by Carolina Mac
After plodding back up the hill to the cabin, I was breathless. A big rock provided a temporary resting spot as I drank in the beauty surrounding me. The pungent aroma of the evergreens permeated the air as they stood like sentinels around the cabin. Blue Jays squawked warnings high above in towering birches. A Pileated woodpecker hammered at insects on a nearby maple. Chipmunks chattered brazenly as they scurried in and out of the woodpile. Hounds bayed soulfully in the distance. Nature’s abundance had a dizzying effect on me.
I went back to the Jeep and retrieved the urn. “Come on, Matthew. It’s time.”
Down at the end of the dock, I removed the lid of the urn, took out the sealed inner container and sprinkled the ashes onto the sparkling water. Some ashes floated happily along with the movement of the waves, and others sank beneath the surface and disappeared. There was a huge rock on the shore that I returned to and smashed the urn against it. I picked up every broken piece and threw the shards one by one into the lake.
“So long, Matthew,” I called farewell to him as he went to his final resting place.
I trudged back up the path, took a last look around, and reluctantly started for home.
ON the way back, I stopped for gas and ventured into a roadside diner for supper. I paid for my pulled pork sandwich at the cash register, ordered a large coffee to go and left a generous tip.
As I turned the Wrangler down Hawthorne Lane, my new security lights blinked a friendly greeting. The living room lamp, set on a timer, glowed through the front window giving the house a cozy, occupied look. I was comforted.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AN alarm was ringing in my dream. I awoke and my first thought was disbelief. I wasn't dreaming.
It was ringing. Oh my, God.
I jumped up, grabbed my robe off the end of the bed and ran downstairs to the panel. I felt like an idiot staring at the numbers trying to focus, but I wasn’t fully awake and couldn’t think what Vince had told me to do. I was standing there in the foyer shaking, when the response team thumped onto the porch. I caught a glimpse of Vince through the curtain and opened the door. I exhaled.
“My men are checking the perimeter. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just a little shaky. I don’t know what happened.”
“Sometimes, an animal, like a racoon, can trigger the alarm accidently. It happens.”
One of the men called from outside, “We’re all secure out here.”
“Thanks, Pete. The panel says the breach was one of the office windows. See what you can find in there and outside. Check every room in the house and the basement as well.”
“Will do, boss.”
The men completed their search and assured me that no one had entered the house.
“A couple scratches outside on the frame of the office window.”
My stomach flipped. “There was someone out there?” I whispered.
“Probably just a squirrel,” Vince said in an effort to ease the tension. “They're capable of substantial damage. Little buggers. I’m resetting the alarm now, Mrs. Talbot. Why don’t you go back to bed?”
“I doubt if I’ll be able to sleep.” I could still feel the tingling in the back of my neck.
“In any case, lock the door behind me,” Vince said as he left.
I poured a glass of milk and took it upstairs. My hands were shaking, and my stomach was queasy.
Was Bob trying to get in? He didn’t know about the alarm system. Now he does. Maybe I should get a dog. What about the gun? I need to be ready.
My thoughts were jumbled. I needed to think clearly and make a plan. I lifted the gun out of the shoe box and started at the cold steel against my fingers. The weight of it was another surprise—heavier than it looked. I opened the ammunition box and snorted. What a joke. I didn’t even know how to load it. First thing tomorrow I’d rectify that. I pulled the duvet over my head and slept fitfully.
AT seven a.m. I made a pot of coffee and searched the Yellow Pages for gun experts, while I ate a bowl of cereal. I wrote down the address of the closest one, wrapped the gun in a tea towel and placed it in the bottom of my purse. Because the ammunition box was heavy, I opted to leave it in the glove box of the Jeep.
I arrived at ‘George’s Guns and Ammo’ at nine thirty, just as the owner was unlocking the store. He opened the door, flicked the rest of his half smoked cigarette onto the sidewalk and ushered me in with a wave of his huge tattooed arm.
George was an impressive sight first thing in the morning. About six foot three or four and nudging three hundred pounds, attired in a Harley tank top under a fringed leather vest. His jeans rode low under his beer belly revealing only a fraction of his huge belt buckle engraved, no doubt, with words of wisdom. Both massive, muscled arms were covered in ink from shoulder to wrist, one with an eagle holding a rebel flag. His handsome face was tanned and weathered, highlighted by a nasty triangle shaped scar on his left cheek. A red bandana tied around his forehead kept his long shiny black hair out of his black eyes.
The gun shop was small. One display window facing the street contained a few dusty scopes, gun cases and several holsters. The tile floor was filthy—perhaps swept, but never washed. The counter was L-shaped, with the wall behind the cash stacked with ammunition boxes in bright colors, row on row. The adjoining wall held locked glass display cabinets holding many different makes of rifles and shotguns. The handguns and knives were displayed under the countertop glass. A rack in the corner was filled with holsters. The air reeked of smoke.
Here goes nothing.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
GEORGE ROSS didn't get struck stupid often, but this little lady was like nothin' he'd ever set his eyes on before. With a body men would kill for, raven black hair and steel gray eyes that seemed a lot older than they should for her being in her twenties and all. She was a fucking knock-out.
“Now then, young lady, what can I do for you?”
And what are you doin’ in my fuckin’ store?
“I know this is going to sound stupid,” she hesitated and bit at her lip, “but I don’t know how to load my gun. Truthfully, I don’t know how to shoot it either. Do you think you could help me?”
George laughed hard, his hand resting on his belly. “Fuck, that’s a good one—haven't heard that before.”
She chuckled along with him and dug a tea towel out of her purse. She had the sweetest flush of color in her cheeks. After unwrapping her gun, she set it on the glass counter.
“Ah, Beretta, nice. Why did you buy it if you didn’t know how to use it, little girl?” When she looked down at the counter her hair fell forward and hid her face from view. He leaned closer.
God, she smells good, too. What the fuck is wrong with you, man?
“Fair question.” She laughed but seemed to tense up. “My husband recently died and I found it tucked away in a shoebox in his closet.”
George lit up another smoke and blew the smoke away from them. “All right, then, let me show you.” He took a box of ammunition from a shelf behind him and opened it. “This gun holds fifteen rounds.”
She watched as he removed the magazine and pushed a bullet down into the top opening. “Your turn.” He handed her the magazine and pushed the open box her way. “Load ‘er up.” He held the gun for her while she used her left hand and pushed a bullet down into the magazine like he'd done, then another until all fifteen were loaded.
She blew out a feminine sigh. “Okay, got that down.”
George took his time and explained how to use the safety. “When you can see the red dot, the safety is off. Remember that.” He demonstrated sliding the magazine back into position. He made her try it and listen for the click, so she knew it was locked in properly. Lastly, he showed her how to use the slide to put a round in the chamber.
“Now the gun is loaded. All you have to do is flip the safety off, aim and fire.”
“That’s where it gets sticky,” she said, “I’ve never fired a gun. And there's a bigger problem, my ri
ght arm is broken.”
“What the—why do you want a gun then?” George started laughing again and his ashes dropped all over the counter. “How did you break your arm?”
A look crossed her beautiful face and he caught a flicker in her cool gray eyes. “My late husband broke it for me.”
George frowned and shook his head. “Sounds like the bastard deserved to die.”
“So true,” she nodded, and carried on without hesitation. “Getting back to my main focus, I think someone is trying to break into my house and I’m scared. I want to be able to defend myself.” She paused and blew out a breath. “I must seem pathetic to you.”
“Maybe a little, honey bun, but we could fix that. Me and the boys have a range outside of town and I could teach you to shoot. Not as good as me. Hell, nobody’s that good. But I could teach you how to shoot a fuckin’ burglar.”
What the fuck am I sayin? I never take anybody up there— and sure as hell not a woman.
“That’s what I’m after. How much an hour do you charge for lessons?”
He barked out another laugh. “You’re gonna make me piss myself, sweet cheeks. What’s your name anyway?”
“Portia Talbot.”
“Fancy name for a fancy girl. I ain’t give any lessons before, but if it will help you, I can take you out to the range, set you up and you can fire away until you get the hang of it. I'll sit there and watch you and have a few with the boys.”
“Count me in.” Her smile lit up her face, even her eyes. “When can we go?”
“I can only go on Sundays when the store is closed. Want to go for a couple hours Sunday?”
My God man, you have lost your fucking mind?
“Sure. Can I pick you up?”
He chuckled at the idea. “Nope. No strangers allowed out that road. I’ll have to pick you up. What’s the address?”
Portia wrote her address and phone number on a cigarette pack that George handed her. “I’ll buy this box of ammunition and take it for practice.”
“You can buy that one, but I’ll bring a practice box for the range.”
“I didn’t know there was practice ammunition.”
“I’m thinkin’ there’s a helluva lot you don’t know, little Portia.” George laughed and lit up another smoke.
She paid George, wrapped up the Beretta and ammo and stuffed the tea towel in her purse.
“You should be tapping into a shoulder harness, girlie. That towel bit can get old quick. ‘Specially if you‘re in a hurry to off somebody.” George chuckled.
“Next time. See you Sunday. I really appreciate your time.”
“You talk funny and you make me laugh,” he said. “I like you, little girl.”
I haven’t laughed so much or said that many words to a woman in my whole life. Fuck.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MY route home from the gun shop took me past the dog pound. I passed the driveway for the parking area, stopped, backed up and pulled in on a whim. The barking was deafening inside the front door. The uniformed girl standing behind the counter was moving her mouth, but I couldn’t hear a word she was saying.
“Pardon? Sorry, I didn’t catch what you said,” I yelled to be heard above the din.
The name embroidered on her blue shirt said ‘Vicky’. She didn’t look happy in her chosen field of employment. She repeated, “Do you want a dog or a cat?”
“A dog. But I’m not sure what kind. I’d just like to see what you have and think about it.”
“Sure. Come on back.” She waved me forward and shuffled off without checking to see if I was following. Through the glass paneled door we went, into a back room filled with rows of cages. The pungent aroma of animals living in cramped quarters encouraged me to hold my breath. First we passed the cages housing the cats and kittens. They were so adorable, reaching their little paws through the wire for attention and meowing in unison.
“We have a lot of Pit Bulls. People aren't supposed to be able to buy them but still do. Then when they don’t raise them properly, before you know it, they’ve bought themselves a load of trouble and they bring them here. It’s illegal for us to put them up for adoption.”
“That’s a shame.” I felt bad for them, all caged up with no hope.
When we got to the larger cages, almost all the dogs jumped up against the chain link doors, barking for attention, except for one down at the end. The big Rottweiler just lay in her pen with her head on her paws.
“How about that one?” I asked.
“Oh, you don’t want that one. A Rottie named Angel, what a joke. She growls at us every day and she’s anti-social. We’re putting her down tomorrow.”
My stomach flipped as I looked into those sad chocolate eyes. “Can you let her out of the cage so I can touch her?”
“She doesn't like being touched, but they're your fingers.”
I walked right up to her cage and squatted next to the door. After a few minutes of talking to Angel, the dog tentatively stood up and sauntered over to me. She was a big, boxy girl, but I didn't agree that she was anti-social. When her wide, black-and-tan muzzle brushed against the chain of her cage I stuck a couple of fingers through the wire. She licked me and that did it.
“I’ll take my chances with her,” I said.
Vicky raised a brow and shrugged. “Not a good idea. But if you want her, take her for a week trial. Do you have small children, or other pets?”
“No, I’m alone.”
She unlatched the cage and slipped a rope through the dog’s collar. “The collar is hers, but you’ll have to get your own leash.”
“That’s fine. I can do that.”
Out at the front counter, she wrote up a bill for the dog plus the shots she’d been given. I paid her in cash.
“Thanks, Vicky. Come on, Angel.” She was hesitant, but I gave a gentle tug on her leash and she trudged along behind me.
Angel took up shotgun position in the passenger seat of the Jeep, looking out the window. I lowered her window six inches and she tried to shove her head through. I kept lowering it until she could comfortably hang her head all the way out. She put her black nose in the air and sniffed the breeze while her ears flapped, and drool dribbled along the outside of the window.
We stopped off at the market and picked up kibbles for large dogs, biscuits and treats. I also bought her a red leash, a ball and a set of stainless steel bowls.
When I got home, I realized I hadn’t bought her a doggie bed. She'd have to sleep on a blanket in my room for now. I disabled the alarm, unwrapped her bowls and filled them with food and water. Then I showed Angel the patio door and left it open while she ran in and out of the yard with her ball in her mouth. Her spirits seemed to have lifted considerably and she hadn’t growled at me once. I had a feeling she wasn't anti-social . . . she was anti-dog-pound. I frowned, thinking about her being put down.
When the laundry was folded, I made myself a late lunch and spent the rest of the afternoon gardening in the yard with Angel. When we came in, she munched her kibbles, slurped her water all over the kitchen floor and then went exploring through the house. With her rounds done, she flopped down and took a nap.
While Angel seemed content, I slipped out to the Scarborough Board of Education Office and obtained a list of high schools that were open the year I was born. Next, I picked up a city map and came home to plot my strategy.
Spreading out the map on the dining room table, I marked the high schools by address, and listed them in order of their proximity to the hospital. This could prove to be a wild goose chase, but there might be a chance I would find something.
I started with a phone campaign. Each school secretary that I spoke to, I asked if a Grace Brownell had attended their school in 1985 or 1986. They all said they were busy, but they would look when they had time and get back to me. I'd waited twenty-five years; I could wait a little longer.
At bedtime, I double checked to make sure the alarm was engaged, locked all the doors and went upstairs
with the dog at my heels. I spread a folded blanket on the carpet beside my bed and Angel claimed it as her own. My sleep was uninterrupted, and I awoke refreshed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WITH Angel in the yard, I pressed the button on the coffee maker, bolted up the stairs and took a quick shower. I dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, boots and a ball cap. I didn’t want my hair in my face while I was shooting.
While I waited for George, I took my mug and a plate of toast and jam out to the patio table and shared with the dog. I was raising my cup to my lips when Angel flashed by me knocking my elbow and spilling coffee all over the table. She charged to the front door and raised a huge ruckus, barking at the tremendous racket out in the driveway. I looked through the sidelight and caught sight of George huffing his way up the porch steps, his Harley idling like a roaring beast out front.
Oh shit, he’s picking me up on a motorcycle.
I opened the door with my boot while I hung on to Angel. No mean feat when you have a broken arm. George could see I was struggling and took her by the collar.
“Nice girl,” he said, patting her on the head. “What’s her name?”
“Angel. I just got her at the pound. Come on in, George. I’ll just be a sec.” I picked up my purse with my gun and supplies inside, grabbed my jacket, enabled the alarm and said, “Let’s go.” I made a mental note to clean up the spilled coffee when I got back.
George shoved my purse and ball cap into his saddle bag, gave me a helmet to wear and we were off. I hung on for dear life, but the ride was exhilarating. I loved it. We headed north out of the city, turned onto highway twelve for about half an hour, then took dirt roads until we reached our destination. If this turned out to be a kidnapping, no one would ever find me.
We stopped in the middle of nowhere in front of a rusty old gate hanging by one hinge. George got off the bike, lifted the gate up with two fingers and opened it far enough to squeeze the bike through. Then he got off again and closed it. We roared up the tree-lined cow path to the top of the hill and George parked in a line of other bikes all looking like showroom models.