by Carolina Mac
“C’mon, girlie, let’s do some damage.” He grinned.
I took off my helmet and jacket, shoved my hair under my ball cap and retrieved my gun and ammunition, leaving my purse in the saddlebag.
“Ready,” I said, following George past the shack where the other bikers were hanging out. Some were sitting at picnic tables drinking and others were cleaning their guns. There were a couple of girls in the bunch with nice tattoos sunning themselves.
“Hey, George, where’d you get that?”
“Shut the fuck up, Chopper. This is my sister.”
“Where you bin hiding your ‘sister’, Georgie?”
“I’ll blow your nuts off, wiseass.”
The whistling and catcalls kept up until we reached the range. I was amused to see that George was a little red-faced. If I’d been alone in this kind of a crowd, I would have been nervous, but with big George at my side, I felt safe.
I unloaded the Beretta and reloaded the practice ammo under George’s scrutiny. He shoved mufflers over my ball cap and showed me where to stand.
“Empty the mag at the target. Then we’ll see what you need to adjust.”
“I’m shooting with my left arm.”
“Suck it up, baby girl. Be the best you can be with what you got. Lots of shooters are equally good with both hands.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said. Truth was, I knew very little about shooters of any kind.
George made me empty the magazine, check the target, reload, adjust my aim and start all over again. After two hours of this routine, my arm shook.
“George, my arm is about to fall off. Can we call it quits for today?”
“Had enough have you? I didn’t ‘spect you to last this long. Your broke arm must be hurting like hell.”
“It is, but I brought pain killers with me. I just need some water.”
“No water here, but we’ll have a couple brews with the boys, and you can down ’em.”
Pain killers and beer. Great combo.
We walked back to the half dozen picnic tables by the shack and I sat down. George got three cold beers out of a cooler and put one in front of me. Then he went into the shack and got gun oil and rags. He plunked his bulk down at the other side of the table, chugged two beers and lit up a smoke. Most of the bikers had gone, but a few were left drinking and yelling insults at each other.
“Nice tattoo,” I said to one of the girls in passing. She was wearing next to nothing. Cut off low-rise shorts and a t-shirt hacked off just below her breasts. A tarantula was tattooed on her stomach made to look like it was crawling out of her navel. Interesting.
“Thanks,” she mumbled. Conversation was not her strong point.
I washed my pain meds down with a couple swigs. Matthew told me that ladies always drank wine. But tasting that cold beer on a hot day was heavenly.
Fuck, Matthew.
“Now, watch while I clean your gun. You’re on your own after this.” George took apart the Beretta, cleaned it and slowly reassembled it.
I paid close attention, because I knew he wasn’t going to be a happy camper if he had to show me a second time. “I got it. Thanks, George.”
“No sweat, sweet cheeks. Let’s split.”
The Harley started up with ear splitting efficiency and we were off. Enamored by the noise, the wind in my face and the smell of grease and leather, the truth had been revealed by the time I got home. I was in love with bikes.
“Thanks for today, George. Want to come in for a coffee?”
“No thanks. Got stuff to take care of.”
He roared explosively out the driveway and up the street. I could still hear his Harley in the distance when he hit the highway.
Angel wagged her whole back end as I came in the front door. I gave her a big hug before putting her in the backyard, cleaning up the spilled coffee and starting a new pot. With a new sense of accomplishment, I sat at the kitchen table and reloaded the Beretta. With only one day of instruction, I was certainly no expert, but the basics were in place.
After taking a quick shower to wash off the acrid smell of gunpowder, I donned my sweats and joined Angel in the yard. At the patio table, I opened the envelope of condolence cards Mr. Barton had given me and wrote the thank you notes for the floral tributes and the donations to Heart and Stroke. My right arm pained while I wrote, and my handwriting was barely legible, but the job was done. Tomorrow, I would drop the bundle in the mail.
Angel and I enjoyed steaks grilled on the barbecue for dinner, and then lounged like couch potatoes in the living room for the rest of the evening. She was my shadow.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I rummaged in my purse and found the card of the investment officer at the bank. After making an appointment for three o’clock, I cleared up the coffee things, snapped on Angel’s leash and took her for a walk in the park. A jogging path wound its way along by the river, shaded by mature maples. November was the last time I had run, but I gave it my best shot with Angel easily keeping pace beside me. Breathless, I plopped down on a bench. I was out of shape, but physical activity helped clear my head and took the edge off my nerves. The sun was directly overhead and gleeful cicadas heralded the rising temperature.
Angel and I trudged the three blocks home drenched in sweat.
A cool shower was first on my list, while draining her water bowl was first for Angel. I dressed for my bank appointment in white cotton pants, a red tank top with a white cotton over shirt. I slipped my bare feet into sandals and brushed my hair up into a pony-tail. Much cooler. After a spinach salad and a glass of cranberry juice, I read a couple of chapters of my J.L. Madore novel on my favorite bench outside in the garden.
My appointment at the bank was with a Mr. Donaldson in investments. I was shown into his office at three fifteen. Not impressed.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Talbot. I’m Simon Donaldson. What can I do for you?”
Mr. Donaldson was six feet tall with dark curly hair and hazel eyes. His face was tanned and slightly weathered but highlighted by a genuine smile. He reminded me of the Marlboro Man with whiter teeth. His red polka dot tie hung loosely, and his gray suit pants were in need of a press.
“Well, I don’t know if you can help me at all really. My husband left me some of these certificates in his will, and I was wondering if you could tell me what they are, or what I should do with them.” I pulled out one of the pieces of paper that I had found hidden in the drawer of desk in the study. I smoothed out the curl of the paper and passed it over the desk to him.
“How many of these did you say you had?” He raised his eyebrows and his mouth hung slightly open for a moment.
“I didn’t say.”
“This indicates that your husband had purchased gold when it was at a low, many years ago. The actual gold itself would be held in a vault,” he said, “How old was your husband?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“These particular certificates are dated before he was born. He must have inherited them or come by them in some other fashion.”
“I’m sorry, I have no clue on how he came to have them,” I said, “but can they be sold?”
“Definitely, and for a huge profit in today’s market.”
“Each one being worth how much?”
“Well, the market goes up and down almost daily. Let me see what this one would sell for today.” He punched numbers into his computer for a few minutes, while I enjoyed the bank’s air conditioning. “The price per ounce this morning was sixteen hundred and forty-five dollars and eighty cents. These were purchased in 1971 for thirty-five dollars an ounce. Today the profit per ounce would be over sixteen hundred dollars. Since this certificate is for a hundred ounces… well you can do the math.”
Yes, I can.
“If you need to cash any, I can execute the transactions for you.”
My hands were trembling. “Thank you for the information, Mr. Donaldson. You have been more than helpful.” I smiled and extended my hand. Perhaps we can
do business in the near future.”
“I’ll look forward to it, Mrs. Talbot. Have a nice day.”
I had one of the tellers, show me to my deposit box, where I put the certificate back into one of the bundles. On quick count, ten bundles with forty or more in each. Over sixty million.
Does Bob know about this stash? I don’t think so. Maybe Matthew’s father hid them in that drawer, and Matthew didn’t even know. Matthew was so paranoid, he would never have left them in a drawer. Never. He couldn’t have known.
I replaced the bundles, closed the lid, and waited for the teller to lock up after me.
On the way home, I stopped at the beer store for the first time in my life and picked up a dozen cold ones.
Angel greeted me at the door, wagging her back end like she hadn’t seen me in days. Out on the patio, I watched while she rolled on the grass in the shade.
Now that the gold certificates were in the bank, they were safe from Bob, but if he didn’t know about them what was it that he wanted?
What game were Bob and Matthew playing?
If it was something that Bob knew was in the house, he might keep trying. Prickles raced up the back of my neck like tiny needles and my stomach flipped. I downed another beer, then made some dinner.
Before I retired for the night, I let Angel out for a short run in the yard, brought her in, wiped her paws and went upstairs. With the loaded Beretta under my pillow and the dog on her blanket beside the bed I felt safer than I had during the past week.
A low growl startled me awake. Angel growled again, long and low. I listened. That familiar creak on the fifth step from the bottom. I stifled a scream as I remembered the gun. I groped under the pillow and laced my fingers around the cold metal of the barrel. Cold clamminess enveloped my body as I fought to keep my dinner down. The safety gave me trouble in the darkness. I moved it, but I couldn’t see the red dot. I only had to guess that it was off. Footsteps on the staircase drew closer, paralyzing me. The intruder stepped into the bedroom doorway, his silhouette backlit by the hall window. A hooded figure. Metal glinted in the moonlight. Angel lunged. I fired.
“Ughh…….get your fucking dog off me…………….son of a bitch……”
Thud.
I switched on the bedside lamp and jumped up. Angel was snarling and tearing wildly at the intruder’s leg. I dialed 911, shouted the address and threw the phone down. The man was writhing, cursing and trying to beat Angel off. Blood spurted all over the carpet. While I trained my Beretta on his head, I kicked his fallen gun under the bed. His black hoody was pulled up so I couldn’t see his face, but the arm of his cotton jacket was soaked through with blood.
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot you,” I hollered.
“Fuck you. Get this mutt off me,” he bellowed.
Angel emitted a low growl while she maintained her hold on his neck, pinning him down.
Sirens screamed down my street and I breathed a sigh of relief but held my aim on the man’s head. It sounded like an army arriving in the foyer. Officers rushed up the stairs and burst through the bedroom door.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” A female officer approached, motioning for me to lower my gun while her partner advanced on the intruder. After asking me a few questions, the handcuffs came out and the female officer took my gun and placed it in a Ziploc bag.
“You’re under arrest,” said the male officer, and informed the intruder of his rights.
Angel relinquished her hold on command and lay on her blanket beside me.
“Good girl,” I whispered. “You saved my life.”
Angel wagged.
“She probably did,” said the female officer. “Did he have a weapon?”
“A gun. He dropped it when Angel bit his leg, and I kicked it under the bed.”
“Good thinking. Sounds like you kept your head through all this. You just sit there and rest now, I can tell by your color and your pupils that you’re ready to faint.”
The female officer crawled under the bed and retrieved the perp’s gun. She placed it in a plastic bag and wrote something on the tag as the paramedics thundered up the stairs with a gurney. They knelt down and rolled the intruder onto his back and cut off the sleeve of his jacket.
The female officer pulled the man’s hood back from his face so I could get a look at him. “Do you know this man?” she asked me, stepping out of the way of the paramedic team.
“No, I’m sorry. I’ve never seen him before,” I said.
“He’s lost a lot of blood. Dog bite on thigh. Gunshot wound, left arm. Start an IV and transport,” said one of the paramedics. They bandaged his wounds and strapped him to the gurney while I looked on in a daze.
“He’s under arrest, so one of the men downstairs will go with you to the hospital.” The male officer in the bedroom said to the paramedics.
They nodded as they wheeled the gurney out the door.
After the intruder had been removed, I inadvertently glanced at the maroon stain at the doorway of the bedroom where his blood had oozed into the carpet. I excused myself and took the opportunity to throw up in the bathroom. When I returned to the bedroom, the female officer made introductions.
“I’m Officer Jane Lombard and that’s my partner, Constable Rick McDonald.”
“I’m Portia Talbot.”
“Are you up to answering a few more questions, Mrs. Talbot?” Rick asked.
“I think so.”
“Just tell me in your own words what you remember.” He took a notebook out of his back pocket.
I told him everything I could remember from the time Angel woke me with her growling.
“We’ll have to take your gun into evidence, Mrs. Talbot. You’ll get it back. Do you have a permit for it?”
“Yes, I think so. It was my husband’s gun, but he’s deceased. I’ll have to look for the permit.”
“No problem. Can you use another bedroom while we examine this room?”
I nodded. “I’ll take some clothes and go down the hall to the guest room.” I grabbed my jeans, a T- shirt, clean underwear and Angel’s blanket and headed for the door, skirting the bloodstain. “C’mon Angel.”
As I passed the head of the staircase, I could hear talking in the foyer. I dressed in the guest room, then descended the staircase with Angel at my heel.
“Mrs. Talbot. Are you all right?”
“I’m a bit shaky, Vince, and my arm is throbbing. I don’t know how that guy got in here. I know I set the alarm before I went to bed.”
“I can’t examine the system until the police are finished with it. I’m waiting for the okay.”
“Don’t worry about it. I should be safe with all these officers here. Angel was my real savior anyway.”
Vince ruffled the fur around Angel’s neck. “Good work, girl.”
“I’m going to start a pot of coffee. I don’t think sleep is an option right now. Would you like a cup?”
“Thanks, no. I’ll go home and wait for the all-clear from the cops. I could use a couple hours sleep before work.”
Did Bob send that guy to look for something? Why was he coming upstairs?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AFTER waiting in the kitchen for the police to finish their investigation, and ingesting a caffeine overload, I crashed in the guest room and woke up around noon to the ringing of the phone. I checked the display. Apex Security.
“I’m sending some men over to reprogram your system,” Vince said. “The cops gave me the go-ahead. What time is good for you?”
“Anytime this afternoon, I’ll be here.”
Apex came within the hour and revamped the security panel. They assured me, that it was working perfectly, and I had no worries. That didn’t make me feel any better.
I walked Angel, and took a quick shower afterwards. Having to step over the bloody carpet in the bedroom doorway prompted me to arrange an appointment with a flooring company. I picked one at random from the Yellow Pages, booked an appointment and got ready to go to
the hospital.
While Angel played in the yard, I cut a bouquet of fresh flowers to take with me. Not that Marcy could see them, until the swelling of her eyes diminished, but maybe the fragrance in her room would cheer her.
Marcy was moaning when I entered room four eighteen. I glanced over at the nurse checking her vitals as I put the bouquet of flowers on the window ledge.
“Her pain meds are wearing off,” she said, injecting something into the IV. “Those flowers are lovely.”
“They’re from my garden.” I smiled and picked up Marcy’s limp hand. She tried to turn her head to look at me, but the movement made her groan again.
“Don’t move. Just rest,” I said. For the next several hours, I sat motionless at her bedside while she slept fitfully.
“Bye, Marcy. I’ll come back tomorrow,” I whispered, and slipped out of the room.
On the way to the elevator, I asked at the nurses’ station if Mr. Winterstein had been in to see his wife. Negative on Bob, but Marcy’s mother had driven down from North Bay and was staying close by with friends to visit her daughter. I hoped to run into her during visiting hours.
On the way home, I stopped off at the market, before driving to the other side of town to see if Bob was home from work. The black Yukon was parked in the driveway. I pulled in. Bob answered the doorbell with a drink in his hand—nothing new there.
“Portia, what a surprise. Nice to see you.”
“Hi Bob.” I gave him my best smile. “I thought, with Marcy in the hospital, you might like a little home cooking.” I handed him a casserole wrapped in a tea towel that I had made in the morning.
“That’s so thoughtful of you. I have been out of my mind with worry since Marcy fell down the stairs.” He set the casserole down on the wicker porch table and took a step closer.
Yeah, so worried you didn’t even go to see her, you rotten piece of shit.
