by Ellen Riggs
“Of course I’m coming to the bar. I’d never leave you to deal with a murderer alone.” I heard street noise and honking. “Okay, I got a cab.”
It figured. I was still waving frantically and three had passed me. “Traffic is awful. I hope Keats is all right,” I said, walking toward a busier intersection.
“What’s the plan, exactly?” Jilly asked.
“All I know for the moment is that I have to keep a good grip on my bag.” Finally a cab stopped and I jumped in. “It’s a shame because I’ve always liked this bag and now I’ll never be able to use it again.”
Chapter Seven
I could have walked to the bar faster. Every block felt like torture as I fretted about what was happening down at the Booby Trap. Jilly was stuck in a gridlock, too, and she had a lot more distance to cover. Finally she hung up to call the police. Meanwhile, I sweltered in what was probably the only cab in the city with broken air conditioning. Normally I wouldn’t mind so much, but anxiety had pushed my core temperature into the red an hour ago.
When I couldn’t take it anymore, I paid the driver and got out. The sidewalks were packed with people out enjoying the first summery evening. I wove through the foot traffic as quickly as I could, keeping my bag pressed tightly to my side. Jilly was right: I was accident prone. That’s why Flordale’s baseball team gave me a cap and eased me onto the sidelines. Yet here I was practically running down a busy street with someone’s head joggling under my arm.
Someone’s head. I didn’t want to think about it. I only wanted to focus on Keats, my sweet pup, but it was hard to drive the image out of my mind. The skull had been under the sunflowers for years, it would seem, because it didn’t smell.
Or did it? I raised my right hand to my nose and caught only a whiff of damp soil. That moment of distraction was my undoing. Suddenly I tripped on what was probably a small crack but felt like a huge fissure. Then I was down. I rolled at least once, but somehow I managed to clutch my bag. That meant I only had one hand to brace my fall and I lost a layer of skin in the process.
“Are you all right?” A man leaned over to help me up and I flinched.
“Don’t touch me.”
“I just wanted to—”
“I know. I’m sorry. Thank you.” It’s just that I have a skull in my purse and I don’t want you to see it. “I’m fine, really. Just a scratch or two.”
Springing to my feet, I started a brisk trot again, paying more attention. That was a close call. A really close call. If the skull had rolled into traffic, I could end up in custody myself. Not only that, it was a desecration. I owed it to the owner of that skull to slow down.
Keats would likely be fine. He’d do his tricks and Jason would protect him. There was probably a crowd in the parking lot right now applauding.
But when I finally reached the Booby Trap, there was no one in sight. Worse, Skint’s car wasn’t out front like I expected. Picking up speed, I careened around the corner of the building. All I could see was a large dumpster down the lane. I’d have to circle the entire building. He must be around here somewhere.
When I reached the dumpster, however, my search ended. Skint had backed the red Chevy in beside it so that the car was invisible from the front of the bar.
Why would he park all the way down there? Unless he had something to hide.
“Oh no oh no oh no,” I moaned. “He wouldn’t.”
But he had. Keats was spread out on the back seat during what was surely a record-breaking day for heat. The windows were closed and the dog appeared to be unconscious.
“Keats,” I said, rapping hard on the window. “Wake up. Are you okay?”
The dog didn’t move, but I sensed that he was still aware… that his spirit was strong. Tears poured down my face as I pressed my nose to the glass. Finally, one white paw gave the slightest twitch.
“Hang on, buddy. I’ll get you out. I promise.”
Chapter Eight
Pushing myself off the car, I ran through my options. I could call the cops and wait for them to force their way through the traffic jam. That was the right thing to do, but there would be so many competing calls tonight, and a trapped dog probably wouldn’t be high on their list. I could call Animal Services, but they’d also be under siege in this heat. Last, I could charge into the bar and take on Skint myself, letting peer pressure force him to release Keats. But the dog would need veterinary attention and was unlikely to get it with Skint. And I’d still be left dealing with him later.
Or I could take matters into my own hands. Jilly had called the police anyway. At this point, every second counted and Keats was slipping further away from me.
I wanted to sit down right there and cry, but I couldn’t. He was only in this predicament because of me. If I hadn’t formed a bond with him, he wouldn’t have commanded his owner’s attention and ended up getting heat stroke outside a strip bar.
Well, there was no time for tears, and the game wasn’t over yet.
First thing I did was text Jilly quickly. Then I put the phone away and started looking for something to break into the car. A piece of piping, perhaps, or a heavy log. Even a wooden crate from the bar might work, if I hit the window just right. I wasn’t particularly strong, but I did have fury on my side.
The dumpster was so close and so tall that I overlooked it at first. Then I backed right up and tipped my head. It was full to overflowing and all kinds of possibilities poked out of the pile.
I slipped around the back of it and stowed my bag in the deepening shadows. Then I returned to the side of the red car and began to climb.
It was more of a nail-breaking scrabble. There were two slim rungs that didn’t provide much purchase for my work loafers with their smooth leather soles. The metal was slippery, despite a coating of rust.
“Spiderman makes this look so easy,” I muttered, inching my way up the side. It was really only about a five-foot climb to the top but it might as well have been Everest.
Finally I got one hand over the top and then it was smooth sailing. My upper body strength wasn’t impressive but the fuel of panic made tipping into the bin surprisingly easy.
Being inside the dumpster was no picnic, however. All the refuse from the past week was rotting in the heat. Plastic bags had been torn open by the local raccoons for a feast on bar grub. There was a sudden rustle and three rats popped out of the garbage and ran up and over the side with an agility that both repelled and amazed me.
There was no time to think about putrid horrors. I needed a good, solid weapon right now. Below me, my new best friend’s life force was slipping away.
I scanned the heap and there it was, standing in relief against the sunset sky. It was like a magical weapon from an ancient fantasy, only in the form of a common baseball bat.
Since it was pretty close to the red Chevy’s driver’s seat, I guessed this was the same baseball bat Skint had threatened me with at his front door. The same baseball bat that had been in the back seat of his car the next day. Why he’d pitch it into the trash was beyond me. But there it was, and I was going to use it against him.
The 12-foot crossing was the most disgusting experience of my life. I clung to the side as if my life depended on it. Maybe it did. There was a chance I could sink into oblivion in decomposing bar trash that wouldn’t hold my weight. What a sad way to go, smothered under week-old chicken wings and nachos.
I scrambled through fetid, squishy bags, almost doing the breaststroke at one point, until I reached the baseball bat. Grabbing it, I managed to hoist myself up on the lip of the dumpster and looked down on the car. It would be simpler going down, but not easy. First, I leaned over as far as I could and dropped the bat. It rolled under the car and I cursed. I didn’t need another challenge, another delay.
Turning on the edge was tough, too, because my hands already ached from my fall and subsequent climb, and now they were covered in garbage slime. I managed to turn and lower myself over the side till I was hanging. Then it was only a yar
d or so to drop to the pavement. Still, when I let go it felt like the world was slipping away and there was a sudden jolt as my feet hit the pavement. I lost my balance and fell beside the car.
On the bright side, I could see the baseball bat, and with a bit of squirming and stretching, it was in my hand.
Scrambling back, I got to my feet. There was no time to lament the loafer I’d lost in the trash. I needed to assess my strategy. Keats was in the same position, with his head near the passenger door on the opposite side. The best way to minimize his glass shower was to whack the driver’s window. Luckily, Skint had left plenty of room between the car and the dumpster for me to get a good swing.
I held up the bat and discovered why he’d disposed of it: there was a crack running down the middle. A wave of nausea hit me. How had he cracked it? And did it still have the integrity to do the job? I wasn’t sure I had the strength to go back up into the bin, and judging by the sweat pouring down my face from the effort, Keats wouldn’t have long inside the car, either.
It had to do the job. But I would only have one chance before it broke apart.
I wiped each hand in turn on my pants to get rid of as much sweat and garbage juice as possible. Now I could get a good grip.
“Keats, stay calm,” I said. “There’s going to be a scary noise but then you’ll be free. Forever.”
I got into position, bringing the bat back just like they taught me on the Flordale baseball team before they cut me. Today, however, I liked the feeling of the bat in my hands. I felt powerful, rather than powerless. No one would laugh at me now.
Besides, the target was considerably bigger and stationary.
“One… two… three.” It seemed like everything dropped into slow motion after that. There was the smooth arc of the swing. The perfect landing of the bat in the center of the window. The smash and spiderweb of cracks before the glass completely shattered.
I hadn’t expected it to be so loud but it was enough to make my ears ring. Inside the bar, the music would surely muffle the boom and the tinkling of the glass falling away.
At any rate, I didn’t have time to lose. The baseball bat had fractured from impact, leaving me holding a stub. There was enough of it left to clear some of the remaining glass. I reached inside and unlatched the passenger door on my side. Then I dropped the stub and lifted Keats. His body was limp and his eyes closed as I carried him away from the glass, careful to avoid the worst of it myself, given my missing shoe. The long chain dragged behind me with an ominous rattle.
Setting the dog on the warm pavement, I went to get my purse. Under the skull was a bottle of water. Thank god I hadn’t dumped that in my frenzy to accommodate my guest.
Kneeling beside him, I pried open the dog’s jaws and poured a little water inside. After a second or two, his tongue moved and I started crying again as I poured in a little more. His blue eye opened just a slit and seemed to glow in the fading light.
“I have to get you to a vet, buddy,” I said. “That means carrying you down this alley and right in front of the bar doors. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m covered in filth and I have a hard time hailing a cab at the best of times. So this isn’t going to be easy. Drink what you can now.”
A minute or two later, he lifted his head, sniffed and whined.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said standing. “We’ve gotta get out of here. Just let me grab the skull.”
The blue eye looked up at me again, wider now.
“Long story,” I said, turning to bend over my bag. “Bringing it along seemed like the right thing to do.”
It wasn’t, however. Bringing the skull along had been exactly the wrong thing to do.
Chapter Nine
You don’t really appreciate air until you have none of it left. As I stooped over my bag and shoved things around inside, someone slipped a loop of chain link around my neck and tightened it. Instantly, I dropped the bag and the skull rolled out. My hands went to the chain—Keats’ leash—and pried at it.
“You shouldn’t have brung that,” Skint said, his breath hot on my ear.
Well, I knew that now but it was a little late. The skull was going to be the last thing I saw as I suffocated behind a dumpster. There was no doubt in my mind that Skint would haul me up and over and leave my body among the chicken wings and nachos. The rats would have a field day.
It played out in my mind like a short film as I struggled. The last frame was an aerial shot of me splayed out, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky from the junk pile with the little black and white dog curled by my side.
Keats.
No.
This man was not going to end my dog and leave him to the rats.
I swung around hard and kicked Skint in the gut with my work loafer. His piggy eyes widened in shock. Then he gave the chain a sharp jerk that felt like it would break my neck. Keats was still at the other end of the chain, getting dragged along in the scuffle.
“Give it up, Suit,” he said. “You and this mangy mutt are compost. No point messing your pretty hair.”
I knew any exertion would end my battle sooner. I also knew that four minutes without oxygen would fry my brain beyond further use. But that knowledge didn’t stop me from fighting for my life, and for Keats’ life. Another vision came into my head, replacing the image of the dumpster death. There was a farm, with green meadows and an alpaca. An alpaca… how strange. Keats was running like the wind, tail aloft. All this would be mine if only I could last a little longer.
I stopped trying to loosen the chain at my neck and grabbed it further down. Skint had shifted his focus momentarily to the skull and was trying to kick it into the darkness. That gave me the chance I needed. I yanked as hard as I could on the chain and pulled him off balance. The sudden slack sent me stumbling backwards, pulling Skint and Keats with me. Now we were out in the open space beyond the dumpster.
“Oh no you don’t, Suit.” His hands crawled back up the chain to tighten the loop. “I got too much to lose to let you win. That head you stole was in a gang once.”
He bent over and the fingers of his free hand sank into my hair. He pulled my head up and then banged it hard on the asphalt. Stars popped behind my eyes and turned into fireworks when he did it again.
I flailed but eventually my hands fell away from the chain as my fingers numbed. He pulled up my head one more time to finish the job. Mist narrowed my field of vision, but I still saw a black and white blur jump onto his back. Keats seized Skint’s ear, slipped off and hung there. The man yelled and released the chain. He stood up and spun around. The dog didn’t let go and his white paws flew out in a new and deadly pirouette.
I heard another scream, a familiar voice, and then all went black.
Chapter Ten
Jilly’s green eyes were wide with worry when I opened mine and looked up at her. She was kneeling beside me, clutching my hand.
“My chest,” I croaked. “Can’t breathe.” And then, “Where’s Keats?”
She nodded in the direction of my chest. “The answer to both questions is right in front of you.”
Groaning, I lifted my head to look. Keats was curled in a ball on my ribcage. His mismatched eyes met mine and then he leaned forward and licked my chin.
“He’s okay? The heatstroke…”
“He’s had water and seems totally fine. I’ll take him to a vet to be sure.”
I tried to lift my hand to pat him but the message didn’t transmit from my brain to my fingertips. Jilly felt the twitch, however, and squeezed my hand again. “Just rest for a few minutes, okay? The paramedics will be back soon.”
“Where’s Skint?” A shudder ran from head to foot at the fragmented memory of what had just happened.
“Gone,” she said, with a knowing look.
“Gone where?” I tried again to move and failed. “He’s on the run?”
“He won’t be running anytime soon. I arrived with the cops and we saw… well, Skint shook off the dog and was trying to—”
“Yes. So they had to use their weapons.”
“He’s dead?” A mixture of horror and relief ran through me and suddenly my hands could move again.
She shook her head. “Not dead enough. But he won’t be nearly as spry if he recovers. And the police assure me that the skull—and whatever else is under the sunflowers—will keep him out of the way indefinitely. He had a long record and they have reason to suspect there’s more than one skull.”
“Oh, good,” I said.
“Good?” Something like a laugh slipped out.
“Not that there are multiple skulls. But that there’s enough evidence to put him away if he survives.” I managed to squeeze her hand back. “So, Keats is mine?”
“I already asked and the police said yes. I think they were a little surprised that was my top priority.” She grinned. “I mean, after making sure you were okay, and that Skint was out of commission.”
I closed my eyes for a second and took a deep breath. “What took you so darned long? It felt like forever.”
“Traffic. It was totally gridlocked. I finally had to get out and run, and I managed to stop a cop and explain what was going on. I had already tried Jason, but he wasn’t working tonight. Even the police had a heck of a time getting here.” Tears filled her eyes and spilled over, dropping onto my face. “When I think about how just another two minutes could have…”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.”
She took a minute to gather herself and then forced a smile. “I wish you could have seen their faces when I told them you were running around with a skull in your purse.”
“I felt terrible about leaving it in case it was some sweet old lady. But Skint said it was a gang member.” I shuddered again. “Not that anyone deserves to end up as fertilizer.”
The paramedics and cops came over together. Soon I was on a stretcher covered in blankets. Keats struggled in Jilly’s arms until they let him sit on my legs.
