Hot tears ran down my cheeks. I wanted to bawl like a baby. Rage and impotence are a repugnant mix.
Braden swept the house, making certain the thug who tied Janie was gone. I slumped in relief when he returned and holstered his gun. “We’re alone. I called the paramedics. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Water!” Janie shrieked and bolted upright. “Desert…thirsty.”
“What did they do to her?” Panic made my voice catch. “Will she be all right?”
I attempted a bear hug to minimize the damage to both of us. Janie’s fists pummeled my back like berserk jackhammers. She pivoted and I turned with her. That’s when I saw the mirror’s rhyme, printed with one of Janie’s crimson lipsticks: “Trumpet for a Strumpet.”
I blinked and read it again. “What the hell does that mean?”
Janie gave a strangled cry as her body convulsed. Braden wound a blanket around our twined torsos, then pulled out a knife to cut her thrashing feet free. My cheek pressed against Janie’s neck. Her racing pulse danced a tattoo on my skin. It was off the charts. Her skin had turned a frightening, illogical shade of red, like a cartoon character who’d eaten a jalapeno pepper.
“Dammit. I think they gave her Angel’s Trumpet,” Braden mumbled. “That’s scary. Last year in Atlanta, idiot teens made herbal tea from the weed and a thirteen-year-old died. You can get high on the stuff but an overdose can cause delirium, photophobia, even coma, and the victims become combative. Her symptoms are classic. I found a baggie filled with seeds on the kitchen counter next to her teakettle.”
I rocked my friend in my arms. “Hold on, Janie. Help’s on the way.”
“What are her odds?”
Braden shook his head. “There’s no antidote. Maybe the paramedics can induce vomiting. The hospital will pump her stomach and give her something to absorb the poison. It’s a crap shoot.”
The sound of a siren vaguely registered as I pleaded with God. Minutes later, paramedics rushed in. I knew these men, and they knew Janie. They’d do their very best. Braden had described Janie’s condition when he radioed, so the paramedics came prepared.
We helped the men wrestle her into a soft restraint jacket. During the struggle, I crooned comforting words and tried to stay clear of her windmilling legs. My shins felt like they’d been whacked repeatedly with a shovel.
Braden turned to me. “I’m going to hunt down that bastard. The teakettle was still too hot to touch. He can’t have gone far. We’d have seen a car. He must be on foot. Any suggestions where to look?”
“A blue uniform…Janie mentioned it a couple of times. It might have been pure delirium, but she could have been describing the maintenance uniform. Light blue coveralls with names sewn on the pockets. Coveralls could help the killer disappear in plain sight. He could hole up in the golf maintenance shed until the crews start mowing fairways and prepping greens. The uniform would make him invisible. He could walk away unnoticed.”
“Where the hell is this shed?”
“Across the eleventh fairway. Take Janie’s golf cart and cut behind my house. It’s quicker than driving a car. Everyone calls it a shed, but it’s a big metal building tucked behind trees by the water treatment plant. Be careful. Wait for backup if you spot anyone. I’ll head over as soon as we get Janie in the ambulance.”
“No, you won’t,” Braden ordered. “Stay here. My backup is on the way.”
With what he considered a final edict, he split. I heard the grinding sound of the garage door opening. Then Janie shrieked, and I returned to her plight.
Please, God, let Janie live.
***
I gripped Janie’s hand as the paramedic wheeled the gurney through her house. “Don’t worry, Marley,” Bill O’Brien said. “Beaufort Memorial was preparing an airlift for a car crash victim. He died, and they diverted the chopper here. The pilot may beat us to the helipad. I bet Janie’s herself and chewing someone’s ass in the E.R. inside an hour. She’ll make it.”
“Thanks, Bill,” I answered.
In a flash, the paramedics loaded her into the ambulance and warmed up their siren for the cross-island race to the helipad.
Staying at Janie’s side was pointless. She didn’t know me, and Bill made it clear there was no room for me aboard the chopper. While I couldn’t help Janie, I could help Braden. There is no such thing as too many eyes, ears or guns when you’re searching for a stone killer.
I set off at a dead run across the eleventh fairway. By road, it was a convoluted route to the golf maintenance compound, at least five blocks. The fairway shortcut put it within easy reach of a three-wood—even mine. A golf cart would have been handy, but the deputy had commandeered Janie’s.
My lungs pushed air in and out like leaky forge bellows. I was on overload—adrenaline, fear, anger. My breath puffed out in smoky white clouds quickly dissected by the chill breeze. My oxygen uptake was so noisy my brain almost failed to register the first gunshot. The ping of a bullet striking metal makes a distinctive sound. The ricochet created a bouquet of firefly sparks less than fifty yards away.
Squinting into the darkness, I recognized Janie’s distinctive golf cart with its faux Mercedes hood. A tall, lean man—Braden?—crouched beside it.
“Might as well give up.” Braden’s yell confirmed his identity.
“You have the high ground, but backup’s on the way. You’re on an island. Where you gonna go? Kill me and you’re dead. You know how cops treat cop killers.”
The shooter let his gun answer. I saw the muzzle flash. Thankfully, a companion metallic chink told me this bullet also missed its soft-bodied target. But how long would it take a pro to correct his aim? Braden was pinned down, and Janie’s golf cart provided piss-poor cover.
The assassin’s position on the thirteenth hole’s elevated tee handed him a distinct advantage. The developers had molded a giant manmade dune—a virtual mountain on our pancake island—to reward golfers with a panoramic vision of ocean and beach. Tonight it gave Kain’s henchman a killer view of the twelfth green and Braden hunkered below. Braden curled his powerful body into a compact target in an attempt to compensate for the cart’s ineffective shield. He had few choices. If he wriggled beneath the cart, his field of vision would narrow to zilch, and he’d lose all mobility. If he ran, he’d be an easy target on the open fairway.
I had to distract the shooter. But how? The muzzle flash suggested the assassin lay on his stomach, flattened on the tee. No profile, nothing to aim at. The minute I fired a gun, I’d give away my position, doubling options in the sniper’s shooting gallery: two ducks for the price of one.
I had one advantage—knowledge of the geography. I’d played this links course a hundred times. From the front and sides, the elevated tee resembled a cliff. Golfers parked carts at the bottom and trudged up a flight of stone stairs cut into its south face. But the grassy dune’s sloped back was gradual enough for a riding mower to mount. Yet it would be sheer stupidity to dash up the incline on foot—a suicidal cavalry charge lacking the romance of a horse. If I only had a mower.
Then came the “aha” moment. Horsepower aplenty sat a few hundred feet away, locked inside the maintenance compound’s steel fence. All I had to do was slip in and steal a mower. Yeah, right.
The notion seemed lame-brained, but I couldn’t think of a better one. I tiptoed out of the fairway shadows and into the rough, then darted from skinny palm to fat water oak. In seconds, I reached the gate and prayed some dunderhead had left it unlocked. Tonight a jumbo padlock proved a perfect foil. I couldn’t pick it on a bet.
Damn. I eyed the fence again. Okay, do you really need a sergeant yelling at you to scale a little fence? Are you going to let Braden die while you dawdle?
Reaching as high as I could on the twelve-foot chain link fence, I stuck my fingers through steel loops. The toes of my shoes wedged between chinks for footing.
I inched upward six feet. Then I lost my tenuous toehold and gravity staked its claim, sucking my body down. The
drop yanked my arms so hard I thought they’d pop out of their sockets. Never mind how many pounds dangled mid-air. For long seconds, I scrabbled like a big-footed puppy on a freshly waxed floor. Then the toe of one shoe found traction. Harkening back to my basic training days, I urged myself on with silent drill sergeant screams: Move your flabby ass. Don’t be a wuss.
Nearing the top, I tried a mighty heave-ho to roll to the opposite side. A graceless belly flop impaled me on the fence’s crimped metal ends. The mini daggers poked at me with cruel intimacy. I wrestled free and dropped to the ground. Too hastily. My left ankle crumpled under my weight. I tested it. Painful but functional.
Inside the fence, I stared with consternation at the padlock. If I wanted to liberate a mower, I had to open the gate. I remembered the head groundskeeper hung his spare keys on a pegboard. I found a match for the padlock and swung the large gate open. The screech of metal assaulted my ears. Had the killer heard?
Time to pick a steed. I scanned the metal carcasses littering the landscape and marched toward the mowers. Then I saw the Bobcat. A huge one. Perfect. I’d actually driven one of these suckers on field maneuvers. Crank them up and they could boogie eight miles an hour, forward or backward. The steel mesh wrapping the sides and back of the cab even provided a modicum of shelter from flying bullets—if someone didn’t fire them head on.
Best of all, someone had outfitted this machine with a trencher, designed to slice and dice rock-hard soil with merciless efficiency. Its wicked, heavy-duty blades glistened under the green glow of the yard’s fluorescent security lights. The blades attached to a five-foot boom. Could I figure out how to raise and lower it? If so, I could impersonate a charging rhino. That would spell distraction with a capital D.
Another gunshot pinged against metal. Don’t think, move. I clambered onto the cold plastic seat and fumbled overhead, groping for the ignition key. I sighed in relief when I felt it. One flick and the Cat purred.
I grasped the twin joysticks with a death grip. Right hand forward to go right. Push with the left to swing left. I rammed both joysticks forward, a double whammy, and hit the gas. The cat bucked once and rocketed straight at the open gate. It felt as if I were moving at eighty miles an hour, not eight. Here goes nothing.
Outside the fence opening, I careened past trees and sideswiped a palm or two as I got the hang of the controls. The touch of a gorilla.
The raucous engine broadcast my approach to the back of the mounded tee. So much for a sneak attack. The sniper could track every foot of my progress. If I ran the Bobcat dead up the hill, he could take his sweet time as he aimed for my heart or head. Degree of difficulty for a marksman: zero.
Okay, let’s turn tail. At the bottom of the incline, I swiveled the Cat one hundred and eighty degrees then jerked hard on both levers to scale the hill in reverse. I prayed the metal cab would deflect any bullets. Of course screaming up the hill ass backward posed its own dangers. The tee platform wasn’t large. Failure to stop in time meant I’d overshoot the tee and plunge into the lagoon below. The backward motion seemed dizzyingly fast and disorienting in my dark cage. I hadn’t heard another shot, but would I over the Cat’s earsplitting racket?
The Bobcat lurched and I sensed I’d crested the hill. Now came the tricky part. I eased off the gas as I swung the Bobcat and raised the trencher boom. I squinted into the darkness, searching for movement, looking for something to tell me the shooter’s position. He fired again. The flash nailed his position. To my right, crouched. I thrust the right joystick forward and lowered the trencher boom. A scream pierced the night.
My own scream melted into his. Gears ground but the Bobcat refused to reverse. I had too much momentum. I plunged over the precipice.
***
“Marley…Marley.” The voice seemed distant but loud. The left side of my body burned. Pain shot down from my hip and up from my ankle, reaching a crescendo at my twisted knee. The stinging skin on my forearm made we wonder if I’d been sandblasted. My head throbbed. I pried my eyelids open. Braden knelt at my side. I blinked.
“Thank God,” he said. Realizing I’d rejoined the conscious world, he tenderly pushed a curl off my forehead.
“What happened? Did you get the shooter?” I asked.
Braden chuckled. “No. You did. You saved my life. Which makes it hard to be mad at you for being such a cowgirl. You nailed the sucker just before your Bobcat crashed over the hill. The guy must have slipped. The trencher blades sliced into the back of his neck. Severed his spinal cord. Dead in a minute.”
I’d never killed anyone. Yet the only emotion I felt was relief. Not one iota of remorse for the sadistic bastard who’d attacked Janie. And tried to murder Braden.
“Was it Underling?” I shuddered at a mental picture of his smashed nose and lecherous smirk.
“No. If Kain’s behind this, he found a new henchman to parade as a psycho killer. Wonder what he pays—and where he finds them? Course these guys don’t have much of a stretch to pose as psychos. The dead guy had a pair of Janie’s panties tucked in his pocket as a souvenir.”
Noises uphill prompted me to lift my head. I lay sprawled halfway down the steep embankment on the tee’s south side. The Bobcat rested nose down at the bottom of the hill, just shy of the lagoon. I didn’t recollect any attempt to parachute free. Yet somehow I’d been thrown clear.
I started to sit up. “Stay still,” Braden ordered. “The paramedics are en route, and Bill O’Brien gave specific instructions you weren’t to move.”
“I’m just woozy,” I protested. I shifted and winced as pain pinballed with laser intensity through my limbs.
“Yeah, right,” said Braden. “You were out cold. This time Bill insists—you’re going to the hospital. Forget any protest. I’m on his side. The doctors need to keep you overnight for observation.”
Exhaustion sucked the fight right out of me. “What happened to the other deputy? Talk about cowboys. You promised to call for backup.”
“If you’ll quit fidgeting, I’ll tell you.” Braden chuckled. “I was approaching the maintenance shed when I heard a splash and climbed out of the golf cart to investigate. I pulled my gun, took out my flashlight, and spotted footprints in the soggy ground leading to the tee.
“That’s when our killer spotted me—a lone cop with a drawn gun. He figured he had the drop on me. I kept waiting for back up, wondering why it was taking so long. The cavalry galloped off to the golf clubhouse instead of golf maintenance. Static bleeped out a key part of my message.”
Braden smiled. “You know the rest. I was plain lucky he didn’t hit me. Felt the breeze from that first bullet. When your Bobcat roared to life, I didn’t know what the hell was happening. You’re…amazing.”
A flashlight played over us. Braden stood and Bill O’Brien took his place, squatting on his heels at my side. “My, my, I didn’t expect to see you again tonight.” He added a tongue cluck for emphasis. “Lay still.”
He took my pulse. Next he played a visual follow-the-bouncing-ball game with his penlight. Finally he probed my hip and leg. I swore. He chuckled.
“Don’t think anything’s broken, though it’s not for want of trying.” His fingers danced over my scalp. “You’re going to have one hell of a goose egg.”
He looked at Braden. “How long was she unconscious?”
“A minute or two.”
The medic frowned. “Well, it’s off to the hospital with you. I called and told the emergency room to expect another inbound. While I was at it, I checked on Janie. She’s stabilized. Gonna be okay. Maybe you two can get a group rate.”
I twisted to lever myself upright and Bill pinned my shoulder with an extra-large paw. “Oh no you don’t.” He yelled for a litter. That’s when I wished I hadn’t been packing away so many desserts. I’d heard these guys at the firehouse grousing about lifting island chubbos. I wasn’t anxious to take the heat for someone’s hernia.
Braden touched my cheek. “Marley, I’ll head to the hospital soon as I can
. Meanwhile, rest easy. It’ll be over soon. I found a note in the dead guy’s pocket. It read ‘five a.m., Mad Inlet.’ Our guess is a rendezvous with a getaway boat. I’ll keep his date. We need to grab one of these suckers alive. Get someone to talk.”
After regaining consciousness, I’d been giddy with relief to find Braden alive. Now dread tightened my throat.
I can’t take another funeral, another lover’s body moldering underground.
Stop it.
I kept my tone light. “Hope you have someone covering your backside.”
“Yep.” He kissed me. It wasn’t some prudish thank-you-for-saving-my-life smooch. Not very professional, but necessary. For both our psyches.
Bill whooped with delight. “Now I have a tale to tell. The boys at the firehouse are always interested in hearing about the latest island romance.”
“Stuff it,” I said as Bill and his buddy hoisted my litter in the air.
“Jeez, how much do you weigh, Marley?” Bill parried with an exaggerated puff.
“I lift weights,” I said deadpan. “It’s all muscle.”
“That’s my girl.” Braden chuckled. “Weighty but well-toned.”
TWENTY-FOUR
I opened my eyes to a sea of white. Where am I?
I felt the irritating starch of hospital sheets, and my fingers explored the smooth, cold bed rail. The sun pumped light into the room despite the drawn blinds. Must be morning.
I rolled my head to the other side of my pillow. Janie, Braden, and April popped into view. Any more people and it’d be standing room only. Janie’s sister was the only non-sleeping member of the trio. She’d draped her long shapely legs over the side of a spine-bending visitor’s chair and looked almost comfortable with her pretzel impersonation. She winked, nodded at Janie, and threw me a triumphant thumbs-up. We both grinned. Janie snored softly. Her color had returned to a healthy pink, and her face looked almost angelic. No trace of the frenzied lady who pummeled me with her fists.
Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Page 24
