I didn't know what to say. It certainly looked like a million-dollar injury. If that bear had really denied the charge, he must have been lying.
“Satisfied now, Mr. Born-on-a-Mountaintop?” Smalley shoved his chin at me again. “Let's finish this.”
A fine idea, Davy said. Tell these varmints you've solved the case.
Huh?
Are you deaf? Tell Garrett his troubles are done. With one provision. The bear goes free.
Free? You mean he gets to live?
Hell, son, this ain't living. He goes back to the woods, where a bear belongs.
That's crazy. But even if Garrett agreed, what's this supposed solution?
Wheel the deal. I'll guide you from there.
To kill time, I strolled over to the cage fence, hoisted my foot on the bottom rung and pretended to tie my shoe. I plumbed my brain, trying to fathom what Davy was up to.
No way, I answered at last. I think you're bluffing.
If Garrett ain't pleased as a pig in a tater patch, Davy said, I won't speak to you for a month.
A month to myself! It sounded fantastic. But still . . .
Make it two. Or no-go.
Thickheaded as a mule, and twice as ornery. All right, then. Two.
I straightened my shoulders and strode back to Linda. Looking as confident as I was able, I swept my gaze over the group and said my piece.
Linda's jaw dropped. Smalley sneered.
Garrett sputtered like a plugged faucet. “Set him free? It can't be done. That animal has been in captivity since birth. He wouldn't last two weeks in the wild.”
Davy growled.
Assistant keeper Daniels spoke up. “How about a wildlife refuge? He'd roam more or less free, with food and medical care provided.”
Garrett stroked his chin. “There are such places. But now that he's attacked a human, none would touch him.”
“They would if he was framed.” I ignored the others’ gasps and bore down on Garrett. “Promise you'll let him go?”
Garrett eyes shifted from me to Smalley and back, finding neither prospect agreeable. “This is preposterous. If, if, if. But certainly. Why not. What's this so-called solution?”
Tell them, Davy said, you're going to fetch the weapon.
What weapon?
Tell them.
I shook my head, feeling more foolish all the time. If this played out as I feared, I'd be laughed out of the state house, and likely my law practice as well. But I'd come this far. I told them.
More eyes rolled. Heads swung in various directions, as if seeking confirmation they'd heard me right.
Garrett was the first to explode. “Weapon? There was no damned weapon!”
That pathway to your right, Davy said, take it.
I peered in that direction. A paved walk led off toward the elephant house. With a shrug, I took a step toward it.
Tom Smalley leapt into my path. He balled his right fist and waived it close to my nose. “Damn you, Crockett! What are you and this Carruthers bitch trying to pull? Settle with me now or it'll be two million.”
I stepped back, removed my suit jacket and handed it to Linda. Keeping my eyes on Smalley, I loosened my tie and rolled up my shirtsleeves.
“I'd advise you to get out of my way.”
“The hell I will.” Smalley's eyes were mean and hard. “I can whip you one handed.”
Smalley reared back for a punch, but the lawyer caught his arm in both hands. “Thomas. Back off now! This yokel is trying to provoke you.”
Smalley cursed, shook free, and spun away. “I'm out of here.” Backing toward the exit, he leveled a finger at his attorney. “But you keep an eye on that bastard, or I'll sue you too.” And with that he was gone.
I swept the group with a last look. Finding no further opposition, I started off, still feeling foolish. I had no clue what Davy was up to.
Fifty feet up the walk I heard footsteps behind me. Then Linda's breathy voice. “David. Wait.”
Keep a-marchin', boy.
“Can't stop now,” I told Linda. “But you're welcome to join me.”
She fell in beside me. “I want to help. I saw something suspicious out here shortly after the attack, but didn't connect it until now. I can lead you to the spot.”
“I'd be mighty grateful,” I said, and meant it. At least one of us would know where we were going.
Side by side, we legged it past the elephant area, and the scent was still strong fifty yards later when Linda indicated a faint footpath leading off into the woods. “Right here. I saw someone leave the walk, but it was too dark to tell who. He seemed to be carrying something, though.”
“He?”
“Well, whoever. I had the impression it was a man.”
I stopped and squinted into the woods, awaiting confirmation from Davy.
Can't live with me, he said, can't live without me.
Gritting my teeth, I took Linda's hand and ducked into the cool shade of the trees. “How much farther to this spot?”
“I don't know,” she said, her voice quite loud. “It could be anywhere along here.”
Duck!
Knowing Davy, he could have spotted a duck and wanted me to chase it, but I played it safe and dropped to my knees, taking Linda with me.
She bit off a protest as a dark shape charged from the brush, slammed into my hunched shoulder and crashed into the bushes on the other side of the path. Without Davy's warning, I'd have been knocked flat.
Linda clung to my arm like it was a life preserver. I turned to make sure she was all right, and it was only Davy's shout of Look out! that saved me from another charge.
I whirled to see Tom Smalley hurtling toward me. Surging to my feet, I slipped Linda's grasp and hammered a forearm into his jaw. He staggered, nearly going down, and I would have been on him but Linda sprang onto me like a bareback rider, pinning my arms to my sides. Her legs wrapped around mine, forcing me nearly to my knees.
Finding his balance, Smalley came at me again. This time, a stray beam of sunlight glinted on something sharp and clawlike in his hand. Screaming toward my face were the three metal tines of a hand rake. I crossed my feet, spinning my weight around, and my left ear filled with a horrid scream.
Linda's grip went slack. I pivoted back, shaking her free, and delivered a roundhouse right to Smalley's Adam's apple. With a gurgling cry, he smashed into a tree and collapsed in a heap.
I stood with clenched fists, dreading what lay behind me. After a moment I heard a soft whimper, and turned. Linda Carruthers crouched on her knees, lovely as ever but for the three jagged lines the garden rake had carved into her face.
* * * *
Next morning at the office, Oscar was all smiles. “Garrett called. The old buzzard is ecstatic. He's cutting us a check for your services, plus a thousand dollar bonus, plus lifetime passes to the zoo. And he's already found a wildlife refuge eager to take the bear. How'd Davy figure out Smalley and Carruthers were in cahoots?”
“What makes you think it was Davy?”
He arched his eyebrows and smirked. “Who else could turn a sow's ear into a silk purse in forty-five minutes flat?”
I rubbed my shoulder. I was still sore from where Smalley had plowed into me. And Oscar was making me sorer. I opened the newspaper to the comics and turned away.
“C'mon, Dave. Give. How did he know? Some old bear hunter's trick?”
“He heard it from a squirrel.”
Oscar laughed. “I should have guessed. Well, tell the old coot it was a job well done. I'm off to Starbucks. What can I bring you?”
“Mexican mocha,” I said, just to annoy Davy. “With extra cinnamon.” To him, anything beyond black is extravagant.
With Oscar gone, I dropped the paper and sulked.
So how did you figure it?
Well, first off, there was the bear. He knew Smalley was a scoundrel, but was too smart to attack the jasper who brought him food.
He told you that, eh?
You goin’
wiggy on me, boy? You think bears can talk?
Humph.
And those pictures the shyster showed you. Pshaw, no bear in all creation could make a wound that neat.
I couldn't stand it. I went back to the funnies.
Then there was that Carruthers female. Durn near fainted when she heard Smalley had been sniffing around Garrett's daughter. Didn't you catch that?
I massaged my temples, wishing he would stop.
And that peachy perfume of hers. It was all over Smalley too. Ye Gods, what do think your smeller's for?
I flipped on the radio, hoping the music would drown him out.
And when you spouted off about the weapon, both of ‘em gawked up that walk past the elephants. Had to be up there somewheres.
For a moment he was quiet, allowing me to do some thinking on my own. Are you telling me you had no idea where that garden rake was hidden?
Well, I knew they knew.
So you sent me there as bait, knowing Smalley and Linda would try to kill me.
I'll be hanged, son. There may be hope for you yet.
Copyright © 2012 Evan Lewis
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Fiction: CARRY-ON
by Wayne J. Gardiner
Pick up the wrong bag at the airport, accidentally (not always a given in this day and age), and you can understand a certain level of annoyance, aggravation, even downright hostility from those left “holding the bag” so to speak. In this case, someone else's, not their own. It's also reasonable to understand that the discontent of the aggrieved party might be even greater if this were to occur in the middle of the night and the other party (Jerry, in this case) had already left the airport with the bag in tow.
Jerry would probably understand all this if he knew he'd taken the wrong bag. He's not an unreasonable man.
What he wouldn't expect is getting involved with a mob enforcer as a result.
None of this would have happened if the flight hadn't been late, Jerry in a big hurry to get home.
Or if the eagle-eyed woman scrutinizing the carry-on luggage in the Jetway hadn't been such a tight ass, telling him he'd have to check his bag.
Jerry giving her his best smile, looking helpless, looking for some sympathy. Jerry's a big man, former linebacker at Iowa State and just as trim these fifteen years later. Prone to be a smart ass, Jerry doesn't lack for confidence, but his instincts are telling him a humble approach will serve him better in this situation.
“I'm pretty sure I can get it in the overhead.” A meek smile, wouldn't want to put you out, but . . .
“You'll have to check it.”
A bag he's carried on board at least twenty times.
“I've carried this bag on board at least fifty times,” Jerry says, the smile strained now.
“You've had a pretty good run then,” she retorts. “Next.” Taking his bag and tagging it, giving him the stub before he can think of a comeback that would be moderately insulting without getting him kicked off the plane.
He thinks about it while they're in the air, him in coach, the bag in cargo, but still nothing comes to him. He puts his head back on the seat and listens to the drone of the engines and lets it go. He's asleep inside a minute.
And before you know it, they've arrived in Chicago, the shuffling disgorgement down the Jetway and into the terminal.
Then the race to the baggage claim. Then twenty minute wait for the first bag to be spit up by the underground conveyor.
There it is, finally. Jerry snatches the small black bag that looks just like a hundred others that will eventually pass in review before the now impatient assemblage.
There's a sign right there, reminding those who may not have had occasion to consider it, that many bags look alike. Asking that you be certain to claim the right one. Respectfully suggesting that you check the ID tag.
Instead, Jerry checks his watch, hoping to get home before three o'clock, thinking he doesn't get paid enough to have to go through aggravations like this.
The bag, Jerry notices, seems to roll easier than he remembered. Probably that locked up left wheel, finally loosening up.
It's late, almost two in the morning, but Jerry decides to stop at the office to drop off the file he has in his briefcase (at least the Nazi in the Jetway let him carry that onboard). Bert will want to see it first thing in the morning and Jerry intends to sleep in. He leaves the bag at the office too. The only things in there are a few papers, his workout gear, a clean shirt and his extra shaving kit. He'll have it right there in the morning, take it to the gym, save hauling it back and forth. Turning the lights out and heading for home.
* * * *
At O'Hare Airport there is only one irritated man left at the baggage carousel, a big man named Ed (just as big as Jerry, but tougher and a lot meaner) in a gray Brooks Brothers suit that fits perfectly across his broad shoulders. He watches the lone bag on the carousel go around once more. Finally resigned to the fact that more bags will not be forthcoming, he snatches it up and looks at the ID. Jerry Dunning . . . lives in Crystal Lake.
Damn tight-assed broad at the Jetway had made him check the bag. He hadn't said anything when she'd made him check it. What could he say? I'm sorry, Ma'am, I can't check a bag that happens to contain five hundred thousand dollars in stolen property.
She grabbed it, tagged it, gave him the claim check, and was on to the next person as he was being carried with the flow down the Jetway thinking about what he could have said.
Calming down as he took his seat in first class, no big deal, how often does the airlines actually lose a bag?
He looks at the claim ticket again, then at the name on the bag, and though he wishes there were some other course of action, he knows he has to take a trip, right now, out to Crystal Lake, another forty miles northwest of O'Hare. Say hello to this guy Jerry Dunning, ask him did he accidentally pick up the wrong bag.
They don't pay me enough for this kind of aggravation, thinks Ed.
* * * *
Jerry's not crazy about his job. If he hadn't blown out his knee against Nebraska, he'd probably be playing for the Packers or Bears right now. He's rooted fiercely against the Cornhuskers in every single game since that fateful injury. Still, they manage to kick Iowa State's butt every year.
Instead of basking in the NFL limelight, Jerry is a gofer for the law firm of Brackman & Sons, LLC.
That's Jerry's interpretation of his duties at Brackman, not the official job description.
He's a private investigator for the company. Trails wayward housewives and unfaithful husbands mostly. He's just coming back from a successful surveillance in Omaha. Got the guy dead to rights, including a photo of the two of them entering room twenty-two in a local hot-sheet motel, then a tape recording of the rather animated encounter as heard through the paper-thin walls of the next unit. Jerry thinking if he had more time, he wouldn't mind looking up this energetic woman himself.
When he finally drops the bag in his office in Park Ridge, it's already two-thirty. Julie lives in Palatine. Why not just stop there, spend the night, give her a big surprise.
* * * *
It doesn't take Ed long to see that there's no security at this Jerry Dunning's place, a ticky-tack condo across from a strip mall. He'd expected to find better here in Crystal Lake.
The lock is no challenge, he's inside the place in a half minute . . . quietly . . . it looks like a typical two bedroom. The first one he comes to has been made into an office of sorts. The master bedroom must be in the back.
Ed is extremely cautious . . . careful. He's done this before. He's good at it.
The bedroom is empty.
Ed checks his watch. Three in the morning.
Maybe the guy had to stop somewhere. Ed eases himself into the chair in the bedroom, lights still off, but the light falling through the window from the corner street lamp letting him see everything he needs to.
He'll give the guy another two hours.
; * * * *
At five, Ed decides Jerry is a no-show, turns on the lights, goes through the place. Finds Jerry's work address at Brackman & Sons, down in Park Ridge, only fifteen minutes from O'Hare, where he'd been four hours ago.
Oh, well.
The only thing he can do now is go to Park Ridge, see if Jerry stopped in the office and left a bag there.
Ed is not a man easily deterred.
* * * *
It's slightly more challenging getting into the law offices of Brackman & Sons, but Ed has a knack for this kind of thing.
He's in there, just beginning to check things out, when he hears the office door rattle, and instinctively he jumps into the closet, leaving the door ajar, just an inch or so.
The cleaning lady.
Ed hopes she's not efficient enough to do the closets every night.
He settles against the back wall of the closet, feet stretched out comfortably. The hum of the vacuum almost pleasant in the background.
It's been a long, trying day for Ed.
He's never been a nervous type.
He's asleep in two minutes.
* * * *
It's the smell of coffee that finally rouses Ed, now sprawled full length on the closet floor, surprised to find himself there, taking a moment to get his bearings before the unfortunate sequence of last night's events comes washing back over him. Even more surprised to look at his watch and discover that it's ten-fifteen in the morning.
The sound of office noises in the background . . . phones ringing, Xerox machine clicking out copies, a hum of conversation, the occasional laugh.
Ed pulling himself back into a sitting position, thinking the situation over, then deciding, what the hell, opening the door and stepping out into the office.
A nice office, good sized, well furnished, the muted sounds he'd heard from outside the office muffled by the closed door.
There's a sink in one corner. Ed splashes water on his face, blots it with paper towels, runs a comb through his hair, checking himself out in the mirror.
Easing into one of the big chairs in front of the desk, considering what to do next, when he sees the bag, right there on the right side of the desk where the man must have left it, in plain sight, snuggled up against the side of the desk so that you didn't notice it at first glance.
AHMM, May 2012 Page 12
