“Go get behind Monroe,” I told the kids. “You first.”
Luckily for us Brawny had mucked out his stall just a few hours ago. It's a chore she loves because it reminds her of the farm she grew up on near Aberdeen. The small shed smelled like fresh hay, leather, and donkey.
They wriggled their way past the surprised animal. His soft lips grabbed at them, searching for bits of apple. Anya always keeps pieces in her pockets, so she transferred hers to Erik. The familiar task of feeding Monroe seemed to calm the boy down.
“Get down low, in the straw,” I said, heaping it up and over them. “I want you to hide. Stay there.”
On the other side of Monroe's pen was a pitchfork. Against a shooter, it wouldn't do much, but it was better than nothing. I grabbed it. A smaller shovel with a pointed blade was also on the organizing hanger. That would work for Anya, so I took it, too.
“If the shooter comes in,” I said, “we don't want him to know we're here. But if he advances on us, if he looks like he wants to hurt us, I won't hesitate to use this. Anya, you do the same.”
“What about me?” asked Erik. “I'm strong.”
I grabbed a small bucket next to the tool rack. “This can hurt if you have to hit someone in the head, okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
We settled in, my two little soldiers and I, as sirens wailed in the distance.
CHAPTER 4
Monroe loves us. I hated to think that I was putting him in danger, but I knew that if asked the stalwart donkey would give his life for my children. Or at least, that's what I told myself.
The shed is about twenty by twenty-five feet with two “people” doors, one facing the house and one facing the cottage. There’s also a larger garage-door type of opening that leads from Monroe’s pen into his tiny fenced-in pasture. The floor of the structure is poured concrete. The whole building is covered by an overhanging tin roof so Monroe can get out of the sun, but still enjoy the fresh air. His stall takes up most of the back half of the shed on the left side. The right half of the shed houses Leighton's gardening tools, plus bins for Monroe's food. When you step inside from either door, there’s a sort of foyer, room where you can stand and pet Monroe. The sides of his stall are about three feet high and solid. An intruder couldn’t immediately see that my kids and I were hunkered down.
Brawny had instinctively directed us here, giving her time to get Lorraine up the back stairs and into the big house. In retrospect, her choice had made sense. The house was warm, and Lorraine couldn’t handle chills. We’d been pushing our luck having the ceremony outside. Brawny had also recognized that the kids and I could hide under the hay, something that would have been infinitely harder for Lorraine and Leighton.
As I settled down to wait for the all clear, Erik started to cry. Little sniffles, but enough to alarm me. “Hey, sweetie. This is like a game. It's kind of fun to be hiding down here with Monroe, isn't it?”
“I wet my pants. I’m cold.”
Oh, dear.
“Can you pull them off? I’ll grab Monroe's blanket over there on the wall.” Of course, I'd have to totally expose myself again, but what choice did I have?
“I'll help him get his clothes off,” said Anya.
“Anya, have I ever told you that you're an angel?”
“Remember that the next time I want to go to the mall.” In a matter-of-fact way, she tugged at her brother’s sodden britches.
After looking both ways to see that the path was clear, I snuck around Monroe and out the swinging door to the stall. I could vaguely make out the whoop-whoop-whoop of a distant siren. That gave me comfort. But I knew better than to depend on the cavalry coming. I needed to keep my children safe until I was sure the situation was under control.
“Let’s wrap you in this.” I held up Monroe’s blanket after grabbing it from its accustomed spot on the far wall. Is there ever a sight more endearing than the naked backside of a child? Despite the gravity of the situation, or maybe because of it, his sweet little behind tickled me. I choked back laughter.
“I am a big boy and I wear pants!” Erik turned an angry face on me.
“Shhhh! Of course you are. I'm dressing you like Brawny. This will be your kilt, sir. What a fine Scot you'll make.”
He gave me a dubious look much at odds with his bare skin.
“Aren't you cold?”
That reminded him that he had more at stake here than his honor. I wrapped him tightly in the blanket, tucked it in at the waistband, adjusted his coat over the kilt, and then we settled back down. If I'd had my cell phone, I could have called Detweiler to see if he was okay. But my bridal finery did not include pockets. There was nothing we could do but to hide and wait.
“Mom? There's a hole in the hood of your cape.” Anya fingered the fabric. “That bullet was really, really close.”
If Erik hadn't jumped up for that snowflake, if I hadn't bent slightly to make sure he didn't topple off the gazebo, the bullet would have hit him.
CHAPTER 5
I knew we shouldn't even try to leave until Detweiler arrived. Erik was warmer now that he was wearing the blanket, so we hunkered down and played “I Spy.” Monroe tolerated us, but I wasn't sure how long he'd be on his best behavior. Leighton had adopted Monroe after he was booted out of a petting zoo. Seems the quadruped took exception to anything pint-sized and wearing a diaper. Since most of the visitors to a petting zoo happen to be less than two feet high and incontinent, that presented a huge problem. Shortly after the donkey chased down his fourth toddler, the folks at the zoo decided they needed to make “other arrangements” as in “final arrangements” as in “they're coming from the dog food factory to take you away.”
Fortunately for Monroe, Leighton was a board member, and when he heard of the animal's plight, he intervened. Thus Monroe became the only donkey in Webster Groves. Oh, I'm sure we have our share of jackasses like every other town, but as for quadrupeds, Monroe is our one and only.
Anya had just guessed Erik’s “I Spy” target, the broom hanging on the far wall, when Monroe’s whiskers twitched nervously. Snuffling, he tossed his head and stamped his feet. His eyes showed their whites, and his ears pricked at attention. I figured this was donkey-language for “get out of my crib,” so I scratched him under his chin, in an attempt to make him happy. But he jerked his head out of my reach and brayed at the door pointing to the cottage.
A split-second later, it flew open.
I caught a glimpse of a man who came skidding inside. I pushed Erik and Anya down deeper into the hay. Then I joined them, as best I could. The intruder panted loudly, but he gave no indication that he’d seen us. Coming in from the bright outside light had temporarily blinded him. To find us, he’d have to get inside the stall, get past Monroe, and dig in the hay. But first, he’d have to realize we were hiding.
I was feeling kind of smug, although scared, when Monroe nickered angrily at the man.
Drat.
I could hear the intruder but not see him. The way he huffed and puffed suggested that he had been running. But was he the chased or the chaser? Could he be an undercover cop? Had he come in a police car with its sirens blazing? I couldn’t risk getting this wrong.
His breathing became more even, and I heard his shoes slap the concrete.
“I know you're in here. Come on out. I won't hurt you.”
Right.
He certainly wasn’t a cop. I shook my head at the children and put a finger to my lips, warning them not to respond. But Erik whimpered softly. Anya wrapped her arms around him, shielding the boy with her body. Her troubled eyes turned to me for guidance. Patting the air, I hoped to reassure them that everything was fine, but Erik responded with a loud hiccup.
“I hear you,” said the man. His footsteps came closer to the pen. “I'm not happy that you're hiding. Come on out or else.”
I shook my head no, vigorously, warning the kids.
Monroe stomped his feet and did the iconic, “Eee-yore,” his breed has perfected
.
Instinctively, Anya flattened herself and her brother against the back wall. Erik burrowed his face in her neck. His cries were softer, but the damage was done. That’s when I realized that unwittingly, I'd chosen to make us easy targets. True, I’d chosen the only hiding place, but I’d also backed us into a corner. How could I have been so stupid?
I gritted my teeth and reminded myself that a mama bear protecting her cubs is never an easy target. To get at my kids, this jerk was going to have to go through me.
And past Monroe, who was clearly not happy with our visitor.
The donkey kicked at his stall.
I heard a click, as the hammer was cocked on a gun.
“Come on out or I'll shoot this big ugly hunk of carpet. See if I don't!” yelled the man.
Anya's eyes grew big as half-dollars. Again, I used my hand to make a “stay calm” motion, and I slowly pulled the ribbon out of my hood and tied it to Monroe’s harness. Then I pulled. This forced our pet to lower his head. Now, shooting Monroe wasn't the visitor’s best option because the donkey’s face was hidden by the pen. To get off a good shot, the intruder would have to move closer and lean over the side of the stall.
I planned to take advantage of his dilemma.
First I motioned to Anya to grab the ribbon and keep it taut. Crawling on my knees, I eased over to the gate at the side of the stall. By quietly collecting spit in my hand, I greased the latch. This allowed me to slide it open without a sound.
The feet shuffled nearer.
When the man’s breathing sounded like he was almost on top of me, I threw open the gate.
It caught him in the gut.
He staggered backwards. I got a good look at him. Middle-aged, paunchy, sallow complexion, thinning hair, a face like an ugly bulldog, and tiny little eyes. His nose was bent to one side. He had a scar where Marilyn Monroe sported a beauty mark, near his mouth.
I lifted the pitchfork as if it were a javelin. Unfortunately, I am not a javelin thrower. Even my extra dose of adrenaline couldn't keep the pitchfork aloft for long. I brought it down with all my might, aiming at the center mass, the man's chest.
He twisted away.
The prongs tore into his sleeve. The pitchfork bounced after hitting him, clattering as it hit the floor. The intruder managed to keep his grip on his gun, but his attention turned to his wound. While he was distracted, I kicked at the hand holding the weapon. My foot connected, and the gun went flying.
He grunted in pain and tried to sit up.
I scrambled for the gun, cursing the size of my belly. Try as I might, I couldn’t reach the floor. This was not how Laura Croft foiled bad guys! In a desperate attempt to grab the weapon, I resorted to scrambling around on my hands and knees. The concrete floor was rough and frigid. It ripped off a layer of my skin, but I stayed focused. If I got the gun, my kids were okay, if not...
All this happened in the space of a heartbeat.
As my fingers seized upon the cold metal, I rolled onto my back, fully prepared to shoot the bad guy.
But he was already gone.
CHAPTER 6
“Mom, you okay?” Anya raced to my side. She reached out to help me up.
“Fine. Go take care of your brother.”
From his spot in the stall, Erik had burst into noisy sobs.
“But you’re hurt!”
“It only looks bad.” The palms of both of my hands were bloody. Warm trickles down my shins confirmed that both my knees were bleeding.
Anya stared at me as I checked the magazine of the gun. Two bullets.
“Enough to defend us,” I told her. She nodded solemnly.
I grabbed the pitchfork in my left hand and carried the gun in my right. “We’ll be fine now. Get back inside the stall with Monroe.”
But in response Anya only stared at me blankly. Then she started laughing, hysterically. Erik quit crying at the sound of her chuckles. He got to his feet and came out to see what was so funny. By now, Anya was sagging against the back wall because she was laughing so hard.
“Anya? You okay?” As I queried her, I used the pitchfork to shut the door our intruder had used. It wouldn’t offer much protection, but it would make us harder to target.
Anya was doubled-over with laughter.
I worried that she was going into shock. She gasped between giggles, trying to catch her breath.
“You look like a whacked-out version of American Gothic. You know, the painting by Grant Wood? We're studying it in art history.”
I couldn’t help but smile myself at that comparison.
Unable to curb his curiosity, Erik bolted out of the pen to see what was so funny.
One look at her brother in his makeshift toga, and Anya dissolved into more hysterics. Shaking my head, I handed her the pitchfork and lifted Erik onto one hip. It wasn’t easy, because he couldn’t use his legs to wrap around me. Not with the blanket he was wearing. Instead of hanging on, he slid back down onto the floor.
“Is it okay now? Did the bad man go away?” Grabbing my sleeve, he turned troubled brown eyes on me.
The sight of him wearing that stupid blanket made me giggle.
The excitement that follows a near-death experience will do that to you. Make you laugh unpredictably or sob wildly. But despite how funny Erik looked, I sobered up fast enough. We weren’t entirely out of harm’s way. “Okay. You two need to hunker back down. We can’t be sure we’re in the clear until someone from the police department or Detweiler comes to tell us that everything is fine.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Anya, waving her hand at me. “Erik, as long as she's got a gun, we're fine, because my mom won't hesitate to use it on a creep.”
“Really?” His eyes were round as donuts in his head.
“Really. Mom’s actually a very good shot. Have I ever told you about the time that—”
“Anya? That's enough. Not now, please.” Erik didn’t need to hear how I killed a man. Not today of all days.
I limped over to the stall. My knees were tightening up as the scabs formed. Walking stung like crazy.
“Are you sure that the baby is all right?” My daughter guided Erik inside the pen again, so they could hide. She was busy heaping fresh straw over their legs. Monroe seemed fine now that the intruder had been chased away.
“I'm sure he'll be okay.” I hoped I was right. Even if I went into labor this far along, my child would have a good chance of survival. A tiny kick under my ribs echoed my optimism.
I was joining the children in their cozy nest when sounds from outside warned that someone was coming. “Get down!” I whispered. At least I still had the gun in my right hand. Then I got to my feet and stood with my back to the children, my weapon trained on the door.
It flew open.
But I didn't shoot.
In walked Detweiler.
CHAPTER 7
“Are you okay? Whose gun is that?” He rushed over.
“I kicked it out of the hands of the intruder,” I said. My husband took the gun from me, emptied the magazine, and shoved the weapon into the back of his belt, under his jacket.
Some newly minted couples share a first dance. Here we were, trading off weapons. Oh, well.
“Dad?” Erik's piping voice came from inside the stall.
“Detweiler?” Anya's followed.
“It’s all right. You can come out.” My husband turned and opened the stall door.
“There was a man with a gun!” shouted Erik, as he hurled himself at Detweiler and caught the man’s knees.
“But Mom bested him. She’s so tough,” said Anya, wrapping her arms around me. We did this sort of group hug routine, exchanging kisses and hanging on to each other, tightly.
“Mama Kiki throwed that big fork at the man. She hit him! He ran off!” said Erik.
“Yeah, Mom's going to try out for the javelin-throwing competition at next year's Olympics,” giggled Anya.
“What's happening outside?” I asked my husband.
“T
wo squad cars setting up crime scene tape. One of the creeps was hit—” he hesitated, and I realized that he meant “hit” as in “dead,” but then he continued, “—Brawny's knife-throwing skills are impressive. Stan took a bullet in the shoulder.”
“No! Is he okay?”
“Other than a ruined cashmere coat?” Detweiler arched an eyebrow at me. “The whole time the EMTs worked on him, he was going on and on about how sick he felt that his coat had a hole in it.”
That made me laugh. Hadcho is part Native American and all clothes horse. He turned a bedroom in his apartment into a huge walk-in closet. Not only is he Detweiler’s partner again, after a brief hiatus, but he’s also become a good friend to me.
“But Stan just got clipped. Nothing big. They've taken him away in one of the ambulances. I told them to hold the other for you.” Detweiler's amazing Heineken bottle green eyes locked onto mine. “How’s the baby?”
“Perfectly fine. Feel?” I put his hand on my belly. His son kicked vigorously, a reminder that he was a semi-active participant in the day's events.
“How're Lori and Leighton? Brawny? Gracie? Paolo?” I was almost afraid to ask. Was it too much to expect that the guardian angels who had protected us also safeguarded our friends and pets? Let other brides worry about the flower girls wandering off, or the best man forgetting the ring. Me, I focus on big picture issues, like, “Did anyone get killed?”
“Leighton and Lori are fine. Gracie and Paolo are back in the house. Good old Gracie took after the guy who came in here and almost caught up with him. Good thing she didn’t. I think he would have…hurt her.” He winced and let go of me to press a hand against his abdomen.
“You aren't used to running like that in the snow,” I said. I was hanging tightly onto the sleeve of his jacket as though it was a life preserver.
“No, I’m not accustomed to running in snow. It’s tiring. How about if we get the kids inside? Back-up wants to talk to all of us.”
Shotgun, Wedding, Bells Page 2
