Dylan watched as Wade flexed his fingers while looking across the big living room to his daughter’s frightened face.
Bea looked down her nose at the man in the red tropical shirt as she scoffed, “Shooting up a room of women and kids is the best you can do? Aren’t you supposed to be off storming the Capitol again?”
Every eye was on Bea. Dylan slid his rear back, through his zip-tied hands. He gently rocked up onto his toes, bringing his hands across the chair seat. The weight and odd angle snapped the zip-tie.
Bea suddenly yelled, “What the hell is that?”
Dylan shoved his hands under the dog carrier to disguise his free hands.
Next to him, he saw Mari had her cuffed hands on Chaucer’s collar, trying to get to the buckle, but Chaucer was restless, unnerved by Bea’s shouting.
Bea wasn’t looking at the Man in the Red Tropical Shirt. She was focused on the far wall where Einar, Victoria and Alyson sat.
“That’s a wedding photo!” Bea hissed. Her long arm came up, and she pointed to a framed photo sitting on the mantel of the fireplace.
It took Dylan a moment to see which photo Bea meant. The long fireplace mantel held several knickknacks and framed photos, but there was one on the far right showing Victoria in a lace-edged Mexican dress embroidered with colorful flowers. She wore a headpiece of yellow and red roses and stood next to a tall man in a dark suit. The man wore a black cowboy hat tipped forward in a rakish slant. Einar.
Einar didn’t deny it. “We married last year in Huatulco. It’s an open marriage.” He shrugged. “We both like diversity.”
Victoria spoke. “Only I was an idiot to spend even a minute with Cayden.” She shuddered. “He’s gross. Totally self-absorbed.”
A guffaw erupted from Mr. Tropical Shirt. “Open marriage? You two have been boning everyone in the neighborhood?”
He held the giant pistol in his right hand, but it was pointed down, with his index finger extended along the outside of the trigger guard. His left hand came up to thump his chest. “My God, that’s hilarious!”
Bea’s left had its own action in response. With the speed of an adder strike, her fist delivered a cross that smashed into the underside of Mr. Tropical Shirt’s short nose.
Dylan’s ADHD mind easily took in the multiple strains of noise and action that followed.
Wade leapt at Mr. Tropical Shirt’s weapon as Bea moved inward with a piston-like boxing assault that would win any middle-weight bout.
To Dylan’s left, Mari’s fingers were scrambling at Chaucer’s collar while Einar’s long legs shot out to connect with Randall’s nearby kneecaps.
Randall went down in a heap while Richie charged out to the terrace, shouting at Peter Ackler and Garrett.
“Stand down,” Richie bellowed as Peter and Garrett wrestled him to the ground.
With immense clarity, Dylan focused on Yousef, who was stepping forward to seize the shotgun from Cayden Kenyon. Yousef managed to push the barrel to one side while Kenyon struggled to find the safety with his thumb. Clearly Kenyon was no expert in shotguns, but a safety could yield easily to his seeking fingers at any second.
Cayden Kenyon was bigger, younger and marginally fitter than Yousef, even as the professor was putting up a good fight.
Dylan didn’t hesitate. Yousef was in danger. His mentor. His father in all but DNA. All the priorities in the room faded to a tunnel of focus on his professor.
With a yell, Dylan launched out of the chair and ran, Killer bouncing on his chest in the rainbow carrier, as Yousef and Kenyon shuffled sideways to bump into the bluestone half-wall of the terrace.
He registered Richie yelling under the weight of Peter Ackler and Garrett. Victoria and Alyson were screaming. Einar was stomping on Randall as Mari flung the collar off of Chaucer, liberating the mushroom knife. There was the sound of a pistol skittering across the tile floor as Bea and Wade had Mr. Tropical Shirt on the floor, taking a pounding.
But Dylan’s focus was Yousef and his struggle for Cayden’s shotgun.
Dylan sprinted through the open slider door and across the terrace. He ran straight at Kenyon, twisting at the last possible second to make contact with his shoulder in a shove that took both of them into an arcing flight over the terrace wall.
Chapter Thirty-nine
It was a surprise to be airborne. Equally surprising was the use of a millisecond to experience an emotion, and, for Dylan, it was a feeling of horror that he may have harmed Killer.
Cayden Kenyon hit the edge of a hemlock stump with a mighty thwack, while the shotgun went spinning off into a tangle of logging slash.
Dylan’s backside hit a long, low huckleberry bush. He arrived with enough force that his lean body slid into the interior of the bush, where he remained, like a long strand of hair contorted through the bristles of a hair brush.
The dog carrier caught on some of the upright branches of the bush, so Killer was actually almost a foot above Dylan’s middle.
The worst of it wasn’t the scratching of the huckleberry branches. The worst was the downward tilt of his body that brought blood rushing to his head. This was no position to make a clear-eyed analysis to identify a clever next move.
Matters were not assisted by his pounding heart and straining lungs that seemed determined to inhale every molecule of oxygen available in Earth’s atmosphere.
Dylan closed his eyes. His heart rate was still frantic, but he could feel it begin to slow slightly.
“You’re okay,” Dylan told his paired amygdala. Yawning was out of the question. He concentrated on making controlled inhalations. Somehow producing a sonorous “OM” was not possible.
He went to his strength. Data collection. He had not heard a shot. Not from the shotgun, nor from a pistol. That was good news.
There were sirens sounding in the distance. That could be reinforcements if the sirens were from law enforcement, and not from an ambulance.
If it was an ambulance, he hoped it wasn’t for him.
Dylan tried another calming exhale and let his body report in. He was definitely uncomfortable, but nothing seemed to be badly askew. He was having trouble thinking. No compound fractures, no limbs missing.
He wiggled slightly, then halted. The slope below the Judge’s terrace was steep and treacherous. He didn’t know how far down he was or what was beneath the bush.
Dylan studied the greenery. How interesting. He was definitely inserted into an evergreen huckleberry, Vaccinium ovatum, but he could also see the ground near the huckleberry where the broad, long leaves of a native rhododendron splayed out from a small leader.
As he rotated his head, he could see several more infant specimens of Rhododendron macrophyllum. The opening that Kenyon had made for viewing his nascent right-wing empire was on its way to producing a colony of Pacific rhododendrons, the state flower of Washington, which would bring bright swaths of brilliant pink to the hillside. The spirit of Mitchell would surely approve.
“Dylan! Dylan! Are you okay?”
That sounded like Mari. If she was yelling, then she’d survived. That was good.
“Hold on, Dylan! We’re coming!”
Yousef’s voice.
The rhododendron leaves swam in and out of focus. Dylan considered the possibility he had sustained a slight concussion. He concluded it was likely.
Killer wiggled and whined.
A moment later a pair of boots arrived near his head.
“Think your back and neck are okay?” came a man’s voice.
“I’m good,” Dylan answered. “Maybe a little concussion from the landing. The bush caught me. I’m caught like a spore in a capillitium,” Dylan giggled.
Long, lean arms began pulling on the Peek-a-Paw carrier, which also lifted Dylan. Killer barked, then fell silent.
Dylan sobered up quickly as he realized his rescuer was Richie, who smiled as he pulled Dylan to a sitting position.
Richie had a badge hooked on his belt.
“You’re law enforcement?” Dylan croaked.
“Yes. Randall too.” Richie looked tired, but pleased. “Thanks to you and your friends, we have Jordan Littlesmith in custody.”
Killer reached up and licked Dylan’s chin. Dylan stroked the little dog. “You okay, buddy?”
The terrier gave him another chin lick and looked around with clear, dark eyes.
“Glad to see you’re not stoned anymore,” Dylan told the dog. He fondled Killer’s ears.
To Richie, he said, “Jordan Littlesmith is the guy in the red tropical shirt?”
“Yes. He’s a white supremacist leader we’ve been hunting for a long time.” Richie’s face split into a wide grin. “Bea Vega cleaned his clock. My God, that was beautiful!”
“What about the Commissioner?” Dylan rotated his head, feeling a twinge in his shoulders as he moved.
“Paramedics will lift him up the slope on a back board. His neck may be broken.” Richie didn’t sound like he’d be shedding any tears.
With Richie’s help, Dylan crawled up the slope to the terrace. Yousef and Peter Ackler reached down, grabbed his arms and helped him over the terrace wall.
Victoria’s house pulsed with people. There were paramedics setting up ropes to lower a long transport basket to a team near the limp form of Commissioner Kenyon. Detective Moubrey was speaking to Wade who had his arm across the shoulders of Alyson, holding her close. More police were on site, some interviewing Victoria Cunningham and others moving through the living room with purpose.
Garrett and Mari stood, holding hands, at the edge of the terrace. Mari was speaking in an animated way to Randall, who, to Dylan’s eyes, suddenly looked a lot cleaner and more palatable with a badge hanging from his belt. Randall had a red-spotted towel wrapped around his forearm. Bea stood with them, her arms crossed in an easy tuck.
Dylan looked at Yousef. “Did Mari stab that guy?”
“She did, indeed.” Yousef’s shaggy eyebrows rose as his eyes sparkled. “She did her best with your mushrooming knife, but she only managed a few jabs to his forearm. Once things have settled down I will suggest she enroll in an anatomy class.”
Dylan snorted. “What else did I miss?”
“Not a lot,” Yousef’s voice was cheery. “Bea managed a fine liquidation of the proboscis of the inappropriately-attired miscreant. Wade secured the hand cannon, and out here we sorted out that Richie was a good guy. We went inside to rescue Randall from Einar’s stomping and Mari’s stabbing efforts, and by that time the police were arriving.”
Peter Ackler was smiling. Dylan looked at him and blinked. If Randall looked cleaner and more acceptable with the job title of ‘good guy,’ then Peter was also benefiting from a new life slot. He looked happy and, with a toss of his overly-long professorial hair, rather sexy.
Dylan managed a small head nod. “You’re in a good mood.”
“I was coming out with Yousef to share some great news,” Ackler said. “That photo shoot the other night at Bea’s? My work discussing art and funneling people into place generated a phone call from Phillipa West, who has been scouting for a botanical art specialist for Sotheby’s.”
It took a second for Dylan to process this. He must have had a good brain sloshing, because normally he would make the connection instantly. “The arts auction house,” he said, slowly. “The one that sells the big bucks stuff.”
“For millions.” Ackler’s smile broadened. “Phillipa says I have the combination of academia, looks and arrogance required to boss people into appropriately valuing an art purchasing opportunity.” His face lit up with joy. “I’m headed up to Vancouver tomorrow for an interview.”
“Congratulations!”
Yousef, standing behind Peter, snuck in a quick wink.
Dylan looked around, seeing the paramedics descending the slope with the rescue basket. He had a feeling of something missing.
Yousef and Peter Ackler moved to the edge of the terrace to watch the rescue, and Dylan followed. He could see Cayden Kenyon’s body, still and splayed out next to the stump. It would take time to brace his neck and move him up the hill.
Dylan stroked Killer’s head. “Bet you want out of this carrier,” he told the dog. He lifted the doggie carrier off his front and knelt on the flagstones to extract the little dog.
Killer stood still for a moment before giving a full-body shake, then he wandered the flagstones, sniffing. As he neared Mari and Garrett, the little dog went rigid and began to bark at Randall.
Bea picked up Killer, shushing him sweetly.
Dylan’s head whipped around, a choice he instantly regretted as it made dots swim in front of his eyes.
His eyes swept the living room. He smiled.
Einar was gone.
The University of Warwick School of Life Sciences has a class in which students raise a slime mold. The directions include this tip: “Your slime mould needs a supply of oats as a food. Just a pinch every few days is fine. If you feed lots they get very big very quickly. If you forget to feed them, they will escape.”
Chapter Forty
Yousef saw him stagger and blink. A few moments later Dylan found himself sitting inside with a paramedic shining a light in his eyes and asking questions.
His parental-posse-stand-ins of Yousef, Wade and Mari heard the paramedic say “Possible light concussion. You should rest.” Dylan was hustled out of the crowd and taken to the Witecki house where he was installed in “his” big bed in the yellow bedroom. He slept for two hours and woke feeling much better. Killer was curled up in a tight circle on the duvet.
“Hey,” he said to the dog. “We could eat.”
He swung his legs out of the bed and stood up carefully. So far so good. His gaze fell on his laptop computer and his brain chirped, “Independent project proposal,” which was followed by “Find wallet?”
With a groan, Dylan eased his way to the hallway. Killer scrambled in a happy dash after him as the smell of bacon wafted up the staircase.
They found Wade and Alyson in the kitchen, building BLT sandwiches.
“Want a bacon sandwich?” Wade asked, tongs posed over a cast iron skillet.
“Absolutely!” Dylan cautiously slid his narrow rear onto a stool at the edge of the kitchen counter, noting Chaucer was curled up on an extra-large dog bed at the edge of the kitchen tile, looking serene but also keeping an eye on Wade and the bacon tongs.
Alyson looked down at Killer who was pawing at her leg. “Should we give him some food?” she asked.
“Ah.” Dylan looked down at the little dog. “Sure. Man, I have no idea when he ate last. I’m going to have to get a calendar app going, or something.”
Wade looked up from the fry pan. “There’s dog food in the pantry. Alyson, why don’t you feed Killer and Chaucer? Dylan should be taking it easy.”
Late afternoon sunshine streamed through the tall windows. Dylan let himself enjoy the beauty of the space and the pleasures of someone else handling food and chores. It was terrific to be part of a larger unit.
“I’m glad you’re up,” Wade said. “We just got a call from the police. They have your wallet.” Wade slid a finished sandwich onto a plate. “They’re going to be bringing it by. They’ve got a few more questions, if you’re up to it.”
“Sure.” Dylan bit into the sandwich and nearly moaned with pleasure as the fat and salt of the bacon melded together with the toast and tomato.
The dogs and Dylan finished eating before Detective Moubrey arrived, bringing Randall with her. The undercover cop limped up the steps to the French doors, moving slowly.
When Wade let them in, the two officers came into the kitchen and stood next to Dylan.
“Have a seat.” Wade invited, pointing to the stools tucked under the countertop’s edge. “Want a sandwich?”
“No, thanks.” Randall pulled a stool out and sat down carefully. “But I appreciate the seat. Einar really connected with my kneecap.”
“Where did he go?” Dylan asked. “I’m surprised you let him ghost off.”
“There was no ‘let’ to it,” Randall sighed. “Things were busy, and he snuck off. We have it on good authority that he likes to visit the widow at the Quinn place.”
“Three women?” Wade shook his head. “He’s got three places to hang his hat?”
Detective Moubrey produced a feral smile. “We are not in the business of keeping count. We’ll find him when we need him.”
“Speaking of missing,” Randall pulled a wallet out from his hip pocket and laid it on the countertop. “We picked up your wallet out on the parking lot the other night.”
“Thanks!”
“Don’t thank me,” Randall shook his head. “We held on to it as a potentially useful tool.”
Dylan blinked. “Okay.”
“I owe you an apology for keeping it.” Randall lifted his eyes to Wade and added, “I am so very sorry that we put Mitchell’s body on your property. You didn’t deserve that.”
“What happened?” Wade asked. “Why did he have to be moved?”
“We really did have a shrine set up, and an outdoor obstacle course. We’ve spent months putting this operation together. We needed Littlesmith here at this specific time because that allowed a federal team to enter his home compound without bloodshed. Other members of his group were enticed away to a gun show, and then the feds rolled in to the Littlesmith compound. The feds were able to seize records and evidence.”
Randall accepted a glass of water from Alyson with a small smile. He sipped from it and said, “When the little dog was pissing on the stump, we thought we’d be okay. Hell, I felt like pissing on it every day myself. But then Mitchell came along and totally freaked out. There was no reasoning with him.”
He coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and continued. “We caught up with him at the Natural Joy Reserve. He was wild. We tackled him, and I finally got him in a headlock.”
Randall’s eyes turned to bleak chips. “It wasn’t Richie. It was me.”
Detective Moubrey said, “That’s enough.”
Randall shook his head. “These people deserve to know.” He took a deep breath. “I only meant to get him still enough for him to listen, but he kept struggling. He went from wildcat to totally limp in a heartbeat, which may have been the issue. His heart may have given out.”
The Slime Mold Murder Page 23