Tricky Twenty-Two

by Janet Evanovich

  My mother unplugged the iron, Grandma returned with her purse, and I loaded everyone into Ranger’s Porsche Macan and drove to Cluck-in-a-Bucket. Cluck-in-a-Bucket is on the edge of the Burg. It’s fast food at its best. Cheap, greasy, and salty. The building is yellow and red inside and out, and on weekends some kid desperate for money dresses up in the Clucky suit and struts around the parking lot. Everyone in Trenton, either sooner or later or all the time, eats at Cluck-in-a-Bucket.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I PARKED IN the Cluck-in-a-Bucket lot, and we all went in and ordered our food. I got two pieces of chicken and a biscuit, my mother wimped out with a salad and grilled chicken strips, and Grandma went full on with the double Clucky Burger.

  “This is nice,” my mother said. “We should do this more often.”

  “I agree,” Grandma said. “It’s good to do things like a family. Going out to eat is so civilized, too. You get to sit and relax and enjoy your food and you don’t have to do the dishes after.”

  We were in a booth by a window, and I looked out and saw Lula pull into the lot and park. She got out of the Firebird and waved at me on her way to the door.

  “I was driving by on my way home and I saw your car here,” Lula said. “It’s a good idea to have lunch out like this. Do you mind if I join you? I don’t want to horn in on a family outing.”

  “Of course you can join us,” Grandma said. “Go get your food. We just got started.”

  Lula came back with a bucket of chicken parts and a bucket of biscuits.

  “It’s good to see Stephanie getting out after her traumatic day yesterday,” Lula said. “Everything happened to Stephanie yesterday. First off, she wasn’t watching where she was going, and she got hit by a van.”

  “I was watching,” I said. “And it wasn’t just any old van. It was Stanley Pooka’s van. I saw him drive by and I went to look for him. He must have pulled into a driveway or, for all I know, he could have been in someone’s backyard. Anyway I went to cross the street and he came roaring out and ran me down.”

  “Who’s Stanley Pooka?” my mother asked.

  “He’s an idiot college professor at Kiltman,” Lula said. “He was building fireworks in one of the fraternities there, so he could fill them with bubonic plague–infected fleas and shoot them off over the campus. Then the fleas would jump on people and give them bubonic plague and everyone would die.” Lula buttered a biscuit. “Actually everyone might not die. Some people might just have their fingers and toes and dicks drop off.”

  “How would a man tinkle if his dick dropped off?” Grandma asked.

  “It would be a problem,” Lula said. “I guess he could tinkle like a lady.”

  My mother was speechless. She had her fork halfway to her mouth, and she was frozen.

  “Wait a minute,” my mother finally said. “This man, Stanley Pooka, intentionally hit you with his van?”

  “He sort of clipped me with his right front quarter panel,” I said. “It wasn’t a direct hit.”

  “And that’s how you got all these scrapes and cuts?” she asked.

  “That wasn’t even the worst of it,” Lula said. “He kidnapped her and took her to a house where he kept his fleas. He had another guy there, too, and he was sucking the blood out of him to give to the fleas.”

  “He wasn’t sucking the blood out,” I said. “He was using a syringe.”

  This wasn’t going well. I’d wanted to take my mom to lunch to get her calmed down. I’d wanted to give her the facts so she wasn’t upset by exaggerated rumors.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” I said. “I’d like to relax and enjoy my lunch.”

  “No,” my mother said. “I want to hear about this. What happened to the man who was giving his blood to the fleas?”

  “His name is Becker,” Lula said. “He’s a college student, and Pooka kidnapped him, too. And when Stephanie got there she rescued Becker and then Ranger rescued her.”

  My mother was holding her fork so tight her knuckles were white, and her eyes were scary looking. “What happened to Pooka?” she asked.

  “He got away,” Lula said. “Everybody’s looking for him, and I don’t know how anyone can miss his beat-up white van. I bet you anything he’s riding around distributing his plague fleas, right under the nose of the FBI. He’s like the invisible man.”

  “Do you really think the fleas got the plague?” Grandma asked.

  “Sure they got the plague,” Lula said. “And everyone they suck on is going to get the plague. Trenton’s going to be known as the plague capital.”

  “No one knows if the fleas have actually been infected,” I said. “So far no one has shown any symptoms of the plague. We’re waiting for lab test results.”

  Waiting was an understatement. My stomach was sick with dread that the tests would be positive.

  “We need to go proactive,” Lula said. “We should be out there helping the police look for Pooka. I bet we could find him. You just gotta think like Pooka. And then I can use my extra perception to fine-tune it.”

  “His plan was to shut the college down,” I said. “I can’t see him moving away from that plan. It was an obsession.”

  “Yeah, but there’s cops all over that campus now,” Lula said. “They got people in uniform and people in street clothes. And I’m sure the kids and the faculty are all looking for him. No one wants to get bubonic fleas.”

  “So he’s being sneaky,” I said. “He’s probably parking his van where it’s hidden, and then he goes to the campus in disguise and distributes his fleas. He gets in and out fast.”

  “He might even be in a different car by now,” Grandma said.

  “I’m sure the police have thought of all those things,” my mother said.

  “Yeah, but they don’t have my special skills of sensoring,” Lula said. “I say we go on a manhunt!”

  “I’m with you,” Grandma said. “Let’s go hunting.”

  “I have ironing to do,” my mother said.

  “The ironing is all done,” Grandma said. “There was no ironing to begin with.”

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ride around the loop road,” I said, “but I don’t think we should get out of the car. We don’t know where he’s already dumped fleas.”

  “Exactly,” Lula said. “When we spot him we call the police.”

  We finished eating and trooped out to my Macan. My mother sat in the front, next to me. Lula and Grandma took the backseat. I drove across town and turned onto the Kiltman loop road. I drove slowly so we could scan the campus. Nothing turned up on the loop road, so I wound my way up and down the smaller roads that led to dorms and classroom buildings and fraternities. I honestly didn’t expect to find Pooka but it gave us all an activity, and I knew Grandma and Lula would have nagged me until I drove them around.

  “Try some of the side roads,” Lula said. “The ones with regular houses. If it was me, that’s where I’d park on account of there’s trees to hide you from helicopters looking for you. And those houses have garages that might be empty.”

  I drove off campus and into a neighborhood of faculty and student housing. I was cruising down a street that was completely shaded by old growth oak trees and I spotted a van on the next block. It wasn’t white but it was the right shape and had an appropriate amount of rust and dents. Someone had clearly taken spray-paint to it, so that it was a mix of brown, green, and tan.

  I parked just short of the corner. “Someone call the police,” I said. “I think they should check this out.”

  “It’s him,” Lula said. “I know it’s him. My Lula Sense is humming. I’m getting vibes all over. I’m going to take a look.”

  “Not a good idea,” I said. “Wait for the police.”

  “It’s okay,” Lula said. “I got my gun.”

  “I’m going with you,” Grandma said. “I got my gun, too. Don’t look, Ellen. Pretend you didn’t see that I got a gun.”

  “No!” I said. “Do not leave this car.”


  Too late. Lula and Grandma were already out of the car and creeping up on the van.

  “Good heavens,” my mother said. “What are they doing? Your grandmother is going to get herself killed.”

  “Stay here,” I told my mother. “I’ll go get her.”

  I got out from behind the wheel and ran to Grandma. I pulled up next to her, and the back door of the van flew open, and Pooka jumped out. His hair was dyed black and buzzed short but everything else was the same. Same stupid amulet. Same stupid pajama pants. Same insane glazed-eyed expression.

  “You!” he said, glaring at me. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be chained in the house. Not that it matters because you’re going to die.” His face was red and veins were bulging in his neck. “Die!” he screamed at me. “Die!”

  He threw a glass jar that smashed about ten feet in front of us. Close enough that I could see fleas flying out everywhere. Thousands of them.

  “Dirtbag,” Grandma said, and she fired off four rounds at Pooka.

  All four rounds missed Pooka, but Lula had her gun out, too, and she was blasting away at him.

  Bang, bang, bang!

  “Did I hit anything?” she asked. “I forgot to bring my glasses when I changed my purse.”

  Pooka jumped into the van and took off.

  I hobbled to my Macan and got behind the wheel. Grandma and Lula scrambled into the backseat.

  “Don’t let him out of your sights,” Lula said. “You can catch him.”

  I didn’t want to catch him. I wanted to keep my eyes on him, so the police could catch him.

  “Call police dispatch,” I said to Lula. “Tell them what’s happening. And then call Rangeman. They can track us by my key fob.”

  Pooka drove out of the neighborhood and turned onto Olden Avenue. There were six cars between us, but I was sticking with him. He turned off Olden onto a newly paved road that led into a light industrial park. I knew the area, and I knew the industrial park was bordered at one end by woods. If he got to the woods it would take a lot of manpower to find him. There were no cars between us now. I floored the Macan and caught up to him. I was looking in my rearview mirror, hoping to see police lights, but it was just the two of us on the road.

  I could feel everyone leaning forward, eyes glued to the van. No one was saying anything. We were all in the moment. Focused. We were all aware that this wasn’t trivial. This man in front of us could be spreading bubonic plague, and he had to be stopped. It was up to us.

  The van sped ahead, and I followed. I was two car lengths behind. Lula was on the phone with the police. The road in front of me was straight, and we were almost at the entrance to the industrial park. Taillights flashed in front of me as the van came to a screeching stop. I stomped on my brakes, but I smashed into the van. Everyone in the Porsche was thrown against their seatbelts, and the air bags went off. I fought my way free of the airbag and saw that the front of the Macan looked like an accordion. Totally smushed, steam coming out of the radiator.

  “What the hell was that about?” Lula yelled.

  “He stopped short,” I said, breathing heavy after getting hit with the air bag. “I think he did it to wreck our car so we couldn’t follow, and he did a good job of it.”

  “He can’t get away with that,” Lula said.

  She leaned out the back window and fired off six shots into the back of the van. I heard Pop! Pop! Pop! and Zing! Wannng! Bang!

  “Omigod,” I said. “He was carrying fireworks back there. And blasting powder!”

  I tried to back up, but the Porsche was stuck to the van, hung up on its back bumper.

  “Everyone out of the car!” I said. “Now!”

  We all scrambled out of the car and saw that Pooka was also out of the van and running for the industrial park entrance.

  “Get him!” Grandma yelled. “Get the bastard.”

  I thought this wasn’t a bad idea because we didn’t want to be near the van if it still held blasting powder.

  We took off after Pooka, and we were about fifty feet down the road in front of the van when it exploded. VAROOOM! A black mushroom cloud erupted from a huge fireball that consumed both vehicles. Tires and chunks of fiberglass sailed through the air.

  Everyone stopped, including Pooka. We all paused, utterly gobsmacked for a moment, and then Pooka took off down the road at a run.

  I hobbled after him, Lula was huffing and puffing beside me, and Grandma was a couple paces behind us. My mother was off like a shot.

  I was shouting “Stop! Stop!” and Grandma was shouting “Go, Ellen, GO!” My God, I thought, what’s my mother thinking? What will she do if she catches him?

  “She’s gaining on him,” Lula said. “Who would have thought she could run like that?”

  “She ran track in high school,” Grandma said. “She was pretty good.”

  My mother was about three feet from Pooka. She threw herself forward, grabbed hold of his shirt, and they both went down to the ground. They rolled around a little and by the time I reached them, my mother was on top, punching Pooka in the face.

  “She’s beating the crap out of him,” Lula said. “Way to go, Mrs. P.”

  I pulled my mom off Pooka before she killed him, and Lula sat on him to keep him from running again. Police cars were turning onto the road, lights flashing. They paused behind the burning vehicles and slowly went off-road around them.

  Trenton PD was first on the scene. Ranger and Tank were close behind in a Rangeman SUV. Two fire trucks and an ambulance followed. Pooka was bleeding from the nose, his right eye was swelling, his shirt was torn, and his power amulet had gotten ripped off his neck. My mom was a little dusty, and she had a skinned knee, but otherwise she looked okay.

  Lula got off Pooka and turned him over to one of the cops.

  “What happened to him?” the cop asked.

  “He tripped while he was running,” Lula said. “It was these baggy pajamas he’s wearing. They’re good for letting your boys breathe while you’re watching television, but you don’t want to run in them, what with your nuts knocking around in there.”

  “This is Stanley Pooka,” I told the cop. “The FBI and Homeland Security people will want to talk to him. And I think he’ll tie into Morelli’s three homicides.”

  “That was righteous,” Lula said to my mom. “You kicked his ass.”

  “I did!” my mother said. “I was pissed off. He hit Stephanie with his car, and she got all scraped up. He could have killed her.”

  The cop walked Pooka past my mom on the way to the patrol car, my mom kicked Pooka in the back of the leg, and Pooka went down to one knee.

  “Hey, lady,” the cop said, hoisting Pooka up, “you can’t do that. He’s in custody.”

  “Sorry,” my mom said. “Restless leg syndrome.”

  Ranger ambled over. “I’m guessing that the smoking, molten black lump in the road back there used to be a Porsche Macan.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” I said.

  Ranger cut his eyes to Pooka getting loaded into the cop car. “Looks like you made a good apprehension.”

  “It was my mom. She took Stanley Pooka down like a junkyard dog on a piece of rancid meat.”

  Ranger grinned at my mom. “Never underestimate maternal rage.”

  Another Trenton PD car drove up. Eddie Gazarra was behind the wheel, and Morelli was riding shotgun. Morelli got out and walked over to us.

  “I thought you were taking the day off,” I said to him.

  “I heard this called in and I didn’t want to get cut out of the bust. Was anyone in that mess back there when it caught fire?”

  “Not that I know. Someone could have been in the back of the van, but I didn’t see anyone.”

  “From what I’m piecing together, you saw Pooka and followed him here. Somehow both vehicles caught fire. It looks like he got out and ran and you chased him down and beat the crap out of him.”

  “He fell when he was running,” I said.

  “It wa
s on account of his nuts were loose,” Lula said.

  Morelli looked at Lula and then he looked at me. “There’s no way in hell I’m putting that in my report.”

  “You have a thing about nuts lately,” I said to Lula.

  “I like nuts,” Grandma said. “I like cashews.”

  I looked down at Morelli’s feet. “You’re wearing two different shoes.”

  “I was in a hurry to get out of the house.”

  “Pooka threw a jar at us. It was filled with fleas and it smashed on the 300 block of Oak Street,” I said to Morelli. “You might want to have it exterminated or something.”

  “I’ll call it in,” Morelli said.

  “Now that we blew something up and captured the dirtbag I could use some ice cream,” Grandma said. “We didn’t get to have dessert.”

  “Good thinking, Granny,” Lula said.

  We all turned and looked back at the twisted, charred disaster that used to be a van and a car.

  “Uh-oh,” Lula said.

  Ranger handed me the keys to his SUV. “I’ll have someone come get me. Tank and I need to stay and make funeral arrangements for the Macan anyway.”

  •••

  I drove Ranger’s SUV back to Cluck-in-a-Bucket. We all got ice cream sundaes and took them to the booth by the window.

  “Good thing I took my purse when I got out of the Macan,” Grandma said. “We couldn’t have bought these sundaes otherwise.”

  My mother, Lula, and I had exited fast and left our purses behind. Tomorrow I’d be going to get a replacement driver’s license and a new messenger bag.

  “I understand why you do your job,” my mother said to me. “There’s a sense of accomplishment when you take down someone bad. It’s like being a police officer or being in the Army or being a mother. You have a responsibility to protect and keep order, and you do whatever it takes to get that done.” My mother spooned into her ice cream. “I got a real rush out of it, too. I liked hitting him.”

  “Yeah, we could see that,” Lula said. “You were a wild woman.”

  “I have my moments,” my mother said.

  •••

  I dropped my mother and grandmother off, and I was heading for home when I spotted Lula’s red Firebird in my rearview mirror. I pulled over and stopped and she ran up to me.