LYING COP

by Sandy Night

  “Alaska, c’mon, have you forgotten, they’re out there right now trying to track you down. And Tom lives here. We really need to get out of here.”

  Without disrupting her gaze at the screen, she stated, “But you have a gun now.”

  Frank strode through the front door. “While you’re all fussing, I’m going to go check on that dead body. Where is it?”

  Colt half-way glanced at his dad. “In the bedroom at the end of the hallway, can’t miss it.”

  *****

  Frank Mallett paused by the white sheet lying on the carpet. It appeared as if someone could have been under it.

  He looked on the other side of the bed. Nothing. The closet door and dresser drawer both hung open. Maybe he went into the wrong bedroom. He checked two other rooms and the bathroom. No dead body.

  Can’t miss it—my ass.

  Something’s wrong.

  Instead of hollering down the hallway at Colt, he decided to go out the back way, check the perimeter and then sneak around front. If someone was lurking around, he was going to make sure he came up behind them first and not vice-versa.

  Frank withdrew his revolver from underneath his shirt, gingerly opened the back door, and with the utmost of caution, stepped outside.

  *****

  Whip remembered a cold winter’s day when he was a teenager, sitting in an old broken down recliner. Aunty Esther came in from hunting and she must have been pretty tired because she flopped down on what was then a stinky old couch, but before she did, she slid her Remington shotgun underneath it.

  Holy fuckaroni!

  Could that be what Alaska stubbed her toes on? Was Floyd’s spirit in his head, guiding him?

  As Whip kept his gaze peeled on the big TV, he inched himself closer to the edge of the sofa. His hand dropped to scratch his ankle. “Man, something bit me,” he said. But they didn’t pay him no mind.

  Chapter 24

  Alaska ignored Colt. He had a revolver and his dad, a retired cop, was also there with a gun. She didn’t feel threatened at all sitting there on the sofa. But if she was to get up, step out side and walk to the truck; that would make her very uneasy.

  Tom or Haggard could be out there hiding in the deep shadows. They probably wouldn’t recognize Colt right away, but the second they laid eyes on her, they would shoot a sniper shot at her.

  Keeping her side vision glued on Whip, she watched the DVD. They had obviously used the cabin to cook meth. Of course it was all gone now except for some garbage strewn about. No wonder it smelt so bad in there. The building probably reeked contamination. She wondered how long it had been since anyone had cooked there and if the long lasting chemical effects had affected her, what with the way she had laid on the floor. Her whole backside had pressed up against floorboards soaked in dangerous chemical fumes. And the side of her face kissed the filthy wood numerous times. Why her hair just about swept the damn floor. It’s a good thing they found the waterfall and went swimming. And her clothes, she needed to ditch them.

  She noticed weasel boy busying himself scratching his leg.

  Bugs, no telling what all got on them after they’d been crawling in the tunnel, squatting in the bushes, and lying on the ground. At that time of year, the ticks and chiggers were coming out in droves. And there could be spider eggs in her hair.

  The chiggers concerned her the most. If any Lyme ticks were on her, she would have at the most twenty-four hours to pluck them off before their venom got into her. But she needed to get the chiggers off her ASAP, she only had one to three hours before they would inject their digestive enzymes into her skin, and then in twelve to in twenty-four hours she would break out in itchy, red welts. And then she would suffer and have to cover herself with Calamine lotion.

  If she were home, she’d put a little bit bleach in the tub and take a bath. That would kill them. Or rubbing alcohol would work, swab a bit on her feet and ankles. Maybe there was some in the bathroom back there. Or better yet, maybe there were bacteria killing agents in the hot tub. That might do the job and kill the nasty little buggers, and anything else that was on her. All she needed was but a few minutes to get out there, undress, climb in, dunk, and then get out. A folded towel did sit on the bench. She could wrap her hair up in it.

  Alaska tensed, Floyd appeared on the screen. She was about to view him being shot to death. He waltzed into the cabin and went right over to the whereabouts of the camera. He did a little jiggle dance. Then he turned, bent over, and showed his butt. A loud squash sounded.

  “Last fart he’d ever done,” Whip said in a low tone.

  Floyd straightened, sashayed over to the front of the cabin and peered out before jumping back. With hands on hips, he stood in the middle of the room, facing forward, totally ignoring the camera.

  Haggard entered, wearing his tan deputy’s uniform and weapon belt. He stepped up to Floyd and plucked his hand out, palm up. It looked as if he expected Floyd to hand him something.

  But he didn’t.

  Seconds passed, nothing happened, nobody moved, inside the cabin or in the living room.

  *****

  Pulling the suitcase over grass was a bitch. Esther figured it would take her most of the night to get it to the road by the way she had to tug at it, inch by inch. And every time she did, it sent shock waves of pain from her busted collar bone all the way down to her big toe.

  So she left the luggage containing clothes, personal documents, a childhood doll, and jewelry behind the potted hibiscus plant. She’ll have Tom come get it. He could park the truck a half mile away and cut through the woods and come in behind the shop.

  Holding her bad arm against her abdomen, she continued to clutch the stick of dynamite as she rounded the corner of the house. She glanced at her old car parked near the kitchen door and cursed herself for leaving her keys on the coffee table. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! With all that was going on, she should have had the keys on her person at all times.

  Picking up momentum, she trudged away from the house in a diagonal direction. No longer near the hazy lighting surrounding her home, she passed the darkened shop. Not too much further, then she could cut through a swathe of weeds and there the road will be. But then all of a sudden, from out of nowhere, a man barked.

  “Police! Stop and put your hands up in the air!”

  Esther stopped cold in her tracks. No red or blue spinning lights were on the road beyond the bushes. Nobody in front of her with a flashlight, and no police cars were in the driveway. She spun around. Darkness enshrouded her. It was probably that stud cop’s dad lurking around her damn property.

  Wondering how much of her he could see, she couldn’t locate him at all.

  She turned back around, hunched over, lifted the top of her scrubs and slipped the dynamite into her pants. Then she nudged the lighter inside her underwear.

  Her heart raced and she wished she could run, but taking mini steps was all she could manage.

  “Hold it!”

  She kept on going for a good eight feet but stopped when the man’s dark silhouette appeared in front of her, large and looming.

  A tiny light flicked on as if he held a pen light. “Put your hands up now, where I can see them.”

  Esther crooked her elbow, raising her hand as high as her cheek.

  “Higher!” The big bully barked.

  “Can’t,” she whimpered, “collar bone’s busted.”

  “Raise your other hand.”

  “I can’t, my arm’s busted too,” she said making her voice quiver like a frightened old woman’s.

  “All right then. Turn around and head toward the house, slowly.”

  Esther pointed herself toward the shop and began hobbling. If she could get in there, she could turn the light on, find a screwdriver or something, stab him, corner him, and then pull out the dynamite, show him who’s boss.

  “No, no, no, to the house.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I got a gun pointed at you. You need to halt. Now!”

&
nbsp; Continuing on, she pressed her bad arm against her waist, clutching the stick of dynamite through her scrubs.

  He came up from behind her, grabbed her arm.

  She squealed from the excruciating pain.

  *****

  Floyd and the psycho deputy stood face to face.

  Alaska stared at the big TV screen and leaned forward, losing her peripheral vision on Whip.

  Haggard spoke first with his hand stuck out like a panhandlers. “Well dipstick, give me my money.”

  “What money?”

  “My weekly allowance, asshole, it’s Friday. And don’t forget my raise.”

  Standing straight as a bean pole, Floyd folded his arms. “Oh, you mean the payoff money for keeping our little methamphetamine lab a secret.”

  “That’s right.” Haggard dropped his hand. “Ya’ll be rotting in prison right now if it wasn’t for me.” He took a step toward Floyd. Mere inches separated their faces. “You have no idea what I go through to keep this lab working, keeping all those goddamn drug informants away from here.”

  “Drug informants?” Floyd angled his head. “Who the hell you talking about?”

  “Give me my money and I’ll tell you.”

  “There aint gonna be no more money, not for you anyway. We all discussed it—me, Tom, Esther, and Whip. We decided you’ve gotten enough of our money. Your cut off. And no more tweak either. It’s time you go extort another lab. Leave us alone.”

  “Oh yeah, we’ll see about that.” Haggard stepped back a few paces, placed one hand on his hip, near his holster. “The next time I see Tom and his mother, and your twerp brother, it’s going to be a whole different conversation than what you think it’s going to be.” He withdrew his gun and without hesitation pointed it squarely at Floyd’s chest.

  A pop exploded with a flicker of light.

  Floyd flew backward, out of camera view.

  Alaska’s shoulders jumped.

  Then an abrupt and violent movement happened in the living room. Either Whip kicked the coffee table over, or Colt who stood near him, yanked it back, flipping it.

  Startled, her whole body flinched as she tore her gaze away from the screen. She screamed and recoiled at the sight of a long steel barrel pointing her way.

  Holy shit! Whip had a shotgun in his hands.

  Chapter 25

  Gripping the barrel of the shotgun with one hand, Colt directed it toward the ceiling and gave it a hard yank as he stepped back. Whip hung onto it and sprang off the sofa.

  Colt pointed the revolver at Whip’s forehead, but the stubborn perp still struggled to retain possession of the firearm, all the while glaring up at him with menacing eyes.

  “Let go!” Colt hollered. “Let go of the gun!”

  “It’s not yours, you cocksucker!” Whip spat wet icky spit on the side of his face, and gave the weapon a hard push and tug.

  It wasn’t the first time he had a suspect’s saliva splatter on him. And as nasty and infuriating as it was, he had absolutely no sudden urge to swipe at it. Instead he re-aimed the revolver to Whip’s shoulder, pressing the end of the barrel into his muscle.

  “Alaska,” Colt said without glancing at her. “If you don’t want blood on you, you better move. You have two seconds.”

  She peeled off the sofa so fast it seemed as if a whirlwind spun off her, knocking Whip off the shotgun and onto the center cushion.

  “Put your hands on your head,” Colt commanded.

  Being a smartass, Whip lifted his hands in slow motion.

  Holding the shotgun still, Colt moved his other arm to wipe the spit off his face with his shirt sleeve, careful where he pointed the revolver. Then he looked at Jack who stood by the entertainment center, fiddling with the DVD player. The screen had gone dark. “You!” He stepped toward him. “Get on the ground.”

  Jack glanced at him.

  “Yeah you, lie down on the carpet and put your hands over your head.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Untie my prisoner and play that DVD after I told you not to.”

  “Oh hell.” Jack kicked aside a salt shaker that had flown off the coffee table and dropped to the carpet.

  Alaska was staring at Colt with big eyes. Her lips were sucked in and her brow creased.

  “Come over here,” he said, easing off the harshness in his tone, “stand beside me.”

  “Oh good,” she muttered, moving past the toppled table, “thought you were going to make me get down there.”

  “You’re the one I’m trying to protect here darling.” He caught a sparkle in her eye and a slight smile.

  He shuffled backward and peered down the hallway. His father was no where in sight. “Hey Dad,” he hollered, thinking he was probably snooping around the DB’s bedroom.

  “Yeah son,” Frank responded, but his voice came from behind him and not the back part of the house.

  Colt spun around, Alaska too.

  His dad came in through the front door, and in front of him walked Esther Ketch, AKA, DB— dead body.

  “Oh no,” Colt mumbled.

  Alaska let out a shrilly yip.

  Raising an eyebrow, Colt peered at her.

  “But I thought she was dead,” Alaska said through splayed fingers. Then she dropped her hand. “Her tongue was hanging out like a dead dog’s.”

  “What’s my buddy doing over there on the ground?” Frank asked. “What he’d do?”

  “He untied my prisoner.”

  Colt stared at Esther. She looked as if she had just crawled out of her grave, discolored and hunched over. She glared up at him and asked like the deceiving calm before a bad storm, “And what do you think you’re doing with my shotgun?”

  “Mrs. Ketch, you’re under arrest.”

  “Nooo,” she whimpered, “I’m all busted up here, can’t you see, I need to go to the hospital. So if you will excuse me I’ll just get my keys.” She moved one foot in front of the other.

  Colt stepped in front of her. “Did you pat her down?” he asked his dad.

  “Not yet.”

  “Take the shotgun, I’ll do it.”

  When the long barreled firearm switched hands, Esther pulled something out of her pants.

  Thinking it to be a small pistol or maybe even a knife, Colt snatched it. But before he had a chance to observe exactly what he held, she moved with the agility of a teenager with her hand out, reaching for it. He raised it up.

  Frank snagged the back of her top and pulled her back.

  “Arrgghh, you fucker,” she spewed. “Let go of me!”

  “Get on the ground,” Frank told her. “And don’t tell me you can’t.”

  Colt lowered his hand and eyeballed an old stick of dynamite. It appeared as if it had been sprinkled with crystal meth, but he knew it hadn’t. It had sweated nitroglycerin. It wasn’t necessary for the short fuse to be lit for an explosion, just jarring it could set it off. It was a miracle the old woman didn’t blow herself up. He froze, not daring to disturb it, especially after all that toting around it had been through, probably itching to go off.

  “Uh, Dad,” Colt said, slightly turning his head to look at him.

  Esther lay sprawled out on the carpet while his dad kneeled next to her, checking for more weapons. “Here we go,” he said, “a lighter.” He held it up. “What do you have?”

  “A stick of dynamite.”

  “No shit, good work son.”

  Without moving anything other than his eyes, Colt scanned the room.

  Alaska stood with her arms folded. “Dynamite?”

  Whip sat on the edge of the sofa with his hands down, but as soon as Colt looked his way, his hands shot back up on his head.

  Jack hadn’t moved.

  “It sweated,” Colt said, barely moving his lips.

  “Don’t move.” Frank stood up. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m going to maneuver over to the dining room table and lay it down there.”

  “Be careful Colt, don’t be c
oncerned about us.” Frank spoke meticulously, as if he held the unstable explosive. “I’ll get everybody out.”

  “Can I get up now?” Jack twisted around onto his side, hands still on his head.

  “What’s going on, what’s wrong?” Alaska asked. Her green eyes were the love of Colt’s life. His heart sank. He didn’t answer.

  “Nitroglycerine,” Frank said, “it’s escaped from the casing. It can explode at any moment.”

  Forcing his gaze away from Alaska, Colt turned to focus on the volatile dilemma in his hand.

  He swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple bob.

  Balancing the eight inch cylinder of compressed sawdust and nitroglycerin in the palm of his hand, he moved like a snail in a hurry toward the dining room which loomed straight ahead of him.

  He tried not to pay too much attention to the commotion behind him, everybody’s words seemed to blur together. But from what he gathered, his dad was telling them to move out at least a hundred yards away once they got outside, Jack was being helpful, Esther cursed, Whip snorted, and Alaska protested leaving the house without him.

  Did she not understand the seriousness of the situation? Did she love him?

  He knew without a doubt if the tables were turned and it was she holding an unstable explosive, he wouldn’t leave. But she had to go. He trusted his dad and Jack to get her out of there.

  As he reached the dining room, it grew quiet behind him. He breathed lightly, his heart pounded, a bead of sweat dropped from his face and landed on his wrist. He set his revolver down and placed the back of his other hand on the table. He carefully picked up the end of the stick and slid his palm and then his fingers out from beneath it. Then he gently lowered the dynamite until it rested on the polished wood.

  After picking up his gun, he looked at the darn thing for what he felt would be the last time. Gut instinct?

  He spun around and started for the door. Everyone had left, except for a large bug the size of his thumb. It had been attracted to the porch light and flown inside the house. Half its body glowed phosphorescent green and it was flying around the living room, bouncing off everything it hit.