by Kelly, Diane
Nothing.
Going.
On.
If I didn’t think I’d get fired, I’d pull down a side street and take a nap in the backseat.
With just under an hour left in my shift, I found myself yawning and nearly nodding off at the wheel. I decided a brisk walk might wake me up. Besides, Brigit needed to take a potty break.
It was 1:18 AM when I pulled into the parking lot at the Shoppes at Chisholm Trail. I gunned the cruiser’s big engine as I sailed over the lot: Vroom. Given that the lot was empty, there was no need to park in my reserved spot. I pulled into a place near the end of the northeast extension. I climbed out, took Brigit’s leash in my hand, and headed down the dark wing.
Without lights and people, the mall felt odd and eerie. A single cricket chirped from its hiding place somewhere along the way, but the only other sounds were the soft padding of my rubber-soled loafers, the click of Brigit’s nails on the concrete, and the tinny tinkle of her tags.
When we reached the courtyard, I took a quick glimpse inside. At first, the only thing I saw was the vague reflection of my own eyes looking back at me. A little unnerving, even if it was my own self. But then I noticed something: two small, round spots of light moving on the other side of the courtyard, on the southwest extension.
Flashlights.
While the mall employed a team of security guards during the day, the management relied on the building’s extensive alarm system to provide security at night. What’s more, the janitorial staff worked only until midnight. Nobody should be here now. Had these people come here on foot? I hadn’t seen any cars in the lot, but then again, I hadn’t circled all the way around the building, either.
My heart began to pulse so frantically it threatened to break my ribs.
Was the bomber back, planting more timed devices? Given that there were a couple of flashlights, were two people involved? So help me God, if I found the Lipscombs or the skater boys planting explosives after we’d cleared them from suspicion I would beat them to death with my baton. And there’d be no need to feed their dead bodies to the tigers. I’d eat them myself.
No one plays me for a fool.
I pushed the button on my shoulder-mounted radio. “Backup needed at Chisholm Trail mall.”
Once the dispatcher confirmed my request I turned the volume down low so as not to alert the intruders I was coming for them. I yanked my baton from my belt and gave my wrist a quick flick.
SNAP!
The sound might as well have been a gunshot in the silence. I stood stock-still for a moment or two, watching through the glass, waiting to see if the persons on the other wing had heard the sound.
Evidently not. They continued to move down the walk with their flashlights.
As quietly as I could, I led Bright back down the wing at a fast trot. We circled around the adjacent extension and stopped at the end of the next row. I crouched down beside her and peered around the corner of the building.
The people with the flashlights had disappeared, but one of the doors to Macy’s had been propped open. Were the men inside, hiding bombs inside rounder racks or soup tureens? Or were they up to something else? And why hadn’t the burglar alarm gone off? The air should be filled with an eardrum-shattering woo-woo-woo right now.
In the quiet night, my nervous breaths sounded quick and loud. The only way I knew to calm myself and maintain my focus was to twirl my baton, so I rotated my wrist and set the thing in motion. Swish-swish-swish.
A minute later the door swung open and two men emerged, one on each end of an enormous big-screen television still in the box. They supported the huge box from the bottom, the upper part leaning back against their shoulders. With the odd positioning, they could only waddle at a slow pace.
I squinted in the darkness, trying to make them out. I had no idea whether these burglars were armed and didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances. But I didn’t want them to get away, either. Having had no success tracking down the bomber, I needed a big arrest to restore my faith in myself.
They headed toward me on the opposite side of the walkway. I readied both my flashlight and my baton. When they reached the end and were about to turn the corner, I extended my arm out as far as I could to my side like they’d taught us in the academy and switched on my powerful Maglite. If the burglars had guns and tried to shoot me, they’d aim for the light and, with any luck, miss me entirely.
I took a breath and belted out, “Stop right there!”
The beam illuminated the two men like a spotlight, blinding them. Instinctively they dropped the television and threw up their hands to shield their eyes. The box flopped forward and fell flat on the sidewalk with a fwump.
“Ricky?” I took a step in their direction. “Scott?”
Detective Jackson had been right. These guys had been up to something. Planning to rip off the mall.
The two exchanged looks and took off running.
Brigit and I ran after them. They headed to a pickup idling at the curb, its headlights off. At the wheel sat a third man, probably a friend they’d recruited to drive the getaway car.
I grabbed my whistle from where it hung at my chest and blew it: TWEEEET! TWEET-TWEET!
“Stop right there!” I hollered.
But did they listen? No, they did not.
“You’re up, Brigit!” I unclipped her leash and gave her the signal to take the men down.
My partner scrabbled on the sidewalk, closing the distance between herself and the men in three seconds flat. She bypassed Scott and went straight for Ricky, who’d taken the lead. Smart move. She leaped onto Ricky’s back, riding him down like a surfer hanging ten on a long board off Maui. Ricky threw out his arms as he fell, taking Scott out at the knees. Both tumbled to the cement, Ricky sliding forward a few feet, Scott rolling gracelessly to the side.
The guy in the pickup punched the gas and squealed away from the curb. But he was too late. My backup had arrived and quickly cut him off, illuminating the cruiser’s spotlight. Blinded now, too, their friend swerved to avoid the cruiser and drove directly into the concrete mooring of a light pole. His bumper and hood crumpled with a satisfying crunch while his air bag deployed an instant later with a whoosh!
What a bunch of dumb asses.
SIXTY-FIVE
TWO FOR ONE SPECIAL
Brigit
The dog was feeling quite proud of herself. With one leap, she’d taken down two men. Not bad. Now maybe Megan would forgive her for chewing up the boot. Brigit really shouldn’t have done that. Sometimes she just couldn’t help herself.
SIXTY-SIX
MANIFESTO
The Rattler
He’d watched all of the news reports and learned that the old lady he’d helped with the wicker chairs a few weeks ago had been injured. While he regretted that she’d been hurt, some collateral damage was to be expected. No good battle was fought without losing a soldier or two along the way. Besides, it was her own fault she’d been injured. What had she been doing back at the club? The manager had shooed them off in no uncertain terms the other day. The Rattler supposed she’d been so desperate to earn an extra buck or two that she’d been willing to risk venturing onto the club property again.
But how the hell did one of his bombs get into the Dumpster? He hadn’t planted one there. More than likely someone had found one of the green plastic lawn bags the bombs were hidden in, assumed it contained trash, and tossed it into the receptacle. Whoever it had been was lucky the bomb hadn’t blown up in his or her hands.
While all of the news reporters speculated on the connection between the bombings at the mall and the country club, not one of them got it right. One station suggested the attacks might have been carried out by an Occupy Wall Street type group. Another suggested it might have been some type of protest by homeless in the area. Idiots. What’s more, despite the fact that no fish had been involved in the country club bombing, the reporters still referred to him as the Tunabomber.
He�
�d have to set them straight.
The Unabomber had written a manifesto. So had Karl Marx. If it was good enough for them, it was good enough for the Rattler.
He sat down at his brand-new laptop and began composing his missive.
SIXTY-SEVEN
HORSING AROUND
Megan
My turn on the swing shift was over. I was glad about that. I was also glad that Honeysuckle had been released from the hospital. She left with one less eye and three fewer fingers than she’d entered with, but she was already back at work, collecting a sagging rocker from a curb. I spotted her early Friday morning and stopped to help her load it into her van.
The golfer who’d been severely injured had survived, though he was still in the hospital. According to Trish LeGrande’s news reports, he was expected to be released in another day or two. I had to admit, for a woman who looked like a total bimbo she sure could dig up information.
While I was happy about the good news, I was not happy at all that Seth had failed to call me since we’d parted ways last Sunday. I was getting damn tired of him treating me like a yo-yo, pulling me in, then pushing me away. I didn’t get it. I’d thought the two of us had hit it off. I guess I’d been wrong.
Maybe I wasn’t as smart as I’d thought I was.
* * *
Early Saturday evening I sat in one of the wicker chairs by the pool, my eyes closed as I listened to Rhino fool around on his bass guitar. Brigit lay at my feet, refreshed and relaxed after dog paddling around in the pool for the last half hour.
My ears picked up the sound of a car pulling into the lot. The driver cut the engine and engaged the parking brake.
“Your boyfriend’s here,” Rhino said.
“That’s impossible,” I said, forcibly keeping my eyes closed now. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
A boyfriend would have realized how upset I’d been after the bombing at the country club and offered me comfort. A boyfriend would have opened up to me about his feelings, too, let me offer him some comfort in return. A boyfriend wouldn’t have left me feeling more alone and lonely than I’d ever felt in my life.
The gate creaked open and swung closed, rattling as the latch engaged. A moment later I heard the click of dog claws and a rustle as Brigit stood, followed by Seth’s voice saying, “Hi, pretty girl.”
He had a lot of nerve showing up here uninvited and unannounced. What if I’d been out? What if I’d been expecting another date or had a guy at my place? What if I kicked Seth in the balls?
I had no choice but to open my eyes now. To continue to ignore Seth would only show that he’d hurt me, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction or power.
I looked up at him, feeling a surge of anger when my heart betrayed me by responding with a pitter-patter. “Hey, Seth.”
Our two dogs stood between us, wagging their tails and sniffing each other, getting reacquainted. It took them only a moment to pick up where they’d left off, and they began to chase each other around the small enclosed area.
Maybe I should take a lesson from them and just enjoy my time with Seth for what it was. I could be just as casual as he could about whatever was going on between us. So what if it was just an occasional thing that wasn’t going anywhere? No strings, no expectations, no hassles, right? And, really, what was I getting so worked up about? It had only been six days since we’d last seen each other. That wasn’t such a long time, was it?
Seth grabbed the other wicker chair, carried it over next to mine, and plopped down into it. “How ya been?”
Lonely. Frustrated. Worried. “Busy.”
“Eaten yet?”
I’d had a bowl of granola cereal earlier, but I wasn’t one to pass up a free dinner. Whatever I didn’t eat tonight I could bring home for lunch tomorrow.
“No,” I lied. “I haven’t eaten.”
“Want to grab some dinner?”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
A half hour later we were seated at Sapristi’s. The waitress set a steaming bowl of penne in front of me and another filled with shrimp linguine in front of Seth. Seth had let me choose the wine. I’d picked a bottle of Domaine des Baumard chenin blanc, partly because it was described as having notes of honeysuckle but mostly because it had a $45 price tag. I wasn’t about to let Seth off easily with one of the lower-end bottles. Besides, I was worth it.
We made small talk over dinner. He, on the one hand, told me about a string of roadside fires presumably caused by motorists tossing cigarette butts from their car windows. Dried grass and smoldering tobacco were a combustible combination. He also told me about a recent fire he’d worked at a small hotel in which arson was suspected. The run-down place had been in the red for years, and investigators suspected the owner had torched the place for the insurance money. I, on the other hand, told Seth about me busting the security guards at the mall. But I did not tell him about the horseshoe nail in the bomb at the golf course. Withholding this piece of information was a bit titillating. It gave me a sense of power and control.
When we’d finished our dinner, we returned to my apartment. It was dusk now, and the complex was dark. Someone had thrown a rock and taken out the streetlight in front, so the place was even darker than usual. Warm, too. Indian summer had set in.
We made our way up to my apartment, where we found Blast and Brigit entwined on the carpet, licking each other’s mouths in a canine make-out session.
“Careful, buddy,” Seth said, nudging Blast’s butt with his toe, “or you may have to marry her.”
I supposed it was a funny comment, but it rankled nonetheless. Was committing to someone you cared about such a bad thing? I supposed being tied to another person would come with limitations. But spending a lifetime alone sounded so much worse.
“How about a swim?” Seth asked.
“Pool’s closed after dark,” I said. The underwater lights hadn’t worked since I’d moved in, and Grigsby was too cheap to have them repaired.
“What’s the manager going to do?” Seth said. “Call the cops?”
“Point taken,” I said.
Seth took Blast and Brigit down to the pool while I changed into my bikini, pulled my hair up in a ponytail on top of my head, and grabbed a couple of towels.
When I made my way down the outside steps and into the pool area, I found Seth’s shirt, shoes, and socks in a heap on the ground and Seth himself puttering around in the water in his shorts. Brigit and Blast lay side by side on the love seat, panting mildly in the warm night.
I draped the towels over the back of a chair and went to the ladder. Seth met me there, looking up at me like a wolf eyeing his prey. “Damn, girl. Are nerds allowed to look like that in a bikini?”
Flattered, I nonetheless responded by using my toes to kick water into his face.
He chuckled and eased back to give me space.
I bent down in the water, wetting myself up to my neck.
We were the only ones outside tonight. The place was private and dark and quiet, the only sound the steady, rhythmic thrum of the pool filter. We swam around for a bit in silence, working off our dinner and wine.
After a few minutes, Seth stopped swimming and waited at one end, watching me as I approached. When I drew close enough, he reached out and grabbed my wrist, pulling me through the water toward him. I stood in front of him now, the water up to our chests, swirling softly around us, caressing our bodies.
We stood there for a moment, mere inches apart, staring into each other’s eyes. His pupils flashed with desire as he reached up a hand and tugged my ponytail loose, letting my hair fall around my face.
“That’s the way I like it,” he said, his voice husky.
He cupped his strong hands on either side of my chin and covered my mouth with his. His kiss was warm, wild, and wonderful, his lips and tongue teasing and tempting me.
My arms wrapped around his neck as the kiss deepened. Seth moved his arms to my back now, pulling me toward him until my wet chest pressed against h
is. After a few intense, sensuous moments, his mouth released mine, moving to my neck.
Seth turned us around as one now, pushing me back against the pool wall, pressing himself against me.
I enjoyed it for a brief moment before pushing him back. “Slow down, cowboy. I’m not that easy.”
Seth issued a groan of frustration that was immensely rewarding. Looked like I had the upper hand for the moment.
A stray cat darted past the fence and Brigit and Blast leaped off the love seat, rushing to the fence and barking their heads off. Woof-woof-woof-woof-woof!
Before we could quiet them, Grigsby’s door flew open.
“Shut those dogs up now!” Grigsby shouted.
The moment spoiled, Seth and I shushed our partners and gathered up our things.
As we parted ways at the gate, Seth gave me a soft smile. “I’ll be in touch.”
Something told me he meant it this time.
SIXTY-EIGHT
A LITTLE BIRDIE TOLD ME
Brigit
A few days after she and Blast had been left alone in the apartment, Brigit and her partner were back on the beat, making the rounds of the mall. After lunch from the shish-kebab stand, Megan led Brigit over to the carousel. As they approached the man who worked the ride, Brigit scented something.
A bird.
Had a pigeon flown into the courtyard? It had happened before. Brigit had seen the maintenance men and custodians chasing it with a net, trying to shoo it out the doors.
Her nose lifted to the air and twitched. No, this wasn’t a fresh bird scent. It was faded and old. And it was coming from the bright-red feather stuck in the smiling man’s hatband.
SIXTY-NINE
TRICK OR TREAT
The Rattler
Sundance Square in downtown Fort Worth teemed with swaggering, self-indulgent people in costumes traipsing from one bar or nightclub to the next. Witches. Zombies. An oversized banana. A big-breasted saloon girl in fishnet tights. Three gay men and their straight girlfriend dressed as Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Lion, and the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Fitting, he supposed, given that once his bombs exploded tonight they’d be flying somewhere over the rainbow. The Tin Man might even be able to find a spare heart, the Scarecrow a brain—assuming he could beat the zombies to it.
