by Kate Flora
I fluttered the piece of paper. "Thanks for partial. I'll let Andre know about this." I pulled out one of my business cards and circled my office number. "If you see that truck again, call me at this number. Please."
She looked disappointed. "I thought it might be kinda fun to take a shot at 'em."
"But if they aren't up to something bad, you'd only get yourself in trouble."
"That's right," she agreed. "Well, I'll be careful then. And you be careful, too. If they're in any way connected to what happened the other day, these are very bad people." She looked down at the shotgun, then back at me. "You know how to use a gun?"
"I've done it a few times."
"Well, I've got more inside. Why don't you take this one with you? Just in case."
I could have used it yesterday, that was for sure. But I'm not easy around guns. If I brought her shotgun along, I'd probably be so distracted I'd drive off the road. "Thanks," I said, "but I'd better not. As likely to shoot myself as some bad guy."
Her eyes narrowed as she squinted toward the road. "Well, okay," she said dubiously. "But if you see a big green truck in your rearview, you skedaddle to someplace where there are a lot of people around."
It was good advice, except that there were thousands of green pickups in Maine. I'd be skedaddling all the way to work. And Mrs. Ainsley was waiting for my call. I tossed my purse and briefcase in the Jeep and headed for the office.
Half a mile down the road, as I passed the dirt road that led to the closed town dump, a green truck pulled out behind me.
Chapter 33
My heart jumped. I reminded myself that there were green trucks everywhere. But there was no reason for anyone to be coming out of that road. It was a dirt track to nowhere. I was still a couple miles from the highway, and there was only one place with a lot of people that I could skedaddle into—a gas station with a Dunkin' Donuts. I didn't have time to stop. Because of my conversation with Mrs. Ames, I was already late for my scheduled call, which I couldn't do from the car because I needed my notes.
Grimly, I drove on past and so did the truck. It stayed a steady distance behind me, never getting any closer or falling back, and it followed me onto the highway. Because my car offered the magic of Bluetooth, I instructed my dashboard to call Andre. When he didn't pick up, I left a message about Mrs. Ames and the green truck and the partial plate numbers. I even added that I was feeling nervous about the truck that was following me. Make a record, Andre says.
Make a record? Dammit! All I wanted to do was buy a house and now I seemed to be looking over my shoulder all the time. Everything was conspiring to make me feel insecure this morning. When was I going to get back to normal?
Did my crazy life even have a normal? Or was this normal?
I try to stay on an even keel because I need to be steady for clients who are freaking out themselves. But this morning, I couldn't even find my keel, never mind steadying it. I wanted that green truck gone so I could shift my attention to something that really mattered.
I moved over a lane and slowed down, then into the slow lane where I poked along like a granny, feeling the clock ticking and visualizing work piling up on my desk, a heap of papers topped, like strawberries on an ice cream sundae, with pink message slips.
The green truck stuck to me like a baby duck following mama. Never close enough so I could see the occupants, never far enough back so I could hope its presence was just a coincidence.
Finally, we reached my turnoff. When I left the highway to drive the short distance to my office building, the green truck came right along with me, following through the twists and turns that led to my building.
By now, I was wishing that I had accepted Mrs. Ames's offer of one of her spare guns.
I parked as close to the door as I could, noting that the green truck had parked farther along in another row. I watched it. No one got out.
Just as I was about to grab my bags and sprint for the door, I noticed that there was another green truck, bigger, fancier and with a lot more chrome, backed into the row behind me. The windshield had a dark tint, so I couldn't see much, but it looked like there were two people inside. I settled back in my seat, the pressure of work warring with my instinct for self-preservation. The insane part of my brain, the part that tries for humor in situations like this, said there had been an invasion of menacing green trucks. Right now, that wasn't funny.
I tried Andre again and went to voice mail. Then I tried Roland, with the same result. Where are the cops when you really need help? Like where had Furst been yesterday?
I'd parked as close to the building as I could, but I was late this morning and it wasn't close. The door was at least sixty feet away. If someone was waiting for me, I'd be exposed for too long. I debated. Like Mrs. Ames, I couldn't imagine calling the police. What would I say? That I'd suddenly become leery of green trucks? That I was sure someone was following me in a green truck? But no, officer, I hadn't seen them, didn't know who they were, and they'd done nothing menacing. Yet.
I had to get upstairs to my desk and make that phone call. I'd just break the rules and park right by the door. From there, I could jump out and run into the building. What was the worst thing that could happen? My car got towed? It was better than a run-in with the pair who'd killed Ginger. I started the engine and began backing out.
The engine on the shiny green truck roared to life.
I stopped. If I backed up any farther, the truck could accelerate right into my driver's side. I pulled back into my space, shoved the car into park, and watched helplessly as the truck pulled forward until it was almost on my bumper, pinning me there. A man and a woman got out. Even from Ginger's grainy photos, I recognized him. Tall, thin and dark. The woman wasn't the one in the photos. She was pudgy and moonfaced and hung back by the truck. His movements were purposeful, his face set. He was carrying what looked like a splitting maul.
I snatched up my phone and was dialing 911 when the glass on the window beside my head exploded. I tried to squeeze down under the steering wheel. It was like trying to put a Great Dane in a mini poodle carrier.
In my hand, a distant voice said, "911, Dispatcher Belcastro, this call is being recorded, what is your emergency?"
"I'm in the parking lot at 3373 West Main, the office building, and there's a man with a splitting maul smashing my car windows."
I grabbed some air and forced the words out. "I'm inside the car."
"We're sending some officers. Ma'am, may I have your name please?"
I fumbled it out as Ingram moved forward and my windshield exploded, showering me with glass. "Please. Hurry. He's smashing everything!"
"Officers are en route, ma'am. Please stay on the line."
His face set in a fanatical grimace, the man I assumed was Jordan Ingram started raising his weapon again. As I waited for the blow that would come right through the missing window and smash into me, I heard a man's voice say, "Police. Drop your weapon, drop your weapon. Step away from that car, and put your hands on your head."
Then, more slowly, and louder, "Police. Drop your weapon and step away from the car." I knew that voice. Roland Proffit. I had no idea what he was doing here, but I couldn't be more grateful.
My husband's voice, "Give it up, Ingram. You've lost."
Jordan Ingram hesitated, but he wasn't complying. I peeked from under my arm and saw the maul still poised to strike. My car was at an angle and he was in front of me and beside the hood, in the narrow slot between me and the car beside me.
I wasn't waiting to see if he'd listen to Roland, or for the blow that might kill me. I'd had it with bad guys.
I reached up and shifted into drive, pressing down on the accelerator while swinging the car sharply in his direction. I might miss him completely and just smash some poor innocent's car, but it was better than getting smashed myself. The car lurched forward. Man and maul disappeared from sight.
In the distance, I could hear sirens.
Closer, the crunch of metal
and a man's screams. I took my foot off the gas.
The screams went on.
It made no sense, but Andre and Roland must have been in the green truck that followed me. Acting, I guess, on Mrs. Ames's information.
After that there was a commotion of voices and grunts, in the midst of which my beloved stuck his head in the window and said, "It's okay. It's okay. Put it into park, Thea. Stay right there. I'll get you out in a minute." I could barely hear him over the pounding of my heart. I'd come too close to getting mauled.
I guess he'd never pushed himself off a console and curled his own 6'1", glass-encrusted self into a ball in a space that was several sizes too small. Or deliberately tried to run down another human being.
Or maybe he had?
I needed to get out of this car. Now. Not in a while when the police were done with whatever they were doing. A zillion things were sticking into me. I was wearing what looked like a fancy glass dress.
Beside my door, Roland and Andre were dealing with Ingram. I couldn't get out. With the grace of an elephant going through the eye of a needle, I levered myself over the console and climbed out the passenger side. I stood there in the March cold as little chunks of glass rolled off and bounced on the pavement at my feet. Somewhere out at the periphery, my suspicious little nature wondered if Andre and Roland had used me as bait.
One thing I was now sure of—my call to Charlotte Ainsley was indefinitely postponed.
Ten feet away from me, the woman who had been with Ingram stood in her baggy pink sweats, staring at us without comprehension. She had a doll clutched to her chest. Babi. Little Babette. This was what Jordan Ingram had been avenging.
* * *
When Andre and Roland had the snarling, spitting Ingram subdued and cuffed, and turned over to waiting troopers, they came over to me. Andre's shrewd cop's eyes assessed me for damage.
"Did you know about this?" I said, which was a stupid question, because otherwise, why would they have been following me? I knew Mrs. Ames had told him about the suspicious green truck.
I decided to save my remarks about their timing for a day when I had more self-control. Jordan Ingram might not have landed that last blow but the experience had taken years off my life.
Failing to get an answer, I tried to brush off some of the glass, and decided that was not a smart move. But what were my choices? Disrobe in the parking lot? There have been times, in my romantic past, when my beloved has plucked glass shards from my hair. This was a larger task, and I could see that once he'd established I still had all my limbs and wasn't bleeding badly, he was hot to get Ingram into an interview room, go at the man with all his skill and tenacity, and close this case.
I, on the other hand, was on the cusp of collapsing onto the cold pavement and weeping. I gestured toward Babi, still standing patiently, waiting for someone to take charge and tell her what to do. "What are you going to do about her? About Babi?"
He looked over and I saw comprehension on his face. "So that's what this was about."
"I'll get him booked and into an interview room," Roland said. "And take care of his sister. We've got people here for that. You take care of Thea."
Roland gave me one of his reassuring smiles. "That was quick thinking, just now. You probably saved your life."
Andre looked at me, surprised. My hands and face were bleeding and I was glittering with bits of broken glass. I'd just been attacked by a murderer. Andre's initial assessment had been the cop's assessment of an accident victim—conscious, coherent, not seriously bleeding. Thinking he'd catch the bad guy and then deal with the victim. Maybe I've played the part of Thea the Great and Terrible too well. So well even my husband actually believed I was a tough guy when I felt just like my car windows. Shattered.
Now he saw the error of his ways. Glass and all, he carefully gathered me into his arms. Over my head, he was already consulting with Roland about locating Mary Ingram and arresting her and getting warrants for the truck and their residences as more bits of glass, sparkling like jewels in the March sun, landed with icy crashes at my feet.
Chapter 34
From my lounge chair, the white sand beach, swaying palm trees, and rolling blue waves seemed almost too good to be true—like a picture in a travel brochure, though the sun's heat on my winter weary skin and fading bruises said it was real. Also looking too good to be true was Andre, snoozing beside me in the red Speedo that he owned like few men could.
Sun and rest and yummy snacks delivered right to my beach chair were working their magic. It had taken a few weeks before we could get away and we'd arrived exhausted wrecks. Andre had gotten confessions from the Ingrams. I'd put out all the client fires I could, set the process in motion to hire more staff, and resolutely kept other issues out of my mind. I only found myself crying a few times a day now. Sudden, spontaneous tears that seemed to come from nowhere, triggered by the silliest things. A small child offering me a shell. The waiter's kind smile as he set down my nachos. A man putting a possessive hand around his wife's waist as they walked past. A smiling dad romping with his small girls in the surf.
Kindness. Warmth. Tender, loving gestures. People behaving decently. How had I come to live a life where these were the surprises, the gifts, instead of the norm? Where it was all work and no play and I was losing sight of who I was and what I wanted? This vacation was helping me get rebalanced. Also making me smile, and tear up, was picturing Suzanne, back home, snuggling her new baby daughter.
"Want to try paddle boards this afternoon?" Andre said, sliding his warm hand across my back.
There it was again. I started to cry.
"It will get better," he said.
"It's already better," I said. "I think I've figured out why I'm such an emotional wreck."
"Trying to save a murder victim, then being attacked by a gun-wielding professor, and again by a man obsessed with revenge would make anyone an emotional wreck," he said. "Never mind all your crazy clients."
"True. But that's not it."
I rolled over onto my back, then took his warm hand and placed it on my stomach. "It's hormones," I said. "I'm afraid little Claudine or Mason or Oliver is taking a toll on mama." Claudine. Mason. Oliver. The names we'd picked for the baby we lost.
He made a sound, something deep and visceral and primitive, as his big hand spread out protectively. Then the handsomest man on the beach, the hunky guy in the red bathing suit that stopped conversation and made women sigh, joined his tears to mine. Happy tears. This time, fingers crossed, our lives would be safe and normal, and along about Halloween, our own little pumpkin would appear.
The End
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Want more from Kate Flora?
Here's an excerpt from
SCHOOLED IN DEATH
A Thea Kozak Mystery
Book Nine
~
It was Monday. Always the worst day of the week in the working world. So when my phone rang before I'd showered, brushed my teeth, or even opened my eyes, I knew I was about to be the recipient of bad news and a summons to someone else's troubles.
I was not wrong.
"Is that Thea, then?" a man's voice asked. Reluctantly, I agreed that it was.
He didn't need to give his name. His gentle Welsh lilt announced my caller was Gareth Williams, headmaster of Simmons Prep. Gareth was the most optimistic person I knew. Usually, just hearing his voice instantly improved my mood. Today, his tones were shot with pain at the situation he found himself in, a situation he rapidly described. One of the
ir young boarding students, a girl no one knew was pregnant, had given birth in her dorm bathroom during the night and left her baby in the trash. It was only because another student had heard the faint sounds of crying that the tiny infant had been saved. Now the baby was fighting for life in a neonatal ICU and the young, terrified mother, only a child herself, was facing potential criminal charges.
Gareth needed my help—or the help of my business, EDGE Consulting—to manage the situation on his campus and in the wider world. Immediately if not sooner. That was the problem with being a private school trouble-shooter—when people called me, usually their emergencies were already underway and they were rarely something I could handle over the phone. Today was no exception. Gareth needed me on campus now. He was two hours away in the crawl of morning traffic and my calendar was already full.
"It's complicated, Thea," Gareth said, "The girl insists that she has never had sex, never mind been pregnant, and the baby can't possibly be hers, even though she has obviously just given birth. And she seems, as much as one can judge under these circumstances, to be utterly sincere." In the background, I could hear a Palestrina mass.
A million questions immediately presented themselves about the girl and her situation. Questions of drugs and date rape and mental illness, among others. But those would wait until Gareth and I were face to face.
On the other side of the bed, my husband Andre gave up trying to sleep and grimaced at a clock that said 5:45. He tossed off the covers and stood. Naked. Gorgeous. The outline of his little red Speedo the only untanned part of his body. A wonderful sight to start the day. It's not just me, though I readily admit to being prejudiced in his favor. Perfect strangers of the female persuasion sigh softly when he passes. He mouthed, "Shower. Join me?"
I nodded as he headed for the bathroom, throwing off my own covers so I could cross to the desk and make some notes on what Gareth was saying. Damage control was my specialty. He needed me there as soon as possible. I would have to do some rearranging if I was going to be able to help.
