by Gina LaManna
“No judgment, girl,” Meg said, her eyes peering down at the ground and not meeting mine. “I’m just saying – if I can smell what’s coming out of your pores, it’s already too late for your hygiene.”
“I’m not a lost cause,” I argued. “Wait—” I held a finger up, cutting myself off. “I heard it again. A crack.”
Meg stepped closer to me. “I think you’re just paranoid.”
“Let’s go back,” I said. “I don’t feel comfortable here.”
“Not without my helmet.” Meg’s voice was firm. “I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled, but I haven’t seen a single orange helmet yet.”
“I’ll buy you a new helmet,” I said. “I’m not taking a few bullets in my body just to retrieve it.”
“So much for being my best friend,” Meg said with a pout. “I’d jump in front of a bullet for you. Or at least I’d consider it.”
“We’re not talking about you; we’re talking about your helmet.” I turned and started back down the path. “It’s not too late to turn back. I’m not even sure we’re breaking rules yet; I think we’re technically still on public property.”
“You won’t have money to buy me a new helmet if we don’t get the sauce or the bomb,” Meg said. “Carlos doesn’t seem the type to give participation medals for trying.”
“I’ll get the money somehow, and I’ll get you a new helmet,” I said, continuing my trek back towards the car. “Let’s take Ying back and go home. I want to talk to Anthony.”
“Lovers’ quarrel?” Meg piped, taking a few steps behind me in the same direction.
“I have to make sure that he has solved the case of the fireworks bomb. If not, there could still be a threat to everyone. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July.”
“He solved it, I’m telling you,” Meg said. She continued to clarify, just in case there was any doubt. “I’m not happy about this. But I’ll go along with you only because you’re the birthday girl. I don’t want you to get hurt on your birthday for my helmet.”
“But every other day you’d be fine with it?”
“Oh absolutely,” Meg said. “I firmly believe in sacrificing the body for a greater good.”
“And a helmet is the greater good?” We were almost to the car now. I wanted to keep Meg talking if for no other reason than to keep up the pace. I didn’t want her to have second thoughts about going back for the helmet; my Sugary Senses were telling me that was a completely bad idea.
“‘Course it is,” Meg chirped. “Protects my head on the road.”
“But nothing is protecting your head now from bullet holes,” I said.
Meg took a moment to respond, but when she did, it was with a shrug. “Wow, I suppose you’re right.”
“Incredibly right,” said a voice. “And if you’d like to keep your heads bullet-free for the time being, please ladies – follow me.”
Both Meg and I raised our hands above our heads and turned to find Grease Ball holding some sort of gun as long as his arm pointed in our direction.
“We’re leaving,” I said. “We didn’t mean to be here. It was an accident.”
“Oh. So you weren’t looking for anything?” he asked. He looked mostly the same as the other day – longish hair in serious need of dry shampoo, a thin, bordering-on-skinny frame, and light blue eyes. But there were a few differences in his appearance, and it was those that scared me.
His eyes, instead of peering with surprised curiosity, watched us with a gaze full of disdain. Dark shadows ringed his eyes so deeply he belonged in the raccoon family, and his clothing was clearly chosen so he’d blend into the weeds – dark brown hoodie, camouflage pants, and a hat squished on top of his head, the ends of his hair poking out like straw.
Meg began a stuttering response, but I jumped in first. “No. We’re not. Just a birthday cake. It’s my birthday.”
“Not even this?” he held up a bright orange helmet.
I did a double take, thinking he didn’t have the right helmet. But then I realized he’d just mutilated it, shaving the mohawk off so the thing was now bald as a bowling ball.
The squeak emitted from Meg’s mouth was so heartbroken it caused the smallest flutter of sadness in my heart. I almost forgot that the stupid helmet was the reason – well, one of the reasons – we were here now with a gun pointed at our heads.
“Yeah? You don’t like when people mess with your property, do you?” he asked.
“We didn’t mess with your property,” Meg said, her voice cracking. “I didn’t shave off your greasy hair. You ruined my helmet.”
“I think it looks better this way,” he said, holding up the orange ball.
I wouldn’t agree or disagree, thinking it more important to side with my friend for the time being.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “We just want to leave. It was a mistake coming here.”
“Yes, it was,” he said. “But I don’t forgive mistakes so easily. Not to mention, I hear you’re the birthday girl. I’m always down for a party.”
“Yeah, well you’re not invited,” Meg said. “I’m Lacey’s party planner and you are off the list – forever.”
“Actually, you can be on the list if you let us go,” I amended. “We’re doing a nice little barbecue tomorrow.”
“Right,” he said. “Not my kind of party. Let’s go – start marching. I believe you know where the cabin is ‘round back.”
“It’s not a cabin,” Meg said, her voice still heavy with bitterness about the helmet. “It’s a child’s shack. You balanced a few sticks together. Good job.”
“Meg,” I said strongly. “Shush.”
“No, it’s quite all right,” the man said. “I like ladies like her – chatterboxes. She’ll tell me everything I need to know.”
“No, I won’t,” Meg spat.
“No, she won’t,” I seconded. “Will you, Meg?”
Meg harrumphed. “Of course not. This tool shaved my helmet. He’s on my perma-shit list.”
The man wrinkled his nose. “Doesn’t sound pleasant.”
“It’s not,” I agreed. “But I bet she’ll let you off if you let us go.” I wasn’t above trying each and every tactic to get us out of here, whether or not they were likely to ever work. If it were me, I’d do what I could to keep my name off Meg’s perma-shit list.
“Nah,” the man dismissed. “I can handle myself.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“First order of business. I ask the questions. What are your names?” he asked. “I think she called you Lacey—” he pointed at me.
“Oh, shoot,” Meg said. “He’s right. I did. Sorry, Lace.”
“Meggg,” I said, shaking my head. Then, realizing my very own mistake, I hung my head. “Oh crap. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Meg said. “I was gonna tell him anyway. He ought to know whose perma-shit list he’s on. And it’s Meg’s List. You know what a shit list means to me?” Meg asked.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think—”
“It means I will personally stuff your head in a toilet where I’ve taken a primo—”
“Gross!” the man covered his ears. “I don’t want to hear that. It’s disgusting.”
“Then don’t be disgusting to us ladies,” she said. “Let us go.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I need information. Then we can talk about letting you live.”
“What information?” I asked. “Can’t we just settle this here? We do have a cat waiting for us in the car, so if we don’t get back in time, the cat’s life is on your head.”
“Noooo!” Meg wailed. “Ying!”
She turned and began to blindly run back down the path towards the car, but Grease Ball was having none of it. He shot a bullet, semi-in-her-direction, close enough to scare her but not close enough to graze the skin. Either way, it was too close for comfort.
“Meg, get back here,” I said, though she hadn’t actually gotten more than two steps in the opposite direction. “It’s not wo
rth it. Maybe if we follow his instructions, he’ll let us live.”
I wasn’t above trying the suck-up strategy to get us out of here. Heck, I wasn’t above any strategy.
“Listen to your friend,” he said to Meg. “It’s not likely, but it’s possible. If you run away again, I’ll be aiming at you and not around you.”
The man’s eyebrows were relaxed, his face calm, and eyes bright. I didn’t doubt he’d do it. He didn’t seem like the murdering type at first glance, but I sensed a desperation about him that made me nervous. Desperate people were not rational; I knew this from experience.
Grumbling, Meg fell in line behind me.
“We’ll save the questions for later,” he said. “We can sit down and have a nice little chat. How does that sound?”
“Are you offering tea and crunckets?” Meg asked.
“Crunck-ettes?” he asked.
“She means crumpets,” I added.
“No,” Meg growled. “I’m pretty sure its crunckets.”
“Sure,” I said. “I doubt he’s got them on hand, though.”
“Once again, Lacey is right,” Grease Ball said. “No more talking. The next person who murmurs a word gets a bullet through the foot, which will make the walk back pretty painful.”
It took longer than I expected to make the trek back to his little cabin. Meg must have brought us there at incredibly high speeds the first time, since this time around it felt like we walked for miles.
“Not so easy on foot, is it?” he asked, after Meg tried to take a break and sit on a rock. He nudged her with his gun. “Keep moving.”
Despite his warning glare, I walked over to my friend and extended an arm. Though I couldn’t do much in terms of actually lifting Meg to her feet, the gesture seemed to give her the boost of strength she needed. In fact, it seemed to give her turbo strength; more strength than either of us could actually handle.
She shot right up off the rock and collided straight into my body, crushing me with her weight.
I gasped for air while Grease Ball shouted at us to get up and move it!
“Ugrh,” I gargled, barely able to suck in enough air to keep my lungs inflated.
“I’m taking your phone,” Meg whispered. “Just in case. If I can dial while he’s not looking and keep it in my pocket...”
I tried to tell her that she was squeezing my butt, not my phone, but I didn’t have enough air. Wheezing, I tried to nod or otherwise convey a signal that I had heard her.
“Butt,” I managed.
“But nothing,” Meg said, pulling herself to her feet. She brushed off her vest, and if I hadn’t noticed a sudden weightlessness in my pocket or the twitch of her wrist, I’d have never noticed her slide my little smartphone into one of her nine hundred pockets.
“Thanks,” I said as Meg hauled me up so fast I saw stars blink before my eyes for a few seconds while I regained my balance. “Thanks for helping.”
Meg winked. She understood my message. “Least I could do after I squashed your guts.”
I managed a quick laugh.
“We’re not here to have fun,” Grease Ball growled. “Keep walking. We’re almost there.”
“Not here to have fun?” Meg asked. “What kind of birthday party are you running? Cripes. Last time I checked, fun was a necessary ingredient to any birthday. How about this? You take us off your birthday party list and I’ll take you off my perma-shit list.”
“It’s fair,” I said with a shrug. “Tit for tat.”
“I’m taking tit and tat,” he said. “I don’t negotiate.”
Meg and I exchanged an exasperated glance, but I had newfound hope now that Meg had taken my phone. First of all, I wouldn’t have to lie when he asked me for my device. Second, the phone would be much harder to find in Meg’s pocket collection of car keys, lint balls, peanut brittle, and bottle openers. And if the man dared poke and prod Meg in an attempt to fine a phone, there was a good chance Meg would be able to take him out with an elbow to the head. After all, I estimated Grease Ball’s emaciated frame at about half of Meg’s weight.
If he didn’t decide to manhandle Meg, maybe he’d tie us up and leave us alone for some amount of time. The chances Anthony or Clay had a tracking device implanted somewhere on us was high; if we weren’t back in a reasonable time frame, they could look us up via GPS. And if we were really in luck, maybe we’d be able to wiggle our way into a position where we could actually use the phone to call someone. Unlikely, yes – but not impossible.
We trudged along in silence for the rest of the way. The silence had a slightly less desperate feeling about it, however. My thoughts now whirred with escape tactics and all sorts of scenarios that could potentially play out over the course of the near future.
The first chance we’d have to escape would be when we reached the shack. At the moment, he was focused on maintaining steady aim as we walked, his gun never leaving one or the other’s head. To act now would be foolish. However, when Grease Ball got us to the shack, he’d have to do something. Whether it was open the door, tie us up, or phone a friend, at some point his attention might lapse. I couldn’t yet tell if he was a professional or just a whack job, but I wouldn’t take chances with my life. I was thirty. And thirty was still young!
I didn’t realize I was smiling until Grease Ball, practically foaming at the mouth, growled in my direction.
“What are you smiling at?” His gaze darted between Meg and me.
“I just realized,” I said, still marching forward, “that thirty isn’t that old!”
“That’s the right attitude,” Meg said. “Nothing like the threat of an ol’ bullet in the brain to make you feel young again. At least, that’s what my aunt used to say. She’s the same one who left me the bar money when she died.”
I nodded. “Maybe this whole thing is happening for a reason.”
“Don’t be getting all philosogical on me now,” he said. “I know what you’re trying to do. Distract me.”
“It’s physiological,” Meg said. “Learn English.”
“It’s psychological,” I said. “I can teach you both, if you like.”
“Stop distracting me,” he said. “I learned English just fine when I got here.”
I knew Meg heard his slip of the tongue because she blinked reflexively in surprise. But otherwise, she gave no signal she’d realized anything was fishy. We were getting better at this whole partner-in-crime sort of thing. Pretty soon, we’d be able to read each other’s minds.
Regardless, his words had triggered something. When I got here. The man wasn’t from here. I wasn’t yet sure what to do with that information, but I filed it away for a time in the future when it might come in handy. For example, when Clay showed up with reinforcements and asked what I knew about the man. Clay had to show up. He would notice we were gone – wouldn’t he?
“In you go,” Grease Ball said, his instructions clipped.
To my dismay, he didn’t seem to be lapsing in attention as he flicked the door to the shack open and gestured for us to enter, single file, with his gun. The man didn’t seem to be a consummate professional – after all, he let us get into his head on the way over here, resulting in a slip of the tongue. Maybe if we could keep him talking...
“One false move and one of you gets a bullet. I don’t discriminate between skinny and fat—” Grease Ball started, but he was interrupted by a huge gasp.
The inhalation of breath was a combined effort between Meg and I. Meg wasn’t particularly sensitive about her weight. She was more confident than any lingerie model, and attracted guys left and right. But despite her good looks, she responded harshly to insulting names. And rightfully so.
If the guy didn’t have a gun in my face, I’d punch him for her.
“You didn’t,” Meg said. Her voice was low and menacing, and even I was scared. Meg had been fired from the force for knocking someone out for referring to her physique, and I feared a worse fate for Grease Ball.
Speaking of which
, even though he was the one holding a gun, Grease Ball stuttered as he tried to come up with a response. “I didn’t – I mean...” he tried again, clearing his throat and adjusting his gun, as if trying to remind himself who was in charge. “Be quiet, both of you.”
“You’ll pay for this,” Meg said. “You’ll pay, big time.”
Regaining a bit of his former confidence now that he had two unarmed women lined up against the wall of his rickety old shack, Grease Ball smiled. “You think so, huh?”
“I know so,” I said. “I don’t know what’s worse than Meg’s perma-shit list, but I do know you’re on it.”
“I’m so scared,” he said. “Now you, birthday girl – tie your friend up.”
I looked at Meg with hesitation. I hadn’t really expected this part. “With what?” I stalled, looking around the cabin for something – anything I could use to get away from this man.
His eyes grew crazier by the second as he tasted the power and felt the anticipation.
“The rope, over there,” he said. He very briefly flicked his gun in the direction of the center of the room.
The shack itself was plain; wind whistled through cracks in the walls and the building itself was rickety enough to fall over with a single huff and a puff from the big bad wolf. Not a single decoration hung on the walls. No telling details were exposed anywhere about the owner of this place – no hockey signs or bottles of beer or any of the normal paraphernalia one would expect from a man cave.
I could still smell the freshly carved pine logs lining the newly built cabin. The smell was a fresh one – an outdoorsy Minnesotan scent that normally meant summer and camping and bonfires. At the moment I was a bit angry that Grease Ball had ruined it for me. Now, the odor turned my stomach with its sickly sweetness.
Mentally repressing my gag reflex, I desperately glanced at the only furniture in the place: a crude chair and a rough table, the latter holding a box. I couldn’t see inside from my current position, but I edged closer, as instructed by Grease Ball. A few steps later, I saw the long rope he referenced with the nose of his gun. I took my time pulling it from the box, looking to see if there was anything else I could use to escape. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see a single thing of value. It appeared to be mostly old grease rags and scraps of cloth. Bummer.
