Kevin Wong yelped with pain. Sweat beaded on his forehead, even though the cabin was kept comfortably cool in the shade of the tall pines. “I was to call him when it was done. He’d give me a place to meet him and pay me the rest of the money.”
“Aren’t you on duty today?” Mom asked. “I hate to tell you, but you’re already late.”
Kevin gave her a half smile. “I called in sick today, with no plans of going back there.”
“So Milt pays you off and you hit the road?” I asked.
“Something like that,” Kevin said.
“Don’t count on it,” Willie said with a grin. He glanced at Charlie. “You okay with holding this piece of crap until the police get here?”
“Sure,” Charlie told him as he patted his rifle.
Willie turned and faced the rest of us. “Odelia, call the police and tell them you have Kevin here and he tried to kill Boaz, and everything else he told us. For obvious reasons, I can’t stick around.” He paused. “Wait fifteen to twenty minutes before making that call, and call your friend Fehring—let her have the first crack at this even though she’s not the lead on the case. She’s your friend in high places; keep her happy. And you might want to give Mike Steele a call just for a heads-up so he can help you maneuver the legalities when the police question you. And tell Fehring to send someone to pick up Mona and Milt if they can find them.”
“Who is this guy?” Shankleman asked Mom, indicating Willie.
“Think of him as Batman,” Mom whispered. “We do.”
While Willie talked, Buzz found some rope and tied Kevin’s hands in front of him, giving him enough play to continue holding the towel tight on his leg. “Make sure to tell the cops to send an ambulance,” Buzz said in my direction.
Just as Buzz finished securing the rope, a shot shattered the window behind Kevin. Kevin Wong slumped forward, landing on top of Buzz.
“Everyone down!” shouted Willie.
Charlie smashed out the window by him and aimed his rifle out it while keeping back behind the side wall. Buzz untangled himself from Kevin, who fell forward to the floor. His eyes were open, and there was a bullet hole in the back of his head. Lorraine and Mom screamed like a singing duo. With his good arm, Boaz yanked Mom to the floor. I did the same with Lorraine. Art was already flat on the floor, covering Ringo like a precious baby.
Willie, armed with Kevin’s rifle, and Buzz, with his own gun, smashed out the remaining glass in the other window and took up positions. Willie turned to me. “Get everyone into the bedroom,” he ordered. “There are no windows there.”
“You heard him,” I told my charges. “Stay down on the floor and crawl into the bedroom. Quickly!”
Boaz and Mom went first, Mom mumbling something about her arthritic knees. I was just happy she was wearing capris and soft-soled shoes today. As she belly crawled along the floor, Mom’s big purse, still hooked over her arm, dragged along with them like a dead carcass.
Just before Mom disappeared through the door, Buzz called out to her, “Now would be a good time to bring out that nasty knife, abuela.”
Next went Art and Ringo. Art was crouched on his hands and knees. He’d let go of Ringo’s leash so that the dog could freely follow his master.
I gave Lorraine a shove toward the bedroom. “Now you. Stay low and don’t dawdle—and don’t puke.” She was about to protest when another shot came whizzing into the cabin, striking the chair two feet from her. The guys returned fire. Lorraine took off for the bedroom like one of those speedy little brown lizards that are so common in Southern California. I followed them, the caboose bringing up the rear.
“Odelia,” Willie called to me, “make that 911 call—now!”
“But you’re not gone yet,” I protested.
“Don’t worry about us,” he said. “Call them and then Fehring to pick up the others.”
As soon as I got into the bedroom, I pulled out my cell phone and let out a string of expletives.
“What, Odelia?” Mom asked, this time not chastising me for my language.
“No service.” I looked around our little group. They were on their feet now, ready to bolt through the solid planks of the walls, if necessary. The men were standing with the women slightly behind them. Shankleman held Ringo, his injured shoulder forgotten. Mom was holding her switchblade. “Any of you have service?” I asked.
Mom and Lorraine looked at their cell phones and shook their heads. Shankleman glanced at his burner and did the same. We were stuck. It sounded like most of the gunfire was from the good guys, and it made me hope that there was only one gunman outside.
“Who’s shooting at us?” Lorraine asked. “Gang members?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “There aren’t many shots coming from outside. If it was the gang, I think we’d be under siege by a small army with automatics.”
“I think Odelia’s right,” Shankleman said. “If there’s only one, our guys might be able to hold off the shooter until he runs out of ammo.”
“There’s a window in the bathroom,” Mom said. “Do you think we might be able to squeeze out and get to safety?”
“Stay here,” I told them and went into the bathroom to check it out. The bathroom was very small, with only a small stall shower, a toilet, and tiny sink. The window was small but not tiny; it also wasn’t too high. Located over the toilet, a man of average height could easily look outside while peeing. I slid it open and pushed on the screen. It popped out with just a little pressure. I held my breath, waiting for an assailant to pop up, but none came. I poked my head out and realized the window faced the backside of the cabin and the shots were only coming from the front.
I stepped out into the bedroom and beckoned my charges in, one at a time. “Art, you go first so you can help the others as they go out. You okay with that?”
Without hesitating, Art Franklin put down the lid of the commode and stepped onto it. Slowly he hoisted one leg out the window and straddled it. Holding on to the window edges, he lowered himself out, sliding until he freed his other leg, then dropped down, hitting the ground with a soft grunt and gritted teeth. He was going to feel that tomorrow. We all were, except probably for Lorraine. Art waved for the next person.
“Mom,” I said, “you’re next.”
“Just like old times,” Mom said as she handed me the knife and her purse and climbed onto the toilet. She was right. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to escape danger by squeezing out a bathroom window. But this time the window was larger and lower, she was wearing pants instead of a dress, and I wasn’t on the outside trying to yank her through. Art directed her with hand signals like an airport worker guiding a plane to its gate. Once she was on the ground, I reached through and handed her the knife and purse.
“Okay, Lorraine,” I said to my niece, “you’re next.” The gunshots weren’t sounding as often but were still occurring, popping like the final kernels in a bag of microwave popcorn.
“I want to stay with you,” she said.
“No, you go next,” I told her, “or I’ll have Boaz shove you out headfirst.” She eyed me, making a quick decision on whether or not I meant it. I did.
“Go along now, girl,” Boaz told her, “and hurry.”
Quick as a bunny, the youngest of us slipped out the window and dropped to the ground. I poked my head out. It still seemed all clear.
“Okay, Boaz,” I said to Shankleman. “Give me Ringo, and I’ll hand him off to you once you’re clear.”
“No, Odelia, ladies first.”
“But you’re hurt,” I protested.
“I can toss you out headfirst, one-armed or not,” he said with a charming smile, and behind the tired and grizzled face I saw the man I’d once mooned over as a young co-ed. I stepped onto the toilet lid.
Shankleman was the tallest of our little band, but I was the roundest. It was a ti
ght fit, but I managed to manipulate myself through the window and down to the ground with Art’s support on the downside. Once on the ground, Shankleman handed Ringo off to me. The poor little animal was shaking like a leaf. Shankleman hit the ground with a muffled grunt and grabbed his bad shoulder. The dog flailed its thin legs toward its master like a tiny child reaching for its mother. As soon as Shankleman was on his feet and stable, I handed Ringo back, and the animal calmed right down.
All together again, we flattened against the back wall of the cabin and looked around. Art pointed to an opening in the trees that looked like a path. It went up a small incline, then disappeared into the dense woods. I nodded and indicated for everyone to head that way. At least it was heading away from the gunfire.
While Art blazed the way, Lorraine helped her grandmother up the incline. Shankleman hung back, but I hissed, “This time you go first.” But he shook his head. Before the others had left, he’d given Ringo into Art’s care again. That should have been my first clue that Shankleman was not going to listen to me. He held his injured arm close to his side, but the bleeding looked like it had finally stopped.
“I’m not going to leave them,” Shankleman told me, jerking his jaw toward the cabin. “You go.”
I shook my head. “I’m not leaving them either. And I need to make that call.” He nodded but made no move to leave.
I pulled out my cell phone. Outside the cabin I had service, but it was weak. I called 911. It rang, then the call dropped before being answered. He tried his burner phone with the same results. We walked around the back and side of the cabin, looking for stronger service but found none.
“Shh,” I said in a barely audible voice, finger to my lips. “The shooting’s stopped.” We listened together. Shankleman started for the front of the cabin, but I stopped him. “Not until we get an all clear.”
We waited, worried about the silence. Did the guys nail the shooter or had the shooter nailed them? It was three against one—hopefully only one. The math was in our favor. I signaled to Shankleman for us to move back behind the cabin. If we had to, we could beat a hasty retreat into the woods from there.
We had just cleared the corner to the back of the cabin when we heard “Hold it right there.” Shankleman and I froze. Out of the woods off to the side, thankfully not from the incline area, came Milt the guard. He was dressed in jeans and a black tee shirt. He looked a lot more fit and robust than he did while on duty at Seaside, but the face, hair, and beard were the same. In his hands and aimed at us was a high-powered rifle. He may have given Kevin Wong the idea that he didn’t know how to handle a gun, but that had been as much of a ruse as the whole guard persona. If Kurt Spencer-Hall had been working with gangs in Mexico, dollars to donuts he’d picked up some good shooting skills.
“That you, Kurt?” Shankleman asked.
“What, you don’t recognize me, Bo?” Milt laughed. “It’s been a long time, and I’ve been through a lot of changes.”
“Just go, Kurt,” Shankleman said, moving slightly forward to shield me. “Cydney’s dead. Titan’s dead. Even Kevin Wong is dead. There doesn’t need to be any more killing.”
“But I’m not done, Bo. Dave’s with the cops right now, but he’ll be released someday, and I’ll be waiting.”
Inwardly I was relieved. Mom’s stunt with Oxman’s tires hadn’t cost the man his life.
“The Tuttle kid is safe. I have no beef with him,” Milt said and raised the gun, taking aim at Shankleman’s head.
“Let them go,” said a voice from the corner. It was Willie and Buzz, guns trained on Milt. “Like the man said, there’s been enough killing.”
“Tell you what,” Milt said, not lowering his rifle. “Let me kill old Bo Shank here, and I’ll let the lady go.” He adjusted his rifle lower, to me. “But stop me, and she’ll die first. What’s it to be?”
Only the subtle sounds of the great outdoors could be heard—a breeze in the treetops, birds chirping and calling, a woodpecker knocking on a tree trunk, and the subtle crackling of needles and leaves as tiny, unseen critters crawled through them. Overhead the sky was bright blue and cloudless. I knew in my heart this was a no- win situation. Milt/Kurt wasn’t about to kill Shankleman and let me go. He’d fight until we were all dead or at least until he was. I looked up. If I couldn’t die looking one last time at my beloved Greg, then I wanted my last vision on earth to be of something pretty. And I prayed my mother wasn’t watching.
A gunshot fired close. My ears exploded, and I fell to the ground on my knees, my hands cupped over my ears like earmuffs. When I opened my eyes, Shankleman was next to me, eyes open. He was shaking his head back and forth like a dog’s and looked disoriented.
Willie ran up to us, yelling, “Are you okay?” I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I could lip read the few words. I nodded, then shouted, “Yes, but I can’t hear.”
My eyes moved to the side, where Milt had been. He was on the ground, crumpled like a rag doll. Crouched over him was Buzz. Buzz looked at Willie and shook his head. I saw Willie glance up, so I did too. Above me, in the open bathroom window, was Charlie, his rifle resting on the lower ledge of the window. It had been his shot that had bludgeoned my eardrums. While Willie and Buzz were trying to talk Milt out of killing Shankleman and me, he’d crept into the bathroom, lined up his shot, and taken it like a trained sniper.
twenty-five
Even though Clark’s house was pretty big, even larger than ours, we were a bit cramped, but it was a happy squeeze. Lorraine and Mom bunked together in one guest bedroom. Greg and I had the other. There was no way I could convince Greg to continue his trip until he saw for himself that I was okay. So after the police were done with us, Mom, Lorraine, and I piled into my car and headed for Arizona. Wainwright came with us while Muffin was shuttled off to Art’s place.
Poor Art; when the truth of what had happened came out, Shelita went on a rampage to get her father to move, but Art dug in his heels, saying all his friends were at Seaside and now that Mona and Milt were gone, it was a very safe place. Since Mona had been a longtime friend of Shelita’s, Shelita could hardly throw stones at my mother any longer for being a bad influence. She could try, but it wouldn’t hold water considering what Mona, her inside snitch, and Mona’s uncle had done. Seaside also promised better vetting of their guards and management people in the future, and better communications with their residents. I’m sure somewhere in stuffy corporate offices their legal counsel was circling the wagons, ready for an onslaught of lawsuit filings.
Even after he saw me and touched me and kissed me, Greg wasn’t satisfied. He insisted that I go to Colorado with him and meet his friends. I argued that Steele would never stand for me taking another week off, but a quick call from my mother and Steele was A-OK, even thrilled to get us all out of his hair. I made a mental note to use Mom as my negotiator with Steele in the future. We sent Boomer on ahead to Colorado. Greg and I would drive there in my car with Wainwright while Mom and Lorraine stayed to visit with Clark and look after him. I intended to use the time alone in the car with my husband to pump him on his relationship with Willie outside of my knowledge.
Buzz and Willie took off from the cabin before we called the police. With the cabin being so remote, no one had heard the gunfire and called ahead of us. With the danger out of the way, they took a few minutes to pick up the casings from Buzz’s gun but left those for the rifle Willie had used, while we gathered everyone back from the woods. Willie wiped Kevin’s gun clean and added prints from Kevin’s cold hands on the butt and shaft. Then Shankleman mauled it with his handprints. The story we all agreed upon in fast order was that it was Boaz Shankleman who had fended off Milt with Charlie and had used Kevin Wong’s rifle to do it. Kevin had been shot in the leg by Charlie but killed by Milt, and Shankleman had been shot by Kevin, which was all true. While Charlie, who did turn out to be a trained military sniper, held off Milt by himself, Shanklem
an and I had herded everyone out the back window and into the woods, but Milt found us and was about to shoot us when Charlie shot him from the bathroom window. It was all true except for Willie and Buzz’s presence and who was handling Kevin’s rifle.
I don’t think Fehring believed the entire story. Nor did Detectives Gonzales and Mack or the local authorities on the scene, but we all stuck to it; even when they questioned us separately, we couldn’t be cracked, not even jellylike Lorraine or my crazy mother. Lorraine told us later that Willie Proctor’s name even came up in her questioning, and she claimed she had no idea who he was. They’d asked each of us about him. Shankleman and Art also claimed they had no idea who he was, and Mom only said she thought he was a friend of mine and Greg’s. That much the police did know.
Willie and Buzz were in the wind—gone like a puff of smoke. No one had been able to prove that they were ever at the cabin or at my house or even, thanks to the broken security camera, at Seaside.
While Shankleman called the authorities, I called Fehring and gave her a heads-up on Mona D’Angelo, who was rounded up about the same time as police descended on the cabin. Mona claimed she knew nothing about any of it. It’s believed that Milt did kill Cydney Fox. Shankleman’s golf club was found in the trunk of Milt’s car, with his prints and Fox’s blood and brain matter on it. The police removed the tracking device from my car and also found one on the undercarriage of Kevin’s car, which was parked down the wooded lane. They believe that while Kevin was following me Milt was following him and planned to kill him, and probably all of us, as soon as he killed Shankleman.
That night, after all the questioning, Mom, Lorraine, and I snuggled into beds at my house and slept like a trio of Rip Van Winkles. When we finally crawled out of bed the next morning, we hit the road for Arizona, unanimous in our decision to head out of town.
Clark, in spite of his broken ankle, grinned from ear to ear with happiness to have us all under his roof and waiting on him hand and foot. He sat in his recliner like a pontiff, the cast on his injured ankle festooned with colorful comments from friends and family. Lorraine fussed over him and played cards with him. Mom cooked and baked for him.
Rhythm & Clues Page 24