Courting Murder

by Bill Hopkins

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Saturday morning, continued

  “Open the door, damn it! Nadine’s passed out and I don’t know how much longer I can stay conscious.”

  The smoke thickened. It felt like it was over a hundred degrees.

  “It’s not just shut. It’s locked,” Ollie said. “It’s a combination lock.”

  “I know that. She already unlocked it when she opened it.”

  “It’s locked now.”

  “Nadine,” Rosswell said. He slapped her across the face. Her half-lidded eyes showed no response. He doubted that she could see him. “Nadine, can you hear me?” He slapped her again, harder. The thought of assaulting anyone, especially a woman, sickened him. The situation, however, seemed to warrant the rough treatment. He’d deal with his bad acts later. “What’s the combination?”

  Rosswell latched on to her shoulders. After he shook her, she muttered, “Initials children Israel sealed.” Her eyes, barely open now, grew dimmer, then shut.

  “What? Nadine, the combination!”

  Ollie hollered up from the basement, “What’s the combination?”

  “Nadine’s spouting nonsense. I don’t know.”

  “What’s the nonsense?”

  “She said, ‘Initials children Israel sealed’.”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes! That’s it!”

  What? Rosswell heard the click of the buttons Ollie punched. Then heard the door open. What the hell kind of clue had Nadine given Rosswell? It sounded Biblical, but she hadn’t told him any series of letters. Ollie needed those to punch into the lock. Rosswell promised himself that if they got out of this alive, he’d have to reward Ollie. Maybe give him a couple of days’ credit on his next jail sentence. Ollie would appreciate that.

  Ollie scrabbled his way back up the steps.

  Rosswell said, “Did you find the keys?”

  “No.” Ollie’s breathing sounded labored. Rosswell wheezed. Nadine still breathed, but Rosswell couldn’t get any response out of her. Ollie said, “Give me your phone. Need light.”

  Rosswell patted himself down, praying his luck was better than Nadine’s. His cellphone was in his right pocket. “Here. Go get those keys.”

  When Ollie reached the bottom of the steps, another fusillade rammed the other side of the door Rosswell leaned against. Even if Ollie made it back in time and Rosswell found the right key on the key ring, when he opened the door to the kitchen, they were all dead. On the other hand, if they stayed there without opening the door, they were all dead. No other alternative existed.

  Ollie crawled back up the steps with the keys in his hand. An explosion sounded on the other side of the door. “Crap, now he’s bombing us.” Another explosion sounded.

  “Find the key. If I’m going to die, I want to get shot.”

  There had to be about a hundred keys. Rosswell picked a likely looking one and tried it. No luck. He noticed that it was a Lockset lock. Flipping through the selection of keys, he stopped when he reached a heavy one with a triangular handle.

  “This one,” he said. “Try this one with the triangular handle.”

  Rosswell had weakened to the point where he couldn’t reach the doorknob. A lot of good he’d do with his pistol.

  “It’s called a bow, not a handle,” Ollie said, taking the shiny key from Rosswell, who toyed with the idea of shooting Ollie himself. They teetered on the verge of death and Ollie was playing trivia games.

  But the key worked. The answer was clear. The right key had to be big, barely used. The key slipped into the lock like a perfect honeymoon. Ollie turned the key. “It won’t unlock.”

  “Christ.”

  “I think, we’re fixing to meet him.”

  “Turn the key.”

  “The heat.” Ollie gasped. “The heat is screwing up the lock.”

  Nadine’s wheezing stopped. Rosswell said, “Nadine’s dead.” Ollie never paused. He drew out the key and spit on it, then stuck it back in the lock. It unlocked, the moisture of the spit reducing the friction enough to allow him to turn the key.

  Rosswell pushed open the door, stood, and commenced firing. The pistol’s recoil, small as it was, knocked him down. Panting, he fell to the floor, waiting for the shooter to drill him through the head.

  Nothing.

  Through the smoke, he could make out the kitchen. No one was in there.

  “Come on, Ollie. Help me drag her out.”

  They reached the livingroom door. Apparently, the evildoer had set the back of the house on fire near the kitchen and garage. The front of the house had yet to be fully involved. When they struggled through the front door, Rosswell waved the gun around but found no target.

  “Come out here, you son of a bitch,” he yelled.

  Where had the bastard gone?

  Ollie said, “Vicky’s still with us.”

  The garage, a whole wall blown out, was the victim of the two cans of gasoline. Vicky sat far enough away to miss any real damage. Or so Rosswell prayed.

  The fresh air revived Ollie and Rosswell. Rosswell put his ear next to Nadine’s nose and mouth. The noise of the fire made it impossible to hear. There was no way to tell if she was still breathing. Rosswell stretched her out and pumped her full of air with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The sirens reached his brain.

  “God almighty,” Nadine said. Jerking upright, she launched into a coughing spasm that sounded like it would end with her expelling a lung. When the seizure ended, she said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Disoriented, she shot up and ran the opposite way from Vicky. Ollie tackled her.

  Nadine pounded on Ollie’s head, screaming at him. Rosswell grabbed her in a full nelson and yelled in her ear, “Follow Ollie.”

  Ollie and Rosswell had been destined to beat up the same woman today. Rosswell hoped Nadine would forgive them. Rosswell hoped Tina would forgive him for slapping and then deep kissing Nadine.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” she said. Rosswell released her, and the three of them dashed for Vicky. Nadine yelled, “Stop screaming at me.”

  Something was wrong. Rosswell wondered why no one was shooting at them. The shooter wouldn’t have simply given up and gone home to check what was on cable television.

  Vicky started, Rosswell backed out, and they ripped down the road of the long, narrow valley that led to Marble Hill. Coming toward them were sirens. The telephone supervisor must’ve gotten enough power on the horn to send rescue troops their way. How was that possible? Frizz couldn’t get extra help but a telephone operator could call out an army of cops?

  The sound and feel of the house burning reminded Rosswell of a hot tornado whipping itself into a fury behind his back, fixing to chase him. Another sound overrode the sound of the fire. The deduction was clear as the sky after a storm moves through. The shooter had heard the sirens and beat feet. The bastard had to be close. But where? Was he in a car or on foot?

  “Damn it.” Nadine turned her head to watch her house burning to the ground until Rosswell turned a corner and it left her view. “Everything I worked for . . . gone.”

  Ollie said, “It was a nice house. I’m sorry, Nadine.”

  She smiled. “The good part is that my little . . . garden . . . it’s gone now.”

  Ollie said, “Meaning?”

  “I won’t be going to jail for my illegal garden.”

  “Garden?” Rosswell said. “What garden?”

  “All my beautiful White Widow. Up in smoke.” Nadine faced forward. “I meant for it to go up in smoke. But not that way.”

  “White Widow?” Ollie said. “Marijuana?”

  Rosswell said, “I didn’t see any marijuana. Did you see any marijuana, Ollie?”

  “Nope. Never saw a thing. I’ve never seen any marijuana anywhere, except in the movies. Or television. Or pictures of it. But never in real life.”

  Rosswell tried imitating Ollie’s squeak without success.

  Nadine said, “Both y’all look and smell like the shit you’re ful
l of.”

  A fire truck screamed past them, heading for Nadine’s.

   Chapter Twenty-six

  Saturday morning, continued

  “Maybe they didn’t recognize my car,” Rosswell said when none of the firefighters paid them a mouse lick of attention.

  Nadine said, “They’d have to be blind to miss an orange rind packed with grubby scoundrels.”

  Ollie said, “They don’t care about us. Just the fire. Someone must’ve called the fire department.”

  The three of them were covered with soot and ash the color of dog-vomit gray. Rosswell’s face felt like the business side of a piece of rough grit sandpaper. He couldn’t smell anything but burning house and contents.

  Ollie said, “Judge, you can talk to them back in town. We need to get to the hospital. We could be injured.”

  “I’m not stopping for anything. Coming close to dying once a day is one time too many.”

  In front of Rosswell on the road, a woman in blue jeans, a gray sweatshirt, big bracelets, sunglasses, and a ball cap stood in a shooter’s stance, pointing an AK-47 at them. The same woman that bribed the Eagle Scout.

  Candy Lavaliere.

  Frizz had, after all, arrested the right person. He just didn’t know it.

  Blue and red lights flashed in front of Rosswell and a siren squawked. A firefighter in his personal vehicle who was following the trucks waved at Rosswell, who stomped on the brakes and jumped out.

  “Over there,” he yelled and pointed.

  At nothing. Candy had disappeared, no doubt fleeing into the woods.

  The firefighter stopped and scowled at Rosswell. “I’m on my way to a fire.”

  Rosswell said, “You got a radio?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  Rosswell leaped back into the car. “Call Frizz. Tell him that Candy Lavaliere