Bitch Factor

by Chris Rogers

  “Hot plates, sugar!” The waitress covered their table with steaming dishes. “If the steak’s not done just right, now, I’ll take it back. Y’all hear?” She lingered, eyeing McGrue, her smile turned up to maximum wattage.

  He held the woman’s gaze impassively a moment, then sliced into the steak, which promptly bled into the eggs. Turning back to the waitress, his gaze slid downward to an inch of cleavage above an open button.

  “Looks good.”

  She smiled even brighter. “Let me know if y’all want anything else.”

  Dixie studied McGrue as he watched the waitress swivel down the aisle. Even in December, his skin was leathery and nut brown from the sun. His hair, almost the same shade, was expensively styled to fall magically into place after the weight of his uniform cowboy hat was lifted. McGrue was a man women noticed, no denying that. Dixie had seen others come on to him as blatantly as their waitress had just now. Maybe they didn’t notice the danger.

  Or maybe that’s what attracted them.

  “Tell me, Counselor,” he said, after he’d put away a dozen bites. “Just why are you looking for this guy?”

  Dixie mulled that over. McGrue could be trusted not to get in her way, even if he ran Dann’s plates and recognized the name. But the people McGrue would be spreading the word to might not be as cooperative.

  “A friend of his is worried about him. Thinks he’s… unstable.”

  The patrolman looked up sharply. “Psycho?” Coming unexpectedly upon a raging lunatic was every officer’s nightmare.

  “Let’s just say he needs careful handling.” This story was getting complicated. Dixie didn’t like fibbing, but she’d promised Belle to keep Dann’s whereabouts quiet, if he’d indeed fled the state. An overexuberant patrolman might throw Dann in jail. The paperwork would certainly find its way back to the DA’s office. The DA would leak the information to the press. The jury, despite the judge’s reminder not to read or listen to news about the case, would discover Dann had tried to escape justice, and the fact would undoubtedly sway the verdict. Dixie was bitterly regretting she’d ever agreed to look for Dann.

  But how could she disappoint Ryan? The kid trusted his Aunt Dixie to make things right in the world. They’re going to fry this guy…

  McGrue’s narrow gaze inched over Dixie’s face with the glacial precision of an insect testing the air with its feelers. He knew she wasn’t being completely candid. She resisted the urge to look away.

  “All you need is a sighting, then. That right?”

  She nodded, reluctantly. “I’ll pick him up myself.”

  In normal bail jumps, it worked the other way around. She located the skip, then alerted the local law enforcement agency to bring him in. Safe. Smart. Uncomplicated.

  McGrue sliced a ribbon of steak, cut it in half, and speared it with his fork.

  “Last time I noticed, Counselor, I didn’t owe you any recompense.” He chewed the steak, slow and thorough.

  “I’ll owe you a payback if we find Dann before he crosses a state line.”

  “One?”

  Dixie shrugged. “Whatever’s fair.” She was in no position to haggle.

  A radio crackled on the seat beside him. He flipped the control switch. “McGrue.”

  “Chevy sedan, Texas plates, 266 ZPM,” the radio crackled. “Sighted seventy-two miles south of Dallas.”

  “Got it.” McGrue switched off and speared another bloody chunk of meat. “I put out the BOLO right after you called me,” he said, without looking up from his meal.

  Just like McGrue to act quickly, yet keep her flapping like a butterfly on a collector’s pin until he decided how much the favor was worth. Dixie looked at her watch.

  “A two-hour lead. I’d better start making time.” Dann would stick close to the speed limit, knowing the highway would likely be thick with cops during the holidays. Her own 5.0-liter Mustang could tap out 110 miles an hour without breathing heavy. Even at that, and even with the state police looking the other way, it would take five hours to catch up with Dann, another five to bring him back to Houston. She picked up the dinner tab.

  “Counselor?” McGrue stacked a thick slice of ham atop his biscuit and gravy. “If your friend crosses the Canadian border, best let him go about his business. Our northern neighbors don’t take bounty hunters to their bosoms like we do.”

  Dixie nodded. A pair of skip tracers had been convicted of kidnapping recently when they tried to bring a bail jumper back from Canada. Technically, she might very well run into the same trouble here in the States, since Belle had insisted on leaving the bondsman out of the loop. But if all went as planned, Parker Dann would stop soon after midnight to bed down. That’d put him still in Texas or, at the outside, Oklahoma. One of McGrue’s lookouts would radio Dixie with his motel location, and Dann would get a surprise wake-up call. Easy.

  “If he gets as far as Kansas, give me a buzz,” McGrue said. “I know a few people up there.” He speared the last triangle of ham. “Got plans for Christmas?”

  The change of subject caught her by surprise.

  “Usual family stuff. Lots of eggnog and fruitcake.” After the briefest pause, she added, “You?”

  “My son… maybe. Lately, we haven’t been too close.”

  Dixie hesitated. Even spooky Slim Jim McGrue shouldn’t spend Christmas alone. Divorced, he had hinted around more than once about catching a beer together. Dixie wondered how he’d stack up against Delbert Snelling.

  Chapter Five

  Thursday, December 24, Grand Forks, North Dakota

  Dixie zipped her denim jacket against a frigid wind and hustled across the motel parking lot. Even best-laid plans occasionally went awry. Dann had managed to dodge all her bird dogs and stay ahead of her on the all-night drive. Twice she’d wasted time checking out likely motels while the skip pressed on. Now here she was, twelve hundred miles north of Houston, in a state where she didn’t know a soul to call on for backup.

  She hunkered behind a four-year-old Chevy sedan parked outside room 114. Her knees popped. Her back and leg muscles shrieked from too many hours on the road with too few stops. Scraping snow and grime off the Chevy’s license plate, she compared the numbers to those on her notepad. No match—yet the car looked right.

  Another blast of icy wind ruffled her short hair. Shivering, she unzipped her jacket far enough to reach her shirt pocket and pull out a grainy photo. She flipped it over, tilted it toward the morning sun, almost hidden behind a bank of ugly clouds, and studied the dealer’s description jotted on the back: cream, 1993 four-door Caprice, patched dent in right rear fender. Dann had probably snatched the plates off a parked car somewhere. Still, Dixie needed to be certain she had the right man.

  She studied the faded blue drapes at room 114.

  You in there, Dann?

  Spying a maid’s cart stationed by the open door of room 120, Dixie ambled past and scooped up an armload of cheap white towels that smelled of soap. Snowflakes dampened her face. Catching a few flakes on her tongue, she filed the sensation in her memory for a hot Texas night. The frivolous part of her mind hoped the snowfall would continue. If she had to be in North Dakota on Christmas Eve, it should at least be a white one. Back home, snow was as scarce as snake feathers.

  Approaching 114, Dixie considered retracing her steps to get the semiautomatic stored in the Mustang’s trunk. She didn’t like using deadly force when she didn’t need it, and Dann’s file hadn’t mentioned his owning any weapons. He was a salesman, for Pete’s sake, not a street punk. Walk in with a gun, he might panic, make a stupid move. Get one of them killed. No, she’d leave the 45 in the Mustang.

  Cradling the towels, she unlocked a small stun gun from her belt and held it hidden in her right hand. Her palm felt damp. She juggled the stunner and wiped her hand on the top towel, then rapped on the dingy blue door.

  “Maid service!” She flavored the words with a Mexican accent. Sometimes she found the smidgen of Apache blood that darkened her skin and hair
to be remarkably handy. Pretending not to understand English might buy her enough time to study the man’s face, get a quick take on the room, hazard a guess at whether he was alone; and she spoke a damn sight more Tex-Mex than Apache.

  When the door remained shut, she rapped louder.

  “Fresh linen, señor?”

  The door swung open. A hairy chunk of a man with bushy dark brows, a bold mustache, an angry jaw—and a hell of a lot more muscle than she’d expected—glared at her from the doorway. Dixie resisted a sudden urge to back away and try a different tack. He looked bigger, rougher than his mug shot. No shirt. Jeans zipped but unsnapped. Purple bags under fierce blue eyes. He needed a shave, and his hair was hiked up as if slept on crooked.

  It was Dann, all right, drunk, child killer, bail jumper.

  “The hell you want?” he thundered.

  “I clean your room now, señor?” Dixie’s gaze swept past him to take in the rumpled bed and the clothes spilling out of two plastic grocery bags.

  “Hell no! Go clean somewhere else.”

  “Que hora, señor? What hour?” No roommate in sight. No weapons, either.

  “The sign says I don’t have to check out till noon—hell-fire, it’s only ten-thirty.” Dann started to shut the door.

  “Por favor, señor, you take fresh linen.”

  Dixie thrust the towels at his chest. At the same instant, she shoved the stun gun to his solar plexus, a fist-size mass of nerves nestled beneath the heart. Eighty thousand volts traveled from that sensitive mass to scramble his brain patterns.

  Surprise, Dann.

  Despite its limitations, Dixie preferred the stunner to more serious weapons. It was useless at farther than arm’s reach, dangerous on wet ground, and if you were actually touching your opponent, you’d get the full voltage yourself. But a stun gun was quiet and, in the right situation, remarkably effective.

  When Dann jerked and started to fall, Dixie steered him awkwardly toward the bed. He landed half on, half off, eyes unfocused, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, like a fish. She rolled him on his stomach, with only his bare feet hanging off the mattress—a quick glance outside to make sure no one had witnessed the scuffle—then kicked the door shut. Locked and bolted it. Then she studied Dann for a moment: he looked dead to the world.

  Unhitching the cuffs from her belt, Dixie scanned the sparsely furnished motel room. A heavy down jacket was draped over a ratty chair, a shirt tossed on the closet floor; still no weapons visible. She snapped the cuff on Dann’s thick left wrist, then had to reach across the bed for the other hand.

  Incredibly, he rolled over.

  The unexpected movement shoved Dixie off balance. As Dann rolled, the arc of his right forearm collided with the side of her head. Not much strength behind the blow, but damn! He should’ve been out for at least five minutes. The stunner’s battery must be low.

  As Dixie stumbled back, Dann hit the floor. He landed seated on his rump, legs out straight, hands splayed behind him on the worn beige carpet, bracing him from falling backward. His eyes were already flashing with comprehension. Dixie swept a quick appraisal over the powerful chest muscles and knew instantly she didn’t want to tackle this guy one-on-one. Her only hope was to restrain the bastard while he was still dazed. Or to get the hell out of there. For a shaky instant, she wished Slim Jim McGrue were here to scare Dann into submission.

  Stomping hard on his left hand from behind, she fished her key ring from her jeans pocket, wrapping her fingers around the Kubaton she carried there. Thick as a thumb, long as a ballpoint pen, and hard as steel, the Kubaton, like the stunner, was an up-close-and-personal weapon. Simple but persuasive. When applied with force to sensitive spots, a Kubaton could make grown men as docile as doves.

  Thankfully, it didn’t require batteries.

  Reaching around him, Dixie pressed it to the nerves in Dann’s right ear, forcing his head against her hip. Too much pressure and he’d black out. She wanted to avoid that, wanted him mobile to walk to her car. But without enough pressure, he could snatch the Kubaton and slap her against the wall like a bothersome horsefly. She wanted to avoid that, too.

  “Put your right hand behind you,” she ordered, grateful to hear her voice sound strong and fearless. “Slowly.”

  Dann didn’t move. She applied another ounce of pressure.

  “You know the drill, Dann. We can do this hard or we can do it easy. So far I’ve been mercifully easy.”

  When he tried to pull away, she pressed harder. She heard a satisfying grunt, but also felt his powerful back muscles tense against her leg. He still wasn’t convinced.

  “The cosh in my back pocket,” she explained reasonably, “was invented by the Nazi SS. It can break a kneecap with one blow, quick as breaking eggs.” Absolutely true. She didn’t add that she’d never used it. “I’ll ask once more, Dann, nice. Put your left hand behind you.”

  She gave him time, holding the pressure steady, letting him think about it. After a moment she felt his shoulder move as he tried to comply, dazed neurons sending sluggish impulses to the arm. Then his left hand slid behind him, the spare cuff dangling.

  “I’m going to move my foot,” she told him. “I want you to put the other hand back here, both wrists together so I can fasten the cuffs.”

  Maintaining the pressure on his ear, she eased back on her boot heel and released his hand. He didn’t move. She knew what he was thinking—once the cuffs were locked, he’d lose any advantage.

  Another ounce of pressure on the Kubaton.

  He didn’t move. The pain in his ear had to be nearly unbearable. Dixie waited, mentally counting to ten.

  At five, she felt his back muscles flex… six…

  She wished she could see what he was doing. She leaned forward… seven…

  He was stretching his fingers. Plotting a sudden grab? Eight…

  Her hand around the Kubaton began to cramp. She wondered if the stun gun had any zap left. Nine…

  Wincing at the pain in her hand, she applied more pressure… and his arm brushed her leg as he finally, with a gravelly curse, complied.

  Dixie reached down to snap the lock one-handed, then stuffed the Kubaton back in her pocket and wiped the sweat off her upper lip. After a moment, her heart stopped hammering.

  The easy part was over. Now she had to ferry this scumbag all the way to Houston, a twenty-six-hour trip after already being up all night. Taking this job had been as dumb as spitting upwind.

  Chapter Six

  The way Parker Dann figured it, he’d gotten careless, let his guard down, and deserved to be caught. But it still felt lousy being outsmarted after all his careful plotting, playing the “model citizen,” waiting for the holiday court break so no one would miss him for a week or two. That bounty hunter must be part bloodhound to guess he’d head for Canada.

  How many years since he’d lived there? Twenty? Twenty-five? Next time he got loose he’d throw a dart at the map, shoot for someplace he’d never lived before. The beach, maybe. Yeah, he’d always wanted a waterfront home, surf pounding right outside his door.

  He yanked the heavy chain that shackled him to the rear floorboard. The chain slid out of his numbed hand and rattled around his feet.

  Flannigan, she’d said her name was. Wasn’t that the name he’d heard muttered around the jailhouse, waiting for bail to be set? Inmates talked about her like she was some kind of mind-reading magician, showing up at places she couldn’t possibly know about. One guy’d been successfully dodging the law for nine years. Joined the Mexican army, and nobody even came close to finding him. Then he crossed back into Texas to see his daughter get married. When he left the church, there was Flannigan waiting at his car.

  Parker rubbed his chest where she’d hit him with the friggin stun gun. Felt like a mule kicked him in the gut, then trampled his head.

  Nudging the chain aside with his stocking foot, he studied the U-bolt attaching the chain to the car floor. She hadn’t even let him put on his shoes or shi
rt before hustling him out to the Mustang. Now there she was in the motel room, poking around, packing up his stuff, he hoped. Maybe she’d bring him a shirt before he froze solid.

  He yanked the chain again, hands flexing quicker this time. No way he’d ever work that U-bolt loose. The shackle locked around his ankle looked simple enough, if you knew how to pick locks, which he didn’t. If he could find a nail or a piece of wire, might as well give it a try. Might get lucky.

  Otherwise, he’d bide his time till he got a chance to snatch her keys. Twelve hundred miles back to Houston… she’d have to let him out sometime… and he must outweigh her by eighty pounds. Pure mass had to account for something, magician or not. He’d shove her down and sit on her.

  Mighty Mouse, that’s what the inmates had called her. Big Joe Bonner swore she’d brought him down in ten seconds flat.

  “Shee-ut. Reached out to knock the little runt out of my way, maybe cop a feel of those fine tits while I’m at it. She grabbed my wrist in some kind of devil’s grip, had me on my knees before I could spit.” Exaggerating, of course. Bonner must weigh three hundred pounds. Only way to save face after being brought in by a woman was to make her out to be Superbroad.

  But Pico, a quiet, hard-eyed Hispanic, his acne-scarred face devoid of expression, had taken up the story from where he squatted on his heels in a corner to avoid sitting on the floor.

  “Same bitch brought my brother in. Rudy makes it halfway to Monterrey, stops at a cousin’s house maybe ten minutes. Gets back in his car, drives twenty feet down the road—the engine quits. While Rudy’s head’s under the hood, Flannigan cuffs him, man, throws him in her trunk. Hauls him back across the border.” Pico gave everybody a look that said the punch line’s still coming. “Cousin finds the car. Later he tells Rudy the bitch stuck a potato up his tailpipe. A goddamn potato, man.”

  After that, half the guys in hearing distance had bounty hunter stories, each one trying to top the last. But the ones featuring Flannigan were the most colorful.