by Sandy Night
Colt pushed his prisoner forward until he got wedged in-between Alaska and her cook, making them part. “Here you two, hold onto him. I’m going to get my gun.” At that, he turned on his heel and strode out the door, without even glancing at his dad.
Chapter 22
Tom noticed distant headlights coming down the road when he made it back to his truck. Probably Haggard, maybe he had better luck and he’d come to find him, show him he got Alaska and she’s knocked out in the back of his SUV.
Leaning against the tailgate, he waited. If it wasn’t him, then maybe he would still flag down whoever it was and ask them if they’d seen her, make up some story like she was his girlfriend and she had wandered off.
It didn’t take long for the headlights to close in. He took a few steps into the road, waving the beam of his flashlight. But he quickly backed up off the road. The vehicle, whoever it was, was moving at a high rate of speed. Not uncommon for the back road but this dude must have been going a hundred miles an hour.
When it zipped by like a streak of lightening, Tom shone his light on it. It was Haggard. And he drove hunched over the steering wheel as if he was clutching onto it for dear life. What the hell got his goat?
Watching the red taillights, he realized something happened. Oh shit, the police scanner. Haggard heard something. That had to be it. Alaska made it to a phone and called the cops.
He better get back to the house, tell his mother to get the hell out of dodge. But he wasn’t going anywhere. He had a bitch to kill.
Haggard better slow down, Tom knew the road came to a T shortly ahead of the dumb-ass deputy and if he didn’t make the turn he’d end up in the woods and hit a tree.
He kept his gaze on the shrinking lights. They didn’t stop, but instead the two red blurs tilted and went skyward before disappearing. “Oh fuck!” Haggard flipped his SUV.
After jumping into his truck, Tom paused with the motor running and lights on. Which way should he go? Check on dumb-ass or back to the house?
*****
Not ghosts—motherfuckers.
Esther pulled her strained tongue back in and turned her head forward. Having stinky gas couldn’t have come at a better time. They thought she was dead.
She couldn’t help but take deep breaths after hardly breathing at all, even though it pained her. The sheet rose and fell from her mouth.
It was most likely her damn nephew that had stumbled on top of her, pinching the skin on her arm and kicking her in the head. How the hell did he and that stud cop get out of Uncle Elbert’s hole? They were supposed to be dead by now and falling to the center of the globe. That was where the hole was supposed to go. That’s what she had been told all her life.
Maybe they clung to the side or hit bottom and climbed up. And then Alaska slipped past them and went back. Of course, that bitch saw them at the boulder putting Whip in, when she peeked through the bushes during her escape.
Where the hell was Tom? And Doug?
Running around like chickens with their heads cut off.
Damn it.
She needed her shotgun. Using her good arm, she pulled the sheet off her face and turned her head back to the side to peer within the shadowed confines underneath the bed. She couldn’t see the 12-gauge in its usual place, below the side she slept on. She looked toward her late husband’s side. And then it dawned on her, when she got back from the woods earlier that day, after getting bruised and broken from that damn oak tree, she collapsed on her precious red sofa and stuffed her Remington 870 pump beneath it.
Well hell’s bells. Now what? All them motherfucking people were in her living room. And was that Jack Junior here, and the cop’s dad? What the fuck was he doing here? What the hell were any of them doing in her fucking house anyway?
Why didn’t they go running straight to Sheriff Thornville?
Because they came to get her and Tom.
She needed to get out of there.
Esther lifted the upper part of her body, just enough to gaze down the hallway. She saw the backs of long legs and the front door standing open. She grabbed hold of the bed post and painfully pulled herself up, but a moan still escaped from her throat. Did they hear it?
No. Alaska didn’t stop running her mouth.
The DVD of Doug shooting Floyd was gone from the dresser. Good, it was in their hands now, to hell with that asshole deputy.
Pressing her bad arm against her rib cage, she did a speedy shuffle to the closet, wondering what happened to her homemade sling. It was probably laying by the tree next to the crashed up ATV. Her son, as smart as he was, didn’t use the good sense God gave him to pick it up.
She opened the door, grasped the handle of the medium sized suitcase on wheels, yanked it up and pulled it out of the closet. Guns used to be stored in there. But she sold them after her husband, Harold, passed, leaving her broke and disheveled with no life insurance to collect.
Tom kept one of the guns; surely he had it with him.
Backing up, she bumped into Harold’s nightstand. It had never been cleaned out; all the contents remained as if he was still alive. And he had something just as dangerous in there. But she had to hurry.
She released the suitcase and jerked opened the nightstand drawer. It was crammed full of crap. She turned the lamp on. The bulb flickered as if it communicated the message– I am here, I will help you.
Her bony fingers rifled past medicine bottles, papers, old wallets, funky gadgets, boxes of bullets, and pen knives. Pausing, she considered taking one, but nah, she’d likely cut her own damn self with it. Her hand reached to the back bottom of the drawer and she pulled out a wrinkled, brown paper sack wound snugly around a one by eight cylindrical form, dynamite.
Harold had brought the stick home one summer day, after him and a couple of his buddies found a whole box of them while snooping around an old barn. The original land owner probably used them to blow rocks and stumps out of the ground, which was common in the old days.
Esther opened the bag and took it out. It’d been a long time since she’d seen that booger. When Tom was a teenager, he used to sneak it out and show it off to anybody and everybody. And he got a minor ass whooping every time she caught him.
The stick of dynamite had a four inch fuse, a dull wrapper that had some nicks and tears in it, and a faded, company dated stamp. But she couldn’t recall it feeling so funky. She held it closer under the lamp light. It had what appeared to be crystals on it. She hoped it would still work if she had to use it.
After placing it in her other hand, she clutched it against her abdomen. Then she snatched a white cigarette lighter out of the drawer, retrieved the suitcase handle, and stepped over to the side of the doorway.
They sounded like kids horsing around. Some people never grew up.
Esther peeked. She couldn’t see them. They must have moved further into the living room. And the front door still stood wide open.
She could end it all right here, right now. Light the dynamite and toss it down the hallway. But would she be able to get out in time? She didn’t think so, not with broken bones, a messy cut below her knee that was still dribbling blood down her leg, and lugging her packed belongings.
Pulling her suitcase behind her, she hobbled out of the bedroom and headed toward the back door. At least she’d be able to see her hot tub and beautiful blue Hydrangeas one last time before going down the road and meeting up with Tom, stop him from getting to the house. She’ll simply flag him down, climb into his truck, and then they’ll head for Montana.
*****
Sandwiched in-between Amazon woman and his brother’s friend, Jack, Whip slumped like a cooked goose with his head bowed. His chances for escape were slimmer than an aluminum slim-Jim. And that’s exactly what he needed, some kind of fancy doohickey or circumstance to help free him from the insane captivity he’d been in since he got clobbered at the cooking cabin.
An inner voice urged him to be happy he crawled out of that frickin hole. And that he should b
e thanking Alaska for getting him out.
He angled his head so he could stare at one of her round boobs. It was only a few inches away from his face. Clutching his bicep, her fingers dug deeply and painfully into his muscle. “Help me hold onto him, Jack. I swear he’ll try to get away.”
“Don’t worry, I got him.” Jack squeezed his other arm, beneath his elbow.
Her white blouse blurred in Whip’s vision. The sweet muskiness of her female scent enticed him into submission.
“You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get him, Jack, but I got him! I got him!”
“Where have you and my son been?” The man by the door bellowed, the one super cop called dad.
“Yeah, Alaska, where’ve you been?” Jack asked. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the dirt and your hair, looks like a bird’s been nesting in there.”
“Ha, ha, very funny,” Alaska answered. Well anyway, me and Colt went to Branson, found him, got knocked out, and when I came to, I was all tied up and laying on the floor in some dinky little cabin. Whip and Tom was there and then Esther and the deputy came along and that Jackass waved his gun in my face, threatening to shoot me.”
Whip imagined her bra to be all lace. Her bosomy chest expanded and receded from her breathing and brisk talking.
“But Colt wasn’t there. He was in some damn hole that went to China. But then he rescued me and we went into a tunnel. And there was a skeleton in there and it was really creepy.”
Alaska paused, she exhaled a big cloud of warm air and it wafted toward him. His gaze moved up to bare skin, she boasted cleavage.
She continued, “And they’re out there right now, looking for me. They want to kill me.”
“I guess I better go see what he has to say.” The cop’s dad said. Whip guessed he went outside, to where his son was, getting the gun.
“Wow,” Jack exclaimed. “You’ve had one helluva of a day.”
Whip figured his naughty position stood on borrowed time. It wouldn’t be long before someone would yank him back and toss him in the back of a police car. He decided to go for it, as best he could.
He collected as much saliva as he could muster up, stuck his tongue out as far as it would go, and lunged toward her, aiming for the fleshy curve above the top button.
Chapter 23
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Alaska said, looking over weasel boy’s greasy hair at Jack. And then the dirty head came at her. Whip’s face smacked her chest and his slimy smutty tongue plastered itself on her skin like a swamp leach.
“Ewwww!” she shrilled, releasing him and stepping back. “Get off me!”
She popped him on the forehead with the palm of her hand. He would have fallen but Jack had a good hold on him.
“Did he hurt you?” Jack asked, flipping glances back and forth from him to her.
She swiped at her chest. “No, but he slobbered on me.” She dried the spot with her shirt. “You freakin’ little pervert.”
Whip guffawed like an inept clown, wiggled his tongue at her, and taunted, “More, baby, more.” Then he sprung at her.
Jack yanked him backward.
“Ah fuck!” Whip’s face contorted. “My arm!”
“Don’t let go of him.” Alaska moved forward.
Whip sobbed, “Man, you just pulled it out of my socket.”
Jack let go of his arm and grabbed his shirt, balled the material up in his fist, pushed the wad underneath weasel boy’s chin. “Well behave your damn self.”
Glaring at Whip, Alaska pointed at the red sofa. “Set your ass down.”
He stared back at her, flexing his nostrils.
“You heard her,” Jack said, and nudged him.
Whip backed up and knocked the coffee table.
Jack directed him around the lengthy piece of furniture and plopped him down on the center cushion.
Twirling about, Alaska searched for an object to threaten weasel boy with. She was done holding onto him. But big lamps, ashtrays with butts in them, and small glittering knick-knacks from the curio cabinets did not suffice for a weapon of sorts.
Pausing, she gazed out the front door, past the bugs hitting the porch light. Colt stood next to a truck with its interior lights on, talking to his dad and peering down at something in his hand. Probably the gun he went out there to get.
Now what were they going to do? All pile in the truck and drive away? Before Haggard and Tom came back? Maybe they were already out there, watching the house and planning an attack.
Or wait for the emergency help Colt called for? Since another cop made the call, maybe they wouldn’t take so long.
But before anything else happened, she needed to let Jack know that Floyd was definitely dead. And that Deputy Haggard, a person who he despised, killed his friend.
Gripping the DVD she’d held since plucking it off Esther’s dresser, Alaska turned around. Jack sat on the edge of the sofa with Whip’s back toward him. And he was untying him.
Alaska gasped. “What are you doing?” She took long hurried strides over to the sofa. In her haste to get in front of Whip, the toes of her bare foot slid underneath the sofa and hit something hard. It hurt.
“Crap!” She teetered, but managed to keep from falling into Whip’s lap and landed beside him.
“His arm sockets could be injured.”
Whip sniveled, avoiding eye contact.
“Don’t worry, I got him,” Jack said, glancing at her. “I’ll tie his ankles together, that’ll be better, can’t run.”
“Oh great, now he can punch and pull hair.” She rubbed her stunned toes.
“Why are you wearing only one shoe?”
“They were loose and I lost one. Those are my shoelaces.”
A knot came undone. Jack’s hand moved up and down, unwinding the lace from Whip’s wrists.
“Look at what I found in Esther’s bedroom.” She held the DVD up so he could see the words written on the casing.
Jack stopped what he was doing, his jaw dropped. “Haggard shooting Floyd?” You’re kidding me? Floyd’s really dead?”
“Yeah, he’s dead,” Whip answered. “I was there. We had one of those video cameras.”
“Damn it.” Jack lowered his head. “I had a feeling something bad happened to him.” His face shot back up, it was red and the whites of his eyes showed. “That dirty rotten…” He paused, breathing hard and pursing his lips. “And it’s there on that disc?”
Alaska shrugged.
“Should be,” Whip said.
“Let me see it.” Jack stood, took it from her outstretched hand, and went over to the entertainment center.
*****
After checking the loaded revolver, Colt lowered his arm and pointed it toward the ground. “That’s a real bad deputy out there,” he said to his dad after telling him bits and pieces of what had happened to him, and the nine-one-one call he made. “There will be a stack of hard evidence against him—fraud, murder, attempted murder, assault, kidnapping, just to name a few.”
Frank Mallett stood with a wide stance, hands on hips. “The dead body in the house, did he kill her? And what about the evidence in there? Listen to them; they’re probably trashing it right now. Nobody should even be in there, you know that.”
“I don’t think he killed her. I believe she crashed a 4-wheeler into a tree, and they brought her back here. And we were on our way out the back door when you and Jack pulled up.”
For the umpteenth time, Colt turned and twisted, scanning past the hazy house lighting and into the blackness surrounding them. Neither movement nor flicker of light caught his eye. “We need to get out of here. If that deputy and Tom Ketch come back, they’ll try to kill us.” Colt turned toward the house. “Go ahead and start the truck, I’ll go get them.”
Upon entering, Colt saw the TV’s wide screen glowing bright blue. They were probably putting in the DVD of Haggard shooting Floyd. “Uh, we don’t have time for that.” He directed his words toward Jack who stood in front of the e
ntertainment center. “We need to go.”
“It’ll only take a minute, I need to see this.”
“You can watch it later. We need to go, now.”
With one eyebrow down and the other arched, Jack tossed him a look of inconvenience. “I don’t think I’ll have another chance to see this, not after the police get their hands on it.”
“Well, I am the police and I’m telling you to take it out.”
“Oh yeah, I heard about that.” Jack chuckled.
“That’s not funny.”
“Uh, Colt,” Alaska chimed in, “it kind of is.” She sat on the sofa next to Whip. His hands were clasped in his lap.
“You didn’t think so earlier today.”
“It wasn’t funny then.”
“Why is he untied?”
“I did that,” Jack answered.
The DVD started playing. First it showed the ground, then some undergrowth and pine trees. “He’s coming, he’s coming,” a male voice sounded. Then a gasping figure blurred in front of the lens.
“That’s Tom,” Whip announced.
“Turn it on, turn it on,” Tom urged.
“It’s on goddamn it, now move,” a woman cursed.
“Aunty Esther,” Whip said like a narrator.
The video recorder swung and wobbled before stopping on two young males standing next to a wooden shed or cabin.
“Damn it Whip, get down.” Esther’s voice had a rough edge to it. “Floyd get in the fucking cabin.” Then she stuck the video lens through a hole in the cabin’s wall.
It was the same rickety structure he’d rescued Alaska from. No door, some brush covered the window but not as much, and streams of sunlight filtered through slits and gaps. But this time folding tables had been set up. On them were glass containers, hoses, camping burners, fuel cans, coffee filters, alcohol, gasoline additive, and drain opener. Underneath, there was a blue ice chest and propane tanks. It was a clandestine meth lab.
Colt looked away from the screen and stepped over to the side of the coffee table. He stood closer to his prisoner than the woman he had made love to, twice. “C’mon you two, let’s go.” He stuck his left hand out, to grab Whip’s arm when he stood up. But the suspect didn’t budge, and neither did Alaska. They both stared at the TV.