Stunner

by Niki Danforth

  “Mother f—er.” Joe slams through the door to the coop—uh, I mean loft—making a racket as he strides to our pen. I shield Francesca with my body, and I feel her shaking.

  Joe Taylor peers in, and a look of recognition comes over his face as he stares at me. “You! What are you doing here?” He notices Francesca’s arms grabbing mine even though she hides behind me. “How the hell are you connected to the girl?”

  Bobby stares at me and then at Joe. “You know her?”

  “Mrs. Ronnie Lake.” Joe shakes his head at me. “I knew something was off when you came to my office saying you were from that foundation wanting to give my program money.”

  “I am on the board of that foundation,” I insist. “Although, if you’re involved in this kidnapping, I would imagine your chances aren’t great to get our approval—”

  “Shut the f— up,” Joe yells at me. “Come on, Bobby. This changes everything. I need to get some air and think about what to do.” He drags his brother outside with him.

  “Joe, we can still get the twenty-five thousand. Teresa said she’ll have it in a little while.”

  “Bobby, shut up. I need to figure this out.” I hear feet pacing back and forth.

  “Joe,” Bobby whines. “When do you need the money for the deal with Eddie? Isn’t the shipment coming in soon—”

  “Shut up. I’m thinking.”

  While Joe and Bobby think, I pull from my pocket the little Swiss army knife—thank god that tattooed dimwit didn’t decide to check us for weapons back at the motel—and I stretch it through the narrowly spaced slats at the top of the pen door. I try repeatedly to catch the rope that’s looped over the hook, holding the door closed.

  After a half-dozen tries, I snag the rope and carefully saw the knife back and forth against the loop. It’s slow going and on one of my passes, I drop the rope.

  Nothing else to do but try again. I’m getting better at it with my knife and hook it after three tries this time. I start up the sawing again in the deep cut I’ve already made in the rope. Back and forth I continue.

  “Joe what do we do?” Bobby sounds nervous. “This is our chance to be part of some really big money—”

  His brother’s answer is too quiet to understand. I continue with the knife. Back and forth. Almost got it.

  Just as the rope loop gives way with a quiet snap, I hear a door creak open. Is it the same one we used to get to the roof? I signal Francesca to stay quiet, as I carefully open the door to the pen that holds us. We tiptoe down the corridor of the loft.

  I can hear commotion on the roof outside the shed. “What the f—? Teresa, is that really you?” Joe laughs. “My, my, you’ve come a long way since we were kids. Just look at you now,” he says in a scornful tone. “How did you know to come here? And who’s this guy with you?”

  The pigeons act up, flying in their pens and cooing. I peek through a crack in the door and see Juliana and Frank side by side facing Joe and Bobby. Francesca crouches low, so that she can get a look-see, too.

  “Joe, this is my friend, Frank, and he brought me the rest of the money that Bobby asked for, so that we can pick up Francesca,” Juliana tells him. “Where is she? Is she all right?”

  “Whoa, Teresa,” Joe says and pulls a small revolver from the pocket of his khakis. “…all these people in the know about this transaction. It was just supposed to be you and Bobby. And now, goddammit, Bobby, because, you f—ed up and brought everybody here to my pigeon loft, I got sucked in.”

  “What do you mean, Joe?” Juliana asks. “It’s just the three of us and my friend who brought the money so we can make the trade for Francesca. No need for guns or for anyone to get hurt. Please put the gun away.”

  Joe motions with his gun and glances toward the loft. “What about the broad back in the pen with the girl?” As he takes his eye off Juliana and my brother, Frank lunges toward Joe to grab the handgun.

  But Frank isn’t fast enough, and Joe swings his revolver toward him to take a shot. Juliana screams, “Nooooo,” and throws her body between Frank and Joe. The gun fires; the shot hits Juliana close range in the chest as she’s midway through her air dive to protect my brother. She cries out and crumples to the ground onto her side in a heap. Her head hits the ground last, whiplashing hard against the asphalt of the flat roof.

  Next to me, I hear Francesca’s quick intake of breath.

  Everything stops, and Joe, Bobby, and Frank stare in shock at Juliana’s very still body. Francesca and I freeze, too, as we watch blood quickly stain the back of Juliana’s top—which means, I pray, that the bullet is a through-and-through injury, and it’s not lodged inside of her.

  The passage of time since the shot rang out feels like an eternity, but in reality only seconds have gone by.

  First, Bobby breaks the silence, yelling at his brother. “Joe, you said nobody would get hurt—”

  “Shut up, you worthless piece of shit” Joe yells back.

  Frank hastens to Juliana, and then all hell breaks loose.

  Will Benson, with his .45 caliber Glock sidearm drawn, explodes through the door from the same stairway we walked up earlier. As Joe swings his weapon toward Will to shoot, Will fires his powerful semi-automatic pistol first and hits Joe in the shoulder. The force of the shot hitting Joe causes his revolver to fly from his hand as he grunts and topples over.

  Will runs across the roof to kick Joe’s gun out of reach with his foot and secure Joe’s wrists with handcuffs to a metal pipe, checking him also for other weapons. Will then retrieves Joe’s revolver.

  During all this commotion, Francesca moves past me to push open the loft door. She dashes toward Juliana in sheer panic. When she passes Bobby, he grabs her, throws her over his shoulder and makes a run for another door on the other end of the roof. But Francesca kicks with her feet and pounds at Bobby with her fists, trying to wriggle loose. As I scramble into the open, I hear a familiar barking somewhere downstairs. Somehow, I’m certain that dog is Warrior.

  I race after Bobby and reach for Francesca’s outstretched arms. We connect and hold onto each other as I try to slow Bobby down. He stops suddenly, whips his body around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, and that breaks the connection between the girl and me.

  Even with Francesca now pulling his ears and hair, Bobby manages to take one of his arms and slam his fist into my face, well, my right eye, to be more exact. Whap! I drop like a stone, grunting from the pain, which shoots through my entire face.

  That’s when Warrior comes charging through the open rooftop door and sees me in distress. The decibel level of his barking skyrockets—it’s music to my ears—and he runs straight for Bobby and attacks. He clamps his canine jaws onto Bobby’s calf, tearing his jeans and biting as hard as he can to slow Bobby down. Bobby screams, releasing his grip on Francesca as he swats at Warrior. Francesca drops and rolls out of the way.

  Bobby loses his balance and crashes to the rooftop, his gun falling out of his waistband and clattering across the ground beyond his reach. Warrior never lets go of Bobby’s calf, as the thug howls and tries to crawl toward the other roof door to escape.

  I see Francesca dig the pepper spray out of her pocket and run over to Bobby—who doesn’t notice her because he’s in a world of hurt, trying to shake loose from Warrior. Francesca gets low to where Bobby is, swings around the front of him, and presses the button on the canister, aiming for his eyes. Pssst!

  He howls and his hands go straight to his face. “That’s for my mom,” Francesca says in a strong voice, and squirts the pepper spray again, this time at his nose and mouth, holding the button down until the can is empty. Pssssst! “That’s for my Tía Connie!”

  In a fit of coughing and gulping for air, Bobby manages to gasp out some words. “I, I c—, c—, can’t breathe…”

  “Thank you, young lady,” Will says to Francesca, and he picks up Bobby’s gun. I call off Warrior, who releases Bobby’s bleeding calf and then trots over to me.

  Grabbing a TV cable he spots
nearby on the ground, Will quickly uses it to tie Bobby’s wrists to a different metal pipe from where Joe is handcuffed. Will also checks Bobby for other weapons.

  During all of this, Francesca goes very still—she’s stunned, scared, and horrified, all at the same time. Her eyes brim with tears as she looks toward Juliana, who lies almost face down on her side and doesn’t move. The child bolts over to Frank—he’s beside Juliana and on the phone with 911.

  Juliana’s hair fans over one side of her face like a curtain, obscuring her features, and Francesca gently brushes it back off her face.

  Even though I see stars from Bobby’s blow, I try to look clearly in Juliana and Frank’s direction, and I, also, feel Francesca’s fear…until I finally see Juliana move and hear her moan. As I stumble and make my way over to them with Warrior, I let out a sigh of relief that she’s alive. Frank, talking with the 911 operator, discusses Juliana’s wounds—whether she may have a collapsed lung and possible concussion—and what to do about the bleeding until the ambulance arrives.

  My head pounding from Bobby’s wallop to my eye, I kneel down next to Juliana. My brother presses on her wound on the right side of her chest with his wadded up handkerchief. Its white fabric is rapidly turning red, and the exit wound on her back continues to bleed as well.

  Frank looks at me with concern and then glances around for something else to add to his handkerchief-compress and to also make a new one for the wound on her back. He notices the baggy tee-shirt Francesca has on over her own clothes, the one from the motel room and motions for her to take it off. I give him my little Swiss army knife to help him tear the shirt in half.

  While Francesca pulls off the tee-shirt and gives it to Frank, I gently squeeze Juliana’s arm. “You are one brave lady.”

  Her eyes flicker up at me; she’s understandably dazed. “What do you mean?” Her voice is soft, hard to hear.

  I lean in. “You know, taking that bullet for my brother.”

  “Ronnie,” she whispers. “Thank you, Ronnie, for protecting my Francesca…”

  “Frankie’s right here, Jules,” Frank interjects and guides Francesca into Juliana’s line of sight. “See. She’s just fine. Now you have to stay quiet until the ambulance arrives.”

  “Hey, I’m bleeding,” Bobby whines, pulling against the pipe and his ties. “I need help. My leg…I need a doctor.”

  “Shut up, Bobby,” his brother barks. “We’re all bleeding. Just shut up, you pathetic bag of shit.” And he continues with a long string of obscenities that he hurls at all of us.

  “That’s enough, you two,” Will says. “Quiet, or I’ll gag you.” The Taylor brothers settle down, even though I hear a continuing buzz of muttering coming from them.

  Warrior rubs his head against my arm, and Will, now by my side, gently pulls me away. “Let’s give your brother and Juliana some space.”

  We move off, and my private eye carefully examines my face. “Your dog must have squirmed through one of the partially opened windows in the Toyota that Juliana drove over from the motel,” Will says. “Guess Warrior knew you were up here and couldn’t stay away.”

  I hear the sound of sirens getting closer. “Guess so, P.I. Benson, just like you.”

  “Yeah, well, I did as you instructed in your voicemail,” Will says. “I called your brother, who was ahead of me on his way to Moosic. He gave me this location. Now that I have plenty of experience with your M.O., you know, bull-in-a-china-shop, I came as fast as I could.”

  “M.O.? Is that detective talk?” I ask.

  “Modus operandi or method of operation. You know, M.O.,” he says. “Ronnie Lake, if you plan to do more detective work, you need to learn the lingo.” He grins. It’s a gorgeous smile.

  I try to smile back, but smiles aren’t part of my repertoire at the moment, since my face feels as though I ran into a wall. I groan just a little.

  “That’s one big shiner you can expect to have, Mrs. Lake.” He tilts my chin to look more closely at my eye while we wait for the police and ambulance to arrive. “You’re going to end up with a huge black eye in the next couple of days.”

  I throw my arms around him, relieved and happy he’s here beside me. My future shiner looks straight into his piercing baby blues. “Will Benson, you are a sight for sore eyes.”

  Epilogue

  One month later

  The sound of laughter comes in through the open window of my master bedroom. It’s the Lattimore children, whose parents rent my big house. They ride their bikes on the dirt road that passes my cottage, and their laughter sounds innocent and carefree, so much so that I step to the window for a look. Too late—I can only hear their high spirits as they reach the end of my drive, turn around and come back, and then I finally see all five of them ride by as they gleefully pedal back to the big house.

  Warrior whines. I look at him curled up on his dog nest near my nightstand, and the minute we make eye contact, his tail begins to thump the floor.

  My walking toward him causes his tail to pound faster, and I give the command, “Open, Sesame.” Sure enough, his back leg pops up revealing his tummy.

  “Good Open Sesame, Warrior.” I kneel down and lightly massage his soft stomach. He rolls completely onto his back, goes into a full body stretch and makes a noise that can only mean pure bliss.

  I laugh and glance around the room while continuing his tummy rub, my gaze landing on the framed photograph that sits on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. It’s the one of my oldest brother, Peter, with his wife and their boys, Petey, Ben, Tim and Jimmy. I feel the usual emotional stab go through my core.

  Enough of that. I stand up. This is supposed to be a happy day. I walk to the bookcase and grab the picture. It was my oldest brother who chose years ago to acquiesce to his wife’s wishes, which resulted in Peter’s divorcing himself from our family. I refuse to pine any longer for what isn’t there. I head straight for a closet filled with linens, where I step onto a footstool. Reaching up to the top shelf on my tiptoes, I shove the photo under a pile of blankets and pillows. Then I hop down and close the door firmly.

  “Come on, Warrior. We’re due for family lunch. Let’s go.”

  ~~~~~

  We’ve finished Rita’s amazing gazpacho and her delicious spinach salad—almost all the ingredients for both are fresh from the farmers market. Nine of us are spread around the side terrace at Meadow Farm perched on various pieces of lawn furniture, as Rita serves slices of peach pie—straight from the oven—with scoops of vanilla ice cream.

  Laura is in the midst of a chess game at a small table with her father. Frank makes a move, and she throws her hands in the air. “Whoa, Daddy. OK, now I think I’m in trouble.” He chuckles.

  My nephew, Richard, is sprawled in a chaise with his arms wrapped around wife, Susie. “Hey, Sis, need some help?” he asks.

  “Did you hear anyone say checkmate? This game is far from over,” Laura fires back. “Susie, please keep the peanut gallery quiet over there.”

  “You tell him,” Susie says to Laura, but grinning at her husband.

  My daughter, Brooke, comes through the French doors with pitchers of iced tea and lemonade and Warrior following her. She circles around the terrace offering refills. Juliana, reclining in the other chaise, reaches her glass forward and smiles when Brooke gets to her. “Iced tea, please.” Warrior nuzzles Juliana’s leg and then plops down next to her.

  “Juliana, are you OK?” Brooke pours the iced tea into Juliana’s glass. “You just take it easy,” my daughter coos. “May I get you anything else?”

  “Appreciate it, Brooke, but I’m not an invalid,” Juliana says. “The doctor told me yesterday that my lung and two ribs have healed, and my concussion was minor. So I’m good as new.”

  “Yes, the doctor did say that.” My brother looks up from the chess board. “He also said that had you been a second faster diving between the bullet and me, well, you wouldn’t—” Frank stops himself, swallows and looks at Juliana. “Well, that our story w
ould not have had a happy ending.”

  “Don’t rush it, Juliana.” Will gathers up empty soup bowls and salad plates, stacking them on a tray. “I once had a gunshot wound similar to yours—”

  I look at Will with surprise, and he says, “—from a tour of duty in Iraq years ago. Calm down, Ronnie. You don’t know everything about me.” He smiles, and his blue eyes crinkle at the corners—it’s a look that melts me every time.

  “Anyway, Juliana,” he says. “It took longer to heal than I expected, so take it easy.” Will and I haven’t made up our minds about where our relationship might go. Doesn’t mean something won’t happen, but at the moment we’re flirtatious friends who enjoy spending time, a lot of time, together.

  My thoughts are interrupted as the French doors fling open, and a gangly dark-haired girl comes bursting through. Francesca rushes over to Laura and gazes at my niece as if she’s the coolest girl on the planet. “I love, love, love my room, Laura, and that it used to be yours, ’cause that makes it the best room in the house. Thank you for letting me have it.” Even though Laura sits at the table with the chess board, Frankie hugs her plus the back of Laura’s chair from behind all at the same time.

  “Yeah, well, I’m leaving for Australia in a couple of days, and once I’m home I’ll probably be living in the city with Brooke.” My daughter arches her brows in surprise at this news from her cousin. “Well, most likely…or maybe,” Laura says, adjusting her response. “So, Frankie, you may as well have that bedroom. Aunt Ronnie had it first when she grew up here, and she kind of passed it on to me, and now I’m giving it to you.” They giggle together.

  “Where’s Tía Connie?” Juliana asks.

  “She’s unpacking her suitcases in her room and also helping me unpack in mine,” Frankie answers.

  “And why are you not upstairs helping her?” Juliana asks.

  “I was until I smelled peach pie through the window.” Frankie dashes over to Meadow Farm’s housekeeper. “I know I only ate a little of the salad, but Tía Connie finished mine after she ate hers, so I didn’t waste it. Please, is there any pie left?”