Pawing Through the Past

by Rita Mae Brown

  “What?” Tucker and Murphy shouted.

  “Yes, he called about five minutes after you left and he said, ‘Butt out, Butthead.’ Then he said, ‘Ron Brindell lives!’ Mom called the sheriff, and Cynthia, who was around the corner, got here in less than two minutes, I can tell you. No one knows where he called from but Mom said he sounded like he was right next door.”

  Miranda kept her eye on the door. If someone came in she would go directly to the counter and help if they needed her. Cynthia and Harry sat at the table.

  “He’s not far, Coop. And he wasn’t on a cell phone. The reception was too clear.” Harry, surprisingly calm, spoke. “But Ron being alive? I don’t believe it.”

  “I called 360° Communications just in case, got E.R. Valenzuela. He’s checking every call within the last ten minutes.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “Yes. The technology is amazing and evolving by the minute. They’ll work backwards, from your number. Harry, go over the conversation again. In case something occurs to you, an inflection of voice, a background sound, anything at all.”

  Harry folded her hands on the table. “The phone rang. I picked it up. I recognized Dennis’s voice immediately. His voice was clear and firm, I guess is how I’d describe it. He didn’t shout or anything. He just said, ‘Butt out, Butthead’ and ‘Ron Brindell lives’ and hung up.” She furrowed her brow. “Wait, he breathed out hard and I heard a clink. A metal sound but I can’t tell you what really. Just something like metal touching metal.”

  “He knows you saw him, obviously.” Coop ran her fingers across her forehead, then squeezed the back of her neck. She felt a whopper of a tension headache coming on.

  “But we know Dennis is alive.”

  “Yes, that makes it easier. Now we have to find him. Do you think his saying ‘Ron Brindell lives’ is meant as literal truth or is it part of the revenge scenario?”

  “I don’t know. People saw Ron jump from the bridge. How could he live?”

  Miranda walked back to them. “There have been a few survivors since the Golden Gate Bridge was built, but Dennis doesn’t want to hurt you, Harry. I truly believe he’s warning you. What ‘Ron Brindell lives’ means, who knows?”

  Murphy yowled. “The Old Gray Mare! I get it. Ain’t what she used to be.”

  “Hush, sweetie.” Harry picked her up to pet her.

  “Don’t let your guard down!” Murphy put her paws on the table.

  “Guess Dennis was Ron Brindell’s boyfriend. Bittner was right.”

  “Oh, that’s another thing.” Coop spoke to Harry, then glanced up at Miranda. “Dennis called Bittner, too. Told Bittner he was next.”

  The Reverend Herb Jones stomped his feet, bent over to pick something up, then opened the door. “Three beautiful ladies. I’ve come to the right place.” He turned over the soggy white envelope that he’d found on the ground outside. “Addressed to Mrs. George Hogendobber. Now Miranda, this has to be someone younger than we are. They should know that you address a widow differently. It should be Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber. The old ways let you know the important things, right off. No wonder the young waste so much time. They’re slipping and sliding trying to find out the essentials.” He laughed. “Listen to me! I’m getting old!”

  “Not you.” Miranda took the envelope.

  “Must have slipped out of the door. It’s been stepped on.” Herb leaned over the counter as Miranda opened the note.

  She read, “His power to punish is real. He is God’s servant and carries out God’s punishment on those who do evil.” She thought a moment. “Romans, Chapter thirteen, Verse four.”

  “You know the Bible better than I do!” Herb complimented her.

  She read the note again. “Cynthia, I think you might want to look at this. It could be a crank or it could be Dennis trying to justify himself.”

  “Dennis?” Herb’s eyebrows raised in puzzlement.

  “He’s alive.” Harry then told him what had just happened.

  As she was filling in the good Reverend, the phone rang.

  Miranda picked it up. “Cynthia, E.R. Valenzuela for you.”

  Cynthia listened, then hung up the phone. “Wasn’t a cell phone.”

  “He’s here,” Harry said with resolution.

  “There are two and one of them you can’t see, I mean, none of us can see. We take him for granted!” Murphy howled.

  “Here it comes.” Herb called attention to the big snowflakes falling from the glowering sky.

  * * *

  57

  “Don’t drive to New York. We’ll be stranded in the storm.” Dennis, right hand chained to the passenger door, pleaded. His left hand was chained to his belt. His wrists were raw from the handcuffs he’d been wearing since Saturday.

  Ron Brindell started the car. “You might be right about that. I’m bored, though. Hey, I’ll get Harry.”

  “She hasn’t done a thing to you.”

  “She saw you,” Ron said. “You know. I don’t care. I just feel like killing someone else from the bad old days.”

  “I had a ski mask on,” Dennis said wearily. “Look, just kill me and get it over with. You don’t care if she saw me or not. I called her and Hank. Want me to call BoomBoom and Baltier, too?” he asked. “Just kill me. You’re saving me for last, anyway.” Dennis held no illusions that Ron had a scrap of sanity left but he tried to reason with him.

  “Why, Dennis, what a courageous thing to say,” Ron replied sarcastically.

  “All right then, let’s drive to New York.”

  “I will get Bittner. Maybe not tonight but I’ll get him.”

  “He didn’t do anything.” Dennis, haggard from his ordeal, stared at the closed garage doors.

  “Exactly. He opened the door, saw what was going on, and closed it. Did precisely nothing.”

  “In shock, probably.”

  “He could have gotten the coach.”

  “We were all kids. Kids make bad decisions. He was probably as scared in his way as I was in my way. He’s a father now. Have you no pity?”

  “No.” Ron turned his cold eyes on Dennis. “Why should I? I was pinned down, raped—and they laughed. Called me a faggot. I was a faggot. Do you know where the word ‘faggot’ comes from, Dennis? From the Middle Ages, when people burned witches. The woman was tied to the stake and surrounding her were homosexual men who were set on fire first. Instead of bundles of kindling, we were the kindling. I have no pity.”

  Ron checked his watch. “Lie down. I don’t want your head to show.” As Dennis squinched down, Ron reached over and stuck a rag in the poor man’s mouth. “You should have stood up for me, you know. You just stood there. Oh, you told them to stop. I believe you said it once. If it had been you I’d have fought. I’d have given my life for you. Now you can give yours for me. Lie down, damnit!”

  Dennis didn’t even look at him as he slid down as far as he could. Since Ron had threatened to kill Dennis’s two children, Dennis would do anything Ron said. Meanwhile, his brain overheated, trying to find a way out. If there was no way out, then he was determined to take out Ron. But how?

  Ron hit the electronic button to raise the garage door, then pulled out into the snowy darkness.

  “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work I go,” he sang as he headed through town. Everyone was snug inside, their lights shining through the falling snow.

  * * *

  58

  Harry and Tracy buzzed around the kitchen making pea soup, a favorite winter treat. Fair called to say he’d be late. A horse at Mountain Stables had badly cut his hind leg and needed stitching up. He didn’t think he’d be back for another hour and a half because he needed to swing by the office and fill his truck with supplies. He had a hunch he’d be on plenty of calls the next couple of days as people kept their horses in stalls, feeding them too much grain. Colic often followed heavy snows. Since Tracy was there he felt Harry was okay.

  Tucker jerked up her head. “Someone’s coming. On foot!” />
  “Tucker, chill.” Harry heard nothing.

  Both cats ran to the kitchen door. A towel was stretched across the bottom of it to keep out the draft.

  A knock on the door surprised the humans.

  “Chris, what on earth are you doing here in this weather?” Harry opened the door.

  “I was coming back from Waynesboro. I did a big shop at Harris Teeter in preparation for the storm and my car died. Absolutely dead. No lights. No nothing. Do you think you could run me home in your truck? I could throw everything in the back.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll do it.” Tracy plucked his coat off the peg.

  “Thank you so much.” Chris smiled. “I’m sorry to bother you on such a cold night. I saw Fair’s truck parked at Mountain Stables when I came down the mountain. He never gets a break, does he?”

  “No.” Harry smiled. “Comes with the territory.”

  Tracy, his hand on the doorknob, said, “Call Fair, will you?” What he really meant was, call Rick Shaw and tell him you’re alone, but he didn’t want to say that in front of Chris since the sheriff had told them to keep it quiet.

  “I will.” She waved as the two walked out the door.

  Harry picked up the phone, dialing the sheriff’s number. “Hi,” she said, but before she could finish her sentence Chris was back in the kitchen, a gun in her hand, leveled at Harry.

  “Hang up. Come outside.”

  Tucker grabbed Chris’s ankle but she leaned over and clunked the faithful creature on her head. Tucker dropped where she was hit.

  “Tucker!” Mrs. Murphy screamed.

  Pewter, thinking fast, shot out the kitchen door and through the screened-in porch door, which was easy to open. Much as Mrs. Murphy wanted to lick her fallen friend’s face, she knew she had to follow.

  The two cats ran into the barn. Nearly six inches of snow were already on the ground and the snow was so thick you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.

  Tracy Raz lay in the snow facedown, blood oozing from the back of his head.

  Again the cats couldn’t stop to help him. They raced into the barn, climbing up into the loft. Once there, Mrs. Murphy stood on her hind legs, pushing up the latch. They wedged their paws at the side and pushed the door open.

  “If she’ll come this way we can jump down on her. The height will give us force.”

  “And if she doesn’t?” Pewter breathed hard.

  “We follow and do what we can.”

  Simon waddled over and saw Tracy. “Uh oh.”

  “Simon, help us push a bale of hay over to the opening,” Murphy commanded.

  The three small animals tried but they couldn’t do it. Pewter kept running back and forth from the hay bale to the loft door opening.

  “Here they come!”

  Chris walked behind Harry. At least she let Harry pull on a jacket. On seeing Tracy lying in front of the barn, Harry rushed over.

  “Forget him!”

  “But he’s . . .”

  “Forget him.”

  “I take it you’re not really Chris Sharpton.” Harry kept talking as she knelt down and felt Tracy’s pulse, which, thanks-be-to-God, was strong.

  “No. Come on.”

  “Where’s Dennis?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Murphy wriggled her rear end, then launched herself from the loft opening. She soared through the snowflakes with Pewter right behind her.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Ooph!” Chris fell backwards as Mrs. Murphy hit her on the chest. A split second later Pewter hit her square in the face. Chris slipped in the snow, falling on her back.

  Harry jumped on her.

  The gun discharged.

  The cats clawed and bit but couldn’t do much damage through the winter clothes. Also, the humans were rolling in the snow. Harry, strong, wasn’t as strong as Chris. Harry bit Chris’s gun hand but Chris wouldn’t drop the gun. The cats leapt off when the humans rolled back on the ground. They’d get up, slip and fall, but Harry never let go of Chris’s gun hand no matter how hard Chris hit or kicked her.

  “We’ve got to get the gun!” Pewter hollered.

  Harry hung on as Chris flung her around, her feet off the ground. Harry dragged Chris down again but they struggled up. The cats kept circling the humans while Simon watched in horror, not knowing what to do.

  Finally, Chris pushed Harry away far enough to hit her hard on the jaw with a left hook. The blow stunned Harry enough that she relaxed her grip. Chris hit her again. Harry let go of the gun hand as she slid back into the snow, the blood running from her mouth. The cats again climbed up Chris’s legs but she barely noticed them.

  She aimed her gun at Harry, who neither begged for life nor flinched. Chris fired, missing her, because Flatface had suddenly flown low overhead and scared her for an instant.

  Murphy climbed up Chris’s leg, her back, and reached up to claw deep into her face. Chris struggled to rise and throw off the cat. Pewter climbed up and hung on to Chris’s gun hand, sinking her fangs into the fleshy part of the palm. Chris tried again to throw off the cats, slipped in the snow, and fell down, cats shredding her face and hand.

  Harry scrambled and grabbed the gun as Chris flailed, screaming, struggling to her knees. Harry had gotten up and smashed the butt of the gun into her skull. Chris dropped face first into the snow. Harry kicked her in the ribs, then kicked her again, rolling her over. Chris was out cold. Harry wanted to kill her. But some voice inside reminding her “Thou shalt not kill” prevented her from her own rage and act of revenge.

  She looked into the falling snow, the flakes sticking to her eyelashes. Half-dazed herself, she sank to the ground.

  Mrs. Murphy, on her hind paws, licked Harry’s face. “Come on, Mom. You’ve got to tie her up before she comes to—come on.”

  Pewter licked the other side of her face.

  Harry blinked and shook her head, then stood up, swayed a little but walked into the barn, grabbed a rope lead shank, and made quick work of tying Chris’s hands behind her back and tying her feet up behind her, the rope also around her neck. If Chris kicked her feet she’d choke herself.

  She hurried over to Tracy, who was slowly awakening. She rubbed snow on his face. He opened his eyes.

  “Tracy, can you get up?”

  She put his arm around her shoulder and they both slipped and slid into the kitchen, where a groggy, sore corgi wobbled to her feet.

  * * *

  59

  Harry, Miranda, Tracy, Fair, Susan, and Cynthia sat before Harry’s roaring fire in the living-room fireplace. It was past midnight but the friends had gathered together as the snow piled up outside.

  Fair treated Tucker’s knot on the head by holding her in his lap, applying an ice pack periodically.

  “You were saved by the grace of God,” Miranda, still terribly upset, said. “He sent his furry angels of deliverance.” She started to cry again.

  Tracy sat next to her on the sofa, putting his arm around her. “There, there, Cuddles. You’re right, our guardian angels worked overtime.” A bandage was wrapped around his head and one eye was swollen shut.

  “Mrs. Murphy and Pewter are heroes.” Harry sat cross-legged before the fire, her cats in her lap. “You know, I would never have figured this out. So much for my deductive powers.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think I would have figured it out either,” Cynthia consoled her. “We waited for a mistake and he finally made one. Had it not been for Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, you all would be dead and Ron would be heading for New York to get Hank Bittner.”

  “Has he confessed?” Fair, both hands on Tucker, asked.

  “Yes. He didn’t expect to live. His plan was to kill Dennis and then himself after killing Bittner. He felt no particular animosity toward Harry, but toward the end, the power went to his head. He chained Dennis in his basement, forcing him to cooperate. He told Dennis if he didn’t help him he’d kill Dennis’
s children as well as others from the class of 1980. If Dennis would help—with a gun in his ribs—he’d confine himself to the locker room boys. He broke his promise, of course.”

  “What about the two footprints at the dumpster?” Harry asked. “Remember, an L.L. Bean chain print and a high heel. You told us about that after we pestered you.”