Page 25 of Property of Bull
“No. He checks in a lot or minimally clicks ‘thumbs up’ if I text him,” I answer, trying to stop my leg from bouncing up and down.
“If I stop pouting, will you promise you’ll stay with me another night?”
I try, but it’s impossible to keep a straight face when he takes a shot at himself.
“Lucky for you, you’re cute, even when you’re pouting,” I answer, reaching out to tap him on the nose.
Thankfully, Bull keeps our conversation light for the remaining miles and it’s not long before he pulls up behind Granddad’s old Bronco that’s parked in the garage. The thing is, he never leaves the garage door open, and it is tonight.
I’m out of Bull’s SUV the moment he stops and I look back, surprised to hear him following me.
My heart is beating so erratically that I don’t waste time debating his presence, I head into the unlocked door that leads to the kitchen, via the mudroom, then pause, smiling when I hear the TV on.
The landline is next to Granddad’s bed, and he doesn’t always keep his cell phone with him, so that’s why he didn’t pick up, I try to tell myself.
“Oh, my God, you had me so worried,” I say, walking around his recliner. In my relief, it didn’t occur to me that he always turns on the lights as soon as it gets dark outside and even with the glow from the television, it’s well past that time.
A squelching sound has me looking down at my feet when Bull hits the three light switches near the entrance to the kitchen and that’s when I open my mouth to scream, except it’s like I’ve been muted. I know Bull’s saying something, but I can’t register anything as images from earlier this year collide with what I’m seeing now.
Suddenly, I’m over Bull’s shoulder, with a final view of my grandfather’s now misshapen head and a bloodied bronze statue he kept on the mantel, lying on the floor behind his chair.
“Yeah, it’s definitely Tucker. You’re going to want your best crime scene people out here,” Bull’s voice is calm as he talks to someone. He’s seated me on the island in the kitchen and is motioning at me to stay still. “Look, the room was dark, and his granddaughter walked into the blood. I had to pick her up, but I don’t think I stepped into it…Okay…yeah, hold on. Margo, babe?”
He waits until my eyes focus on his before he continues. “I’ve got the county sheriff on the phone, he wants us to wrap up your boots. Where can I find plastic wrap or clean bags?”
Without thinking, I start to jump down to get the gallon bags from the pantry, but he easily holds me in place.
“Tell me. He doesn’t want you to…” Instead of finishing his sentence, Bull waves his hand in the direction of my boots and that’s when I look down, seeing bright crimson shade around the edges of my well broken-in gray boots.
“Pantry,” I gasp out and point to the door beyond the fridge as my tears start to fall. I close my eyes, picturing the neatly laid outshelves in the small room. “Ziploc bags are on the left, third shelf from the bottom.”
“Don’t move, okay? Are you with me?” he softly asks me, holding his cell against his cut to muffle it.
When I nod, he places a kiss over the tears on each of my cheeks. “It’s my fault,” I whisper, and he lets out a heavy sigh, shaking his head.
He places the phone on the counter beside me and turns to retrieve the bags.
“Alright, Clark,” he says, once he’s slid a bag over each of my boots. “Her boots are covered, now what?”
“Deputy Lehmann will be there in a few minutes. If you think you can remove her boots without smearing things too much, you can proceed. Leave them on their side, then head out to your car.”
Bull looks up at me and I give him a nod. “They’re loose enough to slide in and out of,” I say.
“You’re doing great, Miss Tucker,” comes the sheriff’s voice over the speaker. “I know it’s a horrible thing, but you just stay calm. We’ll find out who did this.”
“It’s my fault,” I whisper again, feeling that in the deepest part of my soul. Bull’s jaw has clenched, and his nostrils are flared. Although he doesn’t speak, I can hear his voice in my head urging me to be quiet. Or maybe my common sense has just deepened its tone.
“Now, now, Miss Tucker. Mr. Wells said you were down in Rapid City tonight and visited with him afterwards. Although not well, I’ve known your grandfather many years and I’m certain he took comfort knowing you were safe tonight.”
Neither one of them understand, I think, and that’s when it occurs to me that I need to call my dad.
Before Bull has my second boot off, there’s a knock at the door leading into the garage, followed by a yell.
“Lawrence County Sheriff’s office, identify yourself.” A large bi-racial man steps through the door, his gun clasped in both hands but aimed at the floor.
“I’m Stryker Wells and this is Margo Tucker, she lives here with her grandfather,” Bull announces, slowly raising his hands with the bagged boot in one of them.
I’m not sure why but the blood seems grotesquely red through the plastic and a weird sound, some hybrid between a laugh and a sob bubbles out of me. I open my mouth before I think better of questioning the tense of ‘lives’ right now, but quickly snap it shut. They’re both looking at me like I’m unstable as it is.
