Grim Reaper's Dance, The

by Judy Clemens

  “Come on, over here, this way. Somebody put that screen back. Close the window.” Who was that? Someone else talking quietly, so quietly Casey almost couldn’t hear it.

  Around the old wooden trailer they carried her, lit only by the lights from the front parking lot. Faces anxious, jaws clenched as they hurried next door, through the loading dock for the big box store, toward Old Navy, to a covered pickup truck, onto the bed, under a cap, where blankets lined the floor, and people lined the sides of the truck.

  The tailgate squealed as someone pulled it up, and Davey knocked gently on the truck’s back window. They started to move. Casey looked up into another kid’s face. What was her name? The girl held a cool cloth to Casey’s swollen face.

  “We’ve got you, Casey. We’ve got you now. Everything’s okay.”

  Casey did her best to believe her.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “I think she’s waking up.”

  Casey blinked up into Bailey’s face. Bailey’s bloodshot eyes were ringed black with smeared mascara and eyeliner, and her hair stuck up in all directions. “Casey, it’s me. Bailey. We got you out. You’re okay.”

  Okay was a relative term. She knew she was okay in that she was alive—for the moment. The fact that she hadn’t died of internal bleeding yet gave her hope that she wasn’t going to. But she knew they all weren’t okay in that Yonkers and the rest of those men would be hunting them down. If that band of dangerous dimwits could find her.

  “Who got me out?” Casey managed to say.

  “The five of us. Well, and a couple more people. Davey and Wendell.”

  The two men stood so she could she them. “But how…?”

  “My phone.” Terry stood at her feet. “It was Sheryl’s idea. We looked at everybody you’d called, or who’d called you. We found Mr. Wainwright, and he called Mr. Harmon.”

  “What about…cops?”

  Everyone shuffled their feet and looked around at each other. “You didn’t seem real keen on cops,” Davey said. “The kids called them to the pizza shop, but then the men took you away, and when it came down to finding you, we figured we’d do it ourselves without involving police. Thought you’d want it that way.”

  Casey gave a little laugh. She’d risked all of their lives, and here they were, risking their lives again. For her. “But how did you find me? I didn’t tell any of you where I was going.”

  Davey frowned. “Wish you would’ve. But I called Tom. He said you’d been asking about somebody named Willie Yonkers, so we looked him up. Figured you might be with him. We checked his house first, but it was completely dark. Went to his business next. We just got lucky.”

  She was the one who’d gotten lucky. But the kids… “He didn’t see you at his house?”

  “No.” Wendell. “We staked it out from down the road.”

  “And Terry and Sheryl went for a walk past it.” Bailey smiled. “They look the most normal of any of us.”

  “Hey!” Martin said.

  “The house was totally dark,” Sheryl said. “Kinda creepy, like nobody lives there.”

  “His office,” Casey said. “The information is there.”

  “What information?” Davey sounded exasperated. “You won’t tell anybody what information!”

  “About the trucks.”

  “The trucks. You mean the truck? The one Evan died in? Or trucks as in the ones you were asking Tom about?”

  “Those. Tom’s.”

  “Class A Trucking?”

  “No. That’s legit. For the flower place.”

  “Class A is legit?” Davey sounded surprised.

  “But he uses them. The truckers. They do other jobs. Makes it look like they’re from other companies. Falsifies paperwork.”

  “But for what?”

  “Stealing loads and reselling them. He thinks he’s going to make enough money to save his business. The rest of the guys think they’re making money to get rich.” Casey was tired of talking up at faces and tried to sit up. Martin and Bailey rushed to help, pulling her arms, and Sheryl shoved something soft behind her back. When the waves of pain passed, Casey asked, “Where are we?”

  Davey grinned. “Work.”

  Casey looked around. Of course. The trailer at his scrap yard. “But they know about this place.”

  Bailey frowned. “Where else could we go? They’ve been to the shed, my parents are home…”

  Casey closed her eyes and let her head fall forward. “I need…painkillers.”

  Sheryl rifled around in her purse and thrust two pills under Casey’s face, along with a glass of water. “Tylenol with codeine. I took them when I got my wisdom teeth out.”

  “I told them you need a doctor.” Johnny spoke from behind everyone else, and he shoved through to see her. “You don’t look…well, you look bad. My dad could…it’s my fault.” He ducked his head.

  Casey declined the pills, taking two Extra-Strength Tylenol Davey found in his first aid kit, instead. “I’ll make you a deal, Johnny.”

  He looked up.

  “You stop blaming yourself. That’s the first thing.”

  His mouth twitched.

  “The second is that if we can get Yonkers…if we know you all are safe…I’ll go see your dad.”

  His lips tightened. “We could just take you there.”

  “You could try.”

  His mouth fell open slightly, and his eyebrows rose. “You mean you would fight us—”

  “I’m going to get you safe, Johnny. Whatever it takes.”

  Bailey pushed Johnny to the side to get in-between him and Casey. “She’s not going to fight us, Johnny. Don’t be an idiot.”

  His face clouded.

  “Oh, good grief,” Bailey said. “I didn’t mean it. It’s just the way we talk to each other. Friends do that.”

  He looked at her, clearly not sure what to believe.

  Martin punched his shoulder. “Come on, man. Lighten up. She called me a moron just yesterday.”

  Sheryl grunted. “And she called me a—”

  “We need to get out of here,” Casey said. “Before they show up.”

  “And go where?” Bailey seemed relieved to change the subject.

  Casey clenched her jaw. “To get Yonkers, where else?”

  “I don’t know…” She heard the doubt in Bailey’s voice.

  “Give me a minute,” Casey said. “ A few minutes. Okay?”

  Gradually the pain medication went into effect, morphing the shooting pains into dull aches, but Casey’s head felt like it was wrapped in a huge transparent cotton ball. Her hearing was still off, and everything moved just a bit in slow motion. Bailey and Sheryl gently swabbed her face with cool cloths and alcohol—a can of beer they’d found in the back of the office fridge. The beer stung like everything, and stank, but at least it cleaned out the wounds. Casey held an ice pack over her eye and the left side of her face, and tried to stay present in the room.

  Wendell didn’t like any part of the plan, vague as it was. “You really shouldn’t be going anywhere, least of all to confront a criminal. Look at you.”

  “I’d rather not. Look at myself, I mean. As for going anywhere—I’m not sending you folks out to do my dirty work.”

  “But why is it yours?” Martin got up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of Davey’s desk. “This isn’t really your problem, is it?”

  “Told you so.” Death was back, leaning against the doorway. “You always get into messes that aren’t your problem.”

  “I’ve made it my problem,” Casey said. “And dragged you all into it. I need to end it—to bring Willie Yonkers and his guys into the open. Otherwise we’re all in danger. They’re not criminal geniuses, but they’re greedy. That’s what makes them dangerous.”

  “Yonkers doesn’t know me,” Wendell said. “I’m the only one, right?”

  “He doesn’t know us, either,” Bailey said.

  “But his buddies do.” Casey looked at each of the teenagers. “They’ve
seen every one of your faces.”

  “So what do we do?” Terry had been quiet until now. “We can’t exactly go marching into his house and steal his papers.”

  “Why not?” Bailey asked. “He’s certainly not playing by the rules.”

  “Terry’s right,” Casey said. “If we take things out of his office, they might not hold up in court.”

  “Who cares about court?”

  “I do. And you should. It’s how he’s going to get stopped and put away. And it’s how these truckers will get taken off the road for good, where they can’t hurt anyone any more.”

  “So,” Terry said again, “what’s the plan?”

  “We have to get the cops into his house.”

  They all stared at her.

  “You want to call the cops?” Martin said.

  “No. You do.”

  He jerked backward. “I do?”

  “Aren’t you the one who’s got a girl inside the police department?”

  His ears went red. “She gave me those reports. I don’t think I can get her to do anything else.”

  “Martin.” Bailey tweaked his arm. “She is so in love with you she’ll do anything.”

  “Ow! She’s not—she doesn’t work for them, you know. Her mom does.”

  “But she knows all the cops and can steal you reports and stuff without getting caught.”

  “She doesn’t have to take anything this time,” Casey said. “She just has to make a phone call. Think she’d do it?”

  “A phone call?” Martin shrugged. “Probably.”

  Bailey rolled her eyes. “Of course she would.”

  “Davey,” Casey said, “do you think Tom would help us a little more, too?”

  “Wouldn’t know why not. He was bummed you left him with no explanation.”

  “Well, he should soon be happy then, because he’s about to understand it all.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  “I still don’t like it,” Wendell grumbled. They were driving in his truck back toward Sedgwick, and the road seemed to be made of potholes.

  Casey gritted her teeth, trying to hold her torso still. They’d propped her up with pillows to ease the bouncing, but so far it hadn’t helped a whole lot.

  “I don’t like it, either,” Casey said, “but it’s the only way to keep those kids away, at least for a while.”

  “For a few minutes there I thought we were going to have to tie them up and lock them in Davey’s garage.”

  Casey gave a little laugh, but it hurt too much to continue. The kids and Davey were still back in Blue Lake, following up on various items, each—except for Terry—armed with a cell phone.

  “Prepare to turn right in two miles onto Peachtree Lane,” Laura Ingalls Wilder said. She was also part of the plan.

  “Almost there,” Wendell said. “You sure you’re up for this?”

  “I have to be.” The painkiller was still in effect, dulling her senses, but she had more in her pocket, ready to take if the pain got to be too much to bear.

  Wendell had the radio tuned to a country station to soothe his nerves, he said, and Death played along on a lap guitar from the space behind the seat. Casey was fighting sleep now, and the music wasn’t helping. She assumed Wendell would wake her if she fell asleep, but she was afraid her head would then be even fuzzier.

  “Prepare to turn right in point five miles onto Peachtree Lane,” Laura said.

  The road came up, the street sign bright in Wendell’s headlights, and they turned.

  “Destination on the left in point-four miles,” Laura said.

  Wendell cut the headlights and drove slowly past several homes on over-sized lots.

  “You have reached your destination.”

  Wendell drifted to the curb and cut the engine. “Wow. Talk about money.”

  “Except he’s losing his,” Casey said. “He’s got a spot on the town council, his daughter’s homecoming queen, his son attends an excellent college, he’s one of the region’s top businessmen—he has to keep up appearances or he’ll lose all respectability. Or he thinks he will.” She looked at all the visible windows. “I don’t see any movement or light, do you?”

  “Nothing. Do you think he knows you escaped?”

  “I’m betting he doesn’t. The guys wouldn’t want to tell him. He’s still the star quarterback, and they’d be embarrassed to tell him they screwed up—again.” She looked at the dark yard. “Okay. He’s alone here. The other guys are too obvious to be here and us not know it.” She picked up Terry’s phone. “Think they’re still tracking this?”

  “Did they see you give it back to Terry?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe I’ll give them a call.”

  “Wait a minute.” Wendell opened his door.

  “Where are you going? Wendell, don’t.”

  He put a finger to his lips and quietly closed the door before walking across the street to Yonkers’ house and disappearing into the shadows.

  Casey glanced behind her, where Death had stopped playing. “Could you go with him?”

  “I can’t do anything for him.”

  “Just keep an eye out.”

  “Your word is my command. Hold this.” Death tossed the guitar at Casey. It landed in her lap and disintegrated, sending pins of ice through her legs.

  Several minutes later, Wendell and Death were back. “Nobody out there,” Wendell said, “and no movement in the house, or lights in the back half.”

  Death shrugged. “All clear.”

  Casey frowned at Wendell. “What if they had been waiting? Do you want to end up like this?” She gestured at her face. “Or what if you tripped an alarm and security shows up?”

  “Somebody had to do it. Anyway, he’s definitely alone, and I stayed well away from windows and anything else that could’ve triggered anything.” He smiled at her. “Relax. Time for the show.”

  Casey punched the number for Exotic Blooms into Terry’s phone. It rang several times before someone picked up. “Hello?”

  “Westing,” Casey said. “Nice to hear your voice.”

  “You… Where are you?”

  “My phone’s on. Why don’t you see if you can figure it out? But just in case you can’t…think about who I need to talk to, and who you definitely don’t want me talking to. Be kind of embarrassing for me to show up on his doorstep unescorted, wouldn’t it?”

  “What? You’re at—”

  “See you soon, Randy.”

  She hung up.

  Wendell grinned. “You got your stuff?”

  She clutched the bag with Evan’s information. “I’ve got it.” She dialed Sheryl’s and Bailey’s numbers, texting r u rdy. Bailey texted back almost immediately. Check. Sheryl’s text said simply, Yes. Casey tucked the phone in her pocket and carefully climbed out her door. Wendell met her at the front of the truck. She shook her head. “You’re staying here.”

  He smiled some more. “No. I’m not.”

  Casey glared at him. She could have taken him out so he couldn’t follow, but what would be the point? The whole idea was for no one else to get hurt, and it would be rather pointless if she did it herself. “Come on, then.”

  He held out his arm and she grabbed it, realizing she might as well take help when it was offered.

  “It’s just like a wedding,” Death said from the other side of her. “Except instead of a bride you’re a beat-up Uma Thurman.” Death gasped. “Just like in the movie.”

  “Will you stop?”

  Wendell hesitated. “Stop what?”

  Casey took a deep breath. “Nothing. It’s the…it’s my head.”

  The sidewalk to the house was lined with some kind of sweet-smelling blooming bush, the flowers closed up for the night. The moon and the stars were out, and the air lay heavy and entirely still.

  Yonkers’ doorbell was a simple ding-dong, and Casey wondered if it was loud enough to wake him, should he actually be sleeping. Yonkers didn’t respond, so Casey rang the doorbell again. When there wer
e still no footsteps, Casey banged on the door.

  The door cracked open and Yonkers stood there in a bathrobe, a gun held out in front of him, through the opening of the door. “Don’t try anything,” he said, his voice shaking. “The guys are right behind you.”

  Right.

  Casey shoved Wendell to the side and grabbed the doorknob, yanking it closed on Yonkers’ wrist. Yonkers screamed, and the gun dropped onto the front stoop. Casey pushed the door back open, hitting Yonkers’ toes, and he screamed again. Casey stepped into the house, grabbed Yonkers’ arm, and twisted it behind him.

  Wendell picked up the gun and followed, closing the door.

  “I want to see your office, Willie,” Casey said. “Which way do we go?”

  He groaned, holding his wrist against his stomach.

  “Wendell,” Casey said, holding out her bag. “Want to scout around?”

  Wendell took the bag and jogged away, the gun still in his hand.

  Death leaned over to look in Yonkers’ face. “Pathetic little worm.”

  Casey agreed.

  Wendell soon returned, the bag gone. “In the back on this floor. Door’s open.”

  “Great. Nice of you to welcome us this way, Willie.” Casey steered him toward the back of the house and into his office. Tara, Yonkers’ daughter, had guessed popcorn and porn, but she was way off.

  Yonkers’ walls were filled with maps, driving schedules, truck routes, and all kinds of things Casey didn’t understand. Evan had said Willie Yonkers sat behind his desk telling other people what to do. That could be the case, but it looked like deciding what to tell those people was a full-time job. Just not a lucrative enough one to accomplish what it was set up for.

  “Exotic Blooms is dying,” she said.

  Yonkers moaned, holding his toes, which were most likely broken from being slammed by the door.

  Death took a look at the toes and made a face. “Nasty.”

  Casey dropped Yonkers into a chair and spun around to the front of it. “Your real business is going bankrupt, isn’t it, Mr. Yonkers?”

  He whimpered. “I don’t have to tell you—”

  “I think you’d better tell me. And tell me fast.” She leaned over and whispered, “We don’t have a lot of time.”