by Sandy Night
And there were large potted plants everywhere, an umbrella table, a couple of chaise lounges, and a black smoker. They must have had some ass-kicking parties back there. And he missed every single one of them. He swallowed down a lump in his throat. His own damn relatives used him and treated him like shit on the bottom of a shoe.
Colt jerked him sideways, downward, and then back up again. Water gushed out of the hose. The big cop took the liberty of taking the first drink. And he drank, and drank, and drank, all the while water splashed on Whip.
“Hurry up, man. I’m thirsty too.”
“Here.”
Whip bent into the stream and water shot up his nose. He backed off, inhaled a deep breath and then put his face back down.
He straightened. “I’m done.” His chin and chest chilled from the cold wetness.
The cop stuck his arm out in front of Whip. “Alaska, here. Your turn.”
“I’m not drinking from that nasty hose.”
“Aren’t you thirsty?” Cop asked.
“Yeah.”
“It’s still going to be a while before we can get somewhere.”
“I’m going in the house to get something to drink,” Alaska said.
“We can’t do anything in there but use the phone. Here!”
“No,” she said rejecting water that tasted pretty good.
Colt dropped the hose. “Fine.” He turned the water off. “There’s a dead body in there, it’s a crime scene. I’m telling you we can’t touch anything.”
Alaska huffed air on Whip’s neck. “So, we know what happened,” she said. And it didn’t happen in the kitchen.”
Whip had never been that close to her without a hassle. There’d even been a few times since it got dark where he managed to turn his back around and feel various parts of her body with his numb fingers.
Cop Colt stepped toward the back door and tugged lightly on his arm. Whip learned to automatically move along with the big dude’s movements so as not to get his shoulder hurt anymore than what it already was.
“Door’s locked.”
“Kitchen door’s probably open,” Whip said, “that gets used a lot.”
“C’mon, we need to hurry,” Colt said gruffly. He took off, but stopped to check around the corner of the house. And then he strode at a speedy pace to the side door, making Whip jog like a dumb prisoner.
The overhead light shining inside the kitchen had a touch of an amber glow. Whip stepped ahead of his captures and stuck his neck out trying to get his face as close as possible to the window set inside the kitchen door. Light brown wooden cabinets shined a glossy sheen, instead of drab painted ones. The new countertop had dark specks set in it, and on top of it laid a platter, aluminum foil, bread, mustard, and a big jar of pickles.
He rocked back on his heels. “C’mon open the door, I sure as hell can’t.”
Chapter 21
When Alaska observed no sign of life, she turned the knob, swung the door open, and nudged Whip aside.
“I’m starving,” he mumbled.
She went in, clutching his shirt sleeve twisted around her fingers.
“There’s no search warrant,” Colt said behind them, “so don’t touch nothing, we’re just using the phone.”
“I’m not a cop.” Alaska started for the refrigerator. “I don’t need one.”
“Me neither,” Whip said, but his body was tugged the other way. “This is my family’s house.”
Colt laid the flashlight on the table, snatched the receiver off the wall phone and punched in a couple of numbers.
“I used to stay here,” Whip’s voice rose boldly, “I can do anything I want to. I can pee in my pants and leave a motherfuckin puddle right here—”
Alaska jerked his shirt back and punched him. “Shut up!”
“Go over there.” Colt let go of him and nudged him into her. “And put something in his mouth.”
She pulled him to the counter, snatched a slice of Wonder bread, and plastered his face with it.
“Wha–” He tried to speak but she rammed it into his mouth.
“11-99,” Colt spoke into the phone, “off-duty Officer Colt Mallett LRPD needs emergency assistance at this location.”
Not recognizing the low and level tone of Colt’s voice, Alaska flipped him a glance. His facial stubble had thickened, brutal to kiss but sexy as hell. He continued, “Suspects in vicinity, armed and dangerous.”
She yanked open the refrigerator door and scanned the contents. Yuk, prune juice, milk—no, leftover food containers, five dozen eggs, a block of cheese, strawberries, half-eaten pie. Crap, no bottled water. She leaned over, spotted a soda can, grabbed it, and without letting go of weasel boy, popped the lid and began drinking. Root-beer sparked her taste buds like fireworks. Her gaze turned toward tall handsome cop.
Veins had popped out on his twisted neck as he peered over his shoulder. “Assault with intent to murder. Myself and two other persons, one is a 10-15.” And then he stepped into the living room. “Suspect is a sheriff’s deputy, repeat; the suspect is a sheriff’s deputy, Doug Haggard. BOL silver SUV, plate number–”
“Ka, ka,” Whip hissed with his mouth hanging open, sounding like he had a fur-ball, “ka, ka.” He nodded at her root-beer.
“No way.” Alaska set the can down on the counter and a huge jar of pickle juice snagged her attention. Wondering how Colt knew Haggard’s plate number as he rattled off a repeat of the numbers, she glared at a large pickle at the bottom. And then she recalled he was outside the cabin before he rescued her. He must have looked at the tag and remembered it, of course he did. He’s a cop.
Noticing the jar wasn’t closed, its lid lying on the counter, she mumbled, “That’ll work.” She caught a glimpse of her filthy, dirt streaked hand going through the wide opening. So what if she put dirt in there or got some on the pickle, she didn’t care; it was going in weasel boy’s mouth. Not realizing she had many nicks and abrasions on her skin, she plunged into the green vinegar water. Piercing pain stung her whole hand as if a thousand pissed off jumbo bees attacked her with their long lethal stingers.
“Ouch!” she belted, yanking her hand out. She shook it and clutched it with her other hand, pressing them both to her belly. Coming close to doubling over, she accidentally squeezed her eyes closed, but only for a second. She heard the kitchen door slam.
Upon opening her eyes, she saw Whip with his back against the door and his leg up. And Colt stood in front of him with his hands wrapped around Whip’s odd looking shoe.
Oh shit, for that brief moment, Whip must have moved like a rat on fire and managed to turn the doorknob with his hands still tied behind his back, and he opened the door. But Colt was just as fast so Whip tried to kick him. And then Colt grabbed Whip’s foot and pushed him against the door, slamming it.
Colt moved backward jerking Whip’s leg, making him flop to the floor. Then he stepped on the side of his face, pressing his boot down on his cheek.
He stood boldly like a conqueror with his shoulders back and his broad chest thrust forward. “What happened in here? Did he bite you?”
“No.” Alaska straightened her posture, releasing her hand. The stinging lessened to almost no pain at all. “I did a dumb thing and stuck my hand in the pickle jar. I must have some cuts and the vinegar stung me.”
Dirty and handsome, Officer Colt looked at her with a concerned expression as if he wanted to pounce on her too, but in a good way. She wanted to step forward and kiss his five o’clock shadow but instead broke eye contact and glared down at Whip Cunningham. A grave was out there somewhere with his name on it, but there he lay. His squashed face turning a dark shade of pink. He spluttered, “Ka, ka, ka–”
With ease, Colt picked up his prisoner, setting him on his feet. “We better go out the back door. Haggard could be listening to his scanner and pull up any second.” He turned, whirling Whip around in front of him, snatched the long phone cord dangling from the wall and jerked the receiver up off the floor. “Possi
ble DB, 10- 3,” he garbled into it and then dropped it back into its cradle.
*****
Directing the beam of his heavy-duty flashlight out the window of his truck, Tom Ketch caught a flash of brown. Fuck, her hair. He swerved off the road, turned off the headlights, cut the engine, and jumped out, deciding to close in a bit before locating her again with the flashlight, so that went off too, engulfing him in almost complete darkness, saved by the partial curve of the moon. But Alaska also had the benefit of the faint glow.
He strode onward like a covert soldier in a hurry, skirting trees, careful not to make too many leaves crunch beneath his feet. She’d been a dead woman on the run, but her time was up. He’ll make sure of that, once and for all. Maybe he’ll strangle her, watch her eyeballs pop out of her head. He’ll have to turn the flashlight back on for that.
Stopping at the sound of heavy breathing, he held back his own intake of air, definitely not him. It was the very-soon-to-be-dead bitch. She was what, ten, fifteen feet away, hiding behind that dark shadow of a bush ahead of him. He’s got her now. Relief coursed through him like a pain killing drug. Now, his life can go back to the way it was, before fucking Whip screwed up.
Choosing to jump her instead of engaging into another chase, he ran toward the black silhouette of the funky shaped plant, and then turned on the flashlight.
A big buck appeared in the beam of light, a mere few feet in front of him. It snorted and reared up on its hind legs.
Tom screamed like he’d never done before in his life. He attempted to run backward but fell. The buck came down on him, jabbing one hoof on his thigh, just missing his groin.
He clobbered the crazy animal’s leg with the flashlight. It reared to pounce on him again but he rolled and missed the second attack. Then the buck galloped off into the black woods.
“God damn it!” Tom leaped onto his feet and favoring his injured leg, flashed the light around. Where the fuck was Alaska? She was no where. “Fuck!” He never did see her, it was that God damn deer.
Limping back to his truck, his thigh pulsed with pain along with his rapid breathing from being pissed off to the max. Every fucking thing was her fault. If they didn’t catch the bitch and she made it to town, he was not going to Montana. He was going to stay right here and get her ass, make her pay big time. Either way, she was a dead woman.
*****
Colt marched Whip in front of him. “I got him,” he said over his shoulder, “get the flashlight.”
Alaska grabbed her root-beer off the counter, picked up the flashlight, and rounded the corner to follow them to the back door, but froze in the living room to gape at the cherry red sofa and recliner. Then her gaze shot over to the triple curio cabinets packed with glittering glass knickknacks. The extravagance startled her as if she expected something else.
“Alaska,” Colt called from the end of the hallway.
She pivoted and strolled toward him. Of course she expected something else; she’d been in the house before. She knew where the bathroom was. And she remembered a super tall grandfather clock, but didn’t notice it in the living room.
They lingered just inside of Esther’s bedroom, waiting for her. Alaska could see the white sheet on the carpet.
“Hold him while I check the DB.” Colt stuck his hand out. “I’ll take the flashlight.”
“The what?” Alaska stopped short and upped the can of soda.
“The flashlight.”
She swallowed. “I meant the DB part.”
“The dead body, if she’s alive she’ll probably need an ambulance.”
“I’ll check her.” Alaska brushed past Colt. “I found my granny when she died, no big deal.” Setting her root-beer on the dresser, she scrutinized Esther’s personal belongings. A cedar box had its lid closed, colored bottles of lotions and sprays lined up against the mirror in a neat and tidy row, antique looking trinkets sat on crochet doilies, and a streak of blue and green shined on a DVD in a clear casing. Written on it with a Sharpie were the words Haggard shooting Floyd.
She picked it up. “Well, looky here.”
“That’s it!” Whip’s eyebrows went spastic. “Let me have it, put it my pocket. C’mon, man,” he said, nodding his chin upward. “I need it. I’m not going down without it.”
“I’ll take that.” Colt reached for it.
Alaska held it up, tilting it over her shoulder. “I think I’ll hang on to this for now.”
Glaring down at the covered figure on the carpet, she tossed the flashlight on the bed. “Ooookay, let’s see what we have here.” Bending at the waist, she picked up the corner of the sheet. But Esther’s head lay turned to the side and all Alaska saw was messed up ratty hair. She dropped the sheet, stepped sideways, and picked the other end up, slowly lifting it.
“Check the carotid artery in her neck,” Colt said.
She bent further over and peeked under the sheet. Red and blue marks covered a puffy gray face. Her one opened eye stared nowhere and her tongue hung out. A foul odor escaped.
“Ewe!” Alaska dropped the sheet and stood straight, scrunching her nose. “She’s dead.”
“But you didn’t feel her neck.”
“Trust me, she’s–”
*****
Something alerted Colt, gut instinct? He held up a finger and strained his neck toward the hallway. Thankfully, Alaska stopped mid-sentence. Even though the woman acted like a wild cat, she was actually tame.
The rumble of an engine and tires on gravel sounded through opened windows. “Go,” he said, motioning for her to leave the bedroom with a cupped hand, “to the back door.” She circled the DB, flashed him a questioning glance, and left the room.
Pulling his prisoner beside him, he went around the body and grabbed the flashlight off the bed. He turned pushing Whip in front of him. They scurried out the doorway and rounded the corner into a second short hallway. But Colt came to an abrupt stop when he heard a vehicle’s horn honk two short beeps.
Could that be help so soon? No, they wouldn’t toot like someone announcing their arrival. Sheriff Thornville maybe? Whoever pulled up had obviously been in the area. Deputy Haggard? He had to have been listening to his police scanner. He probably heard Colt’s name over the airways and recognized it. Surely the deputy looked at his ID in his wallet before stuffing him in the ground. But why sound his horn like a warning. Did he set a trap, expecting him to run out the back door? Not wanting to kill him in the house or out front, leaving evidence for the responding officers to discover. Haggard or Tom could be in the back yard right now, prepared to gun him and Alaska down like Bonnie and Clyde. And then drag their bodies off, ditch them in the bushes and make up some crazy story to off-set his emergency call.
A window in the back of the house shone a ghostly glow into what appeared to be a utility room. Alaska stood in there by the door, ten feet away from him and Whip.
Click, came the sound of the bolt lock.
“Alaska, no don’t open the door,” Colt warned.
She didn’t, instead she whirled to face him, swooshing her hair.
Muffled male voices preceded the doorbell chiming.
Could it be a neighbor who had a police scanner and decided to come over and check it out before the authorities showed up?
Colt sidled down to where the two hallways met in front of the DB’s bedroom, taking Whip with him. He stuck his head around the corner and peered down the long stretch and into the lighted living room, staring straight at the front door. He could see part of the window, the folds in the curtains snuggled against each other, revealing nothing outside.
One of the men pounded on the door, making it shudder. And then a profound voice called out gruffly, “Anybody home?”
The familiarity of the sound startled him. “Who’s out there?”
“Frank Mallett.”
“Dad!”
“Colt! Is that you?”
“Yeah!” Colt took long strides down the hallway, pulling his prisoner who kept mumbling ouc
h.
The front door flew open before he reached it. His dad, a retired police officer of thirty-six years on the force, stepped inside the Ketches’ home.
“Dad, did you bring the guns?”
“I got mine. Yours is in underneath the seat.” Frank nodded his head backward. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“Were you listening to a scanner? Did you here about my emergency call?” Just then a man in his late thirties, early forties, about 5’8”, thinning hair, came in skirting Colt’s dad. It took a moment before Colt recognized him.
“Jack!” Alaska’s voice rang out in a happy tone.
“Hey girl,” the cook said brushing past him.
Staring, Colt pivoted.
Jack marched right up to Alaska like he was going to kiss her or something, but didn’t. Instead, Alaska stretched her arms out and wrapped them around his shoulders. And then his arms went around her waist.
With his gaze stuck to Jack’s backside, Colt leaned toward his dad. “The cook from the café, you went out there?”
“Yeah, looking for you, captain called, told me the escapee turned himself him in but no word from you. The sheriff was out there looking for Alaska, but nobody’s heard from her either. And well, Jack knew the Ketch’s were trouble, and where they lived, so we came out here. We were here earlier looking for you two but nobody was here, but we came back. Where the hell you been?”
Alaska’s embrace with Jack parted. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling at him. “Look who I found.” She wagged her finger toward Whip.
Colt turned his prisoner around.
“Is that Cunningham, Floyd?” Jack took a step closer to him and peered directly into his face. “That’s not Floyd.” And then the cook’s brows shot up, creasing his forehead. “That’s frigging Whip!”
“Hey Jack.” Whip snorted like he was trying to gather a hocker. “How you doing?”
“I knew it!” Jack slapped his thigh. “I just frigging knew it was no cockamamie story. Blade was right.” The cook took a step back and stood right next to Alaska, his shoulder touching hers.