by Gina LaManna
“Either test it or don’t,” I said, blurting out the instructions. I didn’t think about it. All I knew was that our guy was squinting too closely at the rope while standing too far away. He was ruining all of my escape plans, which was really starting to bum me out. It was my birthday; I didn’t want to die today.
“Why so eager?” he asked, his gaze shifting towards me.
I couldn’t tell him the truth, which was that I needed to draw his attention away from scrutinizing Meg’s wrists.
“Because I tied a really freaking good knot, and I want you to either look at it or get that gun off my friend’s back,” I said. “You’re making her uncomfortable.”
His expression reflected surprise, as if taken aback by my stubborn tone. When he finally gathered his thoughts, he shook his head again, as if reminding himself he was in charge. “I can make her feel uncomfortable as much as I damn please.”
“Listen, I get it,” I said on a whim. “We’re both low men on the totem pole. I work for someone, you work for someone – why are we fighting over other people’s requests? Shouldn’t we decide for ourselves who we kill and which decisions we make?”
Grease Ball paused, a flash of understanding in his eyes.
I was right in thinking he was a pawn. Unlike Anthony or Carlos, who wore the aura of power and leadership like an expensive suit, this guy operated a bit rough around the edges, a bit unsure of his next move. He wasn’t used to being in charge. The question remained, however: who was playing him?
“No,” he said. “I’m not just a cog in the wheel. I’m—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re important. You’re not one in a million. I’ve been there, buddy,” I said. “In fact, quite recently. You know what happened? My partners solved the case without me. Yeah – they didn’t even bother to tell me.” I shook my head in disgust. “Doesn’t feel very nice, does it?”
Grease Ball neither confirmed nor denied it, but I crossed my fingers that I’d struck a nerve. If he were at all human, he could most likely relate. And if I could hit the right nerve and bond with him…
“No, it doesn’t feel very nice,” he said, appearing to have come out of a fog. “Which is why I’m taking control. And my first – my very first personal decision – is to get rid of you.”
“No!” I raised my hands and took a step back, but I was too late. He raised the rifle, pointed it at me, and fired.
Chapter 12
My little rant to Grease Ball had served a purpose. Besides the fact that it felt therapeutic to yell about my co-workers, it’d given Meg time to make her move. Unbeknownst to Grease Ball, she’d snapped her bindings and had inched slowly towards our captor. The more irate Grease Ball had become, the closer he had moved towards me. And the less attention he paid to Meg’s advances.
By the time he’d raised his rifle to fire, Meg had been within arm’s reach. But as soon as Grease Ball’s promise to kill me had left his mouth, Meg leapt forward, knocking him to the floor as he fired the gun.
I dove out of the way, my eardrums ringing from the shot. The world flew upside down; a voice screamed; someone else groaned.
I didn’t feel any searing pain, and no blood gushed from my body.
My ears weren’t yet working, but a flash of movement from the corner of my eye drew my attention towards the center of the room.
“I’ve been shot!” Meg screamed, rolling in circles over the floor. “Man down. Man down – I’ve been shot!”
Splatters of a shiny red liquid smeared across the cabin’s freshly laid floor, the metallic scent mixing with the sweetness of the pine. It took my brain a lot longer than it should have to register that the red stains were blood. When my brain put two and two together, the lightheadedness came in a hurry.
I really didn’t like blood.
My breakfast threatened to evacuate my stomach and my knees were on the verge of collapse.
Meg’s wails of pain pierced my brain and I stumbled about, trying to pull myself together. My body recoiled against the shock, revolting against the scene unfolding before me.
It wasn’t until I tripped over someone’s arm that I remembered another person was in the room.
Grease Ball reached for the gun, which had been knocked from his hands by one of Meg’s flailing appendages. I stomped down hard on the outstretched fingers without a second thought. My instincts took over, and when he withdrew his hand in pain, I surged towards the gun.
Picking it up, I pointed it at Grease Ball, who cradled his hand close to his chest. I tried to give off my best confident vibe, though it was difficult. The buzzing in my ears felt like a posse of mosquitoes had arrived, ready for a party in my brain, and Grease Ball’s whimpers coupled with Meg’s screams twisted together in a cacophony that made me want to shoot him just so he’d be quiet.
I took big, careful steps toward my friend. Getting to her as quickly as possible was difficult because I was afraid to take my gun off of Grease Ball for too long. I hoped the threat of violence would be enough, because if he made a move towards me, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to pull the trigger.
I’d never shot anyone before. I had accidentally kidnapped someone, however. Even though I let the man go unhurt, the whole situation didn’t give me the warm fuzzies. I couldn’t imagine shooting someone would feel much better, even if he deserved it.
“You won’t shoot me,” he growled at me as I reached Meg.
“Are you okay?” I asked her, flicking my eyes back and forth as quickly as possible.
“No,” she said. “He shot me in the cheek.”
I glanced in alarm at her face.
“Not that one,” she said.
My level of alarm decreased slightly, now that Meg lay still on the ground. Her face was a bit pale, but she was able to talk and string together logical sentences, which counted for something. Despite trying to not look at the blood splatters on the floor, I also couldn’t help but notice they weren’t deep, thick pools of the stuff. The marks were more of a light dusting, probably caused my Meg’s extensive wriggling.
It was a mistake to take my eyes off Grease Ball for even the briefest of moments.
By the time I turned my gaze back to him, he was already on his feet and taking steps towards us. His gaze didn’t show fear. His eyes held a quiet confidence, probably thinking I wouldn’t shoot him.
And even though I knew we were in danger, I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger.
“You won’t shoot me,” he said again, now only a few short steps away.
“No, she won’t,” Meg said, pulling herself to her feet with a guttural scream. She yanked the gun from my hand and expertly trained it at him, looking more comfortable behind the trigger than I’d ever be. “But I will.”
Meg’s scream had stopped the man in his tracks. I felt so sorry for my friend, so sad she’d been injured while trying to save me. Still, I had to push those thoughts away for the moment, and deal with the situation at hand. There’d be time to talk later.
“Uh, I believe you’ll shoot me,” Grease Ball said, slowly raising his hands and for the first time looking deeply frightened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean – I wasn’t aiming for you. If you hadn’t jumped in front—”
“You’re stuttering,” Meg interrupted. “So what, you didn’t mean to hit my buns? You were aiming to murder my friend.”
Suddenly realizing his argument lacked sustenance, Grease Ball shrugged. “Uh, well – I suppose…”
I watched his eyes glance towards the door of the shack and then to the cellar beneath the table. I moved over and stood on top of the cellar, just in case. “He’s looking to—” I started.
“Oooh yeah, I see him looking,” Meg said. “And I’m looking at him with the barrel of a gun. One false move and I’ll give him a new butt-hole to match mine.”
“Uh, Meg – I might not call it that,” I said, craning around to look behind her. “It doesn’t sound that great.”
“How does it look?” she asked.
>
I wasn’t particularly eager to take a peek at Meg’s rear end, but after all she’d done, it was a simple favor for her to ask.
I lifted up her vest with hesitation. Her jeans were torn just above the spot where her leg connected with her pelvis. Peeling the torn opening back a bit, I could see the place where the bullet had nicked her. I certainly wasn’t a doctor or a paramedic – heck, I couldn’t even remember how many breaths to give during CPR – but even I could tell it was only a flesh wound. The bleeding had already stopped, and except for a stain on her jeans and a bit of a mess on the floor, she’d be fine with a little antiseptic and a Band-Aid.
“It’s not actually a hole,” I said, letting her vest fall back down to its normal position. “It’s more of a scratch. You’ll be okay.”
“I know I’ll be okay,” she said. “I’m a mother-freakin’ tough cookie, so I’ll be okay. But this guy gave me a butt-scratch. I don’t like that.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, waving his hands above his head. “Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t try to give you a, er…”
“Call it what it is,” Meg said. “A butt-scratch. Now I gotta go to the doctor, and I don’t like doctors much.”
“Meg,” I said, offering my suggestion gently. “How about we don’t shoot him here?”
“Give me one good reason why not,” she said. “One single reason.”
“Well for starters, there are not enough rags in that box to clean up the blood. Even if he’s a twat, you can still get in trouble for shooting him,” I said.
“Keep talking,” Meg said, hesitation in her voice. “I’m not convinced.”
“Okay,” I said, taking a moment to think. I hemmed and hawed, trying to find a reason that’d better connect with Meg’s logic. “How about this? He ruined your helmet. And since it was customized, you should make him fix it. It’s not simple for you to just buy a new one.”
“Yep,” Meg said, nodding her head. “I hear that. That there is a pretty dang good reason. You ready to glue my mohawk back on that helmet one strand at a time?”
“Yes, sure,” he said, not sounding particularly enthused about it.
“I don’t like your attitude,” Meg said. “I want more excitement.”
“Why should I have to fix your helmet?” he argued. “You were the one trespassing on my property when you lost it. It’s mine, now.”
“He’s got a point,” Meg said, turning to me. “What now, Sherlock?”
I wasn’t sure if she was kidding or not. Deciding that she was in shock and her decision trees were a little crooked right now, I explained patiently. “It doesn’t do him much good if he’s dead. He should want to fix your helmet so you don’t shoot him.”
“Oh, right.” Meg smiled. “I’m the one with the gun here. So now, let’s try this again. Are you ready to fix my helmet?”
The man opened his mouth, and I could tell he wanted to argue. To prevent more confusion, I barged in, partially to save his life, but also because we didn’t have all day to discuss the details of saving his life.
“We have errands to run,” I said. “Meg, let’s tie him up and take him with us. We can deliver him to Anthony or Carlos, and they’ll better know what to do. It’s probably not a good idea to go to the cops with this one.”
“Yeah,” Meg said. “Can you imagine Chuckie’s face? He’d have a heart attack if he heard the whole shebang.” She referenced her cop friend who’d arrested me on one occasion. Then speaking to Grease Ball, she added, “I used to be a cop, so I know their kind.”
“Used to be?” he muttered. “Would never have guessed why you’re not anymore.”
“You don’t wanna go there, buddy,” I said. “You almost found out today.”
Meg’s finger twitched, and the whole situation was making me nervous. The longer we sat here talking, the more time he had to escape.
“Let’s go,” I encouraged.
“You’re right. I’ve seen the movies,” Meg said. “We’re not gonna be those stupid bad guys who die at the end because they talk too much. Explainin’ all their crap.”
“Uh, Meg?” I gave her a “what the heck” gesture. “We’re not the bad guys here.”
“Oh – right.” Meg shook her head and chortled. “Sometimes with you, chickadee, the lines blur.”
“How are we going to get back to the Lumina?” I asked. “Should I go get it?”
“No way are we giving him a lift. We’re walking. He made us walk; we’re making him crawl.”
** **
We made it ten steps from the cabin before Meg changed her mind.
“Jog on ahead and grab the tractor, will you?” she asked, glaring at our captive. “I forgot I’m wounded.”
“It’s a four-wheeler,” the man grumbled.
“Can’t we just walk?” I asked. “We can take it slow. It’d take longer for me to run there and drive back…” I trailed off at Meg’s murderous gaze.
“I jumped in front of a bullet for you – with my most prized possession. And now you can’t be bothered to give me a lift?” she asked, one hand on her hip.
I couldn’t find it in myself to mention that it was only a scratch.
Her injury could have easily been much worse. Not to mention, it was the thought that counted. The last thing I wanted was to underplay her sacrifice for me. Plus, she was still holding a gun, and I didn’t want her mind to creep towards revenge.
“Yeah, I’ll go get it,” I said. “Where are the keys, Grease Ball?”
“Name’s not Grease Ball,” he said. “And I’ll never tell you.”
Meg accidentally stepped on the man’s foot and elbowed his forehead. Magically, he then decided to give us the location of the keys, just before her knuckles accidentally collided with his nose.
“That’s what I thought,” Meg harrumphed. “We’ll be waiting for you right here. I’ll be standing, since I can’t sit, thanks to this jerk.”
I took off at a light jog, reminding myself to visit the gym more often. A side ache, however, was the least of my problems at the moment. My bum was scratch-free and my head didn’t have a hole in it. I couldn’t complain; thirty was shaping up to be the start of a pretty decent year. Maybe we’d celebrate tonight. I could take Meg out for drinks. Or, as per the usual, I could stop by her bar for free drinks.
It took fifteen minutes for me to jog back, find the key, and then figure out how to turn the dang thing on. Motor vehicles were not my forte, and this one only seemed to drive backwards.
“You know there’s a switch to make it go forward,” Grease Ball said unhelpfully, after I reversed my entire way back to the shack where he and Meg awaited my arrival.
Meg stood over him with a leer on her face, while our mean little friend looked completely, utterly disgusted. I didn’t want to know what had transpired in my absence.
“Tell her to stop giving me wet willies,” he complained, as I eyed them up.
“You’re lucky that’s all it is,” I said.
Meg guffawed. “He hates it.”
“Sometimes it’s the little things,” I said.
Meg urged the man up with the nose of her gun, retrieved her orange mohawk helmet from where Grease Ball had unceremoniously dropped it, and plunked it on her head.
“Looks great,” I lied, pretending all the jagged edges didn’t exist.
“My head makes anything look good,” Meg said. “Let’s get out of this shack. They don’t have proper bathrooms, and I’m beginning to feel the urge to drop the kiddies off at the pool.”
“That is the grossest analogy I’ve ever heard,” Grease Ball said.
“Stick around,” I muttered. “It’s really quite tame.”
“Forward, march!” Meg instructed, pointing straight ahead.
We’d all assembled in an odd, jenga-like puzzle on the back of the four-wheeler. Grease Ball, tied up by the hands and the feet, lay across the back. Meg sat, reverse-cowgirl on the seat, holding the gun wedged halfway up our man’s nose. I drove the bea
st.
Well, I tried to. Upon Meg’s cry of forward, march, we shot straight backwards, nearly ramming straight into the shack.
“Yes, forward I said,” Meg repeated. “Want me to drive?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not taking the gun.”
“Will you be gentler if I tell you how to put it in the correct gear?” whined Grease Ball.
“I’ll consider it,” I said. “How do I make this puppy go straight?”
** **
“Say cheese,” Meg instructed Grease Ball. “Big smile, there ya go.”
I unlocked the car as Meg positioned our captive on the back of his own four-wheeler, moving his arms about and fluffing his hair as if he were a glamour shot model.
“I wish I had some dry shampoo for your locks,” she said. “I’m getting a gigantic glare from the grease.”
“It doesn’t have to be beautiful,” I said. “It just needs to serve the purpose so we get the sauce.”
“Sauce?” Grease Ball asked.
“Yes. This whole mess is over some stupid sauce. Whoop-de-doo,” Meg said. “Better be great sauce, is all I’m saying. Ain’t nothing wrong with regular ketchup in my mind.”
“Did you get the picture?” I asked.
“It’s a beaut,” Meg said, holding the camera so I could see.
I winced just looking at it; Grease Ball had forced a painful looking smile on his face, while a gun was balanced precariously on his lap, the bullets removed. His hands and feet were bound behind him, but Meg had draped her vest over his shoulders so his bindings were hidden.
The only problem? Meg didn’t like to wear clothes under her vest.
Dressed in only a flimsy cotton bra, she moved her arms like a duck. “Gotta get some circulation in here,” she said. “The air flow in that cabin was subpar. You know what that means.”
I didn’t, but I assumed it meant that she was sweating profusely. The temperature was quickly climbing as we entered the hottest part of the afternoon. July in Minnesota could be sweltering, and today was becoming one of those days when the humidity felt like a hot blanket had been super-glued around my shoulders. I belonged at a lake, not chasing after a skinny twerp on a backwards ATV.
