How would my life be different if I’d decided to become a park ranger or a forester? There are plenty of these jobs in the Green Mountain State. Or I could have left Vermont all together, headed into the hills of Virginia or the real mountains of Washington State. There’s a quick, jittery feeling in my gut. Regret. Why? Because I’d spent so many hours perfecting the craft of delivering perfect lines and annunciating my words for audiences—and lost out on something else. That’s how choices are though, right? You can’t say yes to them all. Saying yes to one thing means saying no to something else. I forget where I heard that, but it’s true.
I’m regretting the trip to Montreal tonight. That’s something I should have said no to. I hate huge, unsecure crowds, especially without the proper security. Plus, I’ll be trapped in the car with giggling girls for close to two hours. My stomach gives a little shudder of dread. I push the thoughts away and focus again on the smell and sounds of the woods.
***
That night I’m once again in the Park and Ride, waiting in Winston’s small Ford, a car nearly as old as mine but in better shape. The heater blasts.
My legs—free from pants and long underwear for the first time in over two months—feel naked. Instead, I’m wearing black leggings, a swingy black tunic, and my big, black boots with London Jack over each toe. I longed to pull on my “witch boots,” as Ezra calls them—pointed toes, tall heels and lace up fronts—but high heels wouldn’t be good in a fight. Not unless you’re Lucy Liu and cartwheeling across a movie set to kick some bad guy booty.
The limo pulls in ten minutes later and I flick the interior light on, check my bag one last time. While Vermont has no concealed weapon laws, it’s illegal to carry a gun across international borders without a whole host of paperwork. Besides, I doubt very highly that I’ll need my gun tonight. I do have pepper spray which I’ll have to declare at the border. I won’t bother mentioning the nightstick that fits easily into my purse and extends to nearly five feet when whipped open.
Climbing into the limo I’m greeted by four girls: one coffee-colored with long legs and a beautiful smile. Sitting next to her is a blonde who is pale and chubby. The third is a dyed redhead and the last an exotic-looking brunette with equally long legs as the first girl.
“I’m Reggie,” says the first girl. “This is Chloe (blonde), Samantha (redhead) and Vivian (brunette). “Just to be honest? We’re not super excited to have you along. Nothing personal,” she says with a smile and slides a cigarette between her teeth.
I smile back, forcing my cheeks upward.
“No offense taken,” I say. “I’m Tayt and despite what you think, I’m not here to pee on your parade,” Four sets of eyes stare, unblinking. “Think of it this way: my presence allows you this opportunity.”
Chloe giggles and smiles at me. “That’s a great way to look at it.”
I grimace in her direction and then settle back against my seat, closing my eyes. “Just pretend I’m not here,” I say.
That’s what I plan to do.
Chapter Thirty-two
The limo drops me back off at the parking area at nearly four o’clock the next morning. The sun won’t be up for another couple of hours but the moonlight is so bright that the lot is fully illuminated. I shiver my way into the car and drive home, bleary-eyed, ears ringing from powerful subwoofers. My clothes smell like an ashtray.
I replay the night in my mind, trying to stay awake. It was without incident: a blur of hot, pressing bodies dancing and voices yelling to be heard above the deafening music. Except the one time I had to pull Reggie from a group of cocky guys trying to get her to drink something from a flask one of them pulled from his pocket, that is. She sulked when I pulled her away. I shot visual daggers at the guys who melted into the crowd.
It took me and the limo driver three trips to get all of them packed into the car. I sat up front on the way back, the sour smell of alcohol laced with vomit too much for me in the rear. Though my body pulled me toward sleep, I didn’t give in. Instead, I chugged down a coffee while the driver filled the big car’s tank. I didn’t ask where he’d been during our late-night romp down St. Catherine Street, but guessed he’d been frequenting the other nightclubs.
Now, there is the sound of gravel against tires. I jerk my eyes open along with the wheel under my hands. The car had drifted toward the side of the road. Giving myself a shake, I grip the steering wheel and crack the driver’s window. The air is brutally cold but does wake me up.
Finally, what feels like hours later, I’m home. I maneuver the driveway, but something is wrong. The tires crunch on the hard snow and I turn off the headlights. I’m sure I left a light on in the entryway like I always do, but the trailer is completely dark. The trees are moaning softly, wind bending their trunks and heavy branches as I cut the engine. I sit in the near silence, watching and listening.
Nothing.
No sound out of place, no strange shadows that shouldn’t be there. I grope under the passenger seat and find my Glock. I crack open the door of the car, then get out, crouching low. The dozy feeling is gone. Instead, I feel sharp and overly aware.
I crab-run toward the right corner of the trailer, checking the ground for prints. There are tracks in the snow lining the driveway, but I can’t tell if they are my old ones or someone else’s. The moon ducks behind some clouds and for a moment the area is pitch black. I strain with my ears, listening.
Still nothing.
I listen to my breath for several seconds. And then, something. A bump or thump coming from the house. I can’t tell if it was inside or out. Inside, maybe. My heart races and I take deep, steadying breaths. My fingers on the gun’s grip are freezing and I tuck the Glock temporarily into my jacket pocket and blow on my hands to warm them.
Another thump. Definitely from inside. I scuttle around the side of the trailer, staying low. Please let the exterior motion sensor be covered with enough snow that it won’t ...
The floodlight turns on, nearly blinding me.
Crap.
I run around the back of the trailer, hiding in a crevice between the deck and greenhouse. My breath comes in puffy white clouds around my head. There is complete silence from inside.
Then a creak. The front door opens. I want to look up, to see who is standing in my doorway, but I don’t dare. If he has a gun, it could be the very last thing I see. Instead, I scrunch deeper into my hiding spot and try hard to ignore my burning quads.
It feels like twenty minutes have passed but it’s probably closer to two. The door creaks shut again. Is the intruder still on the front step? Maybe he’s aiming down the barrel of a rifle. Or has he gone back inside? The trees whisper, boughs bending and swaying in a light breeze. The scent of pine needles and wood smoke and the icy smell of snow say that all is right with the world even though it’s definitely not.
Footsteps clunk down the front steps. Slowly.
I hold my breath. Leg muscles straining, I rise a few inches in my squat, peek above the deck. Between the bottom rail and the floorboards, I see boots. They are black and heavy. Above that a few inches of jeans show. Nothing else.
Moving the Glock closer to my torso, I clench and unclench my fingers around the grip. The cold makes fingers clumsy and numb. I position my finger alongside the trigger, listening. Watching.
Three steps left.
Two.
One.
Now the feet and legs are on the snow-covered ground and my teeth are chattering. I clamp them together, but the rest of my body isn’t cooperating. My arms and legs quiver: from the cold or adrenaline or fear, I don’t know. I draw in a deep, slow breath, and rise to my feet.
A figure stands in front of the stairs, turned away from me, surveying the driveway. He is thin and tall and wears a bulky dark coat. I slide a foot forward, then another, the cover of snow muffling my awkward approach.
A branch breaks in the woods nearby. Immediately, the intruder swings a rifle in the direction of the woods. In my direction, too
.
“Don’t shoot,” I say in a voice that’s surprisingly calm.
I inch another foot forward. His gloved hands jerk at the sound of my voice.
He fires.
I dive for cover behind the deck. The sound of the rifle’s retort bounces off every hard surface in the area. It echoes in the woods and hills beyond. A dog starts barking in the distance as I scramble to my feet and run around the other side of the house. The path is icy where the snow has been tramped down by my own feet in the past couple of days. It makes for a treacherous escape but it’s the only path open. Going back to the car, the road, to safety makes more sense. Instead, I’m heading around the side of the trailer, hoping I’ll have some advantage by being on higher ground. Here the yard slopes upward, until the hill meets the forest. Grabbing at the side of the trailer as I pass, I get my footing back and sink again to my haunches, listening. My legs curse me.
More wood sounds: trees moaning, branches tapping, the wind stirring snow and blowing it against trailer walls and tree trunks. Other than that, nothing.
Then, a crunching. Boots in snow.
I stop breathing.
Then silence again.
I poke my head out around the edge of the trailer, so that I’m facing the driveway. I half expect to see the rifle pointed at my nose but there is no one. The security light is still blazing. I don’t see the man anywhere.
Then there is a sound. A clang, like metal makes when it strikes other metal. A few other strange sounds that I can’t define. More crunching footsteps. In my direction? I can’t tell. Hunkering down again, I crab-walk again to the other side of the trailer, peek around the corner.
There. The figure is near the back deck, huddled down low, back to me. I raise my gun, arm straight in front of me. They aren’t trembling now. I rise to my feet, locking my legs.
My finger is near the trigger, but I hesitate. Can I really shoot someone in the back? Gun this guy down in cold blood?
My shoulder aches where the still-healing wound throbs.
I can. I should.
But I don’t.
“Whatever you’re doing, stop.” My voice is loud and commanding, surprising me. “Put the gun down and your hands above your head. Slowly.”
The man stops, freezing in place before getting to his feet. His back is still to me, rifle hanging limply from his left glove. He hasn’t let it fall to the ground though. The wind flattens his pants against long legs.
“Gun down.” I say, more forcefully. My arms are shaking a little. I move forward.
The moon breaks free from the clouds completely. The man turns, slowly, puts the butt end of the rifle on the ground. With his free hand he removes a ski mask. Blonde hair, long and untidy, tumbles out and over the dark coat collar.
It takes my brain a few seconds to catch up. To realize that this isn’t a man at all, but someone else.
“Sandra?” I say, taking two slow steps forward. It won’t do to slip on the ice and sprawl in front of her, possibly shooting myself on the way down. “What are you doing?”
She is looking at me like a wolf eyeing an injured fawn. I involuntarily take a step back, re-raise the gun in my hand which started to nose toward the ground. At the same time, I quickly inventory the shadows and shapes on the back of the trailer. The propane tank. That’s what she was banging on. Did she break through the wall of it? If I shoot now will the house explode? Even if she didn’t, I can’t risk shooting toward the tank.
Sandra stares at me, her eyes dark. But there is enough moonlight to see the look on her face.
Pain.
Anger.
Hatred.
“Put the rifle down and move toward the light,” I say, voice loud. I motion with my gun toward the security-lit portion of the yard.
She makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and choked roar and motions with her free hand in a sort of calm down gesture. As if in slow motion, the rest of the rifle follows the stock toward the ground. My breath is caught between my teeth, my heart banging away wildly. Eyes straining to see every movement she makes in the dim light.
Two thing happen simultaneously, so quickly that time seems to stop.
The first is that the security light controlled by a motion sensor, blinks off. Complete darkness covers everything. The second? I hear movement and then hear a blast as Sandra fires wildly in my direction. “Wildly” is the right word. Bark flies off a tree at least thirty feet away. I duck, instinctively, throwing myself back toward the relative protection of the trailer. I can’t see anything while my eyes adjust to the new lighting. I can still hear though my ears feel fuzzy following the retort of the rifle. Boots crunch on snow, slipping and skidding toward me and I fire in that direction.
She screams and then I hear a crash of some sort. My eyes can barely make out her shape now, hunched and fallen over a wheelbarrow that was propped against the greenhouse.
Is she dead?
Keeping my arms out in front of me, gun steadier now, I maneuver the icy path toward the body.
“Sandra?” I yell as I approach. I want to ask what she’s doing here. Why she’s trying to blow up my house. And suddenly realization dawns. Is it her that’s been following me? But why?
The rifle is propped on the ground, pushed into the snow for leverage. Sandra’s left leg is bleeding, a dark pool spreading onto the white snow.
“Tell me what you are doing—”
She curses at me, then turns to look at me over a shoulder, her face snarled in pain and fury. “You don’t even know who I am, do you?” Her breath is coming fast and jerky. Part of me wants to make a tourniquet for her leg, the other wants to put another hole in her. I go with my first instinct.
“Tell me while I put something on your leg. We’ve got to stop the bleeding. Now.”
She glances at her leg, as though surprised to see that it’s still connected to her body.
“Stay away from me,” she says. “You’ve ruined my life. Now you’re trying to kill me.”
I keep my gun hand trained on her, search my brain for tourniquet options. None come to mind except my own clothes. I peel off my coat, switching the Glock from one hand to the other and then back again after I take off a flannel shirt underneath. Leaving the coat on the ground, I walk to where Sandra is sprawled and rip the rifle from her hands, tossing it aside.
Tucking the handgun into my waistband, I rip my flannel shirt in two.
“All I’ve ever done is help you,” I say. I pull her leg out straight. More blood leaks out and she growls and falls back onto her shoulders. Her face is white in the partial moonlight and her lips are nearly transparent.
That can’t be good.
Her teeth are chattering but not enough to keep her silent.
“C.J. was mine. He was over you. Why did you have to come back here and stir things up?”
My hands freeze mid-air. Words are forming but I can’t get them out.
C.J. ...
“He loved me! Me. Not you.” She screams the words, spittle flying from her pale lips.
I cinch the cloth over the wound, pulling it tight. So tight that Sandra screams. I pull it just a little tighter, my hands slipping over the soft cloth, make a double knot. The blood is already soaking through.
“You want to kill me because of C.J.?”
“I just wanted to warn you to stay away from him. Because I can make him happy. I did make him happy, and he doesn’t need you in his life messing everything up. Don’t you get it? I was the rebound girl at first, but then he loved me. He really did.” Her head drops back onto the snow, her skin blending in.
“Keep pressure on that while I call 9-1-1.” I stand up, a light sweat breaking out over my skin despite the icy cold air. I retrieve my jacket and slide my arms in. Sandra and C.J.? Why wouldn’t he have told me? Why had she hired me?
Sandra turns her face away from me, but not before I see tears dripping down her cheeks.
“Let’s get into the house. You’ll freeze out here.”<
br />
“Just leave me alone.” She turns her face away from me, immobile.
I hesitate, then walk back to my car. I’ll drag her into the trailer after I’ve called the ambulance. My fingers shake as I punch in the numbers, voice tremulous as I give dispatch my address and the nature of Sandra’s wound. The dispatcher asks me to stay on the line. I tell her I can’t and hang up. It might be faster for me to try to get Sandra to the hospital myself—
A shot rings out in the cold air.
Then another sound follows.
KABOOM!
I stare in disbelief as a fireball explodes upward from behind the trailer. I can’t think. Can’t move. Then my legs churn, racing around the house. The heat flattens me to the ground when I round the corner.
“Sandraaaaa,” I scream.
The entire back end of the trailer is gone. A huge yawning mouth of fire and smoke in its place.
I crawl on hands and knees toward the flames. Sandra’s form is slumped near the propane tank, her hand melded to the butt of the rifle like hot wax. Her face and hair are gone, her body limp. Flames curl around her like a tangle of blankets.
My screams have turned to moans by the time the ambulance arrives. I sit on the steps, rocking, rocking, rocking.
Chapter Thirty-three
C.J. sits across from me at Snuffy’s, sipping a Pepsi and watching me. It’s been days since the explosion, but every night my brain re-enacts the scene while I stare at the ceiling. We haven’t talked, not really since that night. He shifts on the red seat now, the vinyl squeaking under him. He looks ... uncomfortable.
“There’s something I should have told you before now,” he says.
“Oh?” I ask, wiping my mouth and pushing my plate to the side.
Hear No Evil Page 19