Due for Discard

by Sharon St. George

  In a way, I wanted Orrie Mercer to come after me. I was certain he was the man whose crime was about to settle on my brother’s shoulders, and that was intolerable. Why Mercer would kill his niece, even for money, was a mystery, but I didn’t care. If I could prove it, and survive, I could clear Harry’s name.

  As if on cue, a distant pack of coyotes erupted into a howling Greek chorus, scoring the eerie night. The small studio closed around me like a rabbit hole while I played the role of hunted prey cowering inside.

  I concentrated on the evidence and sat down to make a list of what I knew. An acrylic toenail with Verna Beardsley’s fingerprint. That wasn’t evidence against Mercer. I tried to think like Harry. Something tangible, something tied to Mercer. Then it came to me. The bloody deer bag. Dr. Beardsley told his ex they had used a deer bag to staunch the blood from Mercer’s foot after Beardsley accidentally shot him. Hannah had said the blood on the deer bag did not match Bonnie’s. But some of it was human, from an unknown source. Had Mercer kept that deer bag? Had he used it as Bonnie’s shroud?

  I called Lorraine Beardsley again and rushed to the point before she could hang up on me.

  “Mrs. Beardsley, please let me ask one more question.”

  “Miss Machado? Good heavens, you again?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Her sigh told me this had better be my last call. “What is it this time?”

  “The deer bag. The one Dr. Beardsley used to wrap Mr. Mercer’s foot after the accident. Do you know what happened to it?”

  “Vane gave all of his hunting gear to Bonnie’s uncle. A deer rifle, the camo clothing, and the deer bag, I suppose, unless it was discarded at the clinic in the mountains. He said he wanted nothing to remind him of the incident.”

  “Did the police ever ask you about any of this?”

  “No. Once they learned I was in Tahiti with Troy when Bonnie went missing, I never heard from them again.”

  I thanked her and ended the call. I was cut off and alone again, terrified that something had happened to Harry. It had been half an hour since he promised to be back in ten minutes.

  I pondered Maybelline’s connection to Mercer. She had been friendly with him, even dating him until her recent change of heart. Why had she called him a dirty liar? Why had she told me that first day at lunch that Bonnie had probably run away with some man? To cover up the crime? To protect her brother? To protect Mercer? But why hadn’t Dr. Beardsley simply filed for a divorce instead of doing away with Bonnie? Why had a divorce been out of the question? Was he really that worried about a scandal?

  I recalled the double date with the Underhills. We learned that night that Bonnie was into drugs and kinky sex and had gone home to her husband, wasted after her evening with the Underhills. No, we had learned more than that. Willow hadn’t exactly been devastated by Bonnie’s death, but she had mourned the loss of Bonnie as a conduit to a reliable drug source. A source close to Bonnie. What if Bonnie had been getting drugs from Orrie Mercer? Did Mercer have an inside source at TMC?

  My train of thought was shattered by a high-pitched, ear-piercing cry of alarm. It was the unmistakable sound of a llama calling out a warning to the rest of the herd. Nothing short of a predator on the grounds would provoke that hair-raising sound. Fanny sprang into action, answering the llama with her own spine-chilling yowls while she pawed the door.

  I ran to the kitchen window, but saw no vehicle in the lane, no one on foot. The pasture lay to the north of the bunkhouse, on the side of my apartment where there were no windows. The peephole on my door yielded only a glimpse of movement in the dark night. Llama or an intruder? I couldn’t tell.

  Fanny chose that moment to erupt in a bloodcurdling feline screech that nearly lifted the enamel off my teeth. Nothing would shut her up. She leapt on the kitchen counter and pawed at the window, emitting guttural growls.

  In the midst of this, I tried to reach Nick on his cellphone, and it went direct to voicemail. I left him a message asking him to come as soon as he could.

  The braying cries of the herd started up again. I forced Fanny into her carrier and stuffed her in the closet so I could concentrate on the sounds from outside. I picked up the phone, ready to call 911 again, but hesitated, trying to determine whether the intruder was human or just a coyote on the prowl.

  The anxious sounds of the animals rattled my nerves. If coyotes found the herd, the little cria would be the first victim. Any other time, I’d have run outside to scare the predator away. But this was different. By stepping outside, I’d play into the intruder’s hands. If it came to a fight, I wanted every advantage.

  I waited, and had just put down the phone when I heard a familiar voice snarl, “Get away, you sonofabitch.” Mercer. What followed was a loud thud and the unmistakable “oof” of air exploding from a set of human lungs. A charging llama can drop a grown man like a sack of cement. If Mercer wasn’t down for the count, he was at least on the ropes. That was my cue to act. A vision of the turkey hanging from my ceiling clinched it. The man had gotten into my apartment before; he could do it again. If he did, my only option would be a fight to the finish. Outside, I had two choices: fight or flight.

  He was twice my size and most likely carried a gun. With the right leverage, I could use his weight against him, but it would be tricky to disarm him in the dark, especially if he saw me coming. Considering his age and the size of his beer gut, I preferred flight. I had no time to dither or attempt another phone call. I had to get out and run like hell before he caught his breath.

  Chapter 46

  I couldn’t leave the bunkhouse through my door. It faced the field where Mercer had tangled with the llamas. If he was conscious, he’d see me make my getaway. My only hope was to climb out my bathroom window onto the west-facing deck, where I had less chance of being spotted. Fanny had gone quiet in the closet. With a stab of guilt about leaving her, I raised the window, stuck out a leg, then remembered my cellphone on the dinette table. I crawled back inside, grabbed the phone and stuffed it in the pocket of my jeans.

  Again, I crept out the window. Back pressed against the outside wall, I let my eyes adjust to the feeble moonlight while I listened for tell-tale sounds. I heard nothing but the bark of distant coyotes working up to an encore. I considered dropping from the deck to the ground below, but decided not to risk it. I already had an injured shin. If I twisted an ankle, I couldn’t run. Climbing down was slower but safer. I hoisted myself over the rail and grabbed the corner support post, testing for splinters. The post was smooth from several coats of paint, making my sliding descent quick and quiet.

  I crept around the south side of the barn until I reached the front corner, where I hesitated, looking longingly at my car there in the stable yard. I had the keys, but there was no way I could get in, back it around and drive down the lane without drawing fire. I had to run for it. But where was Mercer? I picked up a rock and threw it as hard as I could toward the back of the barn, counting on him to reveal himself when he heard it land. If he went west, I’d go east and head for brushy cover. I crouched and waited for him to react.

  “You must think I’m a real dummy.”

  Fear licked the back of my neck. Before I could react, Mercer shoved me from behind, crashing me into the stairs leading up to the apartment. My forehead hit the second step, opening a gash that blinded me with a curtain of my own blood.

  “Get up them steps.” He grabbed the back of my neck and gave me another shove. This time both my shins slammed into the stairs, and the one I’d injured earlier shot a fireball of pain through my body, nearly making me black out.

  I crawled to the top of the steps and got to my feet. Mercer stood just out of reach, pointing an ugly black handgun at my heart. “Open that door,” he said.

  “I don’t have my keys.” I did, but I wasn’t about to admit it. My odds were still better outside.

  He pulled a key ring from his pocket and handed it to me.

  “Use mine,” he said, “and don’t
bother looking for your bear spray.” His nasty laugh turned to a growl. “Get the hell inside. Now.”

  Jesus, the man had keys to my home. How had he done that? Okay, he was a thug, a big, nasty goon, but maybe not so stupid after all. He’d outsmarted me, let himself into my home who knew how many times, and now I was at his mercy. Almost blinded by a face drenched in blood and crippled by a wounded leg, I was trapped with a man whose survival depended on silencing me.

  While I unlocked my door, my training began to take hold. In classes and competitions I had mastered every possible configuration for disarming an attacker with a handgun. If Mercer let me live for a few minutes longer, I’d find my chance to do it for real.

  “Get your ass inside.”

  I played sissy and obeyed with a whimper.

  Inside, Mercer shoved me onto the daybed. His bulk crowded the small space, and his sour body odor assaulted my nostrils. In the light of the room, I realized he was decked out in camo from cap to boots. Camo Man. He waved his gun at me.

  “You been warned. You shoulda kept out of it.”

  The fact that he was talking instead of shooting gave me some hope. I went with that.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Liar. You been buttin’ in since day one. Like you knew something.”

  Day one. The day I’d asked him about the smelly Dumpster. So I was right. He thought I suspected him all along.

  “That morning. My first day. Is that when—”

  “Had to get her out of my garage before the neighbors complained about the smell.”

  “So you …?” The image of Orrie burying his niece in a trash bin left me speechless.

  “Then you showed up yapping about the stinkin’ Dumpster and I told you to let it go. Soon as she got found, I knew you’d be wondering why I didn’t want that smell reported.”

  “You were wrong. I never suspected you.”

  “Sure you did. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill that ditzy coke-head. She was family.”

  Even better news. If Mercer really hadn’t killed Bonnie, there was a chance he wouldn’t kill me. Still, he had a gun pointed at my face, and he wasn’t stupid enough to get within striking distance. I had to keep him talking until an opportunity came.

  “If you didn’t kill her, why not tell the police what really happened?”

  “I got other problems with the law.” Right, I thought. Like stealing drugs from the hospital pharmacy.

  “Then tell me what really happened. If the truth will clear my brother, I swear I’ll keep you out of it.”

  Confusion twisted Mercer’s fleshy features. He blinked rapidly several times. “Who’s your brother?”

  Incredibly, he didn’t know. “Harry Machado. The police are trying to pin the crime on him.”

  “That’s why you’re nosin’ around? To protect your brother?”

  “Of course. The police aren’t looking for the real killer. If you didn’t do it, we can help each other.”

  “How?”

  “If you know Dr. Beardsley did it, if you were a witness, you need to tell me what happened.”

  I shifted position until I was sitting upright on the daybed, both feet on the floor. If Mercer came a little closer, I might have a chance. I calculated the distance between us, but it was too great. My leg was too weak to risk a jump or a kick. I had to get close enough to use my hands.

  While I assessed my chances, a snarled command came out of nowhere.

  “Hit the floor, asshole!”

  Mercer didn’t drop to the floor, but he froze, eyes wide. Seizing the opportunity, I lunged at him, twisting out of his line of fire and simultaneously grabbing the gun. I pulled it down and away, out of his grasp, and opened some distance between us. My injured shin screamed with pain, but I managed to stay on my feet.

  Mercer glanced behind his back, looking for the source of the voice. When he saw no one, he looked back at me.

  “How’d you do that?”

  I pointed at the floor, where the source of the menacing voice marched on little bird feet across the kitchen linoleum. Jack’s puny cockatiel, a scant four inches from topknot to tail feathers, had come out of hiding.

  Bosco cocked his head at Mercer. “Go ahead, make my day,” he said. Pure Eastwood.

  “Ah, hell,” Mercer said. But his eyes took on a new light. From resignation back to hope. It was still boy against girl, and he expected to win.

  “Don’t even think about, it, Mercer. I’ll have real backup any minute.” I hoped I was right. Harry, Nick, Quinn—they were all taking their sweet time about it. I kept the gun trained on Mercer with one hand while I used the other to pry my cellphone from my pocket. I got it open and punched 911 with my thumb.

  Bosco chose that moment to take flight, landing on my shoulder and pecking fiercely at my earlobe. Startled, I managed to hold the gun, but I dropped the phone. It bounced toward Mercer, who picked it up and ended my 911 call. He punched in another number and waited with the phone to his ear.

  “Put it down,” I said.

  He made a rude gesture. “Go ahead, shoot me,” he sneered. Into the phone he said, “Get up here, now.”

  Now what? Who had he called? Bosco was still perched on my shoulder, and I couldn’t afford any more distractions. With my eyes and gun trained on Mercer, I side-stepped over to the birdcage, and leaned my shoulder toward the open door. Bosco hopped in and started munching on birdseed. I locked the cage door and gripped the gun with both hands.

  Mercer slipped the phone into his pocket. “You got backup? I got backup. Wonder who’ll get here first?” He folded his arms across his beer belly, pleased with himself in spite of having his own gun pointed at his chest.

  Where was Harry? He could have walked back from Four Corners by now. A glance at my clock confirmed what seemed impossible. Nine-thirty. Only ten minutes had passed since I crawled out of my window to make a getaway. It seemed like hours.

  The longer I stood aiming the gun at Mercer’s chest, the heavier it grew.

  “Weighty, ain’t it?” Mercer said.

  “That’s okay, when I get tired, I’ll just shoot you.” I’d have to shoot him. Somewhere. Not in the crotch, and not to kill, but I’d put a bullet someplace in his anatomy that would disable him. If I had the guts to pull the trigger. Harry’s warning came to me once more. You have to know what you will and won’t do.

  At last I heard footfalls on the steps outside. In moments, Harry would appear and this siege would end. Mercer’s eyes never left the gun in my hand.

  A familiar voice from out on the deck called through the open bunkhouse door.

  “Orrie? Are you in there?”

  “It’s about time, you dumb bitch. Where’ve you been?”

  Verna Beardsley, alias Maybelline Black, peeked in the door, saw the gun in my hand, and said, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Chapter 47

  “Shut up and get in here,” Mercer snarled.

  Maybelline tiptoed into the room, her bulging eyes fixed on the gun I held trained on Mercer. In camo garb many sizes too large, pant legs and sleeves rolled up, she was a bizarre sight—a popeyed, woodsy harridan from some hunter’s Freudian nightmare.

  Mercer reached out and grabbed her, pulling her body in front of him as a shield.

  “Oh, hell, dearie,” Maybelline said. “You should have shot the lying bastard while you had the chance.”

  Mercer locked his beefy arm around Maybelline’s throat. “You want to save your brother’s butt or not?”

  “Of course,” I said. But Maybelline said it, too, and I realized Mercer wasn’t talking to me, he was talking to her.

  “Then you better remember whose side you’re on.”

  “Vane didn’t kill that floozy. You did.” Maybelline struggled feebly, but there was no way she could break loose from Mercer’s grip.

  “Did not,” he said.

  “Did too,” she said. Their kindergarten dialogue was beyond annoying, and the gun
was getting heavier.

  “Maybelline … Verna, I know who you are. We can help each other,” I pleaded. “Bonnie Beardsley was with the Underhills the night she disappeared. If you know what happened to her after she left them, you have to tell me.”

  “No she don’t.” Mercer tightened his grip, and she croaked a little awk sound.

  “Let her go, dammit.” I fired at the ceiling over Mercer’s head. A chunk of plaster dropped, grazing his left ear.

  He ducked and yelled, “Sonofabitch!”

  Maybelline spun away from him and headed for the door.

  “Stop right there,” I shouted. “Take one more step and I’ll shoot you in the ass.”

  She turned in the doorway, regarding me with disgust. “That’s why you’ll never get a man, Miss Machado. You’re just not ladylike.”

  Orrie Mercer chose that moment to rush me, going for the gun. His forward momentum made it almost too easy. I blocked his outstretched arms and clipped the back of his skull with the gun butt. He slid across the floor on his belly and smacked into the wall head first.

  Maybelline gaped at his limp bulk. “Is he dead?”

  “I doubt it.”

  She looked disappointed. “Let’s talk before he wakes up. And don’t call me Verna. I hate that name.”

  “Okay, Maybelline. I’m listening.”

  I grabbed a nearly empty roll of duct tape from a drawer in the kitchenette. It was stiff with age and there wasn’t much of it, but I managed to secure Mercer’s hands behind his back while she began talking.

  “First, he’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore.”

  “When was he your boyfriend?”

  “It started a few months ago. Orrie said he was crazy in love with me.” Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, and a blush tinted her cheeks. “We were going to get married.”

  Her ex-beau stirred, moaned, and went still.

  Maybelline said, “Can you whack him over the head again?”

  “Not while he’s out. Where’s your car?”

  “I don’t drive. I came with him. He parked out by the street.”