Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 1 - Combust the Sun (24 page)

One
of Wade's officers shouted to get his attention as the capoeria temp went
airborne, making a dramatic leap toward Wade. The attacker's legs sliced
through the darkness like knives and came dangerously close to Wade's face, and
Wade pulled the trigger again. The man came down like a punctured balloon,
collapsing in a heap. Then, as if his body were rubber, he catapulted up again,
wounded and bleeding, and headed for the parking lot. Wade shouted for his men
to cut him off.

A
younger officer appeared, just to the south of where Wade was standing, his arm
supporting a small woman who looked like she might collapse. The sunlight gone
and the distance great, I could only see them in silhouette, but I was certain
he had Callie with him. The younger officer shouted to Wade as he carefully
walked Callie up the hill. "There's only one more besides this guy,
Sergeant, and we ambushed him down at the grave marker. Got him cuffed in the
cruiser."

Wade
nodded with satisfaction. It appeared the kidnappers were three in number and
were all accounted for.

I
clambered up the hill to find Callie's beautiful blond hair disheveled and her
white starched shirt stained with blood and dirt. I flung my arms around her.
"Oh my God, I am so grateful you're alive." I laughed and cried at
the same time. Tracing the source of the blood to her shoulder, I worried,
"You've been cut. I think you need stitches."

"It's
okay," she said, and put her cheek on my chest and clung to me. I could
feel my shirt grow damp from her tears.

"I'm
personally beginning to measure okay by whether we're in each other's
arms." I leaned over and kissed her and looked deeply into her eyes.
"I am so grateful that I have you back safe," I said again, not
caring that Wade and several cops were staring at us, slightly mesmerized.

I
threw Wade a "stop staring" look that jump-started him. "Okay, gentlemen,
get moving. Let's clean up this mess. Somebody scrape up these flying assholes
and load them into the squad cars. Gimme your keys," he demanded of me.
"I'll bring your car over here so she doesn't have to walk."

I
fished them out of my pocket, my other arm still wrapped around Callie.
"Raider's got the real stone in his pocket, so we want to save that one.
He swallowed one of the fakes, not clear exactly where that stone is in its
journey," I said.

"The
guy I just killed?" Wade asked, handing my keys off to one of his men and
signaling him to go get the car.

"The
blond guy." I nodded in Raider's direction. "Might want to tell the
coroner he swallowed it about thirty-six hours ago. I think he passed it and
that's how they figured out I still had the real one, but you might want to
double-check. Don't want to get the two mixed up," I replied.

"Shit."
He shook his head.

"Well
that's where I'd start," I said with a little protect-and-serve humor.

Taking
advantage of our distraction, the capoeria-temp bolted. It must have been my
adrenaline, or maybe just my anger at Callie's being injured by them, but I let
go of Callie and moved ten feet to her right in time to put a stop block on him
that I personally felt could have made me a first-round draft pick. His chin
hit the stone walkway so hard that Wade laughed and then quickly tried to turn
it into a politically correct cough. I got up slowly, really moaning this time.

Wade
gave me an almost imperceptible grin. "Miss your old line of work?"

Callie
was horrified. "Stop that, Teague! Let the police handle it."

"Hey,
that was pretty slick, gettin' us the pickup description," Wade complimented
Callie, who smiled up at him. A cop complimenting a psychic in this part of the
world was something one wanted to have on tape.

Wade
pointed at my dad's car being driven into the parking lot on the west side of
the bell tower. "Hopper will drive you down to the station so we can fill
out a report and then he'll take you on back home if you want. You both look a
little worse for wear."

"We
should drive ourselves, Teague," Callie said.

"Come
on." I towed her toward the car. "Let's give ourselves a break and be
chauffeured. Wade hardly ever thinks of anything useful. I'm going to let him
win this one," I said as Callie and I walked up to the parking lot arm in
arm.

Given
the choice, the young cop behind the wheel would probably have selected a root
canal over chauffeuring two forty something women downtown in their dad's old
car, but he pulled slowly and dutifully out onto Memorial and took a left,
heading south.

"You're
going the wrong way. We're going to the police station," I said, thinking
he must be new on the force and that's why he'd gotten this duty.

"Actually,
I'm going the right way," the officer said, tilting the rearview mirror to
make eye contact with me.

My
blood froze. "Curtis!" I screamed.

A
second man rose up from the front seat. "And you remember our mutual
friend, Gigante," Curtis said as Gigante pointed a gun at us.

"In
case you missed the last episode, I had to give the rock up at the bell tower
to Raider, one of your associates. He was shot and killed. The police probably
have the stone right now." I tried to remain calm and I kept a grip on
Callie's hand.

"The
stones are no longer the problem. You are," Curtis said. And I began to
worry that the blanket of cosmic protection Callie always promised us might be
wearing thin.

I
checked the street signs. We were at 211th, zigzagging toward Okmulgee, a rural
farming community with lots of backwoods and vacant fields, neither of which
boded well for us. Curtis checked his rearview mirror and suddenly whipped the
car off the road, driving it across a leaf-strewn field, rutted and bumpy from
plowing in too-damp weather. The car came to a stop under a canopy of oak trees
hidden from the road. The perfect location for a murder.

The
police will be here in about two minutes," I lied, trying to sound
irritated rather than frightened. "Just take the car and leave us
here."

Curtis
turned off the headlights, opened the glove compartment, and took out a pair of
latex gloves. He'd become organized and industrious, not a good sign. Telling
Gigante to keep the gun on us, he got out of the car, leaving the driver-side
door open, and popped the lid on the trunk. I turned to watch. He removed
something and snapped the trunk lid shut with such intensity that it bounced
the car up and down like a rocking horse. Now I could see him approaching
carrying two gas cans.

"This
is going to be your transportation to the netherworld, ladies," he said
happily, peering into the car through the open door.

"Why
are you doing this? This could land you in prison," Callie said.

"Doin'
it because I get paid to do it. Just a job. Nothin' personal," Curtis
replied coolly, and I could see that Curtis was a man who had no trouble
sleeping nights, because his conscience played no role in his life.

Gigante
got out of the car, leaving us in the backseat, his gun still trained on us.
Curtis moved quickly, dousing the ground around the vehicle in a wide circle,
then he soaked the interior, splashing gasoline on me. I screamed for him to
wait, and he paused for just a second. I knew we were nearly as good as dead.
We had to get out of this car before it became a firebomb. It's strange where
my mind went in that split second when I knew we were about to die. It went to
my father, and the funny way he swore, and the clever things he said. What
irony that a man who was such a fastidious dresser could leave the floor of his
car in a jumble of Dixie cups and hearing aids
and old lighters.

The
gas can was in my face when I screamed, "You're missing an opportunity
here! Why haven't you raped us both? The evidence of any sexual assault is
going to be burned up anyway."

My
remark was so bizarre and unexpected that his arm stayed suspended in midair,
the gas can dangling from it. He seemed to evaluate the idea for a moment, then
rejected it. "You're dying," he said, about to toss the gasoline on
us.

Gigante
spoke for the first time, saying something in Spanish, apparently interested in
what I'd suggested. He argued his case quietly, with a shrug of his shoulders,
seeming to know how to work Curtis. Curtis momentarily dropped the can to his
side and relaxed his body for an instant. Gigante yanked the back door of the
car open with one hand and had his other hand wrapped around Callie's arm. At
least I would not see her burned. Now we were either raped or dead, and the former
bought me time. Callie gave me one last resolute look, her small hand trailing
across mine in a gesture that nearly tore out my heart as the man with the huge
head literally ripped her out of the backseat and disappeared with her into the
darkness. The idea that he could hurt her created in me an explosion that would
have dwarfed whatever explosion Curtis had planned for us.

"You
are one stupid fucking cocksucker!" I screamed at Curtis. It had the
desired effect. He nearly ripped the car door off its hinges to grab me by the
legs and haul me out feet first. I didn't go easily, buying myself just a split
second to scoop up my dad's old Bic lighter from under the seat, the lighter
that had bounced over a hundred roads and might or might not have any juice in
it, its dusty, transparent case now resting in my palm. I landed on the ground
face first to the sound of Callie's screams and Gigante's curses in the
distance. Curtis straddled me, ripping at my jeans, trying to peel them off me.
When that failed, he raked my leg with a knife that cut into my skin as he
attempted to cut my jeans off.

My
thumb scraped across the serrated wheel of the cigarette lighter: once, twice.
The second time a tiny flame flickered above the gasoline-soaked ground, and
then suddenly, the dry leaves went up in a whoosh, chasing the gasoline trail
and encircling the car. A gust of wind, sent by angels no doubt, caused the
fire to jump to the car upholstery, which burst into flames. The other gas can
that Curtis had left beside the car exploded with a loud bang, launching tiny
pieces of shrapnel into the air. Curtis shouted for Gigante as the fire
encircling the car became a veritable wall, and I was miraculously inside that
wall of fire, shielded by the flames from my would-be killer.

Griping
about being interrupted, Gigante released Callie and came lumbering over,
slapping at the flames that had now engulfed Curtis's shirt as he fought to get
to me. A hissing sound and then another explosion, this time from the trunk of
the car as a fireball shot into the air and the whole field lit up like the
Fourth of July. Gigante had gotten in the path of the white-hot debris, and he
was screaming and cursing. Curtis shouted for him to jump the flames and grab
me.

From
behind me, Curtis, shirtless now, flung himself through the flames inside the
ring of fire and began pounding me, enraged that he'd been tricked. I knew he
was going to kill me. Adrenaline kicked in, and I flailed at him with my arms
and fists. Had I been more rested, or less battered, I might have had a
fighting chance, but not now. I could hear Callie screaming for me, somewhere
outside the fire ring, telling me to fight him, as she too tried to get to me.
Curtis was winning resoundingly. I was winded, my muscles were cramping from
holding him off, I was choking on the gasoline smells, and he knew he had me.

He
wrestled me onto my back, straddling me, and pinned my arms to the ground above
my head. Letting go of my left arm for only a second, he brought his fist down
across my jaw in a smashing blow that opened my lip. I could taste the blood
trickling down my throat. He went for a second blow. I arched my back for
leverage, then yanked my knees up, butting him in the back and rocking him
forward toward the fire. He jerked back to keep from being singed again and
lost his balance. We both staggered to our feet. Callie screamed for me to
watch my back. I turned around just in time to see Gigante lunge and then fall
into the flames. I had taken my eyes off Curtis, and he flattened me. My head
cracked against the hard ground one last time.

I
remembered hearing fire trucks approaching in the distance, then nothing. Then
very loud sirens nearby, then darkness. Then the sensation that lots of hands
were pulling on me. Someone was trying to unzip my pants, and I was fighting
them. Callie's voice was soothing.

My
body was being lifted. Somebody had my face. I felt hands on my face. I heard
someone say, "Dead," and I wondered if I were.

"You
okay, Teague? It's Wade. You okay?" My body was being jostled along on
something white. A mattress? I was under a roof. Wade and Callie were there. I
was Dorothy, back in Kansas, trying to describe her dream to the farm hands.
Wade's worried face reminded me a lot of the Scarecrow's.

Callie
was holding an ice pack on my mouth, and her arm was streaked in blood. A man
wearing a hospital jacket was sitting next to her. She removed the ice pack for
Wade to have a look, then put it back, and everything went dark.

There's
nothing like having someone stab your lip with needles to bring you back into
focus. Numbing was the worst part, the stitching only annoying. The police
filled out endless paperwork while nurses came and went. I described for Wade
how Curtis had disguised himself as a member of the LAPD and had even
interviewed me after Barrett Silvers's attack. In fact, he'd been so convincing
as a cop, I'd kept in touch with him every step of the way, letting him know
where I was. That's undoubtedly how Caruthers's boys knew where and how to get
us. I suggested Wade phone the LAPD and warn them about Curtis.