An Arm and a Leg

by Olive Balla

  “Don’t you worry about me, kiddo. My daddy taught me to shoot when I was knee high to a grasshopper. I can break down a pistol, clean it, oil it, and put it back together in under five minutes. Got my .45 under my pillow. No one’s going to get the drop on me.” Lola put her hand on Frankie’s arm. “But if you’re in danger, you must tell the police.”

  “Tell them what? That I believe someone is trying to kill me? You heard Blinquet. He didn’t actually say so, but he thinks I set the fire to cover up something horrible.”

  “But my dear—”

  “I’ll be okay. You’ve done a lot for me already.” Frankie patted the old woman’s hand. “And thanks for not asking me questions I don’t want to answer.”

  Lola stood. “If you must leave, at least take some clothes. There’s a suitcase in the armoire in your room. You can return everything after you’ve gotten settled somewhere.”

  Frankie thanked her neighbor again, returned to Cathy’s room and packed a couple of outfits. She managed to get Collette into the carrier before hauling everything out to her car, where she sat staring out the window. For the first time in her life, she had no place to go.

  After several tries and at least thirty minutes later, Frankie found a motel that would accept pets. Grateful for the new credit card she’d applied for and received a couple of days before, she packed up Collette, along with the clothes and toiletry items Lola pressed on her.

  At the motel, Frankie agreed to the hefty deposit required for the cat, and the two of them settled into a room on the second floor.

  Decorated in the style of countless other motel rooms across the country, the space contained the standard mass-produced furnishings. A large, faux cherry wood desk stood against the wall in the corner of the room. A lamp and telephone rested on its top, along with a cardboard brochure attesting to the room’s broadband capability.

  A matching entertainment center stood next to the desk. Frankie opened its two accordion-type doors to reveal a large, flat screen television. Two drawers under the television invited her to unpack her things and make herself at home.

  Although fairly pricey, the room did not smell pleasant. She requested a nonsmoking room but the unmistakable smell of old cigarette smoke hung in the air. No matter how motel management tried, they could never completely eradicate the smell of human byproducts left behind by its clientele. She remembered seeing a documentary in which scientists measured the levels of bodily emissions, oozings, drippings and spurtings flung around even high-end motel rooms by countless human bodies. She shuddered.

  “Laundering the bedspread regularly and steaming the carpet would be a good start,” she said to Collette. “But we’ll make it ours in no time.” She placed the litter box in the bathroom, glad she’d had the presence of mind to stop at a pet store on the way to the motel and purchase the large reservoir, self-feeding food and water dishes that held enough to make it unnecessary to refill them more than a couple of times a week.

  Except for the occasional blink, the cat sat unmoving on her new perch atop the entertainment center.

  “I don’t blame you. I’d stay off the bed, too, if I were you.” Frankie picked up her purse and headed for the door. “Try not to disturb the neighbors.”

  Collette assumed her meatloaf position. With her unblinking stare, she looked like one of those odious stuffed replicas found in some gift shops.

  What kind of brain had come up with the idea of life-sized faux kittens coiled up on plush little mattresses? Cats that never moved, never blinked, never made a sound. Creepy, taxidermy-specimen, marble-eyed things.

  “At least they don’t poop or scratch up the furniture.” Frankie rubbed her hand along Collette’s rounded back. The kitty shot a condescending look at her and made a strange sound in the back of her throat.

  “More a grumble than a purr, but I’ll take it.” Frankie closed the door behind her and headed for the car. It was time to find Mina. And this time, she’d not take no for an answer to her questions about Tim’s spreadsheet.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Excuse me,” Frankie said to the young man behind the counter of the hospital nurse’s station. “Could you tell me where I might find Mina Landowski?”

  The young man raised his head from the computer upon which he’d been furiously typing and mouse-clicking. “Mina no longer works here.”

  “What?”

  “She left last night before her shift ended.”

  “Was she ill?”

  “Didn’t seem to be…more like upset. Said she wouldn’t be back.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  The young man spoke over his shoulder to a group of other staff members. When no one answered, he shrugged. “Sorry.”

  Apprehension skipped across the back of Frankie’s neck as she returned to her car. Maybe one of Mina’s resumes had paid off and she’d found employment elsewhere. Maybe she was even now packing her things to move out of town. But to leave before her shift was over?

  No, that didn’t make sense. And she’d have bet her last dollar Mina would not blow someone off after promising to call.

  She rummaged for the sympathy card she’d received from the nurse and tossed into her tote bag. She looked at the return address, started her car, and headed for the exit.

  Just as she was about to pull out of the hospital parking lot and into the street the old Chevy sped past, nearly sideswiping her vehicle. Even though the baby-faced driver was so focused on maneuvering the car into the parking lot he didn’t see her, she recognized him. In fact, the image of his face contorted with rage had begun showing up in her dreams. A mixture of emotions blazed along her spine, none of them pleasant.

  Oblivious to other drivers, Baby Face parked his car and got out. He stood for a second, swiveling his head around atop his otherwise motionless body as Frankie lowered herself into her seat. She wondered if she should call the police. And tell them what? No, her credibility had suffered enough. She had to have something solid to take to them.

  After Baby Face entered the hospital, Frankie backed her car up. She found a parking spot where she could wait without being seen, and sat.

  The young man returned to his car about twenty minutes later. At the same time he started his engine, Frankie started hers. When he pulled out of the lot, she counted to five and followed.

  The vehicles made their way through the downtown, the suburbs, and into the industrial area of south Albuquerque. Light traffic made it easy for Frankie to keep the Camaro in sight, but it also made it difficult to stay out of the driver’s range of vision.

  The Chevy merged onto Interstate 25 going south and continued out of the city limits. Frankie didn’t relish the idea of following the guy on what was beginning to look like an innocent road trip, but there was no way she was going to let him out of her sight.

  Baby Face exited onto a gravel county road and drove down a wide, gated drive. In peeling black letters on a once-white background, a warped metal sign announced the entrance to Bellamy’s Fresh Egg and Poultry Farm.

  Wary of tipping the young man off to her presence, Frankie kept driving for about one hundred yards, made a U-turn and pulled over next to a group of huge, old cottonwood trees. She turned off the ignition. While waiting, she tore the aluminum wrapping from a granola bar and munched her lunch.

  Over the next hour, a parade of vehicles entered and exited the farm. Most bore the logos of local landscaping nurseries and eating establishments. All came and went within a matter of minutes. But Baby Face didn’t reappear.

  A white panel truck slowed and turned into the farm entrance. Acting again on impulse, Frankie started her car and followed it into the compound. When the truck parked in front of a small green building with a sign over the door that read Farm Store, Frankie pulled in next to it.

  The driver’s door opened. Kinky red hair exploded from under the young driver’s baseball cap. Bombardier-style headphones encased his ears, and his screen-printed tee shirt sc
reamed that mean people suck. Moving his head in time to whatever music spewed directly into his ear canals, the young man walked around to the rear of the vehicle. He pushed up the truck’s scroll-type rear gate and pulled out a hand truck, which he rolled into the store. In a short while he returned loaded with cardboard boxes, the stenciling on the sides of which proclaimed them to contain Bellamy’s farm fresh eggs. The driver deposited the boxes in the back of the truck and went back for another load.

  When Frankie got out of her car, a smell unlike any she’d ever before experienced assailed her. With no breeze to move it, the stench hung in the air like a fog.

  The farm appeared to be a fairly small concern. Besides the long confinement buildings where the chickens lived, a large barn, a bunkhouse, and several small outbuildings stood in an apparently random pattern.

  The sight of the Camaro sitting in front of the bunkhouse shot adrenaline through Frankie’s body. Trying to be inconspicuous, she sauntered toward the building. Busy making purchases or delivering supplies, no one even glanced her way.

  She peered through the grime coated, curtain-less bunkhouse windows. Baby Face sat at a card table, a cup of something in front of him. He took a sip from the cup before replacing it on the table. A thoughtful look on his face, he inserted his right index finger into his nose. After some fairly vigorous digging, he withdrew the finger, peered at it, wiped it on his pant leg, and took another sip from the cup. Frankie’s lip twitched and her stomach did a pirouette.

  Baby Face turned his face toward her, and Uncle Mike’s voice belatedly rang in her head. Never look directly at someone you’re hiding from or trying to sneak up on. That person will subconsciously sense another human presence and look toward his watcher.

  Frankie ducked her head, bent her body at a right angle, and walked until well away from the window. When she straightened back up, the barn lay directly in front of her. The barn’s position in relation to the bunkhouse and farm store made its entrance invisible from any incoming and outgoing traffic.

  Telling herself she could probably be charged with trespassing, she made a snap decision and swerved toward the barn door. After sliding the door open barely wide enough to slip through, she squeezed her body through the opening. She pulled the door closed behind her, and instantly became enveloped in darkness.

  An old familiar fear clawed its way up Frankie’s stomach and into her throat. She breathed deeply and slowly, counting each breath as Angela had taught her. Eventually, her pulse rate slowed and her eyes grew accustomed to the scant amount of light sifting through a tiny overhead skylight.

  Along with the expected odors of burlap, grain, and chicken-farm ambiance, a hint of another smell caught her attention. Most likely trapped dead mice or rats in need of disposal. She wrinkled her nose and let go a barrage of sneezes.

  The builders had sprayed the interior corrugated metal walls of the barn with yellowish liquid foam insulation, which had hardened into bizarre, melted-wax shapes. Various farm implements hung suspended from a series of hooks fixed to steel crossbeams. Some of the implements were recognizable as of the same type Uncle Mike had used on his ranch. Others looked strange and fierce. Storage bins lined one long wall, and an assortment of machinery lay scattered around the floor.

  Unsure of what she might find and not knowing quite why she felt compelled to do so, Frankie made her way through the barn. She peeked inside receptacles and raked her fingers through the grain stored in open fifty-five gallon drums.

  Toward the back of the barn sat a large, tarpaulin-covered object. More out of idle curiosity than anything else, Frankie lifted a corner of the heavy fabric, exposing the front wheel well of a vehicle. Perhaps someone’s vintage automobile awaiting eventual restoration.

  At that moment the barn door opened. Sunlight exploded into the darkened space and illuminated the partially uncovered vehicle. Frankie stared down at the green pickup driven by the two men who shot Tim.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Well, well, lookey what we got here,” Baby Face said. He advanced on Frankie, his arms slightly bent, his fists clenching and unclenching. “If it ain’t the trouble-making bitch herself. Now that you know who killed your poor brother, what’re you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to see you fry.” Frankie glared into Baby Face’s eyes, surprised at the emotions chasing each other through her solar plexus. In all the time she’d spent looking for the men who killed Tim she’d never given any thought as to what she’d do once she found them. And now that she stood in front of one, the primal emotions infusing her gut nearly took her breath away.

  “You think so?” The young man’s face turned deep red-purple as he strode toward Frankie. He stopped in front of her and stared into her bi-colored eyes. “Well Freak, I asked you a question. You think so?”

  Frankie wanted to rush at this monster who killed her brother. She wanted to tear at his hair and claw at his face. She wanted to pound him into a mass of jelly. But instead, she pulled herself up to her full height and spat in his face.

  Fighting an enraged man focused on doing serious damage is a far cry from the benevolent self-defense instruction Frankie received at the hands of her loving Uncle Mike. This was not an action packed movie fight scene in which blow after blow is sustained by the good guy with minimal effect. Even one solid punch to Frankie’s head would addle her, leaving her completely at the mercy of her attacker.

  Look for a weak point.

  In the instant following Uncle Mike’s words, Frankie spotted the man’s strangely shaped little finger. She grabbed it and jerked backward as far as the webbed flesh would allow.

  Baby face yelped and tried to jerk his hand free, but Frankie’s hands and arms were strong from years of playing the organ. She held on tight.

  Her attacker writhed. He shifted his balance and grabbed a fistful of her hair with his free hand. Tears spurted into her eyes as he jerked her head from side to side.

  With no time to think or plan, Frankie had only milliseconds in which to act. She allowed her instinct to take over and the muscle memory from her uncle’s training to kick in. The man grabbed her by the throat and tried to position his thumbs on her windpipe. She clapped the palms of her hands over his ears. If she couldn’t pop his eardrums, perhaps she could at least cause enough pain for him to loosen his grip.

  This maneuver might have worked had her aim been better. But the man moved his forearm upward and partially deflected the move. Her attempt served only to further enrage him.

  Baby Face snarled. The raw sewage odor of his breath enveloped Frankie in a stomach-churning cloud. He dug his thumbs into her neck and pinpoints of light burst in her vision.

  In one fluid movement Frankie straightened her arms down at her sides, brought them up, around, and above her assailant’s arms. She brought her forearms down with all her might on top of Baby Face’s straightened elbows. He relaxed his hold just enough for her to wriggle from his grasp at the same time she drove her knee into his groin. He grunted and bent over at the waist, giving her the opportunity to bounce her forehead against his nose in a perfectly executed head butt.

  Stars swam into her vision at the same instant blood spurted from the man’s nose. He yelped and grabbed the air where Frankie had been standing, but she was already running toward the open barn door.

  Before she’d gotten further than a few feet, her adversary tackled her from behind. He catapulted her face down on the ground, positioned himself astraddle her back, and pinned her arms down with his knees.

  As if her hair were the rubber band attached to a toy punching ball, he grabbed a fistful and repeatedly slammed her face into the dirt. With barely enough time to register gratitude for the softness of the soil, flashes of light burst against Frankie’s retinas. She tasted blood and realized she’d bitten her tongue.

  As a strategy of last resort, she stopped struggling and lay inert. Baby Face stopped his attack.

  For several seconds, he sat unmoving, breathi
ng heavily. “You can stop playing possum now.” He stood, reached behind his back for a pistol, which he pointed at her. “You’d better be glad I got to check with Bellamy before I get to play with you, because it’d sure enough be my pleasure to make you dead. Get up, and don’t do nothing stupid.”

  “Doctor Bellamy?”

  Baby Face cocked his head sideways. “Yep, Doctor Bellamy. Looks like Miss Smarty Pants ain’t so smart after all. Get up.”

  When Frankie didn’t move, the young man motioned with the barrel of the pistol. “I can empty this into places that won’t kill you, but that’ll sure as hell hurt,” he said. “Now get up.”

  ****

  The sun had climbed well over the Sandia Mountains by the time Nick pulled into the hospital parking lot. He’d left Taos early that morning after a long, restless night. It was as if he stood in front of one of those arcades where fifty cents bought a chance to get a stuffed animal, but the loose mechanical claw always dropped the coveted item before it got to the chute. Something vital to the case was staring him in the face, but just when he thought he had it in his grip, it slipped away.

  He’d first talk to the hospital personnel whose statements he’d read, then he’d chat with Dr. Bellamy. He knew he was grabbing at what might turn out to be a fistful of smoke, but someone might let something slip. Or might remember something they’d forgotten to mention in an earlier statement. A rock climber before his tour of duty, all he needed was a tiny outcropping or indentation to put some weight on. Even a slight unevenness in someone’s response to his questions might get him moving in the right direction.

  He made his way through the hospital doors. Too early for the information desk to be open, so he took the elevator to the second floor in hopes of finding someone who could point him in the right direction. Anyone who might know a nurse named Landowski.