Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  She let out the breath she'd been holding and opened the last drawer. It was obviously the treasure chest of this overgrown child, filled with keepsakes and memen toes. Libby sifted through its contents, digging through oddly shaped rocks, a robin's egg blown hollow, creased snapshots of a man and woman in fifties dress—typical souvenirs of a quiet life in Lackaduck. Digging deeper, she found some more disturbing items. There was a plastic hairbrush with a few strands of long blond hair caught in its bristles. A leather change purse, blue with gold clasps, was empty except for a shiny penny.

  She dug a little deeper, then caught her breath and jerked her hand back as if she'd hit a hot coal. Her own change purse was in there, right beneath a bottle of Paris Pink nail polish. She pulled it out, her hands shaking, and opened it. Several crisp dollar bills still nested among the nickels and dimes. Mike hadn't taken the money, so why did he want her change purse? She remembered Cash's words. "He's kind of obsessive. I'm afraid he's shifted his focus onto you."

  Her head spun and she felt weak. Seeing her lost purse mingling with Mike's other treasures made his collec tion of souvenirs take on a new and threatening aura. She returned it to the drawer and stared at it, dazed. She almost didn't hear the gravel crunching in the driveway over the ringing in her ears, but headlights sweeping across the wall jolted her back to reality. She jumped up, scanning the windows and doors, looking for an exit. Tonight, of all nights, Crazy Mike had decided to lay off the booze.

  She slammed the drawer shut and bolted through a side door, yanking it closed behind her. Ducking behind the shrubbery, she dropped to her hands and knees and scurried to the back of the cabin. She turned and peeked around the corner just as Crazy Mike stepped out of his car. He was carrying two large jackrabbits by their floppy ears. Their long hind legs dragged the ground, making four shallow trails in the dirt. He looked like an enormous toddler traipsing off to bed with his favorite toys.

  Libby crouched below a window, barely breathing, her heart pounding. The shrubs around the shack were infested with thistles and other prickly things that were stabbing her back and scratching her bare legs. She could hear Mike's heavy tread on the floorboards inside, then a muffled thump that made her figure he'd set the rabbits on the work table. "Good boys," he said softly in his high, piping voice. Good boys? Was somebody with him? Libby knew he was alone. He had to be talking to the rabbits.

  No wonder they called him crazy. Luke could protest all he wanted. This guy was nuts.

  "Let's see what we can do now," he murmured. "Come here, little bunny. Let's see your pretty face."

  Libby couldn't resist a peek. After all, he had the lights on, and it was dark outside. He couldn't see her. She poked her head above the windowsill.

  Mike was seated in the office chair at his worktable. One bunny lay prostrate like a forgotten plaything at the edge of the table. The other was cradled in his arms.

  "Nice little bunny. Nice boy," Mike murmured, touch ing a shiny scalpel to the rabbit's throat. Reflexively, Libby's hand rose to her own neck, shielding it in a protective gesture.

  "Nice bunny," he said again.

  In one smooth motion, he sliced the rabbit's flesh in a neat line from chin to groin. Sweeping the animal onto the table, he slid his hands into its belly and scooped a hand ful of glistening entrails into a waiting bucket. "There we go. We don't need that anymore, no, we don't."

  As Libby watched in reluctant fascination, Mike proceeded to separate the rabbit from its skin. When he was done, the slick underside of the rabbit's epidermis glistened in the bright fluorescent light.

  He turned to the second rabbit, continuing to mutter as he worked. "Good boy, good bunny. That's a pretty, pretty boy. You're going to be a pretty bunny. You get to be a jackalope, yes, you do." He finished the second rabbit, then turned the two animal skins fur-side up.

  Carefully, Mike draped the bloody heads over his hands like puppets and brought the two dead noses together in a grotesque kiss. "Hello, pretty bunny," he made the first rabbit say. "Hello, darling," the second rabbit said, cock ing its eyeless head. "I love you, pretty bunny."

  The rabbit on the left took exception to this. "You don't love me! I don't love you back—not at all. You're weird. Nobody could love you, ever, you weirdo!"

  "You kissed me," the first rabbit protested. "I kissed you, and you kissed me back."

  "I was just being nice," said the second rabbit. "I was just being polite. I didn't want to hurt your feelings."

  "No, you love me. I felt it when you kissed me. I know you love me. You have to! You have to! I love you, and you love me!"

  Mike contorted his arm so that one rabbit turned its back on the other. "You're a weirdo. I'm telling my friends. I'm warning them to stop being nice to you. I'm telling everybody."

  "No!" Mike was shouting now. His face was con torted in an agonized grimace. He was taking this whole rabbit scenario way too seriously. "You're my pretty bunny. Mine!"

  Still shrouding his hand with the animal's drooping head, Mike reached for the scalpel he'd set aside. Now the angry rabbit appeared to be brandishing a large knife. Suddenly, it lunged for its companion, the knife stabbing through the thin rabbit skin and into Mike's hand.

  "Oooooow! Ow-wooo!," Mike howled, dropping the rabbits and clutching his hand. Blood dribbled from a deep cut on the fleshy base of his thumb. He stood and spun around, trampling the rabbits underfoot. "You stu pid! You stupid! You weirdo!"

  He sat again, white-faced, and bent over his bleeding hand. Tears started from his eyes as he dabbed at the blood with a dirty rag.

  "You weirdo," he muttered. "Nobody could love you. You stupid freak. Everybody knows. Everybody."

  Chapter 22

  LIBBY WAS HYPERVENTILATING WHEN SHE GOT BACK to the truck. She'd scrambled out of the shrubbery and run for the woods while Mike was distracted by his self inflicted wound. Thrashing through the underbrush, she'd made a wide circle around the house and found her way back to her pickup.

  It was a good thing the sheriff was bending his elbow at the bar, because she surely would have gotten a ticket if he'd seen her speeding home. She pulled into the driveway and slouched behind the wheel in relief, grate ful to be back at her happy homestead.

  The porch light was on and the house was glowing like a Thomas Kinkaid painting. Ivan was doing a fair impression of long-gone road kill on the front step. A puppy, resting its front legs on the big dog's massive shoulders, pricked up its ears and barked a thin, high pitched yap of welcome. Luke stepped out onto the porch, puppies gamboling about his feet, as Libby threw the pickup into park.

  The place looked like the picture for the definition of "home" in some very poetically illustrated dictionary. Libby thought back to freshman year and worked out an Art Appreciation 101 analysis of the scene. It was the lighting, she decided, that made it so appealing. Or maybe the composition. The color. The puppies.

  No, it wasn't any of those things.

  It was the man.

  Much as she hated to admit it, the idea of Luke wait ing for her, welcoming her, gave coming home a whole new shine.

  She stepped out of the truck, suddenly conscious of her appearance. Her bare arms were scraped and scratched in a dozen places, and her hair was festooned with twigs and shreds of leaves. She'd torn her jeans in her last mad scramble through the woods, and her face was probably streaked with dirt. She decided to act casual.

  "Hey, Luke," she said smoothly. "Whatcha doin'?"

  "I called to see how Rooster was doing, and you didn't answer. I was picturing you writhing in agony on the kitchen floor, poisoned by some unseen hand. So I came over. The door was open, and these guys seemed glad to see me. I hope you don't mind." He bent and picked up Rooster. "They seem to be doing fine. Even this guy."

  "Ron says it might have been arsenic," Libby said, pushing past him into the house. "He's running tests."

  She glanced over at the sofa and blanched. She'd been working all day, and everything else had literally fallen by th
e wayside, including a few articles of clothing. The bright T-shirt she'd traded for a darker secret-agent model was tossed carelessly across the sofa, along with a pair of running shorts and a white cotton bra she'd replaced with a sexier number that seemed more appro priate for her Bond Girl expedition.

  She shoved the bra under a throw pillow, then turned her attention to her messy kitchen. She'd left a pile of dishes from the day before by the sink, but Luke had evidently pitched in to help. The sink was heaped with soap bubbles and a few plates were slotted into the drying rack.

  "You didn't have to do that," she said, hustling over to the counter. "I was going to get to it eventually." She plunged her hands into the soapy water and fished out another plate. Cranking the hot water on full blast, she rinsed it and set it in the rack.

  "Tell you what," Luke said. "You wash, I'll dry."

  She remembered her morning-after dreams and felt a little swoony, then kicked herself back into gear and got busy with the suds. Luke stood beside her, towel at the ready. His shirt smelled deliciously like old leather and horses, and his skin was scented with some kind of sweet-smelling aftershave that was clearly designed to make women lose their minds and tear off their clothes.

  "I hope you don't mind that I came over," he said as Libby handed him a salad bowl. His fingers brushed hers, and she felt a thrill zip down to her toes. "I know it's butting in, but you were upset yesterday and I wanted to make sure Rooster was okay. And you." He gave her a tender sideways glance. "I wanted to make sure you were okay too."

  "It's fine, Luke," she said. "I'm fine." Her voice came out huskier than she intended, and she had to clear her throat.

  He dried the last of the salad bowls as Libby fished around in the dishwater for the wine glasses. She felt a sharp stab of pain and jerked her hand out of the water, holding up a piece of broken stemware. A glittering shard of glass was embedded in the palm of her hand.

  "Oh, no." Luke shifted the faucet lever to cold and guided her palm under the numbing stream of water, cradling her hand in his as he gently eased the glass out of the cut. "Hold it up," he said, lifting her hand to his chest. "Above your heart."

  He tore a paper towel off the roll with one hand and gently blotted the water and blood away, then bent and kissed the wound. Libby felt dizzy all of a sudden, and it wasn't from loss of blood.

  "You okay?" Luke pressed the towel into her palm and they stood there, face to face, their hands clasped together, their eyes meeting over her injured hand.

  "I'm so sorry. It's my fault," he said. "I shouldn't have put the glassware in with the bowls."

  "It's okay," Libby said. "They were cheap wineglasses. Wal-Mart." The light over the sink seemed to flicker and dim as she watched her blood bloom red on the paper towel. "I need to sit down," she said. She was pathetic, and she knew it. The cut wasn't even an inch long.

  "Sorry," she said as he led her to the sofa. "It's noth ing, really. You shouldn't have to take care of me." She tried to laugh, but it came out a little weak. No one should have to take care of her. She could take care of herself.

  Why did she keep forgetting that lately?

  "I don't mind," he said. He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it again as they sank onto the cushions. "I'll take care of you any time. Because I do. Care, I mean. I care about…"

  His eyes searched hers, probing for even the smallest shred of encouragement. Libby shook off her weakness and willed herself not to respond, concentrating on the clock on the wall, the teapot on the stove—anything but Luke.

  "The puppies," he finished lamely, looking down and adjusting the throw rug with the toe of his boot. "I really care about the puppies, I guess." He set her hand down on her thigh and cupped her fingers around the wad of paper towel. "Just hang on to that a while," he said. "Squeeze. It's almost stopped bleeding." He rose, looking uncertain. "I should go."

  "Wait. Help me put a Band-Aid on it." Libby got up and opened a drawer next to the sink, pulling out a box of Curads and a tube of antiseptic ointment. "I'll need one of these big ones, I think."

  She sat down at the table and struggled with the inge nious sterile wrapping, tearing it to pieces in an effort to extract the bandage with her one uninjured hand.

  "Here. Let me." He sat down next to her at the head of the table and she handed him the package. Squinting with concentration, he fished the plastic strip from the mangled wrapper and peeled the paper back from the ad hesive, his big workingman's hands surprisingly agile. "Hold out your hand."

  He opened the antiseptic and carefully dabbed the soothing ointment on the wound. Libby squirmed in her chair.

  "Sorry," he said.

  "You're not hurting me," she murmured. "It feels good."

  "Oh, that's nothing," he said, lifting his eyes from her hand. "This'll feel way better."

  He pulled her toward him, cupping the back of her head, and kissed her. The Band-Aid fluttered to the floor along with all her resolutions as they savored each other for a long, luscious moment. Running his fingers gently up her arm, he caressed her cuts and scrapes, making her quiver inside.

  She'd forgotten all about her wound by the time he stroked his hand through her hair a second time and pulled out a handful of leaves and twigs.

  "What were you doing?" he asked.

  "Investigating," she said.

  "Investigating?" He pulled a heart-shaped leaf from behind her ear and held it to the light. "Let me guess," he said. "You've been spying on Mike Cresswell."

  "How did you know?"

  "Hydrangea," he said, indicating the leaf. "Mike's mom used to grow them, and Mike would give these leaves to the girls he liked. See? Shaped like a heart." His smile faded. "Besides, everybody wants to blame Mike for the Della McCarthy thing, so I figured you'd end up there sooner or later."

  "Pretty sharp, Sherlock," she said. She got up and opened the fridge, grabbing a couple of longnecks and taking them over to the table. Luke twisted off the top of his, then did the same for hers and slid it in front of her.

  "So what did you find out?"

  She hesitated. "I know you think he's harmless, Luke, but it was sort of scary. He's got all kinds of dead animals in there, and diagrams, and eyeballs and stuff. And he plays with them, like puppets. He made two jackrabbits talk to each other, and Luke, it was really creepy. It was like he was reenacting something from his past."

  "Like what?"

  "Like being rejected by a girl. And killing her. He made the rabbits kiss, and then the one called the other a stupid weirdo, and then it stabbed him with a knife, but it went right through and Mike was all bloody and he was crying. And Luke, he's got my change purse. And a lot of other stuff, all girlie stuff, in a drawer in his desk. And…"

  "Slow down!" Luke said. "What's this about a knife?"

  She explained the scene with the two rabbits, and Mike's self-inflicted injury. "He was crazy, Luke. It's like he went off the deep end, right there in front of me."

  "And where were you while this was going on?"

  She looked away, pretending to study the designs in the wallpaper. "Outside the window. In the bushes. Peeking in."

  Luke started to laugh, then caught himself and tried to scowl.

  "What were you thinking, Libby? What if he'd seen you?"

  "It was dark out, and he had all the lights on. He couldn't see me. And besides, it was worth the risk. Luke, I'm sure now that Mike killed Della. He must have come on to her, like the rabbit, and she rejected him and he lost it. It's like he played out the whole scene, right in front of me."

  "Whoa. Wait a minute." Luke looked really serious now. "Look, I grew up with Mike. And he's a little crazy, it's true, but he'd never hurt anybody. He's harm less, Libby. I hate to hear people say bad things about him. He wouldn't hurt a fly."

  "But he cuts up dead animals for fun, Luke! That's one of the sure signs of a serial killer. And how do you explain the scene with the rabbits and the knife?"

  "Easy." Luke looked smug. "I can tell you exactly what
that was all about. And it wasn't about Della."

  "What do you mean?"

  He sat back and folded his arms. "When we were in high school, there was this girl, Sara Segal. She was the town flirt—a real runaround Sue. She came on to all the boys, including Mike. He was always following her around, with his big puppy eyes, adoring her. And she encouraged it, touching him, giving him little hugs and stuff. One time she went too far, and Mike hugged her back. Big time. She freaked out, Libby. Called him stupid, called him a weirdo."

  "Just like the rabbits?"

  "Just exactly like the rabbits. Word for word. She told everybody about it. All her girlfriends were laugh ing at Mike, and he knew it. It really hurt him, Libby. Obviously, it still does."

  "So you don't think it was about Della?" Libby's prize theory was falling to pieces.