by An Anthology
He looked embarrassed.
“I reported shots fired, but I didn’t hold down the transmitting button during the last half of me describing our present location. Sorry.”
“And you turned off your radio?”
I wanted to make certain before I started screaming.
“Sergeant Lyons can’t be far away and people must have heard the shot. They’ll direct him. Besides, I didn’t want the ambulance to get here too fast.”
“If asked, the locals will direct him in the wrong direction. Do you see a concerned citizen? Do you hear any sirens, by chance?”
I jerked out my radio and switched it from the private channel where Jasmine could reach me. I was repositioning the channel when I heard the faint wail above the wind.
Ten seconds later, Lyons roared around the corner, screeching to a halt at an angle where he could open his passenger-side door and talk without leaving the protection of the vehicle.
“Dispatcher loused up, sent me two blocks west instead of east, or I’d been here sooner. Is he up there?”
I carefully refrained from looking at Augustine. I was afraid I’d brain him with the radio, which I put back in my pocket turned to Jasmine’s channel.
“We think so, unless he went out the back door,” I said.
Lyons answered quickly.
“There is no back door. I was in there last month with the fire inspector. Both back doors are nailed shut and boarded up. We have to go get him.”
“What do you mean by we, pale face?” I retorted.
I tossed a thumb over my shoulder. “He’s in there, and my participation in this exercise is over. Deputy Augustine isn’t going anywhere. He’s staying right here to protect me.”
“You’re the last one in this county that needs protection!” Lyons yelled.
I smiled when I heard the cavalry arriving. Every law-enforcement car that would run was on its way. Big happening in a small town.
Within minutes, the narrow street was bumper to bumper with yellow-and-tan county vehicles, pale blue for the city police, black government units for the initials DEA and ATF; assorted colors of personal cars for the SWAT team; and a large white boxy ambulance. The Georgia Highway Patrol colors weren’t present. They must be out with their unit having coffee. There was even a green-and-yellow truck representing the Georgia Department of Fish and Game. If Red Shirt was still up there, he had multiple choices of targets.
Sheriff Scroggins had duck-waddled from around his vehicle and hunched by my side.
“I know I look damn ridiculous, so quit holding back those snickers. This crouch is hard on an old fat man’s knees. What happened?”
“Sheriff, Red Shirt fired one round after Mark Anthony started baying. He panicked. You know how some men fear bloodhounds. I’d say fifty percent still warn their wives and children to stand way back, that the dog is vicious. It’s erroneous. You and I know bloodhounds are gentle and don’t attack. Some men would rather face a machine gun than a large charging dog.”
I continued. “I think I have a good chance to get him out of there with out anyone getting hurt. Will you let me try?”
“You want to try to talk him out?” Scroggins looked doubtful.
“No, I want to threaten that I’ll turn the dog loose in the building.”
Scroggins laughed. “That’ll be the day. He’d lick him to death.”
I laughed with him. “We know Mark Anthony is a pussy cat, but the Red Shirt doesn’t. Can’t hurt.”
“Go to it. My knees are killing me. Keep your head down.”
He duck-walked back to his foam-cushioned seat in the cruiser.
I made a hand motion for Lyons to toss me his mike.
He glared daggers at me but threw it and flipped on the loud speaker.
“I’m speaking to the man in the red shirt in the boarded-up building.”
My voice boomed on the brisk breeze, vibrating in my ears.
“This is the attack-dog handler. I have been ordered to release the dog. This is your one and only chance to come out without getting mauled. If you are on an upper floor, start down immediately. You have less than five minutes to follow my instructions. At the front door, toss out your weapon. Remove your shirt and jacket. Empty your pockets and turn them out so I can see the white. Walk out slowly with your hands on your head. Three steps from the door, lie down spread-eagled on the tarmac. Keep your head down and don’t move a muscle. If you do everything right you won’t be hurt. I will repeat this message because of the wind.”
After I finished, I tossed the mike back to Lyons. My mouth was dry. I drank from my water bottle and offered it to Augustine. He took it and drank. I pulled back my glove and saw that time was almost up. I moved fast to keep from thinking. Did I really want to do this?
I stood, jerked up a comfortable bloodhound from his snooze, and was striding around the barrier before anyone noticed. I began yelling at Mark Anthony.
“Where’s your man! Find your man! Find your man!”
I held the cap down by my leg. Mark Anthony raised his head and started his raucous baying while he moved to the far end of his lead, straining mightily to go after his guy.
I ignored the shouts behind me. Maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t try to out-hero me by charging to the rescue. To the uninitiated, Mark Anthony would be deemed a hound from hell. His strident cry was his desire to let the world know where Red Shirt could be found. He was doing everything but jumping up and down and pointing at the door.
I kept a jaundiced eye on the large metal entrance. A mantra wouldn’t hurt.
I will not be shot, he’s gonna fold, I will not be shot, he’s gonna fold. Amen.
A dark gap appeared and widened teasingly slow, and an object sailed on the breeze before landing on the pitted tarmac. It was a gun. A figure appeared in the doorway, then advanced and slowly moved forward. Stripped to the waist with pockets turned out, and his hands locked on his head.
He was saying something but the wind wasn’t bringing me the message. Mark Anthony was doing his jiggle dance trying to reach him. I began to haul back on the lead when I could understand the man’s message.
“Don’t turn him loose! I’m down, I’m down!”
He was indeed down and several feet from the gun.
Figures flew by me, falling on the suspect as if each one wanted to be the one to cuff him. Someone produced leg irons. When they stood him up, I released my tight resistance on the lead and Mark Anthony surged forward to claim his victory. I let him have his moment. He deserved it. He nuzzled and licked the prisoner, whining for joy. He wanted to be hugged and petted, but the man cringed and didn’t have a way to touch him, or the desire, I suspected. Mark Anthony did everything but hug him.
Later that evening over a pepperoni-and-cheese pizza, wine for her and beer for me, Jasmine told me about her search.
“Deputy Pete Benifield had his gun drawn as he pounded on the door. I was trying to restrain Miz Melanie on a shortened lead and hold the screen door open, and she was baying her head off. Black Jacket’s mother opened the door shouting and praying, and a small child started screaming at her first sight of a huge dog straining to enter. You couldn’t hear yourself think. I wasn’t expecting a pint of ground black pepper scattered on the front threshold. On the back sill certainly, but not the front. Miz Melanie began sneezing and baying, slipping and sliding…” She paused for another sip of wine.
“To make a long story short, she entangled us in her leash, entrapping our legs, and took us all down like bowling pins, with the exception of the little girl. She ran back to tell Black Jacket what was going on. He was hiding under his mama’s bed, doing some screaming of his own. His mama had taken his gun, put it in the oven, and turned it on so he wouldn’t be tempted to shoot us.
“It took us a long time to pull Black Jacket, his sister, and Miz Melanie out from under the bed. When the sister told Deputy Pete the gun was in a lit oven, he grabbed Bomber Jacket and his mama, and I had the kid and Miz Me
lanie. We all ran outside and hid behind the house next door.
“The second deputy finally arrived with the fire department. They turned off the propane gas at the tank and were waiting for the oven to cool down when we left. They said it was a miracle that the ammunition hadn’t begun exploding, sending rounds and flames all over. You know what mama said when she heard him say it?”
I gave a negative headshake.
“1 wasn’t born yesterday, young man. I only turned the knob to warm, not bake!”
The day before Christmas Eve, I met with Patricia Ann Newton, a recently acquired friend who had more money than Midas. Then that afternoon I met Deputy Donald Augustine, in the city park. I explained to him that an anonymous donor had added his name to a living trust that would furnish him with ample funds upon his retirement, to enable him to care for his wife comfortably, and it would continue if he died first.
He was embarrassed for having to use his handkerchief to wipe the pine tree pollen away that was making his eyes water. It also bothered mine as I wished him Merry Christmas.
Nightmare in Nowhere
Chassie West
Chapter 1
Wet dog. Definitely essence of wet dog.
A.J. shivered in the cold and groped for her blanket, her dream in which Buster darted through the sprinklers gradually fading away. A frown tugged her brows together as a painful throb at the back of her head nudged her toward wakefulness.
With effort, she opened her eyes, squinting into near darkness, then squeezed them shut again as the pain above the nape of her neck arced around to burrow itself behind her forehead. Bile rose in her throat. Swallowing against it, she counted to ten, exerting mind over matter, in this case the churning in her gut. God, this felt like the granddaddy of all hangovers, but since she rarely drank, that explanation wouldn’t hold water.
And she rarely dreamed or, when she did, remembered it afterward. But this one had been so vivid. Not only had she witnessed the beagle’s favorite summertime antics, she could smell him, in fact, still could and that was impossible. She had buried Buster in the yard under his favorite red maple years ago. Yet the aroma wafting under her nose was definitely a part of the here and now. She even felt warm doggy breath gusting rhythmically across her face.
Her eyes snapped open, her vision blurred until she willed her surroundings into focus and almost wished she hadn’t. She was nose to nose with the biggest damned German shepherd she’d ever seen, at least this close up. She squealed in alarm and was awarded with a slurp across her cheek and chin and a generous lathering of dog drool.
“Get away from me!” A.J. yelped. Struggling to retreat from the unwelcome facial, she discovered there was nowhere to go. This was not her bed, it was a car and she was wedged on the floor between the front and backseats. Furthermore it wasn’t even her car. The Miata had no backseat. But she’d sold the Miata, hadn’t she? She couldn’t remember, couldn’t seem to put two coherent thoughts together. Her brain felt as if it had been reduced to pieces of a jigsaw puzzle dumped in a pile, no box, no picture to guide her.
Where am I? she wondered, scrubbing at her face. How did I get here? For that matter, where was here? That she had no idea launched full-blown panic, her stomach, already queasy, roiling even more, her head and heart pounding in synchronicity.
A bolt of lightning zigzagged from cloud to ground as if the gods were cutting the night sky with pinking shears. The dog whimpered, grabbed a jaw full of her jacket and tugged, his massive body half in, half out of the open rear door.
“Stop that!” She nudged his muzzle away and took a deep breath in hopes it would help to clear her head. Didn’t work. Thinking straight seemed impossible, but she had to make the effort, had to quell the panic and nausea rising in her throat. This is not the time to get sick, A.J., she scolded herself. Think now, barf later.
First things first: the shepherd. Despite his size, he obviously meant her no harm or she’d have been dog food long since. And he was trying to help, those big teeth now latching on to her collar.
“Okay, okay. I get your point,” she said, gasping as limbs that had obviously been in one position too long screamed in protest. Whose car was this anyway? And who had been driving? Confusion overwhelmed her, her disorientation contributing to the chaos in her head. Levering herself from the floor onto the backseat, she looked around. Bad move. The car lurched, the hood tilting down, the rear upward like a rocking chair. She froze until it settled, then eased up slowly, her weight on her hands, to peer out the windshield. A pair of sallow yellow beams illuminated the branch of a tree as it was swept along by a swiftly moving current below her. A stream? Oh, Jesus, a river? She couldn’t tell but unless she moved carefully, she would soon find out. The car appeared to be teetering on a ledge a few short feet above the water.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning speared the darkness followed by big, fat drops of rain. The dog tugged harder, his back legs scrambling for purchase outside the car.
“Let go, boy.” Carefully, she pried her collar from his grip. “Out, dog,” she said. He reversed until he stood peering in at her, twitching with anxiety. Another bolt of lightning, the thunder nearer this time, sent him scurrying away into the darkness to return a long few seconds later, a soft woof letting her know she was testing his patience.
“Look, hang in with me, okay?” A.J. was appalled at the plea in her voice but in the short time in which he’d disappeared from view, terror at being abandoned had skewered her from top to toe. If she didn’t get moving, she’d be down there in the water. With no way to gauge how deep it was, there was also no way to be certain the car might not wind up completely submerged. As few as her options appeared to be, out there on solid ground was by far the better of them.
“Okay, A.J.,” she muttered, “let’s haul ass.” It would be tricky. Leaving this backseat would involve scooting toward safety an inch at a time, waiting after each inch to let the sedan settle before she went any farther.
It turned out to be sheer torture. After each move, the rocking emphasized how unstable the car was. The shepherd pranced, twitched and whined, his attention migrating between her and the lightning. It and the rain were increasing in intensity and volume, the wind lashing at the tall grasses around him.
After an eternity, A.J. reached the edge of the seat and swiveled so she could suspend her right leg out the door. With her right arm braced along the seat back, she felt something poke her wrist. Behind her she could just make out the corner of something dark and square wedged on the deck between the glass and the headrest. A vicious bolt of lightning, loud enough to make her flinch, revealed a handbag. She didn’t recognize it, but in case it was her own, she looped the strap around her wrist, eased her left leg out, and gasped, realizing how high the rear of the car sat above solid ground.
She would have to jump. Now that she was so close to the edge, the sedan was listing toward this side. Terrified that the damned thing was about to fall over, she launched herself as far onto the bank as she could, landing on all fours, her knees taking the brunt of her weight. There was a moment or two of more panic as she felt herself sliding backward, but the dog snared her collar again and braced himself, trembling with strain or perhaps fear of the storm. A.J. felt a couple of fingernails tear as she fought against gravity, but her grip held. Winded, her lungs pumping like bellows, she turned over and sat up.
“Thanks, buddy,” she croaked as the dog released her. “I owe you big time.” She gave him a couple of pats on the head before turning her attention to what to do next.
Even out here it was too dark to see her surroundings clearly and the rain obscured all but the car and the little illuminated by its headlights. There was no more than a foot or two between the front bumper and the water, but whatever had snared its undercarriage still kept it captive.
A.J. leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the sedan as a whole. A late model Taurus, perhaps blue or black. She could swear she’d never seen it before. H
ow could she have wound up in it? And, again, who had been driving? The front door on the driver’s side gaped open. Had the driver fallen out?
Struggling to her feet, she stood up slowly, fighting the return of nausea and a few seconds of vicious vertigo. The world and her stomach settled enough to make her feel that she wouldn’t pitch forward on her face, then she peered down into the water. No sign of a soul. As big as the branch was she’d seen being swept downstream, she doubted anyone caught in that current would still be there. She opened the purse and groped around in it, in case it contained a cell phone. Nothing she touched fit the definition of anything close. She had to alert the authorities, just in case. Then she could see about herself. But which way to go? Up, that at least was certain. There had to be a road nearby. The car had to have skidded off it.
“Home, James,” she said to her companion, who woofed and scurried up the bank.
It wasn’t long before A.J. found herself looking back at the exit from the sedan as a piece of cake compared to getting wherever they were going. The hill outside the car was steep and slippery, making her progress one of two steps backward for every one forward; her shoes, clogs with medium heels, were neither designed nor worn with climbing anything in mind. A yard from asphalt she lost her footing and cartwheeled halfway down again, arms flailing. The purse went flying and disappeared into the night. Face in the muck, she felt two tosses away from throwing in the towel until a multi-legged something skittered across her hand. Scrambling to her feet, she stood still for a moment but saw no sign of the purse. It might well have landed down there in the water.
