“Move that way,” the young man said as he pointed the revolver towards the door of the unit where Raney had entered a little more than two hours ago.
I walked slowly in the direction of the building. I was wondering what my friend Rosey would do in such a precarious situation. It wasn’t the worst predicament of my life, but it was one that called for some measure of thought and some quick planning if I hoped to avoid a worse case scenario. I slowed my pace just enough for the young man with the gun to notice.
“Walk faster,” he said.
“We late?” I said.
“You’ll be the late Miss whatever-your-name is if you don’t move along faster.”
“Where are we going?”
“Shut up with the questions and keep moving,” he said.
Joe Pleasant. I could tell that he was under some orders not to talk with me. He was also under some constraints with time. I sum up situations quickly.
“I need to call Detective M.A. Owens to report in. He’s expecting a call from me,” I lied.
“Yeah, right. You can call later, if you’re still alive.”
The young man, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, was trying hard to get a handle on the macho stuff. For my money, he had a ways to go in demonstrating his bravado through voice intimidation. Since he was only about five-ten and weighed maybe 160, he could have used a few months at the gym with weight training on his much-too-thin body. Despite these obvious disclaimers on his potential journey towards menacing criminality, he had a gun in his hand and he was probably dumb enough to use it. I also had to assume that the gun was loaded.
I decided it would be better for me to observe and process what was happening. It was painfully obvious to me that my captor with the .38 pointed at my backside was not one of the decision-makers in this apprehending venture. He was following orders from someone a bit higher up the food chain to remove me from my dogged surveillance. After that, I had no clue to the game plan for my fate. I had to assume the worst.
One of the things that would-be kidnappers, muggers, and erstwhile bad guys with guns need to remember is that when you are taking someone captive, moving them from point A to point B, it is best to keep a safe distance from the prisoner. The reason being, you never know what your captive knows by way of self-defense or offensive moves which might turn the tables on you even if you are holding a revolver. That is to say, it is possible to reverse one’s situation if the guy with the gun walks a little too close to you, even behind you, and you know a move or two that would either remove the gun, remove the guy, or remove both and give you a new hand to play.
Not only am I a brilliant and humble private detective with mental acumen in excess, I am also a trained fighter with at least two or three moves that would awe the general populace if they could only see me in action. Actually, I had barely passed the course that covered defensive counter moves at the academy back when my body was a tad more agile than it was of late. Since that time I had only used any of what I could remember no more than twice. It worked once.
Dark was descending quickly since it was after eight o’clock, so there would be no one to see my wondrous move once I figured out that my young assailant with the handgun was walking too close behind me. I decided to act anyway, audience or not. It was the gun-thing bothering me, and the fact that my dog was left alone in the car for who knows how long.
When I was forced out of my car, I saw that my would-be captor had his weapon in his right hand. Being the shrewd detective I am, I deduced that he was right handed. Clever I am that way. Using the fact that he was walking too close behind me, I slowed my pace and then immediately sidestepped to my left and moved rapidly to his backside before he could react.
The next move would be the one which would decide my fate in terms of life or death. I needed to dislodge the weapon from his right hand.
The element of surprise is imperative in this type of situation, as is the element of a quick downward movement of my right hand against his wrist in the hopes of dislodging the gun from his grip. It seems that there is ample speculation, conjecture, and subjunctive clauses related to this time of counter defensive move, and the odds of being successful run less than fifty-fifty. That is to say, a person in my position better hope that Murphy’s first law is not coming to the fore anytime during the first fifteen to twenty seconds of the action.
My move worked and the gun was now on the ground between us. The surprised young man had nothing macho to say. In fact, he was so stunned that he hesitated just long enough for me to use my left hand in a back-handed chop across his throat giving him intense pain as he grabbed his neck with both hands. Once in this position, other parts of his anatomy were vulnerable to attack. I kicked him sharply in the groin and he went down to both knees. That has to hurt.
I was now holding his gun on him. I quickly drew my 9mm from my back holster since I could not rely upon the working order of his weapon. In addition, I could not trust that his gun was loaded.
I would be blatantly dishonest if I said that I was not surprised that my move had worked so well. That the reversal of my fortunes at present were as I had planned it. Still, I had the upper hand and my surprise at my prowess was waning as I gained some composure. I was about to say something unkind to the man on the ground when a sudden blow came to the back of my skull. Whatever light there was existing in the descending darkness of the present moment left quickly, as did my memory of the subsequent events before I regained consciousness.
42
Someone needs to mow their grass passed through my mind when I opened my eyes and regained some measure of consciousness. My head hurt, but that’s a measured understatement. Not used to headaches, I felt this one more than most folks might. I inched my hand toward my head just to make sure it was still attached and not hanging by some mere thread. I found something wet, sticky, and disgusting from where the pain was stemming on my noggin. My only recourse was that I was still alive, I figured, and I was alone. My kingdom for some pain reliever.
It was dark but I could see enough to know that I was prone on the ground in some tall grass. Why does it always have to be dark when desperate things happen? The question made my head hurt more, so I left it unanswered for another time and place.
I sat up and found a tree in the shadowy world around me. It was only a few feet away, so I crawled to it and leaned against it while I continued to feel sorry for my head and myself in this dismal circumstance. I closed my eyes for a moment and tried not to think of anything.
Sam was nowhere around. If the people who did this to me had any sense at all about them, they would have left the dog in the vehicle. Releasing the hound would not be the thing to do if they valued their lives. I figured even the dumbest criminals alive would know that the dog posed a threat. The growling and snarling would certainly be the dead giveaway when approaching the imprisoned dog. I was hopeful he was still there.
I think some time passed. I must have gone back to sleep. When I opened my eyes again, there was better light. I felt a slight chill. The dampness of the area was more than a little conducive for the moss that was nearly everywhere around me. It was growing on anything that did not move. The dawning of whatever day this was cast an eerie light on the variety of greenness in my surroundings. There was obviously more than one type of moss. It appeared that the various shades of green were glowing. Maybe I was hallucinating.
Despite my insufficient knowledge concerning my location, I was grateful that I was alone with only my wits. I wished for Sam, but this would have to do for the present.
I noted some scattered trees off in the distance, but it did not appear that I was in a thick forest. There was too much grass around, so I figured it was a field. I was hoping that I was at least still in Massachusetts, near Weston. A slight breeze passed over me and it was then that I became aware that I was sitting in some type of marshy area. The breeze against my wet backside was the determinant for that insight. It was not an altogether ple
asant awareness. I think the technical term for it is yucky, at least that’s the technical term I employ when my working vocabulary is stunted by surroundings, mild anxiety, and a severe headache.
Murky, eerie, and wet added to a non-stop headache put me in a miserable mood.
When one is in pain and lost and generally miserable, time is of little importance until one’s location is determined. I was a long way from calculating my location. I have no idea how long I leaned against the tree, but I thanked it for being there. Despite my pain and misery, I felt rested. I made a strategic decision while sitting and leaning against the tree in the early morning light. I decided to get up and change my location.
My hands were bound together behind my back but my feet were free to maneuver so I attempted to stand. Not my best decision after I collapsed near the tree. My mossy environment was now whirling around me so I lay there for a while hoping that the merry-go-round would stop.
When I awoke the next time, it was lighter but my forest home was still rather damp and eerie. The greenish tint remained. I crawled back to my favorite tree, expressed my silent but well intentioned gratitude once more for its being there, and continued feeling sorry for myself a little while longer.
My pity-party gave way to a sudden burst of anger and I forced myself to stand once more. I didn’t fall this time. I was aware that my head was not hurting as much. I studied my surroundings before I decided to relocate.
Despite the diffused lighting, I could see that the grass around me was very much in need of mowing. Perhaps waist high would be the exact measurement, at least waist high on me. Small children could hide here. Apparently so could tall women who are prone.
Now that I was upright and had the ability to maintain my balance without falling in a heap in the grass, I decided to walk and leave the tree that had helped me regain some consciousness and some measure of uprightness. I thanked it again and walked away as if our relationship was over. I wondered if talking to trees was a form of dementia.
The field of tall grass turned out to be several acres. After wandering around for what seemed to be longer than desired, I came to a dirt road. That is to say, I stumbled out of the fields of tall grass onto a dirt road that simply happened to be in my path. With my keen sense of direction and severe luck, I headed off one way as if it was the very way I knew that would take me back to Weston and to Sam. I had no idea where I was going, but I was making excellent time. So to speak.
The old adage which says it is better to be lucky than good has some deep meaning for me. My direction along the dirt road led to a paved road and my hope sprang eternal. Or at least my hope sprouted a bit as I begin to think that I just might get back to where this whole episode began.
Dawn was emerging by the time I reached the paved surface. Traffic was minimal. That is to say, for the first two hours, it was non-existent. A man zoomed past me in a Mercedes as the sun was coming up in front of me. As far as I know, he has not slowed down yet. No brake-lights, no hesitation, and not even a wave at me as if I might be a friend simply out for a morning stroll. Nada. Man’s inhumanity to man. Or, man’s inhumanity to woman. Whatever.
The sunlight coming up directly in front of me led me to the conclusion that I was heading due east. We detectives are a shrewd brood. The sunshine was a welcomed sight for me. For whatever reason, when darkness fades to light, there is hope that comes inside a person. At least that is the case with this person.
After a few miles and with the sun clearly up on the horizon, I came to a small Mom & Pop’s restaurant clearly off of the beaten track. I had to assume that I was clearly off of the beaten path. There were no cars in front of it but it was open and ready for a steady flow of business. The small cardboard sign was turned to the open side. The steady flow had yet to manifest itself.
The little bell above the door announced my arrival as if my presence as the only visible customer would not have otherwise stirred the waitress into a work mode. Wearily, I eased into a booth close to the door and near the cash register. I sat facing the entrance so I could see who might come and go. The coming in seemed to be more of a possibility at present than the latter. In a few minutes the waitress on duty, sauntered over to my booth and stood beside my table without a word.
I looked at her for a few seconds without speaking wondering why she didn’t ask me if I wanted something. I suppose it was painfully obvious that I wanted something since I was apparently the first and only customer in the place that day. The clock above the entrance informed me that it was 7:13.
“Coffee. Black. Please,” I said as I put my head down on the table.
Rough night.
“You can’t sleep in here. This is an eating establishment,” the dirty blond waitress said.
“I’m not sleeping. I’m resting.”
“Where’s your car?” she said.
“Good question. I think it’s back in Weston.”
“Weston?” she repeated.
“Never heard of it?” I said.
“It’s not around here.”
“Where is around here?” I said.
“Turtle Pond Community,” she said.
“You’re kiddin’, right?” I said.
“Look at my face, lady. Do I look like a real joker to you?”
I looked at her. She did not appear to have the presence of humor.
“What’s that near?”
“Nothing.”
“And the state?”
“You mean what state is this?”
“Precisely. What state is this?”
“New Hampshire,” she said and turned away to retrieve my coffee.
43
After I finished my two eggs, toast, some lean strips of bacon, hash browns, and five cups of coffee, I felt human again. My head was not hurting as much, but I was painfully aware that I was in some predicament.
“You still hungry?” the dirty blond said to me.
“No, I think I’m good.”
“You’re a long way from good, honey. Look like hell. Long night, huh?” she said.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Tell me about it,” she said and sat down in the booth across from me.
To say that I was shocked at her willingness to actually engage me in conversation would be tantamount to saying that Gandhi secretly worked for the CIA. Since I was apparently the only patron willing to buy a meal at that hour, I suppose she figured she had nothing much to do but sit and talk. She was nursing some coffee as well, carrying the cup around with her as she practiced her skillful art of waiting tables. Unique, laid back, with an attitude. The complete package.
I told her as much as I could remember about the evening.
“Who hit you in the head?”
“Don’t know,” I said.
“And why did they bring you all the way up here to New Hampshire, from where did you say, Weston?”
“Yeah, Weston, Mass. Couldn’t say why.”
“And how are you planning to get back to this Weston, Massachusetts?” she said, pronouncing Massachusetts with the skill of a New Englander. I was still stumbling over the third syllable.
“You got a car?” I said.
“It wouldn’t make it that far.”
“You don’t know how where Weston is. How would you know if it would make it that far?” I said.
“My car barely makes it the ten miles from my trailer to this joint each day. I figure Weston is farther away than any ten miles since I ain’t heard of it before this morning.”
“You have a phone here?” I said.
“Yeah. It’ll cost you fifty cents.”
“You won’t win the good Samaritan award for this.”
“Didn’t know I was up for it,” she said. “Tell me again what kind of work you do?”
“Detective.”
“Police?” she said.
“Private.”
“Who hired you for this gig?”
“Why do you ask?”
�
�Whoever they are, they should compensate you for your medical expenses.”
“I don’t have any medical expenses,” I said.
“You will.”
“You think I’m headed for more trouble, huh?” I said.
“That and the fact that you’re still bleeding,” she pointed to my head. “I’ll get you a paper towel.”
Likely no kin to Clara Barton. Doubt if waitresses ever go through triage training. Sensitivity lectures would have been missed by this one as well.
She returned with the towel, handed it to me, and sat down sipping her coffee.
“It’s trickling down your neck a bit. I think you need to see a doctor or something,” she said.
“Is there a doctor around here?”
“Nope,” she said and swigged her coffee.
“Is there a mirror somewhere in this establishment?” I said.
“Yeah, back in the restroom. Use the men’s side. It’s the only one with a mirror. Since men are vainer than women and I only had one mirror, I chose to put it in there for them. Besides, I have more men come in to eat than women.”
“Can’t imagine why,” I said as I headed toward the back to the men’s room.
The mirror was close to a four by four with multiple cracks in it. That would be four inches by four inches. Still, it was sufficient for me to wipe the blood and do some triage on my wound. After several minutes I managed to stop the bleeding. The gash was deep enough that stitches might be helpful to close it. Apparently, the person or persons who slugged me wanted to do some permanent damage and hit me harder than necessary. At least they hit me harder than I deemed necessary. If they had only asked me nicely, I would have gone with them. I wasn’t complaining since I was still alive, but I was not a happy camper either.
The phone was hanging on the wall between the two restrooms. It was not a pay phone, but there was a wide-mouth canning jar on a small table underneath the phone. There were some coins in it. Being a clever detective and all, I figured out the scheme of the place. I put a couple of dollars in the jar and dialed Uncle Walters’ number. As it was ringing, I scanned the room to see what else of interest was housed in the dirty blonde’s restaurant. My eyes caught the smiley face clock hanging above the sink in the kitchen. It was crooked, but after craning my head a little, I could see that it was nearly 10:25. A crooked smiley face. Great metaphor for my predicament.
Desperate Measures: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 5) Page 16
