Flipping Fates

by A. C. Williams

  “See?” He shakes the gun. “Told you it wasn’t loaded.” He pulls his own firearm out of the back of his pants and aims at me. “But this one is loaded. And unlike you, I have no problem with shooting you. So just sit still and shut up.”

  He returns to the driver’s seat.

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “I said shut up.” He dashes a line of sweat off his forehead.

  Now that the RV has stopped moving, the wind isn’t racing around us, and the temperature of the RV’s interior is steadily climbing.

  “I hate Kansas,” he mutters, making sure my keys are in the ignition.

  He reaches for the air conditioner and switches it on.

  The innards of the motorhome’s ventilation system gurgle and groan, wheezing and puffing out clouds of something that smells rotten and decaying. If I wasn’t ready to throw up before, I am now.

  “What the—?”

  The air conditioning chokes and bangs and whirs, and in a plume of foul cool air, a piece of dog food shoots out of one of the vents and bounces off the carpet.

  Then another. And another. And suddenly it’s a barrage of dog food spitting out of the RV’s vents, pelting Grant like an automatic BB gun loaded with kibble.

  He yelps and flails in the driver’s seat under the spray.

  I don’t know why the RV is spitting dog food out of its vents.

  I don’t care.

  The instant Grant is back on his feet trying to evade the kibble-turned-ammunition, I’m on his back.

  He thrashes and screams, trying to unseat me. We’re about the same height, but he’s much skinnier than I am. And I put my whole weight onto him. He bends somewhat and scrambles for the gun, but I wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze. He chokes and warbles. As he bends in the middle, the dog food from the vents pelts his face. It’s getting in my hair too, but I won’t let go.

  He jerks to the right and tries to scrape me off against the partition. He tries to beat me against the cabinets. I squeeze harder.

  Grant gasps and wheezes. He’s on his knees, and I still haven’t released him.

  The heat in his face burns against my forearms.

  He’s shaking.

  I hold on.

  He passes out and collapses in a heap, taking me with him. We both tumble into a stack of trash bags and a hailstorm of dog food still spitting out of the vents. It’s even coming out of the vents at the back of the RV.

  Finally, I release Grant. He gasps for breath, but he’s still mostly out.

  Snatching a roll of duct tape off the floor, I seize his arms and bind them behind him. I wrap up his ankles too. And his knees. Why the heck not?

  Now he’s thrashing and shouting and cursing.

  Mouth.

  He needs duct tape on his mouth. I don’t need to listen to him. And I have plenty of duct tape.

  In spite of his screaming and his attempting to bite me, I manage to get the tape around his mouth. I even tape his hair. That’s going to hurt when it comes off.

  I sit back, breathing hard while he writhes and wriggles.

  That won’t work.

  So I tape him to the floor.

  “There.” I say, panting. “Take a good deep breath of that carpet.” I drop the roll of duct tape on his head as he moans and wails against the blockage over his mouth.

  I limp to the front of the RV, arm up to block the barrage of kibble, and switch the air conditioner off. With a whirring groan, the rain of dog food ceases. I turn the ignition of the RV off too and limp down the stairs, swinging the door open as a roar of thunder rumbles overhead.

  That’s just what we need.

  I step out into the sunlight that’s filtering through the clouds.

  “Freeze!”

  I startle and clasp the door frame as seven armed police officers emerge from all around the RV. They all have their guns aimed at me.

  “Don’t move! Tonkawa police!” One of them shouts as he approaches me. “Hands over your head. Get down on your knees.”

  I release a heavy sigh and slowly, carefully sink to my knees against the sun-warmed asphalt.

  Cuffs snap around my wrists.

  I should tell them what’s happening. I should tell them who I am. I start to speak, but all that comes out is a sob. Before I know anything else, I’m bent over bawling into the ground. The tears come so hard and so fast that I can’t get a word out.

  I’m in hysterics.

  Sure, that’s probably to be expected. I was just kidnapped and beaten and threatened. Not that such things are unusual for me anymore, but they’re still upsetting.

  With my luck, the police will probably think I’m the one who kidnapped Grant.

  I probably had better try to explain that part of it and why the drug dealer is duct taped to the floor surrounded by dog food. But the more I try to talk, the louder the sobs come out.

  This is really irritating.

  I had a gun.

  I threatened Grant.

  And then I choked him out and duct taped him to the floor of the RV.

  Who does that? Was any of that illegal? Am I going to be arrested for that?

  A flurry of voices chorus around me as another rumble of thunder rolls overhead, and someone pulls me up to my knees. With a clacking and clicking the cuffs come off, and someone’s arm is around my lower back. I’m crying still, and everything is blurry. And now it’s raining.

  “You’re all right now.” A gentle hand takes my chin and turns my face to the side. “You saw some action, didn’t you?” The kind voice keeps speaking in a low tone, saying things that don’t really make sense. But the voice is nice.

  My vision clears enough to zero in on a man’s face. Policeman. Taller than me. Broad shoulders and dark eyes and dark hair. He sits me on a picnic bench under the protective roof of one of the eating areas at the rest stop.

  “Trisha Lee?” He raises dark eyebrows at me.

  I nod.

  “Okay. You’re okay.” He holds my gaze. “You’re safe now.”

  I try to speak again, and only a miserable hiccup escapes.

  He sits next to me and lets me clutch his arm. It’s grounding, anchoring as the sky opens up and pours down on the world in a hazy gray mist. My breath is coming easier now, less shallow, fewer gasps. The world isn’t spinning as much.

  “There you go.” The officer pats my knee. “You had a scare.”

  I nod.

  “You did good, young lady.”

  I glance at him. “How did you—find us?”

  His eyes are warm, and his grin is bright as he nods to the RV. I frown and follow his gaze.

  “There aren’t many RVs that fit this description.”

  I scoff. “Old, smelly, and inexplicably full of dog food?”

  He snorts. “That—and dragging a trail of doll heads.”

  I draw back and peer more carefully at the RV.

  Sure enough. One of the strips of duct tape from the plastic sheeting over the back window must have caught on the dolls as I was pitching them outside, because there’s a string of duct tape about ten feet long dragging from the undercarriage of the RV. Dotted all along it are the doll head’s, each one with their ugly faces and creepy teeth intact and smiling demoniacally at the rain pounding down on them.

  “Duct tape for the win,” I say.

  “Oh, it’s the stuff that holds the world together.” The officer chuckles. “Speaking of, you really must not have wanted that dude going anywhere. SWAT is having to use their knives to cut him off the floor.”

  I smile. “Just be sure that when you yank it out of his hair, you pull really hard.”

  “No worries, young lady.” The officer puts his arm around my shoulder. “We won’t even warn him.”

  Gran Flirts with a Police Officer

  Grant is a wreck by the time the police slice him out of the over-abundance of duct tape and lead him to one of their squad cars.

  So far, no hail has fallen, and for the sake of the po
lice I’m glad. But it would have been fitting if Grant could have been pelted with hailstones as well as dog food.

  I still have no idea why dog food came out of the RV’s vents. It might just have to be a mystery.

  Within fifteen minutes of my rescue, seven more squad cars and an ambulance had arrived, and Detective Maxwell had clambered out of one of the dark sedans and taken over the scene.

  Even now, huddled under an umbrella and handing out orders to the officers, he waves at me with a delighted grin on his face. I don’t really know the man, but he seems to be in his element. I should get his card for the next time something like this happens.

  Not that I’m looking forward to it, but by now I feel I should halfway expect it.

  I never want trouble, but for some reason, trouble keeps finding me. So I might as well embrace it.

  A paramedic is wrapping bandages around the still-bleeding cuts in my fingers and hands. They’ve already seen to my various other injuries. The wound where the piece of glass stabbed into my leg was apparently worse than I had thought, since one paramedic is making noises about taking me to the hospital.

  The lady paramedic with kind eyes finishes the wrapping on my hands and pats my knee, and the officer from before—Officer Freeman—returns with a styrofoam cup.

  He hands it to me. “It’s horribly hot out here,” he says. “But I always like a cup of hot cocoa.”

  I smile and accept it. “Me too. Thanks.”

  I start to sip the hot drink but stop as a flash of familiar dark purple catches my gaze. I sit up straighter as my old Buick lumbers into the rest area and parks in a nearby spot.

  The bumper is bent, and one of the quarter panels bears a deep dark gash.

  The driver’s side door swings open, and a tall, gangly man with furry eyebrows leaps out into the pouring rain.

  “Aaron!” I choke and scramble to get the cup on the table.

  Freeman chuckles and takes it from me. “Friend of yours?”

  I’m already crying again.

  I’m ridiculous.

  But it’s okay because Aaron knows that already.

  The rain has soaked me clean through before I’m five steps away from the shelter of the picnic area. I’d love to run into his arms, but my legs and ribs hurt so badly I can barely walk straight. But that’s okay too, because Aaron is already running.

  He crashes into me, arms sweeping me against his chest, hands in my hair and his shaking breath in my ear.

  “Trisha.” His voice is choked with emotion. “Are you okay?”

  I can’t answer. I press my face into his neck and breathe.

  He smells like home. Always has. Even in his sweaty flannel shirts and scuffed leather tool belts, there’s something about his scent that puts me at ease. Something about him that’s just—Aaron.

  His voice rumbles in his chest.

  At first I think he’s talking to me, but he isn’t. The rain pounding on us fades and instead becomes an insistent pattering noise further overhead.

  Umbrella?

  I peer out from the safety of Aaron’s chest, and Officer Freeman is standing with an umbrella over us. He and Aaron are talking quietly, and slowly Aaron begins to move me, walking me gently back toward the cover of the picnic area.

  He guides me to the bench and helps me sit down before he crouches in front of me and runs his hands over my face, cupping my jaw in his palms.

  He holds my face in his hands for a moment before he crumbles and lays his head in my lap, his fingers clutching at my lower back. I fold and wrap my arms around his trembling shoulders. We stay like that for a long time.

  Quietly, he shifts, and I sit up so that he can slide onto the bench beside me.

  “Are you okay?” His voice shakes and his eyes are misty.

  I run my fingers across the stubble on his jaw. “I’ll be okay.”

  He kisses my forehead. “How does this keep happening?”

  “Talent and practice?”

  “Stop practicing.”

  I giggle and rest my face against his shoulder. “Grant showed up at the house while I was waiting for the cleaners,” I say. “He wanted to check the house and the RV again.”

  “Why did you let him in?” He scowls.

  “He creeped me out, but I didn’t think he was dangerous.” I shrug and wince as the motion pulls my bruises. “Lesson learned.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He was with the squatters, Aaron.” I shake my head.

  He heaves a disgusted sigh. “You’re kidding.”

  “No.” I take his hands in my bandage-wrapped fingers. “It was all some big ploy to get access to the drugs.”

  “The drugs which you managed to scatter all across Douglas, by the way.”

  I grin. “I wanted you guys to be able to find me.”

  “No, it was a good plan.” He brushes my hair off my temple. “Hey, it worked.”

  I lean into him. “I saw you—I thought—Grant had run you off the road.”

  Aaron kisses my forehead. “He sort of did. Your Buick needs some love.”

  My lower lip trembles. “I was so scared—that you were dead.”

  He wraps me up in his arms and pulls me closer. “I’m here, Trish.”

  I press into him and shut my eyes.

  “I’m here,” he says again. “I’m not going anywhere.” He kisses the top of my head. “I love you too much to let you go.”

  “I know.” I sniffle against him. “I love you too.”

  “Mr. Guinness?”

  I turn my face out of his chest. It’s Officer Freeman again.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” The officer smiles. “Where would—”

  “I know where I’m going, you silly man.” Gran hobbles around the side of Officer Freeman and glares at me. “Patricia Leigh Lee, you cause more trouble and fuss than you’re worth, young lady.”

  I sit up. “Gran?”

  Aaron rolls his eyes.

  “You brought Gran?”

  “She was already in the Buick.” Aaron sinks against the picnic table.

  “She was in the car with you when Grant ran you off the road?” My voice is a shriek.

  Gran steps up on the cement platform of the picnic area and winks at me while she holds on to Officer Freeman’s arm.

  “Not only are you hunky, you’re a fine driver.” Gran nods at Aaron.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Gran.” I slump my face into my hands. “That was so dangerous.”

  “I disagree!” Gran scolds me. “Missing my diuretic is dangerous. This was fun.”

  Officer Freeman laughs. “I’m thinking the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”

  Aaron makes a face. “You have no idea, sir.”

  Gran snuggles up next to Officer Freeman. “And how about you, Officer? You like a little danger?”

  “Gran. Stop.”

  “Danger and donuts. That’s the name of the game, ma’am.” He grins down at my saucy grandmother.

  “Please, Officer, don’t encourage her.” I lean against Aaron’s shoulder.

  Detective Maxwell makes eye contact with me across the parking lot and walks toward us. He nods at Officer Freeman and stops next to our picnic table.

  “We found everything the way you told us it would be, Trisha.” He smiles. “You were very thorough.”

  “Unfortunately, not my first rodeo.” I glance down.

  “Well, we’ll be taking Mr. Layton back to Tonkawa. Hopefully he’ll roll over on the rest of his team, and maybe we can get some more information about what’s happening and how widespread this little operation of his is.”

  “Thank you, Detective.” Aaron sits forward a bit.

  “Thank you.” Maxwell adjusts his wet jacket. “Both of you. We wouldn’t have known anything about this otherwise.”

  “Does this mean that Keith Wilner will be released?” I ask.

  “Very likely.” Maxwell nods. “With more information coming out now about Layto
n and his group’s involvement—as well as the fact that there were no contraband materials found in Mr. Wilner’s unit—most likely all charges against him will be dropped.”

  I smile.

  Best news I’ve heard all day.

  Maxwell checks over his shoulder to where Grant is being pushed into an unmarked police car.

  “If you all will excuse me.” He turns. “We’ll need to bring you all in for statements.”

  “That’s fine.” Aaron slips his arm around me. “Whatever you need, sir.”

  Maxwell nods again, first at us and then at Officer Freeman.

  Gran waves at him as he walks off.

  “He’s a hottie,” Gran says. “Are all you gentlemen so attractive?”

  “Well, I can’t speak to that, ma’am.” Officer Freeman’s eyes twinkle.

  Gran squeezes his arm. “Nothing’s hotter than a humble man.”

  Ugh. Gag me.

  “Gran.” I wave to catch her attention. “Where’s Cordell?”

  “I don’t need Cordell when I’ve got Officer Freeman.” Gran pats his arm. “He’s a lot better looking and is much better at conversation.”

  “Cordell?” Officer Freeman lowers his eyebrows.

  “Her walker.” I smirk.

  Officer Freeman throws back his head and roars with laughter.

  Oh well.

  If nothing else, Gran made a new friend.

  A Continuous Adventure

  I never did believe in ghosts. And it’s a good thing. If I had, the horrible orange house on West Maple might have stayed orange and horrible.

  At the moment, the old two-story house stands cheerfully behind a well-manicured lawn. It has brand new crisp white vinyl siding. A new dark-shingled roof. A porch swing. Recently scoured wood floors, brand new carpet upstairs, and a basement with a floor clean enough to eat off of.

  Oh. And a SOLD sign in the lawn.

  Aaron has spread a large checkered blanket on the grass outside the house, and I’m sitting on one corner to keep it from blowing away while he anchors down the other sides with the picnic basket and other weights. Laurel is approaching with her own picnic basket and waves excitedly at us.

  “Hi, Trisha! Hi, Aaron!” She sets her basket down and starts unloading an array of vegetables and dips.