“You ladies ready?” Sadie said to the other women, pulling on her gloves and adjusting the scarf around her neck. She tucked the ends into the front of her coat and pulled a hand-knit stocking cap over her white hair.
Melanie walked into the kitchen. “Ready for what?” She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the group of coat-clad women and the trussed-up chubby guy squirming and grunting on the floor. “What on earth are you doing?” She looked almost comical; head up at the ladies, head down at the squirmer. Up, ladies; down, man. Ladies, man. Ladies, man. She didn’t look very happy either.
Four heads—five, counting Delbert’s—looked toward Melanie. “We’re taking him to interrogation,” Sadie said.
“You’re what?”
“Interrogation. You know, where you ask him questions?”
Hazel jumped in. “And he spills his guts.” She nodded and winked at Melanie.
Emma guessed gut-spilling justified everything.
“I know what interrogation means, Sadie. I meant what are you doing it for? Have you ladies lost your minds?”
Delbert nodded his head vigorously.
Sadie jabbed him in the ribs with her shoe. “Stay out of this, Mr. Jackson.” She looked back at Melanie. “No, dear, we haven’t, but we could use a little help here. Will you give us a hand?”
“I most certainly will not,” Melanie said. “You ladies can’t go out there. Those guys are armed! They have guns. They’ll shoot you.”
By now, Delbert’s head was bobbing up and down like the toy woodpecker that used to drink from the glass of water on Emma’s kitchen counter. This time, it was Hazel who jabbed him with her foot, and none too gently. “No, they won’t, Melanie. They won’t see us. Don’t you understand? We’re going to create a diversion at the front of the house and then we’ll drag Mr. Jackson out to the henhouse that your husband worked on this afternoon.” She gestured toward the backyard. “I haven’t seen it myself yet, dear, but Sadie says it’s coming along nicely and that Mr. Jackson will be quite comfortable in there … out of the wind, you know. And then we’ll know right where he is when we take down those shooters.”
“Take down those shooters? Did I hear you say take down those shooters?”
“Yes, you did, dear. I watch a lot of crime-stopping television shows, you know. You can learn quite a bit of their lingo if you listen carefully. Shooters are guys with …”
Melanie sighed and hung her head. “I know what shooters are, Hazel.” Her head jerked up suddenly. “Where are the other ladies?”
Emma thought Sadie looked rather smug when she answered Melanie’s question. “Diversion, my dear. Diversion.”
There aren’t a lot of directions you can move when you’re mired in a snowdrift up to your hips and being jumped on from above. Down—that’s about all I could muster. For the second time in as many minutes, I found myself face first in the frigid white stuff, but this time I had more trouble scrambling upright. Someone was sitting on my head.
I thrashed around and managed to land a few elbow jabs to various body parts of my attacker, but there was no doubt I was the underdog in this conflict. I went limp and braced for the worst—a crack on the head, a gunshot, maybe both. Lord, help me, help my wife, help everyone.
Surprisingly, nothing happened; no thunderous roar, no blinding pain, no dead Hugh. My attacker seemed to be backing off, sliding into the snow bank beside me. When I felt his weight lessen, I gulped for air then chanced a peek in his direction. He’d all but disappeared into the snow, his white camouflage outfit enhancing the illusion that he was melting away. Thank You, Lord, I breathed. What happened?
I sensed, rather than saw the movement beside me. Another one? I flipped on my back and drew my legs toward me to fend off the new guy. Just before I kicked him in the right knee as hard as I could, I noticed it was Bristol. Whoops.
He grabbed his leg and dropped to the side, groaning. I struggled to get upright; he extended an arm and pulled me out of the hole I’d made. I stood and reached down to help him. “Sorry, man,” I said.
He waved me off and rubbed his leg instead. “In a second, Hugh.” He motioned for me to lay low, and I sank down back into the snow beside him.
I motioned to the knocked-out guy next to me. “What about him?”
Bristol reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a couple of long plastic ties, the kind used for handcuffs. “These won’t keep him forever, but they’ll do for now. Hands and feet—behind him.”
I did as he instructed, and by the time I had him restrained, the guy was awake and thrashing around. “Here,” Bristol said, handing me a roll of duct tape. “Better shut him up with this.” I peeled off a few inches and pressed it firmly across his mouth. He could still grunt, but no one could hear him over the wind. One down, three to go. Four, if you counted Delbert Jackson.
“Okay,” Bristol said. “Better get this guy out of sight and find the others.”
“Any idea where they are?”
“Not exactly, but I imagine one of them is probably still back at the church, and the other two are probably scouting out the inn. Of course, I’m just guessing.” He moved slowly, but managed to stand upright, then leaned down to rub his leg again. “Boy, where’d you learn to kick like that?”
“Three older brothers.”
“Good training, Pastor. I’ll bet your mom’s proud of you.”
“Yeah, but let’s keep this little incident between ourselves, okay? She thinks I’m a pacifist.”
“A pacifist in the military?”
“Yeah, well, a chaplain, remember. Do you think the guys are okay at the church?”
“You mean our guys or the bad guys?”
“Good point. Let’s find out what’s going on at the inn, get our ladies taken care of, then head back toward the church. I don’t trust that Delbert Jackson. And I think Leo probably has things under control over there,” I said, cocking my head toward the church. Bristol glanced at the church and then did a double-take.
“What’s up?” I followed his gaze.
“Not quite sure, but I thought I saw some movement over there.” He hunkered down into the snow again and I followed suit. Would I never get out of this snow drift? “There,” he said. “See that?”
I couldn’t make out what it was, but there was definitely something—or someone—moving. “Could be an animal, I suppose,” I said. “Deer, maybe? But on a night like tonight?”
Bristol shook his head. “Doubtful. More than likely it’s one of them, but he’s wearing something dark. None of the men followed you out of the church, did they?”
I shook my head. “No. No reason to.” Then it hit me. I groaned and dropped my head, pulled off my glove and rubbed my eyes. “Sherman. I’ll bet it’s Sherman. He wanted to help out, and I had to get a little rough with him. I thought I’d convinced him it would be lunacy to get out in this stuff, but maybe I didn’t.” I pointed behind me to the general vicinity of the dairy. “He put Sophie in there, and he’s worried about gunfire.”
“Gunfire? The camel? Why would anyone shoot a camel?”
“That’s what I asked, but he seems to think she’ll get caught in the crossfire. I’ll bet that’s him.” I pulled my glove back on, crossed my arms over my chest, and tucked my hands under my arms. “Now what do we do?”
Bristol pointed to the guy squirming in the snow behind us. “Let’s get him taken care of. Sophie’s shed seems to be about the best place for him, I’d say. Let’s flip him on his stomach. You grab his hands, and I’ll get his feet.” He had to lean toward me so I could hear him over the wailing wind. “Let’s make this quick. I don’t want to lose sight of Sherman.”
Mr. Meltaway didn’t want to cooperate, so hauling him to the henhouse was more a matter of dragging him face first through the snow. I could only imagine how cold his face was going to be when this was all said and done. If all went well, though, a frozen face would be the least of his worries at the end of the night.
We reac
hed the henhouse. “You realize what we’re doing, don’t you? There’s a camel in there—a live one,” I said. “And according to Sherman, she’s not very social. It might get a little hairy in there for Mr. Bad Guy here.”
“Too bad. I guess that’s the price he’ll have to pay for leading a life of crime. Come on, big fella. In you go.” He removed the padlock from the holes in the hasp and pulled the door toward him. “On the count of three.” We started to swing him back and forth. “One, two, three!”
In he went. We didn’t give Sophie a chance to react to the intrusion and slammed the door shut before the guy even hit the ground. I heard a grunt—not sure if it was Sophie or our trussed-up villain. Bristol pushed the padlock through the holes again and turned it to make it appear at first glance as if it were locked. “He’ll be fine. They’ll probably keep each other warm.”
I slapped Bristol on the back. “Where to now, fella?”
We looked around. In front of us to our left lay the inn and to the right, across Rivermanse Lane, the church. Directly behind us and up the hill beyond a tree line stood Rivermanse. Between us and the back of the inn was an acre or so of open ground with a smattering of snow-laden shrubs that might afford a bit of cover, but no protection. I thought about the lay of the land for a minute then nudged Bristol, pointed behind us, and said, “How about heading back toward that tree line, moving through there, and then heading to the back of the inn from the east side?”
Bristol hesitated for a minute then nodded. “Sounds good. That’ll keep us out of sight and we can see if someone’s on that side of the house before we expose ourselves to any gunfire.” We plastered ourselves against the side of the henhouse and took a quick look around before heading to the line of oak and maple trees that separated our land from Emma’s.
We hadn’t moved five feet before the first shot was fired.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A split-second later I was chin-deep in a snow bank—again. Bristol was right beside me with his hand on my head shoving my face into the ground. “This isn’t supposed to be happening,” I said, more to the mound of snow than to anyone else.
Bristol moved closer to my ear and in a growled whisper, said, “Hey, I didn’t expect this guy to show up tonight either.” He wiggled a little deeper into the snow.
Another shot. Then another. I shuddered when I heard the bullets thud into a tree trunk on Emma’s property a few yards behind us. Emma wasn’t gonna like this one little bit.
It occurred to me that a snow bank might hide us for a while, but it wouldn’t stop a one-winged mosquito, let alone a blazing bullet, if it really wanted to get through. Two more shots. That makes five. At least he wasn’t a crack shot.
I changed tactics. “Shouldn’t we be making snowballs or something?”
“Not yet.
“Not yet?”
“Not yet.”
Six. That meant the shooter was out of bullets, right? Don’t guns hold six bullets or aren’t all guns the six-shooters I remember from my Wyatt Earp days? Another zing. Seven. Guess not.
“Got something better, Pastor. Way better. Hang on.”
Better? What, a missile, maybe? Anything less seemed futile. It didn’t occur to me that Bristol might be packing heat. A nasty-looking handgun appeared two inches from my face. I turned my head, the barrel touched my nose. That hadn’t happened to me before. Odd sensation. If I’d had any feeling in my nose, the barrel might have felt cold. As it was, it just felt vaguely … I don’t know … wrong. I made a mental note to ask Bristol when this was all over what kind of gun it was. Then I wondered if I was being a bit optimistic about there being a “when this was all over,” what with being shot at every other second.
Bristol elbowed ahead and inched his knees forward until he was in a crouching position, which I—suspicious man that I am—interpreted as an ‘Any second now, I’m going to leave you here in the snow bank all by your lonesome’ move. I wasn’t crazy about the idea, but he was the one with the gun. If he wanted to crouch, let him crouch. If he wanted to leave, I guess there wasn’t much I could do about it.
Another shot. More cringing. Another hole in the tree behind me, more bark scattered about on the snow. If I’d counted correctly—and if there’s anything I’ve got down pat, it’s counting—that made a total of eight shots. “Keep your head down, Pastor.” Gotcha.
I felt Bristol tense and looked up just in time to see him leap from behind our flimsy cover and into the night. If you’ve ever seen a grasshopper spring from its cover and land three feet away with no reasonable grounds for success, then you’ve seen what Bristol did. One second, my mild-mannered handyman was lying next to me in our snow fort; the next, he was flying through the air and blasting off shots like Bat Masterson. Bristol’s shot blasted through the wind and snow. Almost simultaneously, I heard a shriek and knew the Lord had come through again.
“Got him,” Bristol said as he scrambled back through the snow and slid down next to me. “Don’t know if he’s down for good, but he won’t be using that arm to shoot at anybody for a while.” He pulled at my arm and pointed toward the line of trees behind us. “Let’s go see what the ladies and Mr. Jackson are up to.”
I struggled to my knees, keeping my head down—wounded arm or not, I didn’t trust whoever had been blasting away at us just seconds before. Bristol took a quick look around and nodded.
We had almost reached the tree line when the night exploded around us. I dived back into the snow. Good grief, what now?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emma heard the roar of a thousand firecrackers erupting outside. The inn lit up with the brilliance of a sunny day, and she clapped her hand over her mouth to keep her heart from spilling out onto the kitchen floor. Hazel screamed, Winnie whimpered, the rest of them shrieked. Sadie raised her fist and whooped, “Come with us, Mr. Jackson. You’ve got some gut-spillin’ to do.”
Emma and Lorena both grabbed a pant leg, Sadie and Hazel latched on to his shoulders, and the four of them alternately dragged and jerked Delbert across the room to the kitchen door. He struggled, twisting this way and that, until Sadie reached over to the kitchen counter, grabbed a wooden rolling pin, and thumped him on the back. “You want this across the back of your head, mister? Just keep it up.”
Emma cringed on his behalf.
Delbert growled but stopped squirming.
Hazel reached for the door and pulled it open. A blast of wintery air flew in with the snow and swirled around the hapless Mr. Jackson. Emma was glad he was dressed in his winter coat and hat when Winnie had smacked him on the head on his way in from shoveling. Straw or no straw, he’d freeze out there in his shirtsleeves.
Emma was glad for the break when they reached the door. It hadn’t been five seconds, but hauling a 250-pound man wasn’t easy, even if they did drag him most of the way. As if reading her mind, Sadie said, “Ladies, it’ll be easier from now on. Just let him roll down these steps. Then we’ll grab him again, and he’ll slide across the snow a lot easier than he did this floor.”
Hazel leaned against the door to keep it open. The ladies put their backs into it, and a few seconds later, Mr. Jackson was rolling end over applecart down the steps and into an enormous drift at the bottom. He spit and sputtered and managed to roll over on his back. By then the ladies had scrambled down the steps and were hovering over him again, giving each other high fives and cheering.
“Just look at that,” Lorena said, pointing at the flames leaping into the air in the front of the inn. “Guess you won’t be driving that out of town, now will you, Mr. Jackson?”
Jackson raised his head, looked around, and closed his eyes. His head sank back into the snow, and he groaned.
His beautiful white Hummer was lying in fiery chunks up and down Gloucester Street. The wind whipped the flames into a frenzy; they darted this way, then that, as if not sure just where to point their hot fingers, what to destroy next. Small chunks of metal and rubber still filtered down from the sky and li
ttered the front yard.
My mouth hung open as I watched the glowing embers dance on the wind, scuttling here and there, almost brush the ground, then get swept up into a gust, and tossed skyward once more. “What on earth?” Of course, I knew what had happened—the Hummer had blown sky high. I just didn’t know how.
“Appears Mr. Jackson has lost his ride home,” Bristol said.
“Certainly does. Just hope my house and the church don’t go up with it.”
“Naw, I think it’s all right. The wind is pretty strong. I don’t think any embers would stay on the roofs long enough to catch fire.” He pointed to his right, and I saw two figures running toward the burning hulk—both dressed in white and illuminated beautifully by the fiery glow that lingered. “I don’t know what they think they’re going to do, but I think this is our chance.”
We sank to our knees and starting crawling through the snow—not any easy task with the snow as deep as it was. But there was no sense in giving away our position any sooner than necessary. Our only chance at overpowering the men and getting their guns away from them would be in surprising them. My mind reeled. What on earth caused the Hummer to explode? Melanie and the ladies had to be terrified. I glanced up at the inn just as the back door flew inward and a body tumbled down the back steps.
Jackson?
Following him on foot down the steps came five ladies, all dressed in winter coats, high-fiving each other. And one of them was my wife.
The night was on fire. Emma had never seen anything like it—not even close. Melanie stood with her hands on her hips. “Okay, ladies, please tell me that wasn’t the diversion you mentioned inside. Please.”
Sadie shaded her eyes with her hand. “Afraid you’re right, Melanie. I don’t know who did that, but they certainly put our little diversion to shame. We were just gonna break the windows and let the car alarm go off. We figured that’d be enough to get their attention.” She gestured toward the flaming mass. “But this,” she said, shaking her head, “this is pure genius.”
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