“Hellfire and damnation,” I said at last. Blood dripped from a couple fingertips down the front of my skirt, adding to the smudges left from when I’d rested my head on my knees. A fine predicament, to be sure.
With our hands tied and our feet bound together, moving about was rather awkward. As for running, no chance. If we were even able to escape from the shed.
“What are we going to do?” Neva, as usual, left our strategy to me. She sounded drained, hopeless. I needed her spunky and full of fire.
“Trust me, we will get out of here. Both of us.” I reflected a moment. “In one piece.”
Neva may not have been convinced. “How? He put a bar across the door on the outside. We’re locked in.”
I didn’t know how. Yet. I just knew we would. If worst came to worst, I intended to meet whoever unbarred the door with a bullet to the chest. If, that is, I succeeded in working my hands free, able to reach into my pocket and draw the pistol.
And as long as I managed to do it without shooting my own leg off.
27
Neva’s and my first course of action consisted of learning to move together, synchronized so one of us didn’t trip the other. Not, I may add, the easiest dance step I’ve ever learned. I daresay waltzing is a great deal simpler, and accompanied by music, besides.
Nevertheless, in searching for a way to gain our freedom, we managed a complete circuit around the room without doing ourselves harm. We found exactly nothing. Nothing particularly useful, at any rate. Or not at first glance.
Our dreary cell had, at one time, been a tack room built onto the stable proper. Or perhaps it was where the homeowner’s stable boy slept when the space wasn’t used to hold prisoners—like Neva and me. The room had been cleared of nearly everything, although an overlying scent of horses and manure remained. A mouse-eaten blanket covered a thin straw mattress on the sagging cot. We found a three-legged table which, due to one leg being shorter than the others, rocked almost unseen in a corner, a saddle stand without a saddle, an old grain bin where mice rustled, and one dented tin plate, rusty where the enamel had chipped off. Maybe they’d used it to feed the mice.
Neva, to my dismay, began to cry. Quietly, thank goodness, but with little hiccuping sobs, like bubbles rising to the top in a bottle of soda water.
I had to restrain myself from joining her. She’d borne her despicable mother’s and grandfather’s abuse, and she’d put a brave face on her brother’s death. This was not a good time to break down. Not for either of us. Too bad comforting children was not one of my strong points. In fact, I wasn’t any too sure I had any strong points. It occurred to me a little comforting wouldn’t have gone amiss for me, too.
“We’ll be all right, Neva. Please don’t cry.” I patted her shoulder with the back of my hand since my palms were tied facing my body. Awkward in the extreme.
“Oh, Miss Bohannon, I’ve gotten you in all this trouble. I wanted you to find who killed Robbie and now we’re going to be killed, too. Just like he was. A ... and it’s all my fault.”
I refused to let her sincerity convince me, as for a weak moment I wanted to do.
“It’s not your fault at all. I took the job with my eyes wide open. Now buck up. I need your help.”
My abrupt demand seemed to help, probably because people ordered her around all the time. She inhaled, then exhaled, letting the air out on a shuddering breath. “What do you want me to do?”
What did I? Think!
I’d kicked the metal plate across the dirt floor, but now I had Neva shuffle along with me to take a second look. “See that?” I pointed down. “We’re going take that dirty old thing and start bending it back and forth until it snaps in two.”
She reached down and picked the plate up, almost upending me in the process. “Sorry. We are?” She stared down at it, her stance filled with doubt. “Why?”
“Because we’re going to break it in half and use the raw edges as a saw. Something to sever these cords on our wrists. It’ll take both of us. You push, I’ll pull.”
So we did. We settled onto the floor again, although Neva, after two or three minutes while we got nowhere, had the bright idea of just bending the plate enough she could finish the job by jumping on it. Which meant we had to stand up again. Her boots did a good job protecting her feet while she jumped, once again, I might add, nearly toppling me. But even when we had our saw, hours seemed to pass before we managed to cut through the cords. Our wrists oozed blood. Our numbed fingers left red streaks everywhere we touched. And even though the stable was cold, we both were sweating like Irish gandy dancers driving spikes. By then, I knew it must be nearly noon.
The hour that wicked man had named in his threat against Neva. Would he be back to carry it out?
What had he written in the notebook he searched for so frantically, that he deemed so precious? Or maybe precious wasn’t the right word. I’d bet incriminating hit closer to the truth. Sadly, my curiosity might never be satisfied.
“You need a weapon, my dear,” I said when we finally cut through the cord around our ankles. One of mine had been awfully tight. My toes tingled as circulation returned.
Neva’s boots had protected her. It amused me that Branston’s men had been so close to their goal and totally unaware.
“I wish I had a knife.” Neva’s teeth gritted. “A great big Bowie knife. I’d ... I’d ...”
“I wish you did, too.” The three-legged table caught my eye. Limping, I went over and dragged it into the center of the room. “I suggest you kick this apart. Try not to actually break the legs, just separate them from the top. Not as good as a knife, but maybe a pretty good club. I think the wood is oak. Nice and heavy.”
Even in the dim light I saw her smile.
She went to kicking and stomping with a will. Badly constructed to begin with, the table soon fell into four pieces thanks to her strenuous efforts; the top and three legs.
I spied the gleam of metal. Whoever built the table used good wood in his project, even though he’d lacked basic furniture-making skills. The table had been cobbled together with nails instead of glue and mortise joints. Some of the nails had worked loose over the years. Two or three protruded from one of the legs.
Neva reached down, picking her weapon.
“Wait,” I said. “Choose the other long one. The one with the nails in the end. When the time comes, swing hard and fast and don’t, at any cost, lose your grip. Anyone would be scared if they saw that nail coming at them. They’ll keep their distance.”
I expect I sounded more confident than I felt. I certainly tried hard enough.
“You’ll need one, too.” Neva tried to hand me one of the legs. “Please. You have to have something.”
“Oh, I will. And I do.” I smiled as I pulled the .32 from my skirt’s hidden pocket. “I’ve got this.”
Neva eyes opened wide. “Ooh, a gun!”
By her reaction she liked it better than birthday cake.
Our relief lasted only a few seconds. That’s as long as it took before we heard the heavy plodding of men’s boots and the sound of their voices. One of them laughed.
Noon.
My stomach growled—but not from hunger.
Neva clutched her table leg in both hands. She held it poised high above her as though planning to smash it down on her captor’s head, a strategy more apt to work if she’d been a foot or two taller. And if she could’ve traded the table leg for an ax.
“Wait,” I said. “Don’t hold a weapon like that. These are big men. All they have to do is reach out and take the club from you. Hold it like this.” I demonstrated with a hypothetical baseball bat. “See. You can hit harder and faster.”
“Got it,” she said, adjusting her grip as I suggested. The club trembled in her hands. “I’m going to aim for the first man’s knees. He can’t catch me if he can’t walk.”
“Good girl. That’s an excellent plan. Keep the nails pointed toward your target. And remember. Hard as you can, fast as you
can. We don’t want to just make them mad. We want to discourage them from getting close. We want to hurt them.”
Her eyes widened, the whites showing all around, as if she couldn’t believe my ferocity, then she nodded. “Pound them down. Like they want to hurt us.”
I eyed her. Did she realize what those words meant? “Yes,” I agreed, “if it comes to that. But our purpose is to escape. Quick as you get the chance, run. Don’t wait around for me.”
Events moved like a train on a track after that, its speed multiplied by the weight behind it. One of the men, the one I’d jabbed with my hat pin, announced his intentions as they neared the stable door. Loud enough to begin with, his voice was perfectly audible, probably because he wanted us to hear.
“Boss ain’t gonna be happy we didn’t find his little book.” Murphy was the one talking loudest. “But he’s gonna be real mad we lost sight of Anderson and the kid.”
“Time to finish the hunt right here and now,” Foghorn rumbled. “Then it won’t matter about them two.”
“I’ll take the detective’s office girl,” Murphy said. “I owe her.”
My stomach clenched, tied up in knots as he chuckled, an evil sound if ever I heard one.
“Or she owes me,” he added.
“You get all the fun. The young one won’t be no bother.” Foghorn seemed disappointed. “Now the boss ain’t here to see, I’ll just beat on her till she tells us what we want to know. Boss is a little squeamish, but he won’t ask no questions after it’s done.”
“Never does,” Murphy agreed.
This must not have been their first foray into murder. My blood ran cold.
I glanced at Neva, her features uncertain in the gloomy shed.
The door rattled. Metal scraped as one of them pulled the bar from the brackets. A widening glimmer of light shone through the crack between the sagging door and the jamb.
“Ready?” I whispered.
Neva nodded. Her lips pressed tight, as though to hold in a scream. So, I discovered, were mine.
“Hard and fast,” she said through gritted teeth.
The door yanked open. The shape of a man filled the opening as the first of them stepped through.
“Fe, fie, foe ...,” Foghorn was saying, playful-like, as if this were all a game.
Neva’s club slammed into his kneecap with a resounding thud. His quote from the old fairytale turned into a scream.
Murphy, my bitter enemy, had followed Foghorn closely. Too closely, as it happened. He stumbled over Foghorn, who crashed to the ground with a thump like a tree falling in the forest. Unfortunately, this was not part of the plan because it meant the bullet I’d aimed at Murphy’s midsection flew over his head. Which also meant we lost our critical moment of surprise.
And it meant their thrashing bodies blocked the doorway.
Meanwhile, Neva, silently intense, continued pounding on Foghorn with her nailed club. He bellowed as nails tore through skin and muscle. Blood squirted from his wounds.
“Hands up,” I screamed at Murphy.
What a nonsensical thing to say! Of course, he didn’t obey. He yelled, leapt over Foghorn, and grabbed for me with complete disregard of my pistol.
His mistake this time. Despite my trembling, I didn’t miss again. Well, it would’ve been hard since some part of him was almost pressed against the .32’s barrel.
I pulled the trigger.
He dropped to the ground, at which point Neva, who, in her enthusiasm, had Foghorn subdued, hit Murphy in the behind with her nailed club.
My, my.
What a sight. I wished I had my trusty Kodak camera handy. The table leg, ripped from Neva’s hands and dangling from Murphy’s buttocks, was a vision to behold.
We reigned supreme, Neva and I. For the moment. I feared our dominance wouldn’t last.
I grabbed the girl’s hand. “Come on. Run.”
Suiting action to words, I dodged around the writhing pile the two men made, pulling Neva with me. Foghorn may have been hurt and bewildered by Neva’s whirlwind attack, but he’d soon recover his wits if not his mobility. As for Murphy, I didn’t know if his wound was disabling. A glance over my shoulder as we fled showed him getting to his feet, the table leg still attached. A bit slow, granted, but inexorable.
We burst into sunshine blinding in its intensity after the hours spent in our dim prison. A breeze blew, carrying the sweet smell of freedom. I wanted to scream my euphoria.
My exhilaration ended all too soon. I didn’t, I realized, know where to run.
“Which way?” My head swiveled. We were on a tree-lined lane—a driveway, I guessed, with a gate at the bottom protecting the owner’s privacy. The long drive ran between a stand of golden-leaved sugar maple trees into a wider road, whether a secluded city street, a county road, or the main thoroughfare, I couldn’t say. A red tile roof rose over a cluster of evergreens to the south of us, perhaps a hundred yards away. If we went in the wrong direction, we’d probably end up right at the boss’s front door.
Neva took the lead. “Here. Follow me.”
She ran straight ahead, toward the crossroad, with me on her heels, regardless of the hampering effect of my skirt. I have no idea what made me turn and look over my shoulder. A sixth sense, perhaps? But what I saw made me stumble in a gravel-filled rut in the lane.
Good thing, too. The momentum sent me lurching sideways just as a shot rang out from behind us.
Murphy, one arm hanging from his shoulder like a red rag, was up, the wooden appendage no longer attached to his rear. His pistol leveled as he took careful aim for another shot at us—or not us. At me.
“Duck,” I screamed at Neva. “Run.”
She had the good sense to dash in a zigzag pattern. I followed suit, leaving the road to her and taking the grassy verge for myself. No sense putting us in alignment, especially since Murphy had made me his target.
I felt a tug on my skirt as a bullet passed through the fabric. Terror seized me. He’d have me next time. But I had to prevent a next time.
I stopped. Turned. Lifted the .32 in both hands. Took a deep breath, let half out, held it. Lined the front sight on Murphy’s torso, then raised it just a half a hair’s width. I squeezed the trigger.
Emitting a satisfying yell, he spun away.
Without waiting around to see if I’d made my shot or only scared him, I turned and ran again. Harder. Faster. Panting. Sobbing.
And then we, Neva and I, were at the gate which, as if by magic, swung open as we approached. Another bullet whizzed past my head, telling me Murphy remained in the chase. And then we were through.
“Right,” Neva called out, breathless with effort. “Turn right.”
So I did.
Straight into Gratton Doyle’s arms.
“Oof,” I said as they closed around me.
28
My, but didn’t Murphy get a surprise when he rounded the corner? Much as we had done, he turned right, expecting, I’m sure, to have a clear shot at Neva and me running for our lives. Instead, he met the combined force of Gratton, in the lead and rushing toward the sound of gunfire, with Monk, Porter, and Lorenzo right behind.
I’m happy to say the meeting wasn’t nearly as pleasant for Murphy as it had been for us.
Backing Gratton up was Lorenzo, hollering fit to awaken the ghosts in the cemetery: “That’s him. He’s the one.”
Next came Porter, handing Neva off to her young friend to keep them both out of the way. “I’ve got the sonsa—gun.” Then followed up by getting him.
And Monk, as grim as I’ve ever seen him, who held his old .45 Peacemaker Colt on Murphy in a way that showed he meant business.
Best of all was Gratton, who simply gathered me into the crook of one arm and held me.
Murphy froze, his eyes bugged out like a squashed toad’s.
Turns out the most surprising, maybe even shocking thing—and I’d be hard put to call the surprise pleasant—was the man who stepped from a closed carriage that wheeled up
and parked a few yards away. With Murphy captured, his pistol taken away and everyone else’s holstered, Warren Poole approached and eyed the prisoner with prissy-faced disgust.
“Another piece of the puzzle slips into place,” he said. “This man is Branston’s coachman. He is, I suppose, intent on working a scam of his own.” He puffed a little sigh. “Such a to-do over a horse and a race.”
I made a move, but Grat stilled me. His head made a short motion, one that meant say nothing. Why? Put to the trial once again, I managed to cut off a pithy rebuttal of Poole’s conclusion.
“Your name is Murphy, isn’t it?” Poole questioned the prisoner.
I noticed he kept his distance, leaving the work to the other men, Monk and Porter leading the way since Grat was otherwise occupied. I snuggled closer.
Murphy looked back at Poole. “I need a doctor.”
He looked at me, too. Not much liking it, I slid behind Grat.
“Bitch shot me,” Murphy said as if Poole hadn’t spoken.
“Did she? A lucky hit?” Poole seemed amused.
“Not luck.” I couldn’t stay silent at this slur on my marksmanship, even if he was more than half right. I peeked over Grat’s shoulder. “Accuracy.”
You could’ve knocked me over with the flap of a fan when Poole murmured, “Well done.”
Yes. Well, I thought so.
So did Neva. “Miss Bohannon, she’s the one got the idea to use the plate for a saw, and the table leg for a club. Left the nails in it too. So now that other one, he’s bleeding like a throat-cut hog.”
We grinned at each other, even as the men scratched their heads, metaphorically speaking. I guess what she said didn’t make much sense, taken out of context. Well, they’d soon understand.
“Other one?” Monk her asked after a moment.
“Yes.” I answered for her. “A very large man who seems to like brandishing his knife at people. The very one who ambushed you, Gratton, if I’m not mistaken. And the same man who accosted me the other day, whom Mrs. Flynn foiled. You remember Mrs. Flynn from the café, don’t you?”
Four Furlongs Page 22
