by Carolina Mac
“Nothing out there, girl.”
She scratched again on the door and I opened it. I stepped out onto the porch and Angel ran down onto the grass. “I guess you just had to pee.” I exhaled as I stood on the steps and looked up at the stars. On a lunge, Angel started towards the street.
“Angel, come back here.” I jumped down from the porch to go after her and the world exploded into the fourth of July. Blackness and pain engulfed me, and I felt myself crumple onto the damp grass.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
GEORGE gazed around his time-worn bungalow and decided it resembled a club house more than a home. The front room was monopolized by a poker table surrounded by a dozen mismatched chairs that would have brought fifty cents each at a yard sale. A worn green recliner with a tattered rip on the left arm occupied one corner, while the west exterior wall sported a boarded over fireplace with a fifty-two inch flat screen mounted on the wall above. The picture window facing the street was covered by a thick navy blue blanket held in place by three inch nails.
The meeting with the club members was winding down when the phone clipped to George’s belt rang. The screen showed Jimmie’s number.
“Yeah, Jimmie, speak.”
“Trouble, boss. Bomb went off on Hawthorne Lane.”
“What? Where the fuck is Portia?”
“She's down, but not out.”
“Fuck Jimmie, how did you let that happen?” George roared, kicked the leg of the poker table and everybody’s chips went for a dump.
“I didn’t let it happen, boss. Nobody came near the house all fuckin’ day. They must have planted it on the Jeep somewhere else and used a remote.”
“Did you call 911?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll be right there,” he said blowing out a long slow breath.
“What’s up, boss?” asked Rusty. “Woman trouble?”
“You have no fuckin’ idea. You guys sit tight. I might need you in a while.” He jumped on the Eagle, threaded his way down the driveway between the rows of parked bikes and burned rubber at the end of the driveway.
George had a heavy hand on the gas, exceeded the speed limit and reached Annie’s street in eight minutes flat. The paramedics slammed the back door of the ambulance just as he got to the end of the driveway. Police vehicles roared down the street with sirens screaming and fire trucks trailed close behind.
George veered the Eagle into a neighbor’s driveway, made a quick turn and followed the ambulance to the hospital. He stubbed out his smoke in the sand bucket at the door, sucked in a big breath and prepared himself for the worst.
“Portia Talbot. They just brought her in,” he said to the nurse behind the glass.
She looked at her list. “They’re prepping her for surgery. Are you the next of kin?”
George nodded numbly.
“Talk to the next desk, through those doors.” She pointed to her right.
George walked down the hall thinking he might hurl. “Can I find out about Mrs. Talbot?”
The nurse looked at her sheet. “Are you family?”
“Yes. She’s my . . . wife.”
“She’s been taken straight upstairs,” she said. “That’s all I can tell you until she’s out of the operating room. We’ll know more then.”
George’s knees gave way under him. He put a hand on the counter to steady himself.
“You won’t be able to see her for a few hours. You can wait in the family waiting room or come back in the morning. If you leave, let me know how to contact you and I'll be sure to call you as soon as there is news.”
The helplessness he felt rose in his throat and turned into fury and blind hate. He had to repeat his cell number three times for the woman before he turned to go.
Hold it together for five more minutes. Barbwire's not going anywhere fast.
He sat on the Eagle in the hospital parking lot, took a couple of deep breaths and lit up a smoke. Then he punched a number into his phone.
“Hey, boss, everything okay?” Billy asked.
“Not yet. Gimme Jackson.”
Jackson came on the line. “What’s up, boss.”
George spat on the ground. “Those fuckin’ druggie whores blew up Annie’s jeep and she’s in the hospital. They’re gonna’ pay for this.”
“Who made the bomb?” asked Jackson. “That army lowlife that lives with them?”
“That’s what I figure. None of those bitches could hold a thought long enough to make a sandwich let alone a bomb. Had to be him. I’m sittin’ in the hospital parking lot. I should be back in fifteen. Annie’s cut up bad, and she’s on the operating table right this fuckin’ minute.”
“Fuck, no.” Jackson inhaled. “We’re ready boss, whenever you get here.”
“On my way.” George revved up the Screamin’ Eagle and rode back to his place where the boys were putting in time playing hold-em. By the time he parked his bike in the driveway, he had hatched the outline of a plan.
When he walked through the door, one of the crew jumped up from the poker table and fetched him a beer. He sat down in the green leather chair and lit up a smoke. “We’re gonna’ wipe out a den of fuckin’ vermin,” he growled.
THE gray light of dawn was hazed over by a thick layer of fog that had blown in off Lake Ontario. Three bikes, with headlights out, coasted up in front of the crack house and the riders dismounted. The entrance to the basement was around the north side of the condemned building. The windows had been boarded up and there was only one way in and one way out.
The men, dressed in black, wore gloves as they stealthily descended the narrow steps to the lower level. They each chose two passed out addicts and slit their throats while they slept.
George approached the sleeping form of Barbwire. Her scrawny arm was extended in sleep, exhibiting multiple track marks. He poked her in the ribs, and she opened her eyes. Her pupils were dilated and as she stared up at George’s face, her expression of surprise turned to one of terror. She opened her mouth in an effort to scream, but George was as fast as lightning with his Tanto knife. He slit her throat in a millisecond. He followed his boys up the basement stairs and they rode off before the sun came up over the horizon.
Back at George’s place, everyone stripped down and placed their blood soaked clothes and gloves in black garbage bags. The bandage on George’s arm was soaked through with Barbwire’s blood and he added it to the collection.
One of the boys was assigned to transport the bag to the range and incinerate it. George showered after everyone left for home and changed into new blue jeans and a Harley t-shirt. He tied a yellow bandana around his neck and scowled as he rode back to the hospital.
After checking with the nurses’ station, he found out he couldn’t see Annie yet, and took a seat in the waiting room. He closed his eyes and slept for a couple of hours. He woke stiff and sore from the hard metal chair, made for people half his size, and ambled outside for a smoke.
As he leaned on the wall in the smoking area, a pair of cops parked their cruiser at the curb and headed inside. He stayed put. Five minutes later they left.
George got a coffee and walked down past the nurses’ station. “Mrs. Talbot?”
“Taking her to recovery now. You’ll be able to sit with her in ten.” She smiled.
He leaned on the wall and finished his coffee. A few minutes later, the nurse motioned him to join her and she gave him directions to the recovery area.
The large, rectangular room held several beds, all occupied with sleeping patients. Most had a family member keeping a vigil and that was what he was there for as well. He gasped when he saw Annie. She was pale and still. A large gauze pad covered half her face, and bandages wrapped her arms. Her hair was matted with blood and he was grateful he couldn’t see her legs. George ignored the tightening in his chest, sat down, took her hand in his, and slept.
A couple of hours later, he got a coffee while Annie was being moved to a room on the fourth floor. He found her new room, four
twenty-seven, and took up his position beside the bed.
Come on, baby girl. You can do it.
He looked up as Doctor Casey came in. “Hey, Doc. How’s she doin?”
“Are you her husband?”
George nodded.
“Better now, but it was touch and go earlier. She lost a lot of blood from the leg injury and had to be transfused on the table. She’s very weak.” He checked the chart, and the machines beside the bed. “I have her heavily medicated. She’ll sleep most of today.”
An hour later, she opened her eyes, looked around the room, and focused on George.
“Hey, Annie, bout time you woke up, baby girl.” He kissed her on the forehead and her eyes rolled closed.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
GEORGE had Porky open the gun shop for him and take over for the day. Porky knew next to nothin’ about running the store, and even less about guns, but George had no choice.
The previous day, George hadn’t had time to make any arrangements, and the store remained closed while he spent the day at the hospital.
Before visiting hours, George hopped on the Eagle and cruised by Annie’s house to assess the damage and feed Angel. One cruiser was parked in the driveway, along with the crime scene truck. The TV vans that had been there the night before hoping to capitalize on someone’s misery had long since vanished—the bombing was yesterday’s news. Yellow tape defined the perimeter. He parked the bike at the end of the driveway and ducked under the tape.
“Hey, buddy, you can’t be here,” one of the crime scene guys hollered out of the garage.
“Won’t be here long. Have to feed the dog and make sure she’s okay.” George walked past the molten mass that once claimed to be a Jeep. The heat was still radiating from the wreckage and he choked on the stench of the smoldering rubber.
Fuck. Look at the mess of her bike. Gotta’ get Rusty to pick that up before she sees it.
“No dog here, sir,” said the guy examining the Jeep wreckage. “I’m Jerry O’Keefe, the Fire Marshall,” he extended his gloved hand.
“Where’s the dog?” George asked with a frown.
“Been no dog here since we came,” he said.
“When will you guys be finished?”
“I’m wrapping up tomorrow and the cops as well.”
George nodded and headed for his bike. He took a quick tour around to Scarborough Animal Control on the way back to the hospital. “Hey,” he said to the girl behind the counter. Her name tag read ‘Vicky’. The chorus of barking coming from the back room was deafening.
“Can I help you?” she yelled.
“Pick up any Rotties in the last couple days?”
“Nope. Did your dog have a chip?”
“No idea.”
He took a business card from the holder and wrote his cell number on the back. “Any Rotties—call me,” he said peeling off a twenty and tossing it on the counter.
“You got it.” Vicky smiled, and shoved the twenty in her pocket.
George lumbered out to his bike and straddled it. He punched a number into his phone.
“Rusty, we’ve got a fuckin’ problem.”
“What is it, boss?” George could tell Rusty was smoking while he was talking.
“Got any more of that color you used on Annie’s bike?”
“Fuck, no. Don’t tell me this,” Rusty hollered.
“Fuck, yes. I saw it in the back of the garage today. You gotta’ get that mother out of there before Annie comes home.”
“Fuck, how am I gonna’ do that? The cops are swarming all over her place. I took a look this morning on my way to the shop.”
“The Fire Marshall said they’d be all wrapped up before tomorrow night. I’ll meet you over there around nine and we’ll load it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
GEORGE spent the morning sitting with Annie. She was pale and quiet, but she was awake, and he was relieved. The purple bruising was starting to show where she had been hit by flying debris.
“What day is it?”
“Wednesday, baby girl. I should have been here when you woke up—sorry ‘bout that.”
He picked up her hand and kissed it.
“I saw you here before. I don’t know when.” She tried to smile.
“Didn’t know if you’d remember that,” he leaned over and kissed her.
“What happened?”
“It was a bomb. Someone rigged it under the Wrangler. The cops have everything taped off, and they’ve been there since it happened. Much better for you here. Vince is hanging around, taking care of the security stuff.”
“Was it Barbwire?” she whispered.
“Don’t know, honey girl. I don’t want you to even think about it. Promise me.”
“Okay.”
“How’s the leg feel?”
A nurse came in to check the monitor.
“My leg hurts,” mumbled Annie.
“I’ll get you something for the pain. You need to rest.” She returned and injected something into the IV, then pressed buttons on the machine and left.
“Did Angel come home?” A look crossed George’s face, and tears welled up in Annie’s eyes.
“Don’t cry, little girl. I’m gonna’ find her if it’s the last fuckin’ thing I do. I checked the pound yesterday, and I’ll check again today to see if they picked her up. If she was spooked by the blast and ran really far, she might have got lost.”
“When can I go home?” she reached out for George’s hand.
“Doc will decide tomorrow. I’ve been checking.”
Her hand went to her face and she touched the bandage. “This hurts.” She tried to stick her finger under the gauze.
“It’s a bad one, Annie, don’t touch it.” George removed her hand from the bandage and held it. When the doctor came into her room to examine her, George left to check the dog pound again.
HE parked the big Harley in front of the door of the building and stuck his head in.
Vicky looked up from her paperwork and saw him. She shook her head. “No Rotties, only two more Pit Bulls I can’t get homes for.”
ON Hawthorne Lane, the Eagle rumbled as George slowed down to see if the cops had wrapped up. The crime scene van was still there. He smiled as he looked up and saw Angel bounding off the porch and running towards him.
He parked at the end of the drive and got off the bike. “Hey, girl, you’re home.” He bent down and ruffed up the fur around Angel’s neck. “Bet you’re fuckin’ starving.”
The CSI was loading his kit into the van. “The dog was lying on the porch when I got here this morning. She growled at me a little,” he said. “But we made friends soon enough.”
“I’m glad she’s back. Must have taken off when the bomb exploded.” George said.
The guy nodded and climbed into his van.
George fumbled for his key, unlocked the front door and let Angel in. He fed her, and filled up her water bowl, then went into the garage to have a good look around.
The window in the side wall was blown out. The tools that had hung neatly on the wall over the workbench were strewn everywhere. The garage door was scrap lumber. Chunks of it had hit the back wall and gouged the drywall. The frame around the opening was splintered and damaged. The new paint job on Annie’s bike was scratched from the flying metal and bubbled up in places from bits of burning debris landing on it. Rusty was gonna’ be thoroughly pissed.
GEORGE rode back to the hospital to tell Annie the good news about Angel. He was smiling when he walked into room four twenty-seven.
“You found her?” Annie was grinning.
“She found herself.” He told Annie that Angel had been waiting on the porch when he got there. “I fed her and she didn’t look any the worse for her little getaway.”
“How did the house look? Is there a lot of damage?” Annie asked.
“The garage door is fuckin’ toast, and the side window. Nothin’ that can’t be fixed.”
“What about my bike?” she ask
ed with a scowl. “My new paint job,” her eyes filled up with tears.
“Rusty’s picking it up tonight to do a couple of touch-ups.”
“Touch-ups?”
George nodded and changed the subject. He stayed with Annie until visiting hours were over. “Pick you up tomorrow, baby girl.” He kissed her on the mouth.
RUSTY’S black pickup towing the bike trailer was backed into the driveway when George arrived at ten after nine.
Coulter was in the garage with a flashlight surveying the damage.
“Shit, boss. Did you look at this fuckin’ mess?”
“Yeah, I did. Annie was asking me today, and I lied and told her it needed a couple touch-ups.”
“Fuck, yeah, touch-ups.” Rusty threw his butt down and ground it into the garage floor. “I don’t have enough of that Hi-Fi Turquoise. I just know it.” He pounded the wall. Rusty was emotional about paint.
“You’ll think of something. I’ll help you get it on the trailer, then we’ll chug a couple.”
After Rusty left, George locked up. He took Angel upstairs and they slept like the dead.
The last three days had been rough for both of them.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
MRS. TALBOT, the police are here to talk to you,” the nurse said from the doorway.
I nodded.
The officers came into my room and stood by the bedside. “I’m Officer Lombard. Do you remember me, Mrs. Talbot?”
“I do, you came to the house when I had a break-in. I’m still having a little trouble hearing, if you can bear with me.”
“Of course, I understand. This is Officer McDonald.”
“Uh huh.”
“We need to know what you can remember from the night of the bombing.”
I took a breath and tried to think. “Angel was barking . . .”
“I understand you found your missing dog?”
“Yes, I’m so happy she came home.” I inhaled and began again. “She was barking. I got out of bed and threw on a robe and followed her down to the front door. I had my gun in my hand with the safety off.
