Cold Turkey

by Janice Bennett

  His light focused, moving in slow circles, directed just where I hoped he would look. The outer fringe of it brushed the passage into the docks. And it had a door, too, one that could be closed and possibly even blocked behind me. I dove for it, banging against tables, heedless now of everything except reaching that opening before Adam.

  I didn’t make it by much, but I did make it. I slammed the door shut, then wedged the other pen beneath it. It might hold him back for a few seconds, long enough for me to free the outer door, maybe even reach my car…

  I had thrust my keys into my pocket when I’d entered the building. I dragged them out now, wanting them ready, wanting nothing to slow my escape. Adam already tugged and swore at the door I’d just blocked. It wouldn’t hold long. But would it be enough?

  I pelted along the walkway in the dark, bumping against the railing, gasping for breath. I collided with the door, and sure enough, it wouldn’t open. Desperate, I felt along the edges until I found something wedged. I dragged at it, then bit back a cry as something sharp sliced my hand. Swearing under my breath, I felt it with more care. A pocket knife, open. The blade had been shoved in the door. But it was on my side, not like the pen I’d used to hold Adam at bay. If I could just pull it out…

  I’d been so scared, I’d taken his word for it that he’d locked me in. But when I yanked at the knife, it came loose in my hand. I dragged open the door, then bolted through as Adam freed himself from my petty hindrance. I slammed the door behind me and shoved the knife into the space between the edge and the jamb, as he had done. I’d only run four steps before I heard it hit the ground.

  Oh, damn, oh, damn, oh, damn. I hadn’t wedged it tight enough. Adam would be after me in a moment. I raced down the ramp to my car and scrambled into the driver’s seat. I had both doors locked in another moment and was trying to coax the engine to life.

  Adam didn’t waste time trying to beat on my window or drag me from the car. It wouldn’t have worked, and he must have known it. Unless, of course, he’d given that damned flip-top a tug. Then he’d have opened Freya like a can of sardines. I blessed the fact he didn’t know-or at least think-about the faulty latches.

  Instead he headed around the corner toward a stand of shrubs and trees. He must have concealed his truck in there, because as Freya’s engine roared and I threw her into reverse, I saw his headlights flash across the asphalt. And he was closer to the road leading out of here than I was. I stomped on the clutch, shoved the car into first, stepped hard on the gas-then swerved just feet short of my escape as he rammed the pickup across the opening.

  I spun the wheel, skidding away, and as the duct tape holding the latches popped loose, the turkey screeched its fear. I didn’t blame it. It flapped, its wings hitting me on the back of the head, obscuring my view in the mirror. I made a wild swing, circled the lot, and amazingly Adam backed away to follow me. As soon as he’d turned from the narrow drive, I aimed Freya toward it once more and raced for escape. I had tremendous horsepower with that V-8 engine, but a finicky clutch that made it a struggle to shift gears.

  Adam reached the road before me.

  I slammed on the brakes and the tires shrieked in protest. The canvas flip-top wobbled and shot back on the over-oiled mechanism, and the turkey went flying forward. I wailed in fear for That Damned Bird.

  Adam must have seen twenty-five pounds of terrified feathers coming straight at his windshield. He swerved, slamming on his brake, throwing himself into a spin. The pickup crashed head-on into the retaining wall, crumpling its hood. Steam hissed into the cold night.

  That Damned Bird settled to the ground where it screeched and squawked in fury. I tried to shove poor Freya into reverse, but I was shaking too hard. For a long moment I stayed just where I was, trembling, my skin clammy with the aftermath of my terror.

  I couldn’t just sit here like this, staring at Adam’s unconscious figure slumped over his steering wheel. Sarkisian lay in the building hurt, bleeding, most likely dying, and Adam would come around at any moment and come after us again…

  I took a deep breath to steady myself. Help. I needed to get help. And the faster the better. When this was over, I promised myself, I was going to break down and get a cell phone, and to hell with people trying to call me. I could leave the damned thing turned off unless I wanted to use it.

  I positioned Freya behind the truck, knowing that if Adam came around he would probably ram my beloved Mustang to make his escape. But I had to do something. I staggered back to the Honda, found it mercifully unlocked, dragged out the radio and called the dispatcher.

  “An ambulance,” I screamed. “Sarkisian’s hurt. Officer down,” I added, remembering that line from some TV cop show Tom and I had laughed over. “We need backup.” I gave our location then hung up. I didn’t have time to waste on questions, such as who the hell was I and what I was doing on the sheriff’s radio.

  A quick check of the backseat revealed a real live pair of handcuffs. Handcuffs. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I walked unsteadily to the Chevy.

  Adam still slumped over the wheel, blood dripping from his forehead. Risking all, I pulled open the door. He didn’t move. Not a trick. He really was unconscious. I couldn’t believe my luck. I fastened one side to his wrist, the other to the steering wheel. I had no idea where the key was, but I wasn’t about to let a little thing like that bother me.

  And now that I knew Adam couldn’t come after us again I could let myself worry about Sarkisian. And I did worry. Except for that hand that had twitched, he’d been so still, there’d been so much blood. I turned back, the rain mingling with the tears that slipped down my cheeks. If he’d been seriously hurt, if he were dead…

  I raced back up the ramp to face the darkness of the interior. At least the parking lot lamps filtered inside through the door I left open, casting a garish amber glow over the cement. I should have looked for Adam’s flashlight. Or better yet, remembered the one I kept in Freya for emergencies. This was definitely an emergency.

  Swearing at the wasted precious seconds during which the sheriff’s life’s blood might be seeping away, I ran to my rain-soaked car and found That Damned Bird once more a sitting tenant in the backseat. I fished out the small halogen flash from under the dash and flicked it on. A meager light wavered and went out. I shook it as hard as I could, and it came back on again, faint but willing.

  This time I made it into the building and around the walkway before it failed. This time, no amount of shaking would get it started again. I groped my way forward until my fingers encountered an open door.

  “If you move,” said a slurred, wonderfully familiar voice, “I’ll shoot you.”

  “Owen!” I gasped his name in relief but obeyed orders and held my ground.

  A moment passed. Then, “Annike? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “The cavalry.” My voice quavered, but I didn’t care. He was alive. “Tedi Bird and I rode Freya to the rescue.”

  Sounds of movement came from within, then the creaking of a chair as he eased himself into it. “Damn, that hurts. Turn on the lights, will you?” Then more sharply, “Where’s Fairfield?”

  “Out cold and handcuffed to his steering wheel. And he cut off the lights, and I don’t know how to turn them on again. And he nearly wrecked my car.”

  “Better it than you,” he declared with an intensity of feeling that shook me. “Annike…” He reached out, finding my hand.

  For a moment I returned the clasp, then pulled free. We were getting too emotional. I could hear it in his voice, feel it inside me. It wouldn’t work between us. I was a good six years older than he. He should find someone nearer his own age, someone who didn’t already know the bleak despair of losing a sheriff husband.

  It was time to switch focus, talk instead about the things that really mattered. “My car’s getting drenched!” I said, accusingly. “The top’s down.”

  He drew a deep, shuddering breath, switching his own mental gears. When he spoke he soun
ded more like his normal self. “Put it up again.”

  “Well, if you’re not on the verge of bleeding to death, I will.”

  “He only got my shoulder. It burns like hell, though. If I hadn’t hit my head and knocked myself out… Damn, you’re not going to let me live that down, are you? And to top it off, I’ve got a splitting headache.”

  “Good for you. I hate men who pretend nothing ever hurts.” I turned on my heel, only to stop. “Oh, God. Tony.” I peered through the darkness of the room. “Tony? Are you all right?” Then, when no response came, “Are you here?”

  A mumble that might have been a groan answered me at last. I fumbled my way around the office, banging my shin against the bottom of the desk, and at last found the young man’s leg by cautious feel. A rope, padded with sheepskin, bound his ankles. Adam really had planned and prepared well for tonight.

  “Here.” Sarkisian handed me something heavy and metallic that proved to be a box cutter.

  “Thanks.” I sawed through the knot, not without a bit of sotto voce swearing at the difficulty, then groped my way to find his wrists. In only five minutes-I never said I was good at cutting people free-Tony managed to sit up and pull his own gag from his mouth.

  “He was going to kill me!” the young man wailed.

  “Sheepskin?” Sarkisian asked. Apparently he had found the discarded stuff and examined it.

  “So as not to leave any unexplainable marks on the body.” I felt so tired I only wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. Instead I gave them the short version of what Adam had confessed to me.

  Sarkisian muttered a few words that expanded my vocabulary. “I really walked into that one,” he finished on a note of self-disgust.

  “At least you’re going to walk out again. And now,” I added as I stumbled my way to the door, “I’m going to rescue what’s left of my car.”

  “Annike.” His quiet voice made me stop. “Thanks.”

  “Oh, your department will get the bill if my upholstery’s ruined,” I assured him, forcing a teasing note into my voice. If he got all serious on me, our friendship-and it was going to remain a friendship and nothing more-wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.

  “I’ll put you and your turkey and your car on the payroll.” It would have sounded more like a solemn promise if the amusement hadn’t crept back into his voice.

  “Don’t even joke about it!” I turned to face him, searching for his features in the dark. “I swear, Owen, never will I have anything to do with a murder investigation again! It’s too hard on me.”

  He started to laugh, but broke off on a groan.

  “Serves you right.” The fact that it was too dark to see seriously hindered my dignified stalk to the door. Of course, Sarkisian couldn’t see it, so I guess it didn’t matter.

  In the distance, the first wail of a siren sounded.

  Epilogue

  By Monday evening, life had returned to as normal as things ever got in Upper River Gulch. Sarkisian had been released from the hospital early that morning with the wound in his shoulder, which had caused so much bleeding, stitched and bandaged. When I told him the full story of Adam’s capture, he decided to award That Damned Bird a special commendation and medal for valor. That Valorous Turkey, I told him, was going to get a new home, whether it wanted it or not.

  And so Gerda and I had left her shop around six that evening and headed into Meritville in search of alternative living accommodations. We drove Hans Gustav. Freya’s convertible top still didn’t close properly, and I couldn’t take it in for repairs with That Valorous Turkey ensconced in the backseat, trying to bite anyone who touched the Mustang.

  “It’s better than one of those irritating car alarms that go off in the middle of the night when the wind blows too hard,” Gerda told me as we left the restaurant where we’d had dinner. Our real purpose for coming into town was our next stop-the pay and pull yard where you could buy car parts-and parts of cars-for a decent price.

  “That’s a matter of opinion.” I checked her supply of music tapes and shoved in the Pirates of Penzance. I’d been in a Gilbert and Sullivan mood all day.

  The rain had let up a few hours ago, and stars glittered in the night sky. Not so much as a wisp of cloud. Where was the clear weather when I’d needed it so badly? Well, since I was now about to go browsing in a junkyard, the lack of rain would prove useful.

  “What do you think Tedi Bird would like?” Gerda asked as we pulled into the parking lot. The place was closed, but I’d been there before when Freya needed repair. Flood lights illuminated the place from dusk to dawn. The owner always encouraged prospective customers to check out what was available. The smaller, more portable, items remained behind a chain-link fence, but the major chunks of cars lay scattered along the edges of the asphalt. Security cameras kept guard from several strategic locations, keeping prospective thieves honest.

  “Well, let’s have a look.” I climbed out into the icy chill and frost that had replaced the rain, and huddled into my coat. The tail of my oversized “Pumpkin Pie Chef” T-shirt hung out from the bottom.

  “A hard top?” Gerda suggested.

  I shook my head. “Convertible. I talked to Simon, and he’s promised to build a turkey coop around whatever we find.”

  Gerda beamed at me. “There, I knew you really loved Tedi Bird.”

  “Let’s say I owe her,” I admitted.

  I passed the front end of a pickup. The seats didn’t look cozy enough. The next I inspected looked too cramped. But the old Dodge next in line had possibilities. Only the rear end of the car remained, and it seemed about the same size as Freya’s. I moved the tarp that covered the space where the front had been removed and checked the upholstery, which didn’t look too bad.

  Gerda peered over my shoulder. “Do you think we could get the trunk cut off? We only need the rear seats, after all.”

  “Hmmm.” I moved around to the back. “It’s not closed completely.” I pulled open the trunk, looked inside, then slammed it at once.

  Gerda swallowed. “Annike?”

  “No,” I said.

  “That was a body in there.”

  “No it wasn’t. I didn’t see anything.”

  “Annike, there’s a dead man in that trunk!”

  I turned to face her, seeing a reflection of my own horror in her eyes. “I’m not finding another body,” I told her.

  “I think you already did.”

  “I can’t!” I wailed. “You didn’t hear my abjuration of all things related to murder investigations! Sarkisian will never let me live this down.”

  “But this is a job for the Meritville police,” Gerda pointed out, as one clearing away all obstacles.

  I shook my head. “Outside the city limits. This is county.”

  “Then you’ll have to call Sarkisian. Well,” she added, always one to find the bright side of anything, “you’ve been avoiding breaking in that new cell phone.”

  “Can’t I continue the avoiding?” With memories of Sunday night still haunting me, I’d gone out first thing that morning and signed up for a wireless phone service. I hadn’t used it, yet. I didn’t want to. But emergencies happened. One had just happened right now.

  “Of course,” I said, not meeting Gerda’s distressed gaze, “we could just walk away…”

  I pulled up the hem of my T-shirt. I only had to wipe my prints from the trunk. We hadn’t touched anything else. But that would destroy evidence… And there were those damned security cameras…

  With a sigh that was more of a whimper, I pulled out my new phone.

  About the Author

  Janice Bennett has the eclectic background often encountered in writers. She earned one B.A. degree in anthropology from UC Santa Cruz, another in classical civilizations from US Irvine, and an M.A. degree in folklore and mythology from UCLA. Over the years, she has worked as a bookkeeper, archaeologist, and college instructor in crafts, jewelry making, needlework and novel writing, and has been a frequent presenter of workshop
s on a variety of writing topics. She also teaches t’ai chi and is a certified hypnotherapist specializing in pain management.

  To date, she has written nine novellas and twenty-one novels. She has won several awards, including two Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice awards and two Romantic Times Career Achievement Awards, for Time Travels and for Regencies.

  Janice lives near the top of a sloping hillside on the outskirts of a tiny rural town, looking out over nothing but trees. With her reside her husband, her son, her computer and an assortment of birds, cats, dogs, guinea pigs, hamsters, fish, horses, and any other animal currently in need of a home.

  Janice welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

  ***

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: fbd-b0fcb6-9c80-8c4d-0eac-65ff-0819-0ead83

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 09.01.2012

  Created using: Fiction Book Designer software

  Document authors :

  Source URLs :

  About

  This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.

  (This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)

  Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.

  (Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)

  http://www.fb2epub.net

  https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/