Death & the Redheaded Woman

by Loretta Ross

  She gave him a cheeky grin. “It takes a village to raise a village idiot.”

  Death pulled a battered baseball cap from one of the sacks and smashed it down over her head. Then he grabbed up the nearest box of files and carried it out into the living room. Wren, still wearing the cap, followed with another box.

  “Do you want to just start with these and get more when we’re done?”

  “That’s a plan.” Death set his box down on the floor at one end of the coffee table and dropped onto the sofa. “You got any idea what’s in these?”

  “Um, not really.” Wren set her box down on the table and dropped onto the other end of the couch. She glanced at Death, across the short expanse of sofa cushions, then pulled the box over to the seat between them.

  Death grinned. “Removing temptation?”

  “You hush.”

  Still laughing, Death popped the lid off of his box and pulled out a handful of papers. “I got … phone bills. Looks like about forty years worth of phone bills. Good grief! Did this woman never throw anything away?”

  “I’ve got a copy of the deed, some legal-ey lookin’ stuff and a map.” Wren turned the map sideways and then upside-down. “I can never read these,” she complained. “Why is it they never put in landmarks?”

  “Like what? ‘Go down past the old red barn and turn left when you see a cow standing in a field?’”

  “Old Man Pickering’s.”

  “What?”

  “That’s how you get to Old Man Pickering’s. Of course, it’s a mule, not a cow, but I reckon you’re a city slicker so you probably wouldn’t know the difference.”

  “Cute. But what if you have to go somewhere farther away, like, say, Chicago?”

  “That’s easy. I’ve got a compass in my truck. Chicago’s northwest, so I just drive northwest until I run into a big city.”

  Death grinned so big it hurt and leaned over the file box between them to whisper in her ear. “Chicago’s northeast.”

  Wren gave him a level glare. “I’d hit a city eventually.”

  “Bismarck, maybe.” He took the map from her. “Hey, a plat map! This could be useful.”

  “Oh, I’ve got something else you should see, too!”

  “Does it involve cleavage?” he teased as she jumped up and crossed to a bookshelf. She blushed and he laughed at her. “Just think of me as a tutorial on how to tell if a guy’s gay or not. Trying to see down your shirt: straight guy.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” Wren scolded, handing him a sheaf of papers and seating herself on the floor on the other side of the coffee table.

  He spread out the papers on the table. “What is this?”

  “Sanbourne Insurance fire map from 1873. They put out thousands of large-scale maps of small towns in the late 1800s, to help insurance adjustors set premiums. See, the large buildings have written descriptions tagged on and it shows outbuildings, roads, wells, cisterns …”

  “Where’s the Campbell house?”

  Wren reached across, circling a spot on the map. Death leaned in close to see. There was a muffled pop and the next instant every detail was sharp and clear and seemed to move in slow-motion, he could smell Wren’s soap and the light, green scent of the iris between them; see the freckles on her arm and the wood grain in the table top.

  Something buzzed past his cheek and the soda bottle exploded in a shower of glass and water.

  Wren blinked, bewildered. Water droplets and glass shards glittered in her hair. “My flower blew up!”

  Death was already in motion, diving across the coffee table. He tackled her to the ground, rolling her into the dubious cover of an old recliner and covering her with his own body.

  “That was a bullet. Someone out front is shooting at us.”

  five

  Wren tucked her head into the angle of Death’s neck and cringed as a second bullet buried itself in the wall behind them. She could smell his aftershave and feel both their heartbeats thudding between them.

  Death made an instinctive grab at his hip and cursed softly.

  “Do you have a gun in the house? I don’t have mine.”

  “Sorry. No.”

  “Okay, any other kind of weapon?”

  “I have an atlatl!”

  He stilled and she could feel the look he was giving her. “A prehistoric spear chucker? Seriously?”

  “Yeah, it’s awesome. But … probably too awkward to use indoors.”

  “Slightly, yeah.”

  From outside there was a shout. “What’s going on out here?”

  “How about a slingshot?” Wren offered.

  “Just my car backfiring,” a second voice answered.

  “Where?” Death asked.

  “That drawer.”

  “Sounds like it’s about to blow up,” the first voice said.

  “Yeah, it’s a piece of junk.”

  Death rolled across the floor, pulled open the drawer she indicated and found an old slingshot with a new rubber sling.

  “Ammo?”

  Wren took a bowl of polished river stones from an end table and slid it across the floor to him as he took up a station under the window.

  “Stay there,” he told her.

  She hesitated only a moment before leaving the shelter of the recliner to join him.

  “I thought I told you to stay there!”

  “I got lonely.” She raised her head just enough to see out the window. There was no screen—she’d taken it out to repair it and not put it back yet—and now the glass was shattered. She felt remarkably vulnerable without that thin barrier between her home and the outside world. A strange man stood in her front yard talking to her next door neighbor.

  “Could be water in your gas. Where’d you gas up last?”

  The stranger shrugged nervously and light from a streetlamp glinted off the ugly metal handgun he was hiding behind his right leg.

  “Stay down,” Death hissed, tugging her down to the floor. He passed her his cell. “Call 911.”

  “I dunno,” the stranger was saying. “Murphy’s?”

  “They’re usually okay.”

  “Anyway, it seems to have stopped for now.”

  “Yeah it does. Have you noticed any odd smells?”

  “Bob’s a car guy,” Wren told Death.

  “Never would have guessed.”

  Her 911 call was ringing but no one was picking up.

  “Could be your catalytic converter’s clogged. Is it losing power?”

  Death caressed the slingshot. “You know, I haven’t touched one of these since the walnut incident when I was seven.”

  “Rives County Authority.”

  “Oh, thank God! I need the police at 1731 south Locust street. There’s a man with a gun in my front yard. He’s already fired two bullets through the window into my house. Right now he’s talking to my neighbor, who doesn’t realize the man’s armed.”

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Wren Morgan.”

  “Yeah, I thought that sounded like you. Now, Wren honey, I know you’re desperate for a man, but the police department isn’t like a Chinese restaurant. You can’t just call up and order a cop to go.”

  “What the hell?”

  Now a woman’s voice joined those outside. “Bob! What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be helping me with the laundry.”

  “Goddammit, Eric Farrington, you listen to me! You will contact the real police and you will tell them everything I just told you and you will do it now or so help me, God, I will hang your balls from the courthouse flagpole and you may or may not be still attached to them at the time.” Wren turned off Death’s phone and dropped it to the floor, shaking with fury.

  “Just trying to help this guy, honey. He’s having car trouble.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of fixing it himself.”

  “Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Death grinned.

  “You’d better go on,” the stranger was telling Bo
b. “I don’t want to get you in trouble with your missus.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Bob agreed reluctantly. “If you need any help, just holler.”

  Bob retreated and a few seconds later Wren heard his screen door slam. Three heartbeats later a cautious tread sounded on the porch steps. She felt Death tense beside her, then suddenly he reared up and let fly with a rapid volley of stones. The stranger’s curses mingled with Death’s as he ducked back down again. Three gunshots rang through the house in rapid succession.

  “I missed him! Damn!”

  Next door the screen slammed open again and Bob rushed back out. “There! You see? I knew it! When a car’s backfiring that bad, it don’t just stop!”

  “Damn it, will you get in here and leave that man’s car alone?”

  “Maybe you could get him while he’s distracted by them,” Wren suggested.

  “Yeah, unless I miss. Then I’d just alert them that something’s going on and he might just shoot them.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I don’t want anyone to shoot Bob and Gina.” The sound of a shrill argument rose from the yard and Wren reconsidered. “Sometimes I want someone to shoot Bob and Gina. But not for real and not right now.”

  Death was tossing a handful of stones up and down. “Man, my aim with this thing sucks. I didn’t even come close to him. Maybe I should just tackle him now and hope I don’t get shot.”

  Wren chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment, indecisive, then spoke up. “Would you feel terribly insulted if I did it?”

  He spun to stare at her. “Tackle him?”

  “No, um, shoot him with the slingshot.”

  “You think you can hit him?”

  “Well, it is my slingshot.”

  He considered for a bare second, then handed over the weapon and a handful of stones. “Let me distract him first and do not keep your head up any longer than is absolutely necessary.”

  He took the cap from her head and crawled over to the door. An umbrella stand there held two umbrellas, her atlatl, four six-foot long atlatl darts and her grandfather’s old walking stick. Death snagged the walking stick and stuck the cap on the end of it.

  Bob and Gina retreated again, raised voices diminishing with the sound of a slamming door. Death looked back over his shoulder at Wren and held up his left hand with three fingers extended. Outside, the footsteps began to once more climb the porch steps.

  Death used his fingers to count down. Three. Two. One. NOW!

  He raised the cap up to the glass in the door and it immediately exploded with another gunshot. At the same time, Wren reared up, took quick aim and let fly. Her first shot caught the gun and knocked it out of the stranger’s hand. He cried out in pain and Death yanked the door open, crossed the porch in two quick strides and tackled him.

  _____

  The porch floor shook as Death crossed it and the stranger, cradling his right hand and reaching for the gun with his left, barely had time to glance up before Death hit him. Death had a brief impression of a lean man, medium height with pasty pale skin, and then he was taking them both down the steps to the ground below.

  Death landed on top, but the impact still knocked the breath out of him. He fought down rising panic at the horrible, all too familiar choking sensation that filled his chest. He swung wildly, trying to subdue the other man before he passed out, but his strength was fading and, though he landed a couple of stinging blows, it wasn’t enough. The stranger pushed him off and turned on him, straddled him and wrapped long, strong fingers around Death’s throat.

  As the blackness closed over him, his last coherent thought was, hell of a way to impress a pretty girl. He was dimly aware of a sudden commotion, shouts and violence. The pressure on his neck subsided. He gasped weakly, trying to regain control of his body. There was a distant crash, and then he was being cradled in strong but gentle arms while a soft voice spoke to him, the texture of the words urgent even as their shape was drowned out by the roaring in his ears.

  When the world swam back into focus, Death was lying on an orange blanket in Wren’s front yard, an oxygen mask on his face and a strange man in a blue uniform bending over him, tapping him on the cheek. For one wild second he thought it was Randy and his eyes prickled with sudden tears as he remembered why that could not be.

  “Take it easy,” the stranger said. “Try to breathe. Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?”

  Death blinked and frowned. “Uh, none?”

  “Oh, good. Your mind’s working. For a change. Chief Reynolds tells me you’re a disabled vet?”

  “I’m not disabled!”

  “No? Really? So, what? You just felt like taking a nap on an armed man?”

  “No, I just …”

  “Passed out because you ignored the fact that you have a seriously compromised lung capacity? How bad is it?”

  “It’s not—” Death broke off at the look he was getting. “I’m working on it.”

  “Uh huh. Do you have brain damage?”

  “What? No!”

  “Do you want brain damage? ’Cause letting yourself get choked out would be the way to go.”

  “He was shooting at us!”

  “So you went with passing out on him as a defense strategy? What were you gonna do? Gasp him into submission?”

  “Man, you sound like my brother! Is it an occupational thing? To get your paramedic license you have to pass ‘being a pain in the ass 101’?”

  “Your brother’s a paramedic?”

  Death closed his eyes. “He was, yeah.”

  “Oh. So what’s he doing now?” The paramedic read Death’s silence and his voice softened. “Ah. I’m sorry.” He clapped a hand to Death’s shoulder. “You ready to sit up?”

  Death nodded and the paramedic offered him a hand and helped him raise off the ground. The once-quiet street was chaos. Emergency vehicles crowded the narrow street, red and blue lights strobing over the houses and across the faces of people who’d come out to stare. Next door, Bob and Gina were screaming at each other again while a cop tried in vain to take their statements.

  Wren sat on her porch steps, cradling Thomas, watching Death with worried eyes. The police chief stood next to her

  “What happened?” Death asked. “After I, uh …”

  “Went down for your nap?”

  “You hush,” he told the paramedic. “I was asking the chief.”

  “Apparently,” the chief said, “your assailant started choking you, but then he ran off when Miss Morgan came out screaming at him.”

  “Screaming at him?”

  “And I might have had a stick,” Wren allowed. Death could see, now that he looked for it, a stout length of wood leaning against her knee. “I was just trying to describe his car for them.”

  “She thinks it may have been a Grand Am, or maybe some kind of Toyota or Mitsubishi.”

  Death laughed and shook his head.

  “I don’t do cars,” she defended herself. “I know art, jewelry, books, furniture, antique toys, and glassware. I see no reason I should know cars too.”

  “It was a Chevelle. Mid-eighties. I didn’t get a close look. Light blue.”

  “With a six-foot spear sticking out the back window,” Wren added.

  He ogled her. “You atlatled him?”

  She glared back and raised her chin defiantly. “He shot my flower.”

  He gave her a cheeky grin. “It’s okay, darlin’. I’ll pick you another one.”

  One of the cops milling around was taking notes. “What’s an atlally … what you said?”

  It was Chief Reynolds who answered. “An atlatl. It’s a prehistoric spear launcher.”

  Wren held up her stick and they could see now that it was, in fact, her atlatl. It was about two feet long with a figure-eight shaped handle just off-center and a bump rising from one end. “You lay the spear along the length of the wood,” she explained, “with the butt end against this bump, put your thumb and forefinger through the loops of the handle and ho
ld the spear like a pencil. Then you bring it up and over like you’re throwing a baseball. The spear tip rises up as your arm comes forward and the back end of the atlatl pushes the spear off. It’s just simple leverage, really. With practice, you can throw a spear up to ninety miles an hour.”

  “They’re legal for hunting in Missouri now,” the chief threw in. “Not Chevelles usually. You don’t seem like the hunting type. How is it you happen to have one?”

  “It was in an auction we did once and I thought it looked interesting. It’s just for target practice.”

  “Like the slingshot?” Death asked.

  “Sort of. I mainly bought the slingshot so Mrs. Winters wouldn’t buy it for her son Miles.”

  “Wise move.” Reynolds crouched down to Death’s level. “Wren didn’t get a good look at the shooter. Did you?”

  “Real quick one.” Death chewed on his lower lip. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was Declan Fairchild.”

  “Probably was then.”

  “But isn’t he in prison?” Wren objected.

  “He was. He walked away from a trustee work release program early this morning.”

  “When did Whitaker’s name hit the news?” Death asked.

  “It was in the local papers this morning.”

  “He made the ‘odd news’ section at several online sites, too,” one of the cops offered.

  “Why was he a trustee?” Wren demanded. “I mean, didn’t you tell me he cut a man’s hand off and then killed him?”

  Death pushed off the ground and tottered over to sit next to her on the steps. “He’s never been charged with that. The only thing he’s been convicted of is a nonviolent, white-collar crime.”

  “Well he doesn’t seem very nonviolent to me. And why shoot at us? I’ve never even met the man, have you?”

  “No. He might have heard that I’m looking for the jewels, I guess, but would that be enough to make him come after me? And how would he have even known where I was?”

  Death could feel her trembling beside him. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna let him hurt you.”

  Chief Reynolds considered this. “You didn’t shoot back,” he said.

  Death felt the heat rise in his face under Wren’s gaze and that of the Chief and his officers. “No, I, uh, don’t have my gun with me.” They waited, silent, and he ducked his head in shame. “I hocked it a few days ago. I went to get it back yesterday, but the pawn shop was closed until Monday.”