Cooked Goose

by G. A. McKevett

  The moment she entered the room, Margie jumped up from her chair and hurried to her. “Savannah, I just remembered something else,” she said, grasping Savannah’s arm.

  “What’s that, darlin’?”

  “I just told Dirk . . . and he thought it was pretty important . . . the rapist dude . . . he was wearing a ring. A big one. When he whacked me on the head, it really hurt.”

  Savannah led her back to her chair. “That is important. I should have asked you about that. Which hand was he wearing it on?”

  “His right one, the one he was holding the knife with.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “It was big, like a class ring. In the middle was a dark circle and inside that was a big, metal star.”

  Dirk gave Savannah a knowing look, which she returned.

  “If I give you a piece of paper,” she said to Margie, “can you draw it for me?”

  The girl shrugged. “I’m not very artistic, but I’ll try.”

  Savannah took a legal pad and pen from the drawer beneath the phone and handed them to her. “Here, just do the best you can.”

  Several minutes later, they had a fairly decent sketch of a man’s ring. With satisfaction, Savannah noted that the style and shape of the ring in Margie’s drawing could have caused the bruising on Charlene Yardley’s face.

  “For someone who isn’t very artistic, that looks pretty good to me,” Dirk said, still buttering the kid up. She beamed, reveling in adult male praise.

  “Do you think it’s a fair representation of what you saw?” Savannah asked her, just making sure.

  “As best I can remember. I was really scared and it was pretty dark . . . but . . . yeah, it looks like it.”

  “Great.” Dirk tore the yellow sheet from the pad and studied it carefully. “We’ll have Charlene Yardley and the other victims look at it,” he said, “and see if they remember seeing it, too.”

  Again, the doorbell sounded. Savannah’s two cats, who had just ventured into the kitchen and buried their whiskers in their food dishes, ran for cover.

  “Hmmm . . . Now whoever could that be?” she said as she sauntered to the front door. She had a good idea who her guest was, and she was in no hurry to let the Big Bad Wolf into her humble cottage.

  “Why, Captain,” she said, flashing him her most saccharine smile, “how nice of you to grace my doorstep with your auspicious presence.”

  Shoving the door open, he barged into the room. “Cram it, Reid.” He paused and glanced around the living room. “Where’s my daughter?”

  Savannah couldn’t resist a little verbal jab. “You must have gotten my message,” she said sweetly. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

  He stared at her blankly for a moment, then glowered, his little piggy eyes squinting even tighter. “Where the hell’s my kid?” he demanded.

  “Well, if you’re going to be snotty about it.” She waved a hand toward the back of the house. “Kitchen. There.”

  He stomped past her, pushing her aside. She considered giving him a karate chop between the shoulder blades, but decided on sarcasm instead. “Do come in and make yourself at home,” she muttered as he marched through her living room and into the kitchen. “Just take off your coat and throw it in the corner. Don’t see why you won’t stay a little longer.”

  Bloss ignored her and headed straight for his daughter, who was cowering in her chair.

  “What’s this shit about you wrecking your new car?” he snapped.

  Dirk gave a Savannah a look and whispered, “So much for not swearing around minors.”

  Anger replaced the look of fear on the teenager’s face. “Hi, Daddy,” she said dryly. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

  “Is it totalled?”

  “Yes, the car is smashed to smithereens. And I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

  Savannah could hear the pain behind the girl’s sarcasm, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from interfering.

  “I’ve made one damned payment on that car.” His voice rose along with the florid coloring in his puffy cheeks. “One payment! And you’ve already smacked it up! I can’t believe it! What kind of idiot are you?”

  Savannah had had enough. She stepped between the captain and Margie. “That’s enough, Bloss,” she said quietly.

  “Who the fuck are you to tell me ‘That’s enough,’ when I’m talking to my own kid?” he shouted.

  Dirk stood, too, but Savannah shot him a “Stay Out of It” look. Bloss was still Dirk’s boss, and there was no point in him getting canned, too.

  “You’re in my home,” she told Bloss, still reining in her temper. “And Margie is a guest in my home. That makes it my business. And, besides that, I’m just trying to stop you from saying things you’ll regret and making a complete as . . . I mean, fool . . . of yourself, Captain . . . sir.”

  In spite of Savannah’s silent admonition, Dirk took a step in the captain’s direction. “Your daughter,” he said, “wrecked her car to keep from being raped and murdered. He was in the car with her. That’s how she got away from him.”

  “He was . . . you mean, the rapist? Oh, my God.” The bluster went out of Bloss, apparently, along with the strength in his legs. He sat down hard on the nearest chair and wiped a hand across his eyes. For once, his daughter had his full attention. “Did . . . did he—?”

  Margie gave her father a cold, bitter smile, and for a moment, Savannah could see a strong family resemblance. Margie was Bloss’s daughter, after all . . . not a heritage to boast about.

  “No, he didn’t rape me,” Margie told her dad, “but if I hadn’t acted like an idiot and wrecked my new car—the car you’ve only made one payment on—I’m sure he would have.”

  Bloss’s scowl deepened. He turned to Dirk, who was returning to his seat. “When did all this supposedly happen?”

  “Supposedly?” Margie’s eyes filled with tears. She slammed her fist on the table. “What do you think, Daddy, that I made this all up? You think I wrecked my car and made this up to . . .”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve lied to me,” Bloss returned. “It’s not like you’re above it.”

  Dirk cleared his throat loudly. “It happened, sir. I’m sure about that. It was approximately 1930 hours this evening. He was waiting at your house, slipped into the garage when she came home, and forced her to drive out on Turner Canyon Road. That’s when she smashed the Roadster into a water tank and ran away from him. She called Savannah, and she picked her up at the Mobil station out there.”

  “Did you get him?”

  “Afraid not. By the time we got there, he was gone.”

  The captain sat quietly, absorbing the facts, then he seemed to soften. He turned to Margie. “Did you get hurt? Have you been to the hospital?”

  “Savannah took me. I just got some scrapes and bruises. And a couple of stitches on my shoulder where he gouged me with the tip of his knife.”

  She pulled the robe aside, showing him her bandage. He gave it a cursory glance. “Good,” he mumbled, “that’s good.”

  “Your daughter showed a lot of smarts and courage, Captain,” Savannah said. She walked over to Margie and put her hand on the girl’s uninjured shoulder. “If she hadn’t, it might have turned out a lot differently.”

  “I know that.” Suddenly Bloss looked fifty years old going on eighty. He shook his head and sighed. “I know what could have happened. Shit. This sucks. My own kid. That guy’s nuts.”

  “I think that was a given,” Savannah said, “even before he came after Margie.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?” Bloss asked the girl.

  “Not really. He was wearing that Santa stuff.”

  “She gave us pretty much the same limited description as the others gave,” Dirk interjected. “The only thing new was this.” He took the drawing from his pocket and unfolded the paper. Spreading it on the table in front of the captain, he said, “The guy was wearing a ring like that, a big one with a sta
r in the middle.”

  When Bloss saw the drawing, he looked like he had been hit in the solar plexus. Savannah watched him, fascinated by his reaction. She recalled that he had seemed upset at the hospital when she had told him about the star-shaped bruise on Charlene Yardley.

  “Are you sure, Margie?” Bloss asked her. “Are you absolutely certain he was wearing something that looked like this?”

  “Sure, I’m sure. What do you think, I just made it up, too? Give me a break.”

  Savannah couldn’t resist. “Captain, what do you think about the ring? Does that particular design ring a bell with your?”

  He gave her a deadly look that told her more than his curt, “No.” Turning his back to Savannah, he asked Margie, “Do you think he knew who you are . . . you know . . . that you’re my kid?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about it either way. But I guess he did. I mean, he knew where I lived. He must have known it was your house, too.” She shrugged. “Or maybe he just picked out anybody . . . any house.”

  Bloss stood abruptly. “Come on. Get your stuff. We’re going home.”

  “Home?” Margie looked horrified at the very idea. “I’m not going back to that place. No way!”

  “Do what I’m telling you. Get a move on.”

  “No! He knows where to find me. He’ll come after me again!”

  “Don’t be stupid. I’ll be there, too. He’s not going to get to you without coming through me first.”

  What an egotistic jerk, Savannah thought, mentally loping his swelled head off with a dull machete.

  “I’m not going,” Margie said. “I want to stay here tonight with Savannah. I feel safe here.”

  “Are you saying I can’t keep my own kid safe?” Bloss bellowed.

  Margie gave him a withering look. “Well . . . you didn’t. I was almost killed tonight, and where was my big protective father?”

  “That isn’t fair; I didn’t know. How could I have known he was going to come after you?”

  “You could be home once in a while when I get there. Just once in a while, Daddy. They couldn’t even get hold of you when I needed you in the hospital. I didn’t want you there, because I knew you’d blame me for wrecking the car.” She paused, only a second, to catch her breath, then went at him again. “But even if I had wanted you, they couldn’t find you. They left messages for you everywhere, even an APB, and they couldn’t find you. You’re never, ever, around when I need you.”

  “You’ve got a lousy attitude, you know that. You’re ungrateful, just like your mother.”

  “Excuse me, Captain,” Savannah said in her most controlled, authoritative voice, trying not to convey the fact that she wanted to rip his tongue out and shove it in his left ear. “I hate to interrupt this family discussion, but we’ve all had a tough day, especially Margie. Why don’t you just give it a rest? She’s welcome to sleep here in my guest room, and you two can resume your argument tomorrow morning after she’s had a good night’s sleep. Does that sound like a plan?”

  He thought about it longer than she had hoped. Finally, he turned to his daughter. “Is that what you want, Margie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine,” he snapped. “If you don’t want to come home with me, so be it. I’ll send somebody over tomorrow morning to get you.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Margie replied.

  “You,” Bloss said, pointing a finger at Dirk, “come with me. I want you to take me out to the crash site and fill me in on what you’ve got so far.”

  “Good night, Margie, Savannah,” Dirk said graciously as he rose to follow the retreating Bloss. “You girls did good.”

  “Thanks.” Savannah gave him an appreciative smile. Dirk could be sweet when he had a mind to be.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Margie said, equally grateful for the seldom heard encouraging word.

  Once the men had exited the house, Savannah offered Margie a cup of hot chocolate. Not too surprisingly, she accepted.

  While Savannah was heating the milk, Margie doodled on the legal pad, uncharacteristically quiet.

  “What’s on your mind?” Savannah asked her.

  “I was just thinking what a jerk my dad is. You hate him, too, huh. I can tell.”

  Savannah weighed the wisdom of being honest against diplomacy. She decided to hit somewhere in between. “He’s not my favorite person on the planet. But he did a good thing by having you, so he can’t be all bad.”

  “He doesn’t care about me.”

  Savannah chose a colorful Alice in Wonderland mug from her cupboard. “I’m sure he does,” she said as she stirred hot milk into the cocoa mix. “Some fathers just aren’t that good at showing it.”

  “Does your dad love you?” Margie asked, watching Savannah squirt a swirl of whipped cream from an aerosol can on top of the cocoa.

  “Don’t know. Never really knew him. He was a trucker. . . on the road about 364 days a year. Once a year he dropped by to get Mama pregnant. Then he’d take off again. We were mostly raised by my grandmother.”

  “I don’t like very many men. Some of the boys my age are all right. But the older ones, like my dad . . . they’re all creeps.”

  Savannah shaved some chocolate curls onto the top of the whipped cream and sprinkled on a bit of cinnamon. “They’re not all creeps. Dirk’s cool. He farts and burps too much, but basically, he’s all right.”

  “Yeah, Dirk’s cool,” Margie reluctantly conceded as Savannah handed her the overloaded mug.

  “And I know a few others who are definitely worth the air they breathe,” Savannah said as she poured herself a cup of the Louisiana brew. She sat across the table from Margie. “But just a few. Two . . . maybe even three.”

  “But women are better.”

  Laughing, Savannah lifted her mug and Margie returned the toast. “Women are definitely better. Wa-a-ay more better.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  December 13—2:16 A.M.

  “Savannah . . . pssst . . . Savannah.”

  Savannah fought her way to consciousness from a deep, much needed and deserved sleep. Gran was right, there was no rest for the weary. By the dim moonlight shining through the lace curtains, she could see her favorite flannel pajamas standing in the bedroom door. Margie was wearing them.

  “Yes, dear?” she said groggily.

  “I had a really bad dream.” Margie sounded and looked like a forlorn five-year-old who was afraid of the thunder. But Savannah reminded herself that this teenager’s recent nightmare had been far more traumatic than the usual lightning storm.

  “I’m not surprised,” she said. She sat up in bed and turned on the nightstand lamp. “Do you want to come in here and tell me about it?”

  “Well . . . not really. I don’t want to talk about it. Or even think about it. I was wondering if . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “If you’d think it was just completely weird if I asked you if. . .”

  “If . . . ?” Savannah had a good idea where this was headed.

  “If I could sleep in here with you.”

  Savannah chuckled. Now, how had she guessed that one? “No. I don’t think it’s weird at all. Climb in.” She pulled back the comforter on the other side of the queen-sized bed, fluffed the pillow, and patted the mattress invitingly. “You don’t hog the covers, do you?”

  “Sometimes.” Margie laughed and climbed in beside her, looking grateful and infinitely relieved.

  “Well, don’t, or I’ll kick you out. And stay on your own side.”

  “Okay.”

  Savannah turned out the lamp and lay down. She pulled the blankets up around her chin.

  Margie did the same, flouncing around like a banty hen making her nest. When she was finally settled, she sighed and said, “You’re cool, Savannah. I wish you were my mom or my big sister.”

  “I can be your big sister if you want,” she said, touched by the girl’s honesty and vulnerability, rare in an adolescent. “Heck, I’m a big sister to half of Georgia
. . . what’s another sister or two?”

  “You’ve got a lot of brothers and sisters?”

  “There are nine of us. I’m the oldest.”

  “Wow. I’m an only kid. They say that makes you spoiled, but I think it just makes you lonely.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  Savannah stifled a giggle.

  “What’s so funny?” Margie asked.

  “Lying here with you . . . it reminds me of a little song my granny used to sing to us at bedtime.”

  “Sing it to me.”

  “Naw. You don’t know what you’re asking. Believe me, Granny Reid sings a lot better than I do.”

  “I don’t care. I want to hear it.”

  Savannah took a deep breath. “Okay, here goes”:

  Two little chil‘uns, lyin’ in bed,

  One ‘most sick, and the other ’most dead.

  Call for the doctor. The doctor said,

  “Feed them little chil‘uns some short’nin’ bread.”

  “Wait a minute.” Margie flopped onto her side, facing Savannah, and propped up on her elbow. “Does ‘chil’uns’ mean children?”

  “Of course. Don’t you speak Southern?”

  Margie laughed. “I guess not. And what’s short‘nin’ bread?”

  “Something you wouldn’t want to eat. Here’s the second verse”:

  Two little chil‘uns, lyin’ in bed.

  One turned over, and the other one said,

  “You peed in my wa-a-rm pla-a-ce.

  You peed in my wa-a-rm place.”

  Margie socked Savannah on the shoulder. “That’s a silly song.”

  “Maybe so, but those are the house rules: Stay on your side, don’t hog the blanket, and—”

  “And don’t pee in your warm place.”

  “Or anyplace else for that matter.”

  “You got it.”

  Savannah gave her an affectionate nudge with her elbow. “Good night, sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  “You have bugs in your bed?”

  “It’s just a quaint, Georgia nighttime blessing. Hush and go to sleep.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Savannah.”