The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon

by M. Glenn Graves

  “You saved me again,” she said.

  “Had no choice. He would’ve killed us both. Saved me and you.”

  Homer noticed that Laurel was breathing hard, and she looked scared.

  “I’m sorry you had to see this. Some things are messy. You don’t need to be scared,” he said.

  Laurel could hear her heart pounding. She put her hand in the middle of her chest and felt the rapid pumping.

  “They’re still trailing me,” she said as she shifted her gaze from the man on the floor to Homer.

  “Who?”

  “I’m not sure… some of the sheriff’s deputies. They had dogs.”

  “Why do they want you?” he said.

  “I think they’re looking for you.”

  “Will they come here?” he said.

  “They might. They were not too far behind me, but I lost them with some back-tracking. Still, they may eventually find my trail.”

  “If I stay here, then maybe you’ll be safe once the sheriff comes.”

  “Can you drive?” she asked.

  “You mean a car?”

  “Can you drive anything?”

  “Never learned. Don’t need a car or truck to survive here. And you … you drive?”

  “I’m fourteen. I don’t have a lot experience, but …,” she didn’t finish.

  “Okay,” Homer said innocently as if he didn’t understand what she meant.

  “I haven’t taken driver’s ed. I’ve never even sat behind a wheel, never wanted to drive. I walk everywhere or ride with my mother.”

  Homer walked to the bed and lay down. It suddenly hit him that was exhausted from moving and firing his crossbow. He dropped the crossbow and the sheath of arrows at the side of the bed. They landed in front of the still hidden revolver.

  Laurel approached the bed. It was now lighter outside and she could easily see. He held up his shirt and she could tell that there was an infection already setting in at his shoulder wound. The other two wounds looked frightful, but she didn’t see any swelling.

  “I should go get you some help.”

  “That detective lady went for help,” he said.

  “She was here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I don’t know. Hours? Maybe it wuz a dream. I think it wuz real.”

  The sudden movement surprised both Laurel and Homer. The man on the floor leaped onto Laurel and she fell against the wall under the window. The force of the man’s blow and her impact against the wall momentarily dazed her. Pain shot through her shoulders. The injured gunman stood clumsily. He walked over to Laurel and lifted her from the floor by her midsection.

  Homer raised himself from the bed to help Laurel. The man struck Homer across the face with the back of his hand. The fierce blow knocked Homer against the wall close to the bed. The blow was strong enough to render Homer useless, as if his infection and weakened condition had not done that already.

  The injured man pulled the struggling girl close to his body. The tip of the arrow that had entered him from the back was protruding enough for Laurel to feel the point when he drew her into his chest. Both arrows were firmly fixed into the abdomen of the man; but, for some reason, he had the strength of ten men as he held Laurel completely off the floor. He held her against his right side with one hand.

  He searched for his handgun but couldn’t find it. The struggling girl forced him to leave the room and then exit the cabin without more of a search. Once outside, he dropped Laurel to the ground and then grabbed her by the hair, now pulling her toward the ambulance. Blood was now seeping from the arrow wounds in his torso at a faster rate.

  He released his grip on her hair once they were at side of the ambulance. He leaned against the driver’s door with his left hand. Laurel stood and turned to face him. She noticed his increased bleeding.

  “Pull the arrows out,” he said.

  “Why should I help you?”

  “Your life is in my hands.”

  “True enough, but you intend to kill me no matter what I do.”

  “Pull the arrows out and I’ll let you go.”

  “You’re lying...”

  “I didn’t kill your friend. I won’t kill you.”

  His breathing was irregular. Laurel sensed that he was badly injured.

  “You tried to kill Homer. But he was too much for you. That’s what you are, right?”

  His right hand was pressing against the second arrow that had inflicted most of the damage to his gut. He was pulling at it as hard as he could on the shaft. The pain from the arrow along with his weakened condition negated any chance he had of removing the arrow himself.

  “What do you mean?” he grunted, after he ceased pulling on the arrow shaft.

  “You’re a hired killer. You’re nothing more than a cold-blooded murderer. And you came here to kill me ... and Homer.”

  “You know nothing of me,” he said. “Now, pull out these damn arrows and then you will drive me out of this god-forsaken place.”

  “Tell me who hired you and I’ll help you,” she said.

  “You bargain hard, for a child. Truth is,” the gunman paused but never finished his sentence.

  The swooshing sound of the arrow was the first thing she heard after he stopped talking suddenly. He likely heard the sound as well, but since he was dead mere seconds after the sound, he had no way of knowing the source of the noise. The point of the arrow was now protruding from his upper chest just to the left of center. He fell hard on the ground. This time he would not get up.

  Laurel looked back at the cabin, and Homer was leaning against the logs closest to the front door. He was holding the crossbow with his right hand by his side.

  She ran to him just as he collapsed to his knees. Homer’s weight was too much for her to stop him from falling to the ground. He dropped the crossbow as he fell.

  Buster Murdock and his deputy Rocky Ramsey drove into the clearing in time to see Homer shoot the man with the bow. They quickly moved from the sheriff’s vehicle to where Homer had fallen, and Laurel was now sitting on her knees. She held Homer’s head in her lap.

  Sheriff Murdock holstered his 9 mm, but Ramsey kept his weapon pointed at the man on the ground.

  The second ambulance pulled in behind the sheriff’s car with its lights flashing. Ramsey yelled over to the driver of the ambulance to stay where he was.

  “Are you okay?” Murdock said to Laurel in his usual gruff voice.

  “I’m okay. Homer needs to get to the hospital.”

  “Can you talk?” Murdock said to Homer.

  There was no response.

  “Call the medic over,” Murdock said to Ramsey.

  Ramsey yelled and motioned for the driver to come.

  The EMT checked Homer’s vitals and then placed him on a portable gurney. Murdock, Ramsey, and Laurel watched them carry Homer Gosnell to the ambulance.

  “Go with them,” Murdock said to Ramsey. “He’s under arrest for murder. Several murders it appears.”

  Ramsey followed the medical personnel to the ambulance.

  “He didn’t murder anybody,” Laurel said to Murdock.

  “Remains to be seen. In the meantime, you have a lot of explaining to do. Let’s go inside. I need to look around.”

  Chapter 38

  I was sitting in the small, dubiously petitioned, quasi-private emergency room watching Starnes sleep peacefully. I knew that when she awakened, she would likely have one devil of a headache. I was watching Starnes, but I was thinking about Laurel and Homer.

  Rogers called while I was wondering what to do once Starnes woke up. The hospital had decided not to put her in a room. They simply checked her and gave her something for pain and sleep. The latter decision was a mistake with Starnes. She never took sleeping pills, so that medication likely knocked her out cold.

  “Just got a bulletin you might be interested in,” Rogers began. “It seems that Agent Redwine is dead. Homer is headed to the hospital, proba
bly where you are, and he is under arrest. Laurel has been detained for questioning. Sheriff Murdock is the inquisitor of record.”

  “Seems like I missed a lot of the action.”

  “At least you were not in the throes of it for a change.”

  “Small consolation, but I have several unanswered questions.”

  “About Redwine not being Redwine?”

  “That’s one.”

  “And why this faux Redwine was after Laurel Shelton?”

  “Two for two.”

  “You have more questions?”

  “Without a doubt. Was the faux Redwine working with Curly and his crew, or was he another component to this saga?”

  “Any way I can help answer some of life’s perplexing questions for you?”

  “See if you can discover who the faux Redwine really was. Check for connections with Curly and the gang. I’m looking for motives.”

  “If we find out who this pretend Redwine was, that may tell us motive,” Rogers said.

  “Maybe. I need to know what Murdock discovered when he arrived at Homer’s place. I am assuming that he did go there and found Homer, Laurel, and this pretend Redwine fellow.”

  “That’s what his report said.”

  “You’re fast, you know.”

  “I was online in his system when he made the initial report.”

  “You’re a stealthy female,” I said.

  “I come and go with great ease. I leave no trace.”

  “And I remain a little frightened at your comings and goings.”

  “Need I remind you that you made me what I am?”

  “Mea culpa. I will accept only so much responsibility and absolutely none of the liability.”

  “Good luck with that posture when we are found out.”

  “That’s where my consternation surfaces. Till then, I shall enjoy the fruits of your labors. You process better than some humans.”

  “I take that as a compliment. I have managed to develop some procedures quite on my own.”

  “Understated to an overwhelming degree,” I said.

  “Accolades aside, be assured your secrecy and my success are my primary goals when snooping around those forbidden areas.”

  “I hope you are not recording this conversation,” I said.

  “I record all conversations but I delete some of them.”

  “Delete this one. Could be incriminating.”

  “It is done, but I will remind you that I remember everything.”

  “Call me when you have some answers.”

  I had been standing and staring out of Starnes’ hospital window while talking with Rogers. When I turned back to the bed, Starnes was looking at me and smiling.

  “You feel better?”

  “I feel like crap. I’m smiling in light of what I just heard between you and your computer.”

  “And that makes you smile because …?”

  “Leverage. I can now blackmail you for just about anything.”

  “And what is it you want?”

  “To get out of this place, go check on Dog, and get something to eat.”

  “In that order?”

  “Yes. Do not even try to get me to eat that hospital grub.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  Two hours later, all four of us were in my Jeep heading back to Starnes’ home in McAdams County.

  I had checked on Homer Gosnell at the Asheville hospital. I had encountered Deputy Ramsey who was sitting in a folding chair to the right of the door of Homer’s hospital room and he had refused me entry, informing me that Homer was not receiving visitors per the orders of Sheriff Murdock. At any rate, he did tell me that Homer was in surgery and was in no position to receive anyone. I decided to come back later.

  It was raining again. Traffic was thick as we meandered our way through the delights of Asheville. Once we were a few miles from the city on Future I-26 West, it thinned out appreciably. Easier driving in the rain, if such driving is ever easy.

  I updated Starnes with the little I knew. She listened to the details without questions.

  “You have questions?” I said wondering why she had not asked anything.

  “Of course, I have questions.”

  “But you’re not asking.”

  “Do you have any answers?” she said.

  “No.”

  “Then why should I ask?”

  “Point. You have thoughts?”

  “My head is still hurting. I am trying to control my thoughts. I think it hurts to think at this moment.”

  “He hit you hard.”

  “He hit me with his gun.”

  “He could have shot you.”

  “Probably less painful.”

  “He could’ve killed you,” I said.

  “Again, less painful.”

  “How is it you know he hit you with his gun?” I said.

  “Because I turned just as said weapon came down on my head.”

  “Nasty. Last memory and all?”

  “I read Murdock’s report, and apparently he cold-cocked the ambulance driver as well.”

  “Wonder why he wanted to take the ambulance?” she said.

  “Subterfuge?” I said.

  “It was dark. He could have driven his own vehicle to Homer’s place. And that raises the question of where his vehicle might be.”

  “So, you do have questions.”

  “Don’t do that. I’m in no mood for you to toy with me.”

  “You need food.”

  “I need for this damn pain to go away. Are you sure that this phony Redwine guy is dead?”

  “The report said that Homer shot him three times with his crossbow. Why do you ask?”

  “I would like to shoot him myself. Where’s the body?”

  I laughed at my friend but made no further comment. If we had been close to where the phony Redwine’s corpse was, she would have forced me to drive her there.

  I found some hamburger meat in the freezer and I opened a can of beans. I made some patties and heated the beans in the microwave. Chef Evans at work in the kitchen.

  “Did you put anything in these burgers?” she said halfway through her first one.

  “Besides the meat?”

  “Yeah, besides the meat. Spices, onion … anything?”

  “Didn’t know I was supposed to,” I confessed.

  “You were raised by a great cook, yet you have no concept of what it takes to make food palatable.”

  “It doesn’t seem to be stopping you from eating it,” I said.

  “I’m starving to death. I’d eat cooked worms if you had prepared them.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said and took a bite of my burger.

  Once she was finished eating her two hamburgers and the mound of pork and beans, she lay down and took a nap. I noticed that the dogs were asleep on the front porch. The rain had stopped, and the sun had come out. It was warm and muggy. One of those lazy afternoons, it seemed.

  I sat down in a rocking chair on the front porch and listened to the raindrops drip from her gutters. Now and then, I could hear some dripping sounds from the trees close by. I needed some pondering time. With Starnes snoozing away and the dogs following suit, I could use this alone-time to think about what had transpired the last several days. Confusion was still evident with me.

  Laurel ran away from home because something frightened her. Two mentally challenged

  low-life’s abducted her, and then she escaped. Beth’s boyfriend, Curly McClure, entered the picture and was eventually taken out of the picture as were her two original abductors. Homer Gosnell was the one participant who had nothing to do with any of this at the beginning, but who miraculously was there at the right place, right time, to help Laurel. Then, if this saga were not strange enough, along comes some guy pretending to be a FBI agent named Redwine, who tries to kill both Laurel and Homer, apparently. At least that was what Laurel had told the sheriff during her questioning.

  The more I thought about the even
ts and the participants, the more things just did not seem to satisfy me. Some aspect of this bothered me, but my brain was not working too well of late. No specific reason other than this situation was uneven, at best. But then, having been a detective for more than a few decades, unevenness becomes normal fare much of the time.

  I thought about our delightful hike through the woods, trying to catch up with Laurel when she ran away from Homer’s cabin after he had killed both of Curly’s partners. I tried to follow the sequence of events after Homer had helped us on a trail, and then had left us hastily to go in search of Laurel alone.

  For some reason, the sign at the two trails’ intersection entered my mind once more. I could see it even in the pouring rain. She had turned right. She turned away from home at that point. At the time, I had figured that she was concerned about Curly being there. But why wouldn’t she figure her mother, at least at this point, would protect her? She had been gone, what, I thought … two days by then? Longer? Why not go home? Who would not want to go home?

  Something caused her to turn in the opposite direction. Homer also turned that way. Did he know something that we did not know? How could he have known? Did he see something on the trail? Did he spot a footprint or some sign that she had gone to the right instead of to the left?

  In the midst of my deep reflection and heavy contemplation, Agent Taylor Hawkins of the Federal Bureau of Investigation called my cell.

  “I found my agent.”

  “Horace Redwine?” I said.

  “Horace Cleveland Redwine was found dead in Asheville. His body was discovered in a dumpster behind a Mexican restaurant on Merrimon Avenue. You know anything about that?”

  “It’s been years since I killed an FBI agent,” I said.

  “Don’t get smart. I’m looking for answers. I need to know something.”

  “Do you know why he was in Asheville?” I said.

  “I sent him to check on you.”

  “Me?”

  “I had some intel that came through a back-channel regarding a hired assassin. I was … concerned.”

  “And this hired assassin was coming after me?” I said.

  “That was not part of the information. My source only knew the popular handle for the assassin, and your name was mentioned in the intel. I had to decide whether you were at risk or not. I chose to make sure by sending Redwine. He was simply sent there to find you and make sure you were okay, inform you of the information, and then report back to me.”