by Bill Hopkins
want a date. I want to beat you senseless unless you call the highway patrol.”
Another gunshot slammed into Nadine’s front window, yet it only spider webbed the glass without breaking it. Who puts bulletproof window glass in a house? Was Nadine connected with the mob?
The operator said, “Was that a gunshot?”
Rosswell said, “You’re damned right that was a gunshot. There have been lots of gunshots out here, and three people are the targets.”
“I’ll connect you with 911.”
Rosswell yelled, “You call the highway patrol or I’m going to personally cut your nuts off.”
A gasp, followed by, “You can’t talk that way to me.”
“Operator, I’m going to castrate you and make you eat your testicles. Then I’m going to—”
“I’m putting you through to my supervisor.”
“About time.”
After a few clicks, a lot of static, and what seemed like a century, a woman came on the line. “My operator tells me that you’ve threatened him with bodily harm.”
Roswell said, “Then call the cops and report me. Call the highway patrol. Call the FBI and the Secret Service. Someone is shooting at us. Call the CIA. Call NATO and the UN.”
“The number you are speaking from is registered to Nadine Blessing. Is Ms. Blessing available?”
“Nadine,” Rosswell said, “the operator wants to know if you’re available.”
Nadine grabbed the receiver from him. “This is Nadine Dumbarton.” She held the receiver out so Rosswell could hear the conversation.
The supervisor said, “The telephone is registered to Nadine Blessing. I must speak with her.”
“Dumbarton is my maiden name, which I started using when my husband died.”
Then why was her real estate agency still called Blessing Land Agency? Rosswell didn’t understand that at all.
“Here’s what you need to do,” the supervisor said. “Send in notarized proof of a legal change of name to us, complete with—”
“Listen here, you bitch, you call the cops right now, or I will personally shove your headset up your ass so far that a team of surgeons won’t be able to find it.” Nadine held the receiver close to her ear and listened for a few seconds, then said, “Good,” and hung up the phone. “Woman to woman. You just have to be meaner than the one you’re talking to. She’s calling the cops.”
Three rounds spanged against the front window. None of them made it through.
Ollie said, “Nadine, do you have a basement? Somewhere we could hide?”
They had positioned themselves away from any windows, but going underground seemed like a good idea. When someone’s shooting at you, make yourself hard to find.
“Follow me,” she said. “I have a . . . it’s what you could call a safe room.”
For a moment, Rosswell considered asking her to carry the cherry pie downstairs. There was no reason not to have something to snack on while waiting for assailants to run out of ammunition. Her kitchen smelled the same as a long-ago kitchen did on Saturday afternoons when Grandma Carew baked goodies. Stress sends your mind spinning in odd directions.
Nadine opened the basement door. “Get down there. I’ll lock this door. Hurry.”
Ollie and Rosswell clumped down the steps, Rosswell’s hands brushing the sides of the stairwell. Fear of falling made him careful in strange stairwells. The walls were slick and cool to the touch. Nadine followed Ollie and Rosswell and slammed the door, which gave out a metallic thud. A metal door inside a house? She rifled through a mess of keys on a yellow daisy key fob until she found the right key. She locked the door. A door lock on the inside of the basement door? Why would Nadine ever want to keep someone on the ground level of her house from opening the basement door?
At the bottom of the steps, she unlocked another heavy door by punching five letters on the keypad of a combination lock. They zoomed through the door and she locked it behind them. Next, they scorched through one more door and locked it. They found themselves in a hydroponics greenhouse, exceptionally well equipped. Rosswell had paid attention in all the drug seminars the state forced him to attend. Nadine Dumbarton was the proud possessor of about one hundred plants of White Widow, one of the most potent marijuana strains known to man. Or, in this case, woman.
She fondled the leaves of a vigorous plant. “It’s strictly for medicinal purposes.”
On one wall, a bank of instruments with red LEDs reported the time, temperature (inside and out), humidity, and wind direction outside. Another bank of instruments reported the percentage of each chemical necessary in the water of the setup. A third operated the lights, ventilation, heating, and cooling. This was no amateur’s outfit.
Rosswell said, “I don’t give a crap if you bake brownies with it, as long as we’re safe.”
Ollie, obviously stupefied by the amazing setup, bent over the apparatus, examining every inch. “The solution goes directly to the roots. Good. No more misting. And the lights. Lots of red spectrum. Great for strengthening the stems and encouraging leaf growth.”
“Ollie,” Rosswell said, “how is it that you know so much about growing pot?”
“This is one of the best set-ups I’ve ever seen.”
“What?”
“I mean, you know, pictures of hydroponics gardens. This is the best pot growing set-up I’ve ever seen. Pictures of, I mean.”
“Judge, we’re safe,” Nadine said. “Those are steel-lined doors. Unless that son of a bitch has an atomic bomb, he’s not going to hurt us. All we have to do is wait for the highway patrol.”
Ollie said, “Frizz has been trying to get the highway patrol down here to help on the murders. No luck. I don’t think we’re going to see them today.”
Nadine said, “I don’t care if it’s Junior Fleming who comes out here.”
Rosswell said, “Nadine, you could be sent away for a long, long time.”
The look of surprise on her face seemed genuine. “I save a judge and
his . . . his. . . .”
Ollie said, “I’m his research assistant.”
Nadine said, “I save a judge and his research assistant, and I get sent to the pen because I have a few measly marijuana plants for recreation and medicinal use?”
“At first,” Rosswell said, “you told us it was strictly for medicinal use, which, by the way, is not legal in Missouri.”
The pungent marijuana plants would stone Rosswell if he breathed any deeper. Dizziness would soon set in unless he breathed fresh air. The plants reminded him of fresh-cut alfalfa but with a punch that kicked his taste buds into gear when he gulped in another breath. If he was going to die, perhaps he’d die stoned. Shot while stoned. He could already see that written on his gravestone.
“Recreation,” Nadine said, “can be considered medicinal. If you’re really stressed out, there’s nothing like a joint to mellow you.” She was beginning to sound like a hippie character in a movie from the 1960s.
“Nadine and Ollie,” Rosswell said, trying to act the sober judge, “let’s concentrate on saving our butts. All we have to do is wait until the shooter gets tired or runs out of ammo. Then we can leave.”
Ollie said, “He’s right, as always. Let’s just relax. We don’t need the cops. They’re too busy elsewhere. All we need is time.”
Rosswell patted the seat of an available chair and sat. The wooden chair’s comfort ranked down there with a football stadium’s bleacher.
“You’re right, Judge,” Nadine said. “Let’s not worry. We’re safe now.”
This was her safe room. She knew how secure it was. Her voice was soft, calm, reassuring. They would merely bide their time. Everything was copasetic.
Rosswell smelled smoke.
He touched the crucifix Father Mike had given him and uttered a prayer.
Chapter Twenty-four
Saturday morning, continued
The pounding noises, they agreed, came from the other side of the basement door in Nadine’s kitchen. The
noises stopped when the asshole must’ve grown tired of trying to beat his way through a steel door. Gunfire erupted. More unintelligible shouting on the other side of the door. Whoever was after them was shooting the door, obviously hoping to knock it down. That didn’t work either. The thought of the rage boiling in the shooter clutched Rosswell’s gut in a cold grip. Giving up didn’t appear on the shooter’s agenda.
“Nadine,” Rosswell said, “are you positive that the door can stand up to gunfire?”
“Yes, oh, yes,” she said. “Unless they have a bazooka. The door’s never been tested before, but I’ll stake my life on it.”
Rosswell said, “I thought you said we were safe from an atom bomb.” Ollie said, “Do we have another choice? We have to stay here.”
Whatever was burning put off a caustic odor. Rosswell placed his palm on the door. Its surface began warming. All three of them coughed intermittently.
“You keep saying they,” Ollie said to Nadine. “Who’s after us?”
Nadine scanned the area around them, as if searching for something. “It’s a manner of speaking.”
“Unadulterated bullshit,” Ollie said. “Tell us what you know. We could be dying here.”
Ollie rubbed his head and his eyes grew wide. After he clenched and unclenched his fists several times, his shoulders slumped, as if the fist exercises relieved tension. Rosswell hoped that Ollie wasn’t on the verge of a screaming panic fit.
Nadine said, “If I knew who the hell is trying to kill us, I’d tell you.”
Nadine’s red hair wilted in the heat. Her face ran with sweat. Rosswell could tell her breathing was becoming labored by