by Harper Lin
A police car was parked in the street out front. An officer stood knocking on Liz’s front door. We had deliberately arrived late so the cops would make it there before us. That would help scare off any potential assassins. We hoped. They had proven themselves pretty brazen already.
“I’ll get rid of him,” Liz said.
As we pulled into the driveway at the side of the house, I noted the little black globes of security cameras covering each corner. A long, thin wire ran from the upper floor out over the backyard, where it was secured to a high branch. At the end attached to the house, a coaxial cable ran from the wire through a hole drilled below a window and into the house.
“You’re a ham radio operator.”
Liz looked at me with surprise. “How did you know?”
“I know an end-fed long wire antenna when I see one.”
“I like to tinker with electronics,” she said evasively.
“So did James.” Especially electronics that set off big explosions. “I never got into ham radio. So you like to talk around the world, eh?”
She gave me an enigmatic smile. “Lots of interesting conversations.”
We took a final look around.
“The coast looks clear,” she said. “Let’s go.”
I unzipped my purse so I’d have easy access to the 9mm pistol I kept inside. Liz and I went up to the police officer. While I scanned the area for potential threats, Liz gave the officer information about when her wedding was planned and when her fiancée was due back from Afghanistan. He dutifully wrote all this down.
“We’ll make sure both of you are safe for your big day, ma’am,” he said as he left.
“That was easy,” Liz said.
“The police here are sleepwalkers,” I told her.
We went to the front door. I’d feel much better once we were inside. With a final look over her shoulder, Liz unlocked it.
As soon as she opened the door, a huge black form leapt out and slammed into me.
FIVE
I fell back on the pavement. As I hit, I had enough of a reflex to tuck in my head so it wouldn’t smack into the concrete and knock me out cold.
It still gave me a jarring impact to my back and a sharp pain akin to a three-foot-long knitting needle going down my spine and inside my right leg.
Ah, sciatica. You’re like malaria, that unwelcome visitor who comes and goes unannounced, but is never far away.
But I had more to worry about than that telltale sign of aging. I was just barely holding back the growling, snapping jaws of a huge Doberman.
I had it by the neck, its fangs an inch from my face. Its muscles bunched, and I felt my arms weaken. The beast’s hot breath wafted in my face as those fangs drew closer…
“Poofles! Heel!” Liz shouted.
The dog leapt off me and came to sit by Liz, who stood in the doorway, holding the collar of a second dog, who stared at me, growling.
“Are you all right?” Liz asked.
“Ouch. Um, no. He set off my sciatica.”
“Bad dog!” she shouted.
Poofles whined and ducked his head.
“Inside, the both of you!”
The Dobermans retreated inside.
“You named that monster Poofles?” I said, trying to get up without moving my spine or right leg. Easier said than done.
“Poofles and Doofles. Cute names for cute animals,” she said with a bright smile as she gave me a hand.
“Ouch! You and I have different definitions of the word cute.”
I grabbed hold of the doorway, hoping Poofles and Doofles didn’t nip off my fingertips, and painfully hauled myself into something approaching a vertical position.
“How come I didn’t hear them barking when the policeman was knocking at the door?”
“I’ve trained them not to bark unless I’m at home,” Liz said.
“So if you’re away, intruders will get a nasty surprise. If you’re home, you’ll be alerted. Clever.”
I hobbled inside with Liz’s help. This was a bad development. Every now and then, this annoying ailment flared up and half crippled me for a day or three. Painkillers and careful stretching exercises helped, but nothing took it away except a session with my acupuncturist. I wasn’t going to be much help to Liz in this state.
She eased me to an armchair and ran off to get some painkillers. I looked around. It seemed, at first glance, a typical living room. A nice furniture set bought at some mid-priced outlet, flat-screen TV, pictures and knickknacks on the walls and mantelpiece.
Only on second glance did I see evidence of a life interestingly lived.
A picture of the fiancé in dress uniform stood on the mantelpiece. He looked at the camera with a square-jawed smile. Next to it were several smaller photos of gun-toting Afghani tribesmen posing for the camera. Allies, at least when those photos were taken. I also noticed a native basket from the Amazon rainforest, a wooden mask covered in embroidered strips of cloth used in place of a niqab by the Bhandari tribeswomen of Pakistan and Iran, and a fist-sized chunk of concrete with spray paint on it.
Poofles and Doofles lay nearby, staring at me with animalistic hunger and rage. I knew for a fact that if Liz wasn’t there, they’d have turned me into hamburger within five seconds.
There’s a reason I’m a cat person.
Liz came back with a glass of water and some painkillers. I thanked her.
“Is that a piece of the Berlin Wall?”
“Yes. You have a good eye.”
“They used a distinctive type of concrete. I notice it doesn’t have one of those silly little verification plaques all the tourist kiosks in Berlin put on them.”
“A sure sign they’re fakes. This got chipped from the actual wall.”
“Not by you, unless you were a child.” The few remaining sections were all closely guarded as public monuments.
“No. By somebody else. I’ll go pack.”
Well, that was informative.
She left me with the two hellhounds. I’d take Dandelion gnawing at my shoelaces and tearing up my upholstery any day.
Liz returned in less than two minutes carrying a large satchel.
“I think you have time to retrieve more than your bug-out bag,” I told her.
“We shouldn’t linger. Let me leave some food for the dogs.”
“You got a gun?” I asked after her as she disappeared into the kitchen, followed by Poofles and Doofles. Animals understand human speech when they want to and ignore it when it suits their purpose. A bit like teenagers.
“A 9mm automatic. It’s in the bug-out bag,” she called back.
“Of course you do,” I muttered. “How silly of me to ask.”
I tried to shift my weight and get in a more comfortable position. My back and one leg were killing me. At least I hadn’t tweaked my spine. That would have put me out of commission for days.
I heard Liz pour out a mountain of kibble, and those two monsters began to gobble it down as loudly as they had been growling a moment before. Well, at least they weren’t gobbling down my entrails.
“What else do you have in your bug-out bag?” I called across the room.
“The usual stuff.”
“Grenades?”
“No.” She sounded disappointed.
Liz returned, grabbed the bug-out bag, and helped me to my feet. A sharp twinge went down my back and leg. I hissed in pain.
“You good to drive?” she asked.
“Maybe you should,” I conceded.
“Thanks for doing this,” she said, parting the curtains a little and checking outside.
“Anything for a comrade-in-arms.”
She gave me a sharp look then broke into a smile.
“Let’s go.”
We made it to my car without getting shot or me falling down, both of which I considered accomplishments, and we headed out.
“Keep an eye out for tails,” Liz said.
“Difficult when I can’t turn around,” I groaned.
>
“Do your best.”
We drove for a while in silence. Liz took a circuitous route. After a few minutes, she whispered, as if to herself, “I can’t even get any peace on my wedding day.”
“You will,” I said, giving her a sidelong look. “We’ll figure it out.”
By the time we made it to my house, my back felt even worse, no doubt from twisting my neck constantly to watch for pursuit.
“I hope Mr. Chong does house calls,” I grumbled as we hobbled to my front door.
“Who?”
“He runs Get to the Point Acupuncture.”
“Are we going to pin the murder on him?”
“Don’t needle me.”
“You have a sharp wit.”
We entered. I tenderly lowered myself on the sofa and arranged some cushions around me.
My physical state made me feel seriously cheated by life. I have been in tip-top shape since I was a little girl. I was the best female athlete in my class all through school and university and endured the rigors of combat and espionage for decades. Now I’m worse off than many people who spent their prime years in a cubicle.
It turns out that overusing your body can be just as bad in the long run as underusing it. Maybe I should have eaten more sour cream and onion potato chips when I was younger. I love those things. You can’t eat anything crunchy while waiting in ambush, though. Gives away your position.
From the couch, I directed Liz to the guest bedroom and linen closet, and once she left, I got on the phone to Mr. Chong.
“Howdy, Grandma Barb. Y’all doing good today?” Mr. Chong asked, stretching out every syllable.
Mr. Chong emigrated from China to Mississippi and did stints in Texas and South Carolina before moving to Cheerville. The only type of English he speaks is Southern, which he pronounced “suthun,” with a bit of Texan thrown in.
“Hello, Mr. Chong—”
“You can call me Bubba.”
“Um, all right. I’ve had a bit of an accident. Do you do house calls?”
“For you, ma’am, I’d walk through faa carryin’ a bucket full of propane.”
“You’d walk through what?”
“Faa.”
“You mean fire?”
“That’s what I said. Faa.”
“When can you come over?”
“As fast as a hound dog chasing a T-bone.”
“I presume that’s fast.”
“Sure thang.”
I gave him directions to my house and hung up. Liz returned to the living room.
“Sorry to pry, but did you just tell someone to come over?” Liz asked.
“He can be trusted. He’d walk through faa for me.”
Liz’s forehead crinkled. “Huh?”
Just then my phone rang. Grimal.
“Catch them yet?” I asked.
“No,” Grimal grumbled. “The dragnet isn’t finding any suspicious characters. I checked the local hotels and the ones on the nearby stretch of interstate. We’ve followed up on a couple of the guests. None panned out.”
“I think they’re still in Cheerville. They could have gotten away, but they want to strike again. I think they’re close. They might have taken a rental home. Have you checked those?”
“Rental homes? We’re getting those next.”
You are now that I’ve suggested it.
He hung up without even saying goodbye. Not that I minded. It made the conversation shorter.
The roar of an engine outside made Liz grab her gun from the holster hidden under her vest and run for the window.
“Is it a Trans Am with a light on the hood that goes back and forth?”
“Yes.”
“That’s my acupuncturist. Big Knight Rider fan.”
Liz returned her gun to the holster. Neat little job. She wore a loose vest and had a slim holster. Not even I had spotted that she had been packing. My own gun was still in the other part of the house. I’d need to get it once Mr. Chong had fixed me up.
The doorbell rang. Liz answered it. Mr. Chong entered.
Or should I say, made an entrance.
He wore a stiff red robe with a dragon in gold brocade wrapping around his body. In his delicately manicured hands he carried a box of lacquered black wood. On his head he wore a ten-gallon hat.
“Howdy, ladies,” he said, touching the brim of his hat. He turned to Liz. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure. I’m Bubba. Bubba Chong.”
“Um, pleased to meet you, Bubba.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Shall I take your hat?” Liz asked, unable to keep her eyes off the huge cowboy hat.
“I’ll keep it if you don’t mind, ma’am. Part of my Eastern mystique.”
“Huh?”
“East Texas. Now, while I’d be happy to chew the rag with you until the cows come home, I do believe Barbara here is having a bit of an emergency.”
I had already worked my way into a prone position facedown on the couch. Dandelion took that moment to leap on my back and curl herself up on my rear end.
Bubba gently picked her up and deposited her on the floor.
“There you go, little lady. Now what seems to be the trouble?” he said, probing my tender back with his fingers. “Ah, I see. Plain as pigeon poop on fresh tarmac, as the wise Confucius said once.”
“That doesn’t sound like Confucius,” Liz said, peering out the window.
“Not the ancient philosopher. A guy I knew who worked at Galveston airport. Let’s get that shirt off, Barbara, and I make that request that as a medical specialist and a gentleman.”
With his help, I managed to remove my blouse without too much excruciating pain. Down to my brassiere, I lay on the couch again as he opened up the lacquered box to reveal an array of needles.
“Gah!” Liz said.
“Y’all got a problem with needles?” Bubba asked.
“They give me the heebie-jeebies.”
“I didn’t mean to heebie your jeebie. I do apologize.”
“You might want to look away, Liz,” I said.
She went pale as Bubba Chong pulled out a long needle from his box and turned away to look out the window.
Just in time to keep her from seeing him tenderly stick the needle into one of the nerve centers on my back.
The tightness in my back eased. It did not go away entirely, but the effect was immediate and noticeable. Thank God for six-thousand-year-old civilizations. They tend to pick up a handy tip or two over all that time.
He started putting more pins in my back. Those who haven’t had acupuncture are probably curling their toes at the moment, but there’s really nothing to it. It hardly hurts at all, and what little sensation you get from the super-thin needles is more than compensated by the loss of pain in your back or joints or wherever else your body ails you.
After about half an hour of this treatment, Liz still keeping vigil at the window, not having turned around in all that time, I rather resembled a content, pain-free porcupine.
My contentment wasn’t to last long, however. I heard the sound of breaking glass from the rear of the house.
“What in tarnation was that?” Bubba Chong asked.
“Trouble,” Liz replied, drawing the pistol from under her vest.
She didn’t get to say anything more because just then two men burst into the living room.
SIX
Now, I don’t generally go into combat without a shirt on. As inspiring as all those fantasy paintings of female warriors wearing chainmail bikinis may be (at least to adolescent boys), I’ve always preferred to be fully clothed when I have to kill someone.
But life-and-death situations rarely come at ideal times. In fact, they can be downright inconvenient.
So I rose from the couch in only a brassiere and slacks, looking like some latter-day Amazon and feeling deeply grateful that I could move again, ready to join in the fray.
And discovered I didn’t really need to.
At least not for the mo
ment.
The two men who rushed into the room wore identical black sweatpants, black tops, black gloves, and black ski masks. They looked like low-rent ninjas. One held the pistol with silencer, the other a hammer.
That’s right, a hammer. Not a gun or a knife or a can of pepper spray or even a halberd, an actual hammer.
Who were these jokers?
Liz didn’t waste time finding out. She fired at the one who posed the biggest threat—the guy with the gun.
Shot it right out of his hand. I was impressed.
Bubba Chong leapt up, an acupuncture needle in each hand. He looked ready to come out with one of his southern witticisms when he got rudely interrupted by Hammer Man swinging at him.
Bubba responded by poking him in the chest with a needle. Ducking another swing, he poked him again.
Hammer Man did not seem overly fazed by this treatment. It was time for me to get in on the action before I lost the best acupuncturist I’ve ever met.
I looked around for a handy weapon. The only thing in reach was the cat. Tempting, because if Dandelion was going to live with me for any length of time, she’d have to learn how to handle herself in combat, but I decided against it.
Bubba backed away, passing me as Hammer Man kept swinging at him.
“Stick him in a pressure point!” I told him.
“I can’t. Dang cuss is moving around slicker than an oiled snake!”
Bubba backed off from another swing then poked him again.
I rushed to my purse sitting on the floor next to the couch, suddenly remembering the little can of pepper spray I kept there.
I bent over to retrieve it, not feeling a single tweak of pain thanks to the expertise of my Southern-fried friend, and retrieved the can.
The two ducked and wove around each other, Bubba poking him with the needles, Hammer Man trying to knock the acupuncturist’s brains out. It was an unfair competition, but Bubba managed to dodge every swing. He certainly had the motivation to.
I shot pepper spray right into Hammer Man’s face. Or at least tried.