On the way in, George stumbled against one of the Boston ferns that Mel had placed on either side of the French doors right after we moved in, but he managed to grab it before it went crashing to the floor. I put my finger to my lips.
“Sorry,” George mouthed.
Dewey stood a little taller, probably proud of himself for not being the one at fault this time. I guess nearly knocking over a houseplant ranks right up there with shooting a hole in the ceiling of a Revolutionary War-era church. I was just tickled he didn’t laugh out loud, point his finger, and yell, “Nyah, nah, nah, nah, nah.”
Emma was standing with Leo down the hall, shaking her head and cringing. This was the moment of truth. I glared at George and Dewey and drew my forefinger across my throat then put my finger to my lips again. They looked a little confused. Maybe they thought I was threatening to slit their throats if they weren’t quiet. Maybe I was. But at that point, I didn’t care what they thought; I’d sort out any misunderstandings later.
I glanced at Emma; she looked grim. I took a quick look at the top of the staircase to make sure the coast was clear then moved to the bottom of the stairs and motioned for her to fall in behind me. Maybe I couldn’t stop her from following me up there, but I could at least make sure my body acted as a shield if things got hairy. I’ll follow You forever, Lord, but I’ll be doggoned if I’ll follow an eighty-three-year-old woman into a gun battle.
We didn’t have a lot of time to dilly-dally on the stairs. The trade-off for stealth was speed and, hopefully, any noise we made getting up there would be balanced out by arriving faster. It was anybody’s guess and all about timing and I, as usual, had no control over any of it.
I couldn’t help wondering where Bristol was. It seemed unlikely he was still outdoors. Knowing Bristol, he’d managed to find a way inside before Emma and I made it to the church. But I also knew he wasn’t anywhere on the first floor. Was it possible he was on the second floor already? That would certainly be helpful, but I’d have to discover that when I got there. I’d know soon enough. I prayed I didn’t find him knocked out cold—or worse—when I got there. I shook my head to clear the mental cobwebs and maintain my focus.
I heard one of them—the boss, apparently—barking an order. “Reno! Get in here.”
Someone answered—Reno, I would imagine. He was obviously peeved. “Will you shut up?”
“Shut up, Reno.”
Good, those two weren’t getting along.
And then I heard the sweetest voice in the world—my wife’s. She seemed to be calmly asking questions. That’s my girl. Keep ’em occupied. Somebody—boss man, I think—yelled “Get out of here!” More arguing, then laughter, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone getting popped in the mouth.
That’s when things got a little confusing. The two white-clad men hit the floor above me in the hallway and proceeded to punch the daylights out of one another. I reached behind me with my left arm and pushed—well, dragged—Emma against the wall. She sputtered, but I ignored her protests. “Not now.” I said. “Wait here.” I started my lunge to the top of the stairs but stopped dead in my tracks.
I couldn’t believe my luck. Not only were two of the men at each other’s throats, but Bristol had materialized in front of me. He grabbed the bald one by the back of his coat, pulled him to his feet, then knocked him flat on the floor again with a mighty wallop to the jaw.
As the fight raged at the top of the stairs, a ruckus of massive proportions was brewing below me. I heard Dewey scream, “Watch out, George!” A gunshot—the all-too-familiar sound of Dewey’s pistol—ricocheted off the walls. “Got it! By golly, I got it! Did you see that sucker?”
Before I could stop her, Emma vaulted down the stairs. “Emma, get back here!”
She hollered back over her shoulder, “You just worry about yourself. I’m fine.”
I didn’t know where to look. Chaos was erupting on all sides, and I wasn’t being helpful with any of it. I had to make a choice. Up or down? Was there another guy upstairs—or maybe behind me? Emma said the guy who took Mel and the ladies was armed. Where was the gun? And was Dewey shooting at a third man or just for the sheer joy of blasting a hole in another historic structure?
The bald guy Bristol was thrashing was almost down for the count. Bristol is a big guy; only a fool would submit to his fists any longer than necessary. But we were clearly dealing with fools, and this guy, despite being physically and mentally outmatched, kept swinging. The next two seconds passed in slow motion. Bristol and Baldie traded a blow each, then the second guy, Mr. Dreadlocks—his nose spurting blood and his left eye already swelling shut—threw himself across Bristol’s back.
Meanwhile, the ruckus below me continued. I could hear Emma’s voice added to the mix; she seemed to be browbeating both George and Dewey for some gross misconduct on their part. I could hear their frantic bleating for mercy. I had a feeling Emma could be just as formidable as Sadie when it came to keeping silly gun-toting men in line.
At the moment, it looked like Bristol needed my help more than Emma did—or rather George and Dewey, as the case may be—so I plunged up the last few steps and threw myself on top of Mr. Dreadlocks with Bristol beneath him and Baldie on the bottom. I heard three groans, four counting mine, as I grabbed him by the hair and started yanking. Baldie had to be getting squashed, and I’m sure Bristol would have appreciated a little oxygen himself. Nobody was at the top of their game just then.
I had a pretty good grip on Dreadlocks’ braids and between jerking on his scalp and kneeing him in the ribs, I managed to inflict enough pain that he tumbled off Bristol. Now there were two piles of scuffling men rolling around the floor, grunting, bleeding, and in general, behaving badly. So far both Bristol and I had the upper hand. That lasted another three seconds.
I didn’t even have time to wonder if there was a third man upstairs when I spotted him sailing through the air toward me. His right arm was splashed with red. We’d found the guy Bristol had shot.
An instant later, pummeled from two directions, I was still on top of my guy, but I lost my concentration when Bleeder jumped me. Dreadlocks slipped from my grasp and rolled out from beneath me. The two of them took turns walloping me. My mother would have claimed they weren’t playing fair, but she wasn’t there at the moment and any onsite refereeing had gone by the wayside. I was on my own and had only twenty-seven years of military chaplain experience and lessons learned from years of being whomped by three older brothers to get me through it.
I honestly think I could have taken them, but we’ll never know for certain. I was mid-blow when the scariest sight I’ve ever seen emerged above me—Sadie Simms with a gun.
“Freeze, buster!”
Nobody froze. I took another couple of blows—one to my skull and another to my ribs—before Bleeder screamed, grabbed his wounded arm, and rolled away from me. “When I say freeze,” Sadie screeched, “I mean freeze.”
One down, one to go. Dreadlocks was getting ready to knock my lights out for good when he collapsed in a heap atop me. I didn’t have time to duck, and we cracked skulls. I grabbed my fractured head and muscled him aside—none too gently, I’m afraid. Nothing bugs me more than bumping heads with a guy bent on killing a friend of mine. I’m funny that way.
Melanie stood above me with a bust of John Adams in her right hand and a big grin on her face. “Founding father to the rescue.” She extended her arm. “Need a hand, Rambo?”
I grabbed on and scrambled up. “Do I ever.” I alternately groaned and rubbed body parts. Bristol! I twisted around, ready to re-enter the fray, but Bristol was sitting on the floor, breathing heavily and bleeding from the mouth. “Hey, you okay?” I said.
He nodded, but didn’t look too convincing. “Yeah, but I’m getting too old for this stuff.” He scrambled to his feet and looked around. Bleeder was still writhing around on the floor, holding his arm, and cussing. Every couple of seconds, Sadie kicked him, and he’d cuss some more.
�
�Watch your mouth, mister,” she said. “You’re in enough trouble as it is without adding foul language to your rap sheet.”
Dreadlocks lay in a heap at my feet with a magnificent lump on his head. Bristol looked up at me. “President Adams does good work.”
He shrugged. “Seems so.”
“Where’s your guy?”
Bristol pointed down the stairway. “Being slaughtered by senior citizens.” George, Dewey, and Emma were standing around a clearly-defeated man kneeling on the floor, arms over his head. He cowered and yelped while they took turns slapping him on his bald head.
“And that’s for taking my friends hostage!” Smack.
“And for scaring my poor wife.” Whap.
“This is for making folks think my wife killed her brother.” Slap. I thought that was stretching Baldie’s guilt a bit far. After all, the residents thought that before the bad guys even got here, but hey, this was a really nasty man. He could handle a little more guilt.
I took pity on him, though, and called off the vigilantes. “Okay, guys. I think we’ve got him now.”
Bristol walked down the steps, a little gingerly, and yanked Baldie to his feet. I stood slowly, my limbs and head and torso and every other part of me screaming out their indignation at what I’d just put them through.
“Okay, Benjamin, time to face the music.” Bristol pulled out another plastic tie and cuffed the man’s hands behind his back. He turned to look up at me. “You got those guys, Hugh?”
“We got ’em!” Sadie yelled before I could answer.
Bleeder was standing now, leaning against the wall and holding his arm. “Get her away from me,” he said. “She’s dangerous. She hit me where I got shot.”
“Darned tootin’ I hit you where you got shot. You think I’m stupid? Worked, too, didn’t it?” She waved the gun around with a gleeful cackle.
I noticed the joy in her voice—a little too much joy for my peace of mind. “Hey, Sadie, why don’t you let me take it from here, okay? Give me the gun, and we’ll get these guys out of the house.”
She shook her head. “Naw, I got him, Pastor. You just take care of greasy guy there and I’ll keep a watch on Bleeding Beauty.” She waved the gun again. “Don’t you worry ’bout me accidentally shooting him. You can bet if I shoot him, I’ll mean it.”
I cast a quick glance at Mel, and she gave me a slight nod. She’d watch over Sadie and her prisoner while I got Dreadlocks down the stairs. He was still pretty much out of it, so I picked him up under his arms, dragged him to the top of the stairs, then backed down one step at a time. The ride was bumpy, but he probably didn’t remember much of it, although he sure groaned a lot. Can’t say as I blame him any. I was groaning myself.
Bristol hauled Benjamin to one side and propped him against the wall and then helped me drag my guy to the other side of the room and get him tied up. “You might want to relieve Sadie,” I said to Bristol.
He looked up and saw her waving that gun around and took the steps four at a time.
A couple of minutes later, all three bad guys were moaning and cussing, trussed up with plastic ties like a trio of garbage bags. They were in various stages of bruising. I took one look at them and wondered what I looked like. Not very pastor-like, I’ll bet.
I sent George and Dewey outdoors to let the others inside; they must have been half frozen by then. Mel and Sadie walked downstairs, arms around one another, followed by the rest of the women. Emma met them at the bottom. “Are you ladies okay? Did they hurt you at all?”
Sadie screeched—her version of a hearty laugh, probably better understood in the chicken kingdom. “Just the opposite, Emma. How about you? You all right?”
They all exchanged hugs and exclamations of bravery, asked about their husbands, then walked off into the living room. A couple of seconds later, someone—Ruby Mae Headley, I presumed—screamed at the top of her lungs, “What happened to my hat?” Just then Dewey and George walked into the dining room, followed by the rest of the men. They looked like wrinkled icicles.
Dewey heard Ruby Mae’s cry of horror and did an about-face. “Not so fast, Dewey,” George said, grabbing his arm. “Time to face the music.”
Dewey cast a glare at George that should have fried his eyeballs, yanked his arm out of his friend’s grasp, and walked into the room. “Sorry, Ruby Mae,” he said. “I did that. Shot it. Didn’t mean to. Really I didn’t.” He stumbled around for a second then blurted out, “It was dark and I thought it was the gosh-darned biggest moth I’d ever seen!”
“A moth? Are you nuts? That was my prize-winning funeral hat, Dewey Wyandotte. I was gonna wear that hat to heaven and now you’ve gone and blown it to smithereens. What am I gonna wear to heaven now? What’s God gonna think when I don’t have my prize-winnin’ funeral hat on me? Huh? Well, what’s He gonna think?”
Dewey just stood there with his mouth hanging open. “I— I don’t know, Ruby Mae. I just don’t know. But I didn’t do it on purpose. Truly, I didn’t. Things were gettin’ kind of crazy, and it was dark in here and I saw it sittin’ on top of the chair there and with those wing things on either side of it. Well, I just figgered it had to be a giant moth. Biggest danged moth I ever did see. Kinda like that Mothman creature you hear about on TV.”
“Mothman? Why on earth would Mothman be in this living room in little old Road’s End, Virginia? In the middle of a blizzard, no less? Tell me that, Dewey Wyandotte. Why would a monster moth be sittin’ on Melanie Foster’s chair in her living room, for crying out loud?” Ruby Mae was right up in his face by then.
Melanie stepped in. “Well, Ruby Mae, things did get a little crazy around here, you know, and what with it being dark and all, well, I can see how Dewey might err on the side of caution. And with the angel wings sitting there beside it, I can see how he’d make that mistake. I might have thought the same thing.”
Ruby Mae turned to Mel. “Oh, you would not, Melanie Foster. You got too many brains to think Mothman up and decided to visit your living room on the same night we had a blizzard and a bunch of madmen showed up to shoot us all.”
Melanie patted her on the arm and ignored her outburst. “Besides, Ruby Mae, you aren’t anywhere near ready for heaven. You’ve got plenty of time to make another hat.”
By then, Winnie had marched up next to Dewey and was standing by her man, ready to defend him against any and all heavenly hat fanatics—not that there were any more of them in the room, thank goodness. Ruby Mae stood nose-to-nose with Dewey for a few seconds longer then backed off with a harrumph and a backward frown. “I s’pose,” she said, “but God’ll know it’s not the original.”
Nobody knew what to say to that, so no one said anything at all. Yes, God will know, Ruby Mae, but you’re not showing up in heaven with a hat on to begin with. But I didn’t have the energy to argue with her. She’d find out the truth sooner or later.
Chapter Forty
Things finally settled down. I dispatched a few of the men to let Joe and Sherman know they could bring Delbert Jackson and Mr. Meltaway inside for now. Sophie, however, stayed put. Everyone ate beef stew—feathers and all—exchanged tall tales, and slapped one another on the back in a touching display of town camaraderie. That would change soon enough, but for the time being it seemed nice.
There was some heated discussion about what to do with the bad guys until law enforcement could make their way to Road’s End. Opinion was divided between tossing them in the tunnel with some food and water and blocking both entrances to prevent their escape or keeping watch over them in the church. The men were pretty whipped and weren’t looking forward to standing guard, but I knew I’d be terrified if someone tossed me into a dark tunnel overnight. Yes, these were nasty men, but I couldn’t bring myself to do something to them that would probably scare me to death. So the church it was.
In an embarrassing turn of events, it turned out during a private conversation between the two of us that Del, despite his nasty demeanor and “great big, ugly thug” wr
itten all over him, was indeed nothing more than an obnoxious, unattractive, innocent bystander.
“Drove my ... uh ... my stinking car off the road a mile or so back. Ended up in the ditch,” he explained when he finally warmed up from his stay in the shed with Sophie and Mr. Meltaway. “Had to walk here in that ... that miserable weather to find shelter for the night.” It must have been driving him crazy to speak without peppering his sentences with curses.
But I had to admit I was horrified. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he sued us for every penny he could get. “Well, we’re mighty sorry about the mix-up, Del. I know the ladies were only acting in what they thought was a prudent manner at the time.”
“Prudent? Hitting me on the head with a cast iron pan? Tying me up and dragging me around in the snow?”
He had a point. It did seem a little over the top, but considering who he’d been dealing with, he was lucky they didn’t whack him with the cast iron stove. “Well, I admit they were a bit ... enthusiastic. But remember, they were fighting for their lives. They thought you were with that gang.”
He was still stuck on prudent. “And stuffing a mop in my mouth? That’s prudent? How ’bout throwing me in that dark, crummy shed with a camel? I suppose you think that’s prudent?” By this time he was practically spitting out his words.
I took a step backward out of spitting range. “Well, that shed might be dark and crummy, Del, but I’ll have you know it’s over two hundred fifty years old and I’m mighty proud of it. Besides, I put fresh hay in it just yesterday.”
“What’s that gotta do with anything? I don’t care how old that stupid shed is or how fresh that hay was, it didn’t do a thing to keep me warm or get that stupid camel outta my face.”
“Sophie.”
“What?”
“Her name’s Sophie. The camel, that is. And from what I hear, she’s not stupid.”
He looked incredulous. “What do I care what her name is? I don’t care if she’s the Great High Princess Camel from Jupiter and Beyond, she still stinks.” Del snorted, rather unpleasantly. “And why would they think I was part of that .... that what? That buncha felons? Or some crummy gangsters?”
Misstep (The Road's End Series Book 1) Page 22