by Shirl Henke
By the time Sam had him propped up against the wall wearing his “custom jacket,” his tongue had begun to un-thicken. He tried it out. “Can you leave off the sleep mask? I feel disoriented enough without being blind, too.” He paused, then added grudgingly, “Please?”
“Sorry, but you’ve just amply demonstrated that I can’t trust you.”
He cocked his head at her as she reached for the mask. “Guess there’s no hope you won’t gag me, is there?”
“Not a hope in hell, Mr. Granger,” she replied, slipping it over his head, then starting to pull off a length of tape.
His tongue still did not work right. He spoke slowly, slurring his words. “You’re being a bitch, Samantha. I could’ve hurt you, but I didn’t. Now you’re torturing me.”
“Shut up,” she replied, clamping his jaws together with one hand while applying the tape with the other, feeling guilty as hell. Why couldn’t he just be another head case? Damn Sergeant Will Patowski and the whole Miami-Dade PD! Damn the FBI! She tried reminding herself that he had stuck his reporter’s nose in a police investigation and brought this on himself. Even his aunt had agreed enough to pay her a fortune to get him out of the firing line. But Sam still felt rotten.
As she wound the gauze around his head he mumbled curses through the tape. This time she was certain he was cursing and that she was the object of his fury. She could practically feel his eyes burning through the sleep mask. He would be one dangerous customer if he got loose again. This’ll teach me to think with my hormones.
“Okay. Time to hit the road, Mr. Granger.”
He didn’t move when she tugged at the collar of his robe. “I know the charge has worn off or else you wouldn’t be able to talk so glibly. We really do have to go, so…unless you want me to demonstrate how my little gizmo works on your thigh again—only a short burst, you understand—I suggest you let me help you up and walk to the van like a good boy.”
He climbed in the van like a good boy.
Chapter 3
By noon they were on Interstate 70 in eastern Utah. Sam could not stop thinking about his last words before she taped his mouth. He could have punched her but he didn’t. He’d only grabbed her, trying to keep her from using the stunner. His plans had obviously not included using his fists. Unlike a number of rough customers she’d dealt with over the years—not to mention collars she’d made while on the force—he had not wanted to hurt her. And with those muscles, he certainly could have. He had every reason to be furious at the way she had treated him.
Dammit, his speech had been so thick from the stun, he must be parched by now. She knew how a shock like that messed with a victim’s—no, dammit—a patient’s electrolytes. Guilt was a bitch, she thought with a sigh. Maybe there was some way to make it up to him. That’s when she saw the sign advertising Sam’s Slurpee Stand. A message from God?
According to the billboard, the guy using her name served “the biggest baddest ice drinks this side of Death Valley. Only one mile off the highway.” She watched for the exit and pulled off, following the arrows that pointed down a twisting black-top road. “Sam’s a damned liar,” she muttered as the direction continued sending her deeper into nowhere. “I don’t have time for this.” Already they were hours behind schedule to make Denver.
Just as she was about to give up and make a U-turn, she saw the joint at a fork in the road. “Pays to advertise,” she said, observing the long string of cars inching their way toward the drive-up window. Of course, it probably didn’t hurt Sam’s business that this was the only place within a hundred miles. She took her place at the end of the line and looked at her watch. Damn, the service had better be pretty fast or she was out of here.
Then Granger groaned again. Sam settled back against her seat with a sigh of resignation. After what seemed like half a day, although she knew it was only half an hour, she reached the window and bought two supersize strawberry Slurpees. Not wanting any company when she gave the treat to her “patient,” Sam started to pull away from the small white clapboard drink stand. Suddenly the shrill bleat of a horn coincided with a nasty spray of gravel and the crunch of a fender. Hers.
No good deed ever goes unpunished. Sam rested her head against the steering wheel.
Some Utah yutz had just blindsided her. The rusty yellow pickup had pulled out from behind the stand and crashed head-on into the passenger side of her van. Great. Wonderful. Only Sam used stronger words for the situation as she climbed out to survey the damage. Already she could hear Matt making muffled noises from the back. Before he got it into his head to start kicking at the door, she rushed over to the wizened old man sitting behind the wheel of the pickup.
“I’m a nurse transporting a burn patient. He’s really in pain. Could I just exchange insurance information with you and get back on the road?” she asked the codger. When he grinned sheepishly at her, she could see why he liked Slurpees. He had no teeth.
“Right sorry about this here leetle bump.” He took a long swill of what looked like grape Slurpee, then pulled his wallet from his jeans and handed her his driver’s license.
“No, I need your insurance card, not your driver’s…” Her words trailed away when she glanced at the expiration date on the license. Damn! It had expired nearly ten years ago. Fat chance he’d have insurance. She handed the yellowed square back to him. “I don’t suppose—”
“Nope. But Jasper Hopwell’s good fer any damages. Jest ask anybody here at Sam’s. They’ll vouch fer me. Say, that there feller inside is sure raisin’ a ruckus. He all right?”
Matt was banging his foot against the door like the Beast from Revelation trying to escape the gates of Hell. Sam nodded. “Like I said, he’s in terrible pain. I have to get him to a burn center just outside Denver as soon as I can. Now, I wouldn’t want to get you in any trouble for hitting me, so why don’t we just forget about this little fender bender?”
“I’ll be glad to pay once’t yew git yer wagon fixed,” Jasper offered sincerely.
Here she was letting him off the hook and he was too decent to take the offer. “No, really, it’s all right. I’m fully insured through Fairview Hospital and my patient comes from a very wealthy family.” Well, that was sure the truth. Aunt Claudia would have bodywork tacked onto her bill. “I won’t get in any trouble.” Unless you call the local constabulary.
Jasper appeared to consider her appeal as she smiled her most winsome smile at him. She held her breath until he nodded. “Reckon, if’n yew say it’s all right. Tell yew the truth,” he whispered conspiratorially, “Effie, my missus, she’ll skin me and tack my hide to the barn door if’n she finds out I been drivin’ whilst she wuz off visitin’ her sister in Ogden.”
“Good deal. You take it easy driving home, okay?”
“All righty. Say, yew take good care ’o thet feller. He don’t sound too happy. Right strong fer a sick ’un, though.”
Matt’s muffled oaths had grown louder as she and Mr. Hopwell talked. So had the kicks at the door. “I’ll sure do that, sir.” She returned to the van and took off, heading toward the highway. Just as she turned off the back road, one of the big Slurpees tipped over, spilling thick red goo all over the passenger seat.
“Dammit!” she yelled, pounding on the steering wheel. Granger, whose protests had subsided once she was under way again, renewed kicking the door.
All right, she’d gone through hell to get him that big fat Slurpee. He would damn well drink it! She crossed the over-pass and found a deserted rest area boasting the only shade tree in the state. Setting the emergency brake hard enough to nearly snap it off, she seized the oversize Styrofoam cup and stomped to the rear of the van. She yanked the doors open and glared at Granger, who glared back.
Oh, it didn’t matter that he had gauze covering the blindfold, she knew he was glaring, damn his hide. She thought of Effie and stretching a hide on a barn door. Granger’s would be big enough to stretch over the whole frickin’ barn. Sam took a deep, calming breath. The Econoline stil
l ran. The bent fender was nothing that a body shop couldn’t take care of for a pittance, say a grand or two.
“Too bad, Aunt Claudia. You can afford it,” she muttered as she unstrapped Matt. “Okay, swing your legs around so I can help you sit up,” she told him.
He tried to talk through the tape, but she ignored the mumbling. “Look, I went to a lot of trouble to get you this. According to the ads, it’s the best Slurpee in the state. You gotta be dehydrated and I know your electrolytes are messed up, so cooperate.”
Finally, after considerable struggling, she got him propped against the fender well with his feet dangling over the edge of the fender. He was still pretty groggy in spite of his kicking fit back at the Slurpee stand—or maybe worn out because of it. She hesitated for a moment as she unwound the gauze and reached for the tape over his mouth, willing herself to chill out. Grudgingly, she added, “I owe you for not hurting me this morning. You were right. I was a bitch.” Then she pulled the tape off, taking care not to pull his parched lips any more than necessary.
“Can’t argue with that,” he mumbled. His tongue felt like number-seven sandpaper and his head pounded like Ricky Ricardo’s bongo drums. Then she took hold of his chin with one hand and thrust a straw between his lips with the other. He tried to suck but his mouth was so numb and the Slurpee so thick, nothing came through. He tried again. No go.
“I know you’re dying of thirst. You gotta be,” she said in exasperation, thinking of the red goo soaking into the passenger seat while she wasted time with him.
“Can’t…get it…through the straw.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she said, pulling on the straw to get it out of the small hole punched in the lid. It wouldn’t budge. She tried opening the lid and it appeared welded to the cup. “Great! The other one opened like sesame. This one’s sealed tighter than Brad Pitt’s buns.” She pried with her fingernails and broke one before the edge of the lid finally popped up, spraying her with thick red ice.
Matt could hear her swearing and only guessed about what was going on since she’d kept his blindfold in place. He was half sitting against what he thought was the rear fender well inside the van, slipping as she scooted around. A small grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Having troubles, Sammie?” he couldn’t resist asking in spite of how thirsty he was. Why did he provoke this woman? She could dump the whole bloody thing over his head and he’d dehydrate by nightfall.
Sam saw his smirk and nearly did just what he was thinking. “I’d love to give you a shower but it would be unprofessional—and worse yet, unprofitable.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’d make a great Ferenghi?”
“What’s that?” she asked. She figured it wasn’t flattering. “Just drink, will you?” she demanded, tipping his head back and starting to pour the icy contents of the cup down his throat when he opened his mouth to answer her question.
The mouthful of Slurpee was thick, filled with shaved ice. And some of it went down the wrong pipe. He coughed and swallowed, feeling his face turning strawberry-red. “I hate strawberry,” he mumbled ungraciously between coughs.
“Tough. I didn’t have time to consult you about the menu,” she snapped, pulling on his jaw so she could dump more of the wet stuff down.
He had to open his mouth to gulp in air as he coughed. That’s when she hit him unsuspecting with another strawberry salvo. He tried to swallow it mid-inhalation. This time all of it went down the wrong pipe. He tried to lean forward but his butt was slipping on the plush carpeting and all he succeeded in doing was sliding more.
“Hold still, dammit! You’re gonna choke,” Sam said, setting the cup down and reaching out to pull him up while he coughed and gagged. “Boy, when you said you hated strawberry, you weren’t kidding.” Ungrateful lout!
He weighed too much for her to be able to pull him upright, so she jumped out of the van and knelt to brace his feet on the smooth carpet and give him some traction. The open Slurpee cup tipped over when his knee brushed against it, splashing the contents over her shoulders and head. Sam let loose with a volley of curses, wiping the sticky liquid from her face. She stood up and combed ice chips from her hair while Matt continued to cough.
Damn, this was getting serious! She leaned inside and tugged on the straitjacket’s straps to pull him forward. That’s when he gave one great whooping cough and let loose with a stream of the trapped liquid. He looked like a big fire-breathing dragon as red Slurpee gushed from his nostrils and mouth. The spray of liquid “fire” caught them both.
Matt couldn’t catch his breath. Every time he tried to inhale, more of the confounded Slurpee shot from what he was sure was the bottom of his lungs to the top of his aching head. Damn, it was cold coming through his nose! And it burned! He could hear Sam cursing and yelling but at the moment, he was too occupied trying to breathe to pay any attention to her.
“Look at the mess you’ve made! I can’t friggin’ believe this! Jeez!” She pounded on his back until his coughing and spewing subsided and his face started to retreat from bright red to grayish tan. Then she left him propped against the wheel well and reached for a big roll of paper towels stored with her other gear. All she could do was soak up the worst of the goo from her new plush carpeting and dab at the mess on her scrubs. The scrubs were pink already, but that didn’t help much with the deep crimson of red dye number two soaking them. As to the mess on Matt Granger, she figured since he spewed it up, he could live with it until tonight.
Then she remembered the front seat of the van, which she’d intended to clean up as soon as she gave him a few sips. “Not bad enough I’m covered, you’re covered and the back of the van’s soaked—so’s my passenger seat!”
“If you hadn’t tried to drown me with the nasty stuff, none of this would’ve happened,” he rasped out.
“That’s real gratitude! I go miles out of my way to get you a cold drink instead of warm bottled water and all you can do is blame this mess on me. Even got smacked by a geezer driving without a license. I was worried about your reaction to the stun gun. Seeing you’re back to your usual charming self, you must be okay.”
Matt took a deep cleansing breath, relieved that his lungs worked. “Right now, that warm bottle of water sounds like nectar of the gods,” he said through clenched teeth. “And for your information, there isn’t a cell—an atom—in my body that doesn’t hurt like I’ve been worked over by a pair of goons with ball bats. Who’d believe one little dame could inflict that much pain.”
“I’m no ordinary dame, Mr. Granger.” Looking at the wreckage of her van, she, too, spoke through gritted teeth.
“No kidding. You’re Lucrezia Borgia with electrodes.”
“You’re funny. Oughta go on Letterman. Just remember you brought this whole thing on yourself.”
“Yes, I’m prone to inciting people to kidnap and choke me. A shitty habit.”
Sam ignored the last comment. Obviously her “patient” was recovered. Glumly, she surveyed what had been new carpeting in her van, then took the towels and did what she could to soak up the puddle in the front seat. At least it was vinyl. She disposed of the bonus-size roll of bloodred towels, tossing the whole mess in a trash Dumpster near the lone tree, then returned to the open doors at the back of the van.
“We’re so far behind schedule we’ll never make Denver tonight.” She tore off a fresh strip of tape and reached for his mouth.
Hearing the now familiar sound, he quickly said, “I could use some of that water. Please.” He practically choked on the plea, but damn, that strawberry ick was about to close off his bronchial tubes again.
Muttering under her breath, Sam retrieved the bottle and shoved the straw in his mouth. “Think you can suck this up?”
He took several long thirsty pulls, then couldn’t resist answering, “Sammie, since I met you I’ve sucked up a lot worse than warm water.”
She smacked the tape over his mouth and added a second piece, even longer, just for spite, then secured him wi
th the seat belts before locking him in and taking off. As she drove, the sickly sweet odor of strawberry filled the van. She felt like gagging but stifled the urge. Aunt Claudia, get out your checkbook!
They’d lost a good two hours between his dumb stunt this morning and the great Slurpee deluge. Sam pushed hard through the afternoon, keeping an eye out for highway patrol cars as she sped into Colorado. It was nearing dusk and she still needed to make another hundred miles in order to keep on schedule. But she was beat. Slurpee stained her clothes and made her brown hair stand up in strawberry spikes. She shuddered every time she caught sight of herself in the side-view mirror. If a cop pulled her over, he’d haul her straight to jail.
“I gotta have a shower,” she muttered. What’s more, if she didn’t clean Matt, too, he’d dry stuck permanently to the carpet in the back of the van, her passenger forever. No Aunt Claudia. No money.
She considered what to do. According to her map, the next town was a wide place in the road around fifteen or so miles due east. “You better pray there’s a motel in this burg coming up, buster, or I’m gonna drag you through a car wash on the end of a rope,” she yelled into the back of the van.
She pulled off the highway and found just the kind of joint she wanted.
The Mountain Dew Inn boasted indoor plumbing and that was about it. Cheap and quiet, the small mangy hole-in-the-wall would be a place where no one asked questions when she requested a room at the far end of the building “so her patient wouldn’t be disturbed.”
The desk clerk gave her a funny look and a sniff test, marveling to himself over a customer who looked and smelled as if she’d rolled in stale strawberries. It took all kinds and he’d seen most of them. But Elroy Phleggi had no intention of asking about a paramedic’s weird habits. Maybe it was burn salve. Go figure. He’d let that snotty new maid Kimmie deal with any mess they left in the morning.
