed to get out of Grantville or go into hiding. There were about twenty of those, although three of them turned out later to be innocent vagrants and were released.



Six members of the synagogue had been wounded, but none of them very badly. Buster had been so savage that by the time the Hebraic defense guard swung into action there hadn't been much fight left in the rioters.



They'd all recover. None of them would even agree to go to the hospital. They'd patch each other up.



In addition to Inez, fourteen Grantvillers, a mix of up-timers and down-timers, were wounded. Mostly the men who had been wielding folding chairs in defense of the women on the cart. Only three had to go to the hospital; Jeff Adams' staff had worked on the others in his office and then sent them home.



Before the police arrived and while they worked, Minnie kept standing on the bridge, right next to the balustrade, stubbornly, well into the afternoon. Several times, she tried to get the attention of some of the police. They knew her, of course. How could they avoid knowing her, the way she handled that motorcycle? They ignored her. Several times, one or another tried to shoo her away, get her to go home.



There wouldn't be daylight for much longer. They wouldn't be able to retrieve the weapon.



Finally, someone showed up who might listen to her. "Blake!" she called. "Blake Haggerty!"



He turned. "I can't talk now, Minnie. I'm working. We don't need gawkers. Go on home."



"Blake, I saw the sniper who killed them. I'm standing here marking where he threw the gun. It's down in the creek. They won't listen to me."