Oil & Vinegar

by Mairsile Leabhair

  I took a few steps away from the cat potty and dug out my phone again, and the sheet of paper Krauss had written her cellphone number on. I didn’t want Amanda to hear the call so I sent a text instead, along with the picture of the guy following us. I gave her my location and the make and model of the car. A 2016 blue sports Chevy sedan that I believe was out of production. I didn’t get the license plate, but if he followed us out of here, I’d pull a crazy eight and get behind him. Amanda is not going to like that.

  Once Bubbles was done relieving herself, it was our turn. We went into the women’s restroom, and I got in the stall next to Amanda. The damn cat watched me from under the stall the whole time. I guess it was payback for earlier. It was hard to pee with an audience, especially one that made you sneeze repeatedly. I couldn’t even wash my hands right away until her highness had finished drinking from sink. Apparently cats lap up a drop of water at a time.

  When we came out of the restroom, the first thing I did was look for the sedan. It was gone. Maybe he wasn’t following us. My instincts said that he was and that he would be waiting up ahead for us. My cellphone dinged, and I looked at the text. AFIS hit on him right away. His name was Patrick Whitehurst, thirty-six, and he was wanted in Maryland and Virginia for attempted murder. He was your average everyday low life gun-for-hire with a rap sheet longer than my arm. Krauss texted that she had issued an APB on Whitehurst and the state troopers should pick him up in a few minutes. Yeah, nothing’s that easy. Why in the hell would Whitehurst let me see him? He’d passed right by us; he had to know I’d send it in. He either had a major set of balls, or he was incredibly stupid. There was nothing more dangerous than a stupid man with big balls.

  Amanda put Bubbles back in the carrier while I checked the equipment in my trunk. Like a lot of Marshals chasing fugitives, I kept an AR-15 assault rifle and ammo, an eighteen-inch, twelve-gauge tactical shotgun for close quarters, a battering ram and a ballistic shield. Satisfied, I pulled my Glock from its holster and checked it as I always did just before going into battle. I was as ready as I could be. After I holstered my weapon again, I closed the trunk and unclipped my cell phone from my belt. I did a search for alternative routes in case I needed to divert quickly. We were about to enter West Virginia and that stretch of road had a lot of trees where a car could hide in wait. Until I was sure that the troopers had him in custody I needed to be even more on guard and take every precaution. I may not have wanted this detail at first, but now I was even more determined to keep Amanda safe. She deserved my very best efforts and she was going to get it.

  Back on the road again, Amanda seemed more relaxed, almost as if she were enjoying the trip. I was glad I’d decided not to tell her about Whitehurst. She didn’t need more anxiety added to her load.

  “Um… are your parents still living?” she asked out of the blue.

  “Yeah. Dad retired last year because of a bad ticker and Mom works part-time as a nurse. They live in Miami, Florida.”

  “How did you end up so far away from them?”

  “I was born and raised here,” I explained. “They’re the ones who moved.”

  “You said you don’t mind my asking you questions, so, um, are you…”

  “Seeing someone? No, not on a regular basis.”

  “Uh, thanks,” she mumbled. “But I was going to ask if you were close with your parents?”

  “Oh. Yeah, well, they’re okay. I mean, I’m thirty-two years old, and they still treat me like a child.”

  “Don’t all parents do that?” she asked with a smile.

  “I guess. But my mother takes unusual pleasure in it.”

  “Yours, too? My mother likes to point out how my lipstick doesn’t go with my hair, or...”

  She became quiet and turned her head away from me.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about them until you’re ready. And when you are ready, I’ve got a few mother-daughter stories we might compare.”

  “Like what?” she asked, sniffing as she turned back to me.

  “Mom thought that because I was a lesbian, it was her job to interrogate my dates instead of Dad when I was in high school. Dad would sit back and laugh at my nervousness.” My cell phone dinged again. Someone had sent a text but I didn’t want to interrupt our conversation. It can wait.

  “Wasn’t that normal?” Amanda asked, almost smiling.

  “No. I’ve got two brothers, both older, and one is gay. I’ve also got a younger sister. Dad grills all three of my siblings’ dates. How about you?”

  “Nothing that extreme. I’m an only child, and I didn’t date in high school so there was no one for Dad to grill. I tried to be inconspicuous because I was terrified that someone might ask me out.”

  “And then you met Meredith and you weren’t terrified anymore, right?”

  She chuckled. “Wrong. I was petrified.”

  “Love will do that to you,” I joked, merging over to the left-hand lane to take the I-68W / U.S.-40W ramp.

  “Actually,” Amanda said. “my mother kept nagging me to date more. She wanted grandchildren.”

  “Oh, yeah. Mine, too. Thankfully, my siblings…” I saw something over Amanda’s shoulder. A pickup merging onto I-68 from I-70S was speeding erratically in and out of traffic and looked like he was going to broadside us. “Get down!”

  Chapter Seven

  U.S. Marshal Hettie Quinn

  Everything seemed to move in slow motion except for that pickup. The truck had a push bar front bumper, and I veered left to avoid it, but he hit my right front fender, twirling the Camaro around 360 degrees. We ended up in the median, smoke pouring from the engine. In spite of the seatbelt, I hit my head on the steering wheel. It took a moment for the disorientation to dissipate.

  “Amanda. Amanda, are you all right?” I asked, leaning back and rubbing my forehead. A goose egg was already forming above my right eyebrow. I looked over at Amanda, who wasn’t moving or answering me. “Amanda… Connie, can you hear me?”

  “Oh… What happened?” she asked, rubbing her neck.

  “We were run off the road. Can you move? Anything broken?” I took off my seatbelt, grimacing at the burning sensation where it had rubbed against my shoulder.

  “Bubbles. Where’s Bubbles?”

  I turned in my seat and reached down to the pet carrier in the back. Bubbles hissed and spat at me. “She’s fine.” If he had hit us square on like he was hoping to, both of them would probably be dead now. It was a setup. The guy in the car must have radioed ahead to the truck. “Come on. We need to get out of the car.”

  I reached over and unclipped Amanda’s seatbelt before opening the car door and climbing out. My side of the car was immersed in mud, and I sloughed my way around it to open the passenger side door. It was stuck. The fender had bent into the door and it took both hands on the door handle and a foot braced against the car to pry it open. Just as I was about to help her out, that truck came barreling down the median, again heading straight for us. I yanked Amanda from the car just as the truck rammed into it, head on. We fell back on the grass. Reacting on instinct, I pulled my pistol from the holster and rapidly fired four rounds into the driver’s seat windshield. The engine stopped racing as the perp slumped forward on the steering wheel. There was blood spatter on the driver side window.

  “Amanda, are you all right?” I asked, still pointing my gun at the driver.

  She was lying on the grass, not moving. I needed to check on her, but not until I had that guy on the ground and handcuffed. With one hand holding the pistol, my finger on the trigger, and the other on the door handle of the truck, I swung it open and grabbed the man by the jacket, yanking him out of the vehicle. He hit the ground with a thud but didn’t move. I knelt and felt for a pulse. He was dead. Part of me was relieved, but it would have been better to have taken him alive so we could question him.

  I holstered my weapon and walked back to Amanda. Her face was extremely pale, and she was holding her right knee.

  �
�Oh shit. You’re hurt.”

  She had a one-inch piece of metal sticking out of the side of her shin that was bleeding quite a bit.

  “Don’t move,” I ordered, unclipping my cell phone from my belt. I dialed 911.

  “911, where is your emergency?” the dispatcher asked immediately.

  “This is Deputy Marshal Hettie Quinn, badge number 34629-25, declaring an emergency. I need the police and an ambulance at I-68 West and I-70 South. One person injured, one person dead.”

  “Copy that. First responders are on their way, Marshal Quinn.”

  “Thanks,” I said, ending the call and kneeling beside Amanda. “The EMTs will be here in a few minutes. Don’t move the leg around, okay?”

  “Can’t you just yank the thing out?” she asked.

  “No. We should wait for the professionals to make sure it doesn’t do more damage.”

  “It hurts.”

  I sat down beside her, still on edge, so I made sure I could get to my gun if necessary.

  “The fact that it hurts is a good sign. Your nerves are still working.”

  Her eyes glistened with moisture. “Or they’ve all been severed. It feels like a hot poker stabbing every nerve in my leg.”

  I reached over and rubbed her back. “They’re on their way, Amanda, I can hear the sirens.”

  She looked over at me, her lips trembling. “Hettie. Don’t leave me, okay? I can feel the anxiety building up and I’m afraid—”

  “Whoa.” I took her hand and held it between mine. “Listen. I won’t leave you if you don’t leave me, deal?”

  She looked at me with a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Deal.” The cat began meowing and growling loudly. “Oh, God, Bubbles!”

  “Stay put and I’ll check on her,” I commanded.

  The car engine had stopped smoking, thank God, and the passenger side door was still open. I flipped the seat up and reached in. Bubbles hissed and swatted at the carrier. “Knock that shit off,” I growled and picked up the pet carrier. I peered in through the mesh material, and the cat appeared to be fine, just really nervous, like its owner. “She’s fine,” I assured Amanda as I put the cat carrier down beside her.

  “Bubbles, it’s okay, Bubbles,” Amanda said, leaning over to check on her. “Don’t let her out of the carrier until its safe, okay? When cats get spooked, they panic and run away.”

  “Sort of like you,” I quipped gently.

  Amanda chuckled in agreement, but her eyes were strained, worried.

  The ambulance pulled over to the side of the median followed by the coroner. Two paramedics jumped out and ran toward us. I stood up and flashed my badge. One knelt beside Amanda, the other looked at me.

  “I’m fine. Take care of Amanda. There’s also a body by the pickup you’ll need to pronounce.”

  “I’ve got this,” the paramedic beside Amanda said. “Check out the truck.”

  The other EMT nodded and walked over to the truck. He leaned over the body and placed his stethoscope on the driver’s chest.

  My attention returned to Amanda. “How is she?”

  “It’s not too deep, but it will need stitches.” He fished around in his medical kit. “Have you had a tetanus shot recently, Amanda?”

  Her eyes grew large, her mouth gaping open. I recognized the facial expression. She was going into full panic mode. “Amanda.” She didn’t recognize her new name. “Look at me, Amanda. Nod if you’ve had a tetanus shot recently.”

  She tried to speak but only a groan came out. I held her hand and she seemed to calm just a little. She shook her head.

  The paramedic looked from Amanda to me. “I’ll need to numb the area around the object before I pull it out.” Amanda was trembling, her eyes wild. “Perhaps she should be transported to the hospital first.”

  “Is the wound that bad?” I asked.

  “No. A few stitches and a bandage, and she’ll be good as new. I can give her something for the pain and—”

  “Can you give her a shot now?” An idea was forming in my mind that might work to keep her safe. If I could get Amanda to cooperate. With each passing moment, she was becoming more upset as realization sat in. He nodded. “Then get it ready and I’ll let Amanda know. If you could stand back for a minute while I talk to her, that would help.”

  “Sure, I’ll check in with my partner and be back in a minute,” he said, picking up his kit and walking away.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, I leaned close to Amanda. “Connie. Are you okay?” She blinked a few times as if she was trying to hear me. “Connie. It’s just you and me here, talk to me.”

  “Hettie. Hettie, I’m so…”

  “Connie, the paramedic is going to give you a shot for the pain so he can stitch you up. Okay?” She jerked her head, her eyes darting to and fro. “I won’t leave you, I promise.” I cupped her chin and brought her eyes to meet mine. “I’ll be beside you the whole time, Connie.”

  Her terrified eyes came into focus. “Prom… promise?” she stuttered.

  “Yes, I promise you,” I said, waving the paramedic over. He walked over quickly and knelt beside her. She recoiled as he rubbed an alcohol swab on her shoulder. “We’ll get you patched up and back on the road again.”

  “No. No, Hettie…” The paramedic inserted the syringe. “Ouch!”

  “It’s okay. He just gave you the shot we talked about. You’ll feel better in a minute.”

  Her eyes swirled with confusion as she looked at me. Her eyelids began to droop, and she began to relax. “I trust you,” she said, fighting to keep her eyes open. Her head bobbed, and I gently laid her down on the ground.

  I leaned close and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll protect you, kid.”

  “You two make a great couple,” the paramedic said as he checked her pulse. Satisfied, he began working on her leg. He pulled the piece of metal out and cleaned the wound.

  “We’re not a couple. She’s just had a really rough time… look, just stitch her up so we can get out of here, okay?”

  “Sure. Whatever. She’ll be pretty groggy for about three hours or so.”

  Three hours may not be enough time. “Do you have something she can take if the pain gets bad again?”

  “Yeah, I can give you a couple of Vicodin, but if the pain persists, you should get her to a doctor.”

  “Understood, thanks.”

  He finished bandaging the wound and stood up. “I’ll get the painkillers and be right back.”

  I unclipped my cell phone and tapped in a number. “Hey, Johnny. It’s Hettie Quinn. Yeah, I need a favor with no questions asked.”

  Chapter Eight

  Amanda Sanders (Connie Yarbrough-Morrison)

  I could feel the soft sunlight on my face warming the morning breeze that wafted in. But I wasn’t ready to open my eyes yet. I just had the craziest dream and I wanted to hold onto it. I’d dreamed that Hettie was carrying me and I’d curled up in her arms as if I belonged there. It was so real that I could hear her heart beating. It lulled me to sleep. Then I heard a loud noise like a wind machine buffeting the air and then a sensation of floating. The ground was moving, and I think I tried to scream. Hettie came into view, handing me something and encouraging me to drink. She smiled at me and wrapped her arm around me and I felt safe again. Then I dreamed of palm trees and people chattering around me. I was in Hettie’s arms again. Her muscles flexed as she carried me, and I laid my head on her shoulder. She kissed me on the forehead and told me that I was safe and she would never leave me.

  A tap on the door brought me back to reality.

  “Hey, kid, you awake yet?”

  I recognized Hettie’s voice, but I didn’t recognize the room I was in, or the bed, or even the clothes I was wearing. The panic surged, and I sat up quickly.

  “Hettie?”

  Hettie opened the door and walked in carrying a laptop, followed by an older, slightly pudgy woman who was carrying Bubbles.

  I pulled up the blanket as if that would protect me from
strangers. Well, Hettie certainly wasn’t a stranger. But the woman holding Bubbles— who looked a lot like Hettie with the same kind eyes and reassuring smile— was.

  “How’s your leg?” Hettie asked.

  I just stared at the woman holding my cat.

  “Henrietta, don’t be rude. Introduce me to your friend,” the woman chastised.

  Henrietta? The woman’s face was full and looked kind, sincere. She had short blond hair with stylish curls, rouge on her cheeks and lips, and wore a spring dress that accentuated her pudginess.

  “Oh, yeah. Amanda, this is my mother, Candace Quinn. Mom, this is my friend, Amanda Sanders.”

  “Amanda. It’s nice to meet you. I believe someone is anxious to see you,” she said, handing Bubbles to me.

  “Oh, Bubbles,” I chirped, cuddling the cat in my arms. The sound of her purring was so soothing. “Thank you, Mrs. Quinn.”

  “Candace, please,” she said, going to the closet and pulling down a pillow. She fluffed it and then tucked it behind my head. Bubbles jumped down and laid beside me. “Can I get you anything, Amanda?”

  She was being so motherly. It was too much and the dam finally broke. I cupped my face in my hands and bawled. A deep, guttural wail came from the pit of my stomach.

  “Oh, honey,” Candace said, sitting beside me. She pulled me to her and held me as I cried.

  That made me cry harder. She reminded me so much of my mom that I couldn’t hold back any longer.

  “Let it out,” she said, patting my back.

  I’m not sure how long I cried in her arms, but as soon as I was able to catch my breath, I leaned back. Hettie handed me a tissue, and I wiped my eyes, keeping my head down.

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered, still sniffling.

  “Honey, you don’t have to apologize for anything,” Candace insisted.

  “My mom used to call me honey,” I said, blubbering up again.

  “She sounds like a good mom,” Candace replied.