CHAPTER 7 – THE PACKAGE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT
Dennis Uppington was surprised at all the activity around Leonard Loomis's house, but he didn't let it deter him. He affected a stride he thought looked self-confident, and plowed forward.
He was flabbergasted to see Triple-O Five and his wife pop out the front door and come toward him. Very suspicious that was, since Triple-O Five and his wife were suspected of questionable financial activity in Africa. Dennis tried to set his face in a neutral expression and go by them, but there wasn't room.
Triple-O Five looked determined to talk to him, or at least get his attention. He found that it was difficult and awkward, overwhelming really, if you weren't sure if you were supposed to let on whether you knew a man or not.
"Hello, what do we have here?" Richard asked, nodding at the package.
Dennis hesitated. Triple-O Five outranked him, but was under suspicion. But he hadn't been pulled from duty. So probably the rank held… He handed the package over.
Marti came painfully up behind Richard and Emma and growled at Dennis from behind their legs.
"No, sir. It's all right," Dennis sputtered. "Dr. Orchard sent me. See, I have his note."
Marti moved up beside Richard. She growled louder at Dennis, while Richard read the note. The other dog limped out to stand on Richard's other side. She looked up at him, asking him to tell her what she should do.
Richard's ornery streak fought its way forward and presented him with an intense urge to give Orchard & Company's nose a twist somehow. They deserved it, after all.
He dutifully argued with himself, but not too strenuously. Whatever Orchard had sent couldn't be all that important if he'd sent it with Uppington. Besides, like nearly all desk jockeys, Uppington was too uptight. A little fun at the boy's expense might do him some good. For that matter – coming at this from another direction – sometimes it paid to be thought a bit barmy.
He tossed the package to one side in a high, wide arc, just for the joy of watching Uppington having heart failure. The larger mutt barked her delight and loped awkwardly after the package, playing fetch to the best of her injured ability. The package exploded on impact, killing the dog. Dennis sank onto the ground and whimpered. Marti barked at him. The mailman dove inside the house, stuck his head out cautiously, and told Richard, "Nice pitch." Richard noticed movement out of the corner of his eye – a person running away in the back field. He took off in pursuit, his progress hampered by the ankle he'd hurt playing movie star going over the fence. It didn't hurt a great deal, but it twinged in that particular way that suggested that it was considering going out of commission at any moment. Contrary to his better nature (not to mention logic), Richard cursed movie stars in general and Gary Cooper in particular while studiously placing his foot down just so with every step.
The mailman flung aside his mailbag, ordered Briggs to guard it, and ran after Richard, yelling "I'm right behind you." He passed Richard and kicked it into high gear.
The fleeing person barreled over the stile into the next field, glanced back, and set off with increased speed. The mailman wasn't quite as graceful as the fugitive in going over the stile and lost ground. Richard was surprisingly good at stile hurdling when properly motivated, and gained ground.
The fugitive looked to be flagging, and also looked to be in for a bit of trouble from cattle smack in the way, none of which looked inclined to break rank. Richard smiled. Cows were very stout, and stupidly inclined to dithering when you wanted them to scoot, if his limited experience with them was any guide. At any rate, at present they presented a massive and well-positioned obstacle, just when the pursuit needed one.
The suspect stopped, spun, whipped a gun forward.
The mailman froze.
"Get down," Richard yelled.
The mailman stayed frozen.
Richard tackled him, taking him to the ground just as bullets flew. He reached for his gun to return fire. No gun. No gun??? It was back with the police officer, he suddenly remembered. Confiscated, and never returned.
He dragged the mailman to where they'd be behind a few thistles and a couple of one-foot-square rocks – pathetic cover, but all that was at hand. Together they hugged the ground behind the half-useless cover. And waited.
And waited.
Richard didn't like the silence. He also wasn't thrilled about the heady aroma of cow pastures at ground level. This was not to mention that the ground was wet. The secondary problems, the smell and the damp, he could endure until doomsday if the situation called for it. But the silence was too much. He risked a peek. The person was running away. Richard thanked heaven, considering the most obvious other option was for their foe to take advantage of the horribly skewed circumstances by strolling closer and finishing them off.
He started to get up, warily, fearful of catching the gunner's eye again.
"Stay down," Emma yelled.
He hit the deck again, flattening the mailman as he went.
"Surrender or I'll shoot," Emma yelled.
No response.
"Surrender or I'll shoot," Richard echoed, louder than Emma could yell, hoping she was bluffing, since it would be hard to explain trying to shoot somebody in the back from a distance, and as the person entered a woods that might be infested with innocent bystanders, no less.
The fugitive tripped but kept going, looking more terrified than determined, for whatever that was worth. Richard hoped it meant they'd keep their mind on fleeing until they were long gone or dropped dead of a well-deserved heart attack. He looked back at his wife, who was braced behind the stile but holding fire, proving that American agents were taught not to be uncivilized, or that England was proving to be a good influence on her, or her religious convictions were a good thing to hold under the circumstances, or… horrid thought, perhaps she simply didn't trust a handgun at the distance (nor should she)… or… or something. He wasn't sure he'd ask. How did one ask a beloved spouse, 'How did you decide to do the right thing? Have you proper morals?'
Emma crawled over the stile, staying as low as she could manage, then moved, awkward and crouching, to Richard and the mailman. "Are you two all right?" she asked.
"Unscathed physically but mortally embarrassed," Richard said. "What sort of mental midget leaves his gun with a police officer when he, the mental midget I mean, takes off after a person fleeing the scene of violence?"
"Uh, one who's been arrested by mistake and had his gun confiscated early in the proceedings? At a guess," she said. "Besides, the new holsters don't feel right even with a gun in them, and-"
"Don't try to make me feel better. I nearly got both of us killed out here."
"Actually, I'm laying here thinking that you've saved my life twice in the last ten minutes," the mailman said. "Once from a bomb, once from bullets."
"Save your hero worship for someone who didn't do it by dumb luck, okay?" Richard said. A cow inched toward him, ostentatiously sniffing. "Shoo, cow. Go away," he said. The cow stopped. It cocked its head, studying him.
"Was the person you were chasing a male or a female?" Emma asked.
"I couldn't tell you," the mailman said, surprised that he couldn't.
"Nor can I," Richard admitted. "I thought for a minute it was a female, but then I talked myself out of it. I take it that you're not sure, either, or you wouldn't have asked?"
"Right on the first guess. I hoped that since you were closer, you maybe saw a face?"
"I only got something of a look. Clean-shaven. Could be a harsh female, or a boyish male," Richard said, struggling to see the image in his mind's eye. "The collar hid the neck. No Adam's apple clues, I'm afraid. Youngish, though."
"Not too young, though," the mailman said. "Didn't look childish."
"I agree," Richard said. "Not a criminal prodigy, so to speak."
"Maybe you'd best stop comparing notes, and save your memories separately for the mug sketch people," Emma suggested. She held her hand out to the nosiest cow. It came forward. She rubbed its muzzle. T
hus encouraged, more cattle converged to check out the strangers.
"Do you need an ambulance or anything?" Briggs yelled from halfway across the field, crouching as he came toward them.
"No, thank you," Richard yelled back. "We were just waiting for the dust to settle, and the shooter to get farther off. Head on back. We're right behind you."
"Some dust," Emma muttered, looking at all the mud that had worked its way into clothing and hair and skin.
"It's a form of dust," Richard quipped. "In something less than five hours, I predict it will be as powdery as anything ever found in Texas."
"Oh, it won't take quite that long, I shouldn't think," the mailman said. "Oh, you were joking? Sorry."
"Not a problem. It wasn't funny anyway," Richard said. "Rather more along the lines of pathetically trying to appear good-humored despite being shot at right after being bombed right after finding a man murdered. Probably at this stage it's in bad taste to even try to be composed, much less witty."
"You served in the military, didn't you?" the mailman said, like he'd suddenly figured something out.
"Good guess," Richard said. "Are we ready? Careful, everyone."
As they zigged and zagged back to the house, they took turns traveling backward to keep an eye on whatever menace might still be in the woods. Richard stayed attached to Emma, officially to serve in lieu of the cane she'd abandoned as she'd scrambled toward him, but mostly because he couldn't bear to not be between her and danger. She wasn't comfortable with him keeping his body between her and the woods, but she let him do it. She really had no choice. He wasn't about to give her the option.
-
The chief sat uncomfortably in a chair and watched the proceedings through a lace-curtained window at Hippo's house. "Silly me," he said. "I thought when you lent that flashing light and siren apparatus to our friend Emma, that she'd be able to spirit Richard out nice and easy, quiet and discreet, and they, at least, would be able to get on with business."
Hippo laughed. "How long did you say you've known those two?"
"It's not like I think it's their fault, having bombs go off and people running away, and all that. Don't think that."
"But it would be nice if they'd come over and fill in a few blanks, what?"
"No kidding."
"Well, they're back to cover now, safe and sound, so we can stop playing mother hens. Let's get you to bed."
"You may not want to have me here," Stolemaker said, cautiously.
"Let's get you abed anyway," Hippo said. "Richard and Emma are good people. They wouldn't ask me to do anything wrong."
"I don't think they'd intended to ask you to hide me."
"Bed. No arguing. You've been shot, remember?"
"Gee, I think I do."
"Let's see, shall I call you Michael Smith, and dub you a cousin? Will that do? If cops come by asking? I am related to whole flocks of people who are actually named Smith. And Briggs, that's our local official upholder of law and order, he knows that. Better yet, he's long since given up trying to sort out my relations."
"Maybe. Let me give the idea of using an alias a bit more thought. But so you know what you're up against, here's who I am," Stolemaker said, pulling out his official identification.
Hippo hesitated before taking it, but when Stolemaker insisted, he read carefully. "Inside trouble, then?" he asked. "Not that you need answer me," he added hastily.
"I'm afraid so. We've been infiltrated somehow. So, really, I can't ask-"
"So, you're not asking. I'm offering. Ordering, actually."
"I know you've had trouble from government-"
"Not from you," Hippo said, cutting him off. "And I'd never…" He trailed off. Was there a decent or convincing way to declare yourself trustworthy?
"Truce?" Stolemaker said, sticking out his hand. Hippo hesitated. "It seems we're in the same boat," Stolemaker said. "There's no way to prove ourselves without some time and the opportunity. I'm willing to take the chance, based on Richard's faith in you."
Hippo shook his hand. "Truce," he said.
Not Exactly Allies Page 7