Corn Field Surveillance: A Short Story

by Alexa Grace

installed.” She noticed that Michael seemed to be getting angrier, if that was possible. It was a good time for him to leave before he did something they’d both regret. “Michael, why don’t I walk you to your car so we can get those legal papers?”

  After a couple of steps, she felt his big hand pressed against her back. She moved aside and looked back at Hansen who was cleaning her gun.

  “You can’t touch me and give the impression we’ve got something going. You shouldn’t be here. We talked about it this morning.” He was the county prosecutor and she was determined not to be his conflict of interest.

  “You talked about it. And we didn’t talk about this. I sure in-the-hell wouldn’t have agreed to this little arrangement you’ve got going with Hansen.” His glare intensified, so she looked away.

  “It’s only for a month or so.” How in the world were they going to make it through the long haul when they were struggling to make it through the first day?

  “Well, don’t trust him. And don’t let him in the house. He’ll make a beeline for your bedroom.”

  “Oh, really?” She wrapped her arms around herself and wondered if he really thought it would be that easy for Lane Hansen to get into her bed.

  “Yes, really.” He leaned against his truck watching her closely. The image of Hansen running his hands over her body made him a little sick and a lot pissed.

  “You mean like you did.” She glared at him and scanned his face for his reaction.

  “If you think what we have is anything close to what that guy has in mind…” He glared down at her and fought the urge to throw her over his shoulder and take her up to her bedroom and kiss her senseless.

  “Forget it. Do you have a paper in your truck you can hand me? Lance is watching us.”

  In the cornfield, darkness moved in and Frankie pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up as a chilly burst of wind sent a chill through her body. She wore a camouflage jumpsuit with a brown hoodie. Tomorrow night’s weather was predicted to be colder so she’d add insulated underwear for more warmth. She pulled out her thermos and sipped the now lukewarm espresso, hoping the caffeine would kick her energy up a level.

  Thank goodness for Uncle Sam, she thought. Four years in the Army had toughened her up and taught her the kind of skills that came in handy with watching and chasing bad guys. Marksmanship was her specialty and she earned several awards for her efforts including sharpshooter medals that were now framed and on her office wall to impress prospective customers.

  She had a reputation of handling herself with the toughest, which made growing her private investigative business easier than she thought it would be.

  She looked at her sports watch. It was eleven o’clock; she had just sixty minutes left until her partner, Ted, relieved her at midnight. Things were quiet at the farm. She lucked out with the weather as the sky was clear with a million glittery stars. Visibility was perfect. A city girl, she’d forgotten how peaceful nights could be in the country. Except for the occasional moo of a cow in a nearby field or the occasional breeze that rustled the corn plants, it was quiet.

  She focused the binoculars on the window that Michael said was Anne’s bedroom. The light was still on.

  Frankie watched the light in Anne’s upstairs bedroom window finally go out. She repositioned the binoculars and could see Deputy Lane Hansen’s truck behind some bushes near the garage. She surmised Mr. Hansen had been hired by her subject. Her back muscles cramped from lying on her stomach too long and she envied Hansen his comfy seat in his truck. She pulled herself up in a yoga position and stretched.

  She thought about Michael Brandt and what she’d seen earlier. What she assumed was a simple job of witness surveillance and protection was starting to look a lot more like a personal thing for her boss. Even from a distance through binoculars, she could see how pissed he was with Lane Hansen. One thing was clear, he didn’t want Hansen there. This was a little confusing since he’d hired her to do the same thing Hansen was doing. Why wasn’t he glad to have another professional watching over his witness?

  The more she thought about it, the more she was sure protection for this particular witness was personal for Michael, unlike her other assignments.

  From what she’d heard about him, Michael Brandt didn’t linger long with one woman and there had been many. Women threw themselves at him, always had. Hell, she’d done it herself and was more than disappointed there had been no interest on his part. She didn’t know if he had something going with this woman, but she was sure Anne Mason was more than a witness to him. She didn’t plan to ask him about it though, because she knew she’d get one of his none-of-your-freaking-business glares. No thank you very much.

  A crunching sound from the right jerked her back to reality. Something a lot heavier than field mouse made that noise. She slowly stretched out on her stomach, pushed the binoculars to her eyes, aiming them toward the sound. She could make out a man in a crouching position. He was wearing a light gray hoodie and was holding binoculars that were aimed toward the house. She estimated he was about fifteen or so rows away. Shit. Was he the killer? Suddenly she realized if she could see him, he could see her if he turned his attention her way.

  She quietly moved her right hand down to the holster at her waist and pulled out her revolver. She slowly and soundlessly turned around, and then did an army crawl twenty feet or so. She bent down, found his image in her binoculars in the same position. Crouching, she moved back a few more feet then started crossing the field toward what she guessed was his row counting as she went. She reached the fifteenth row of corn, turned and moved. She said a silent prayer that she got the drop on him, before he even realized he was not alone in the field.

  As she drew closer, she realized he was about five rows over from her initial guesstimate. He was still in a crouching position, holding the binoculars close to his eyes as he watched the house.

  She did some slow sidesteps choosing wider spaces between corn plants, so there was no rustling of the leaves, until she was standing in his row. Slowly and silently she crept up behind him, stopping when she was within two feet of him. She raised her revolver to assume a firing position. She inhaled a deep breath and focused on relaxing her muscles and steadied her aim. “Make one move and I’ll shoot your freaking head off.”

  He jerked, dropping the binoculars then spun around and slammed into her. Her gun exploded before sailing into the night as she fell with him on top of her. His fist slammed into her face, but not before she could get in a knee to his groin. She knew her knee had made contact when he bent over and started howling. Her face was on fire with pain and blood sprayed from her mouth and nose. She jumped to her feet and kicked him hard in the stomach and heard him gasp for air. She bent to the ground, her hands searching the earth frantically for her gun. He recovered, grabbed her by the hair, and threw her to the ground where she hit her head hard. She heard him grab the binoculars and his feet hitting the ground as he ran away. She struggled to get to her feet to give chase, but something wet was in her eyes and she couldn’t see. She sank to the ground, holding her throbbing head in her hands and wiping at her eyes.

  She heard someone running toward her from a different direction and she prayed it was her partner, Ted. She could see a wide strip of light from a flashlight wave back and forth until it reached her. She blinked until she realized she was looking into the barrel of a revolver.

  “You move. You’re dead.” His voice was a low growl and was definitely not Ted’s. Deputy Lane Hansen stood over her. Shit.

  “Don’t shoot,” she got out. “Let me get in my pocket so I can show you my I.D.” God, it hurt to move.

  “I heard a gunshot. Where’s the gun?”

  “He knocked it out of my hand. I can’t find it. Please, let me get my ID.”

  “Do it. Any funny stuff, buddy, and you’ll regret it. I guarantee it.”

  She looked up at the gun t
hen him and pulled out her identification and handed it to him. Deputy Hansen focused his flashlight on it and read.

  “Frankie Douglas. You’re a P.I.? What the hell are you doing out here?” He shoved his gun back in the holster and yanked her up by the hood of her sweatshirt. Her long blonde hair tumbled to her shoulders when she reached her feet.

  “Christ, you’re a woman?”

  “Very perceptive of you to notice.” Shit. How more embarrassing was this going to get? First, her mark gets the drop on her and beats the living crap out her. Now, Deputy Lane Hansen was sure to grill her about what was going on and totally blow her cover. Nice night’s work.

  He pulled her toward him by the front of her sweatshirt to get a better look, focusing his flashlight on her face. “You’re bleeding.”

  “No kidding. Good detective work.” She used the arm of her sweatshirt to wipe at her cheek.

  “Come on, wiseass. You’re coming to my truck, get your face taken care of and then you’re going to tell me what the hell just happened out here.” He grabbed her by the arm and half drug her to his truck, ignoring her curses and demands to walk on her own.

  When they got to his truck, he opened the passenger side and held the door as she got in. He stood there for a moment glaring at her, then slammed the door and walked around the