The East Avenue Murders (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 1) (28 page)

“And
about your young friend, will you be content to ‘catch’ her killer?” Lindsey asked, looking sharply at Maude.

“Are you asking me if I intend to kill him
, or bring him in? If you are, then I have to say I’d get pleasure out of pulling the trigger on the gun that sends him to hell. Nothing would bring me greater pleasure at this time in my life, but I won’t do that,” Maude said hoarsely with a catch in her throat.

“My guess is he is not done with you. I think his obsession with you has been growing for many years, since you left him there at the house. The safety he had with you was taken away when you left, somewhat in the same way that his mo
ther took her love away from him each time she hit him or hurt him in some way. Maybe you two are tied together and seen as one in his memory.”

She went on, “
There are no explanations for the anomalies of mental disease. Sometimes they just happen. Your killer is on the extreme end of obsessions aberrations. Quite possibly his only contact with reality may lie within you, detective. I think he will come to you very soon and I would suggest, from a clinical viewpoint that you be prepared. Don’t let him get you alone.”

L
indsey finished talking and began putting her files back together, giving Maude a quick nod of her head that could only be interpreted as a dismissal.

“Thanks, Doc. You’ve give
n me some things to think about; none of them to my liking,” Maude grumbled, opening the green and cream colored door. “I hope I don’t have to see you anytime soon.”

“Make an appointment detective. You have a shooting to discuss.” Doctor Lindsey looked up from her armload of files. “See you soon.”

Maude let the door close behind her, intent on her next move. She called Joe Allen on her phone but all she could get was his voice mail. “Joe, this is your partner. Give me a call if you get this.” She hated talking to machines, but had no choice sometimes. “I’ll be at my house.”

Thirty minutes later, Maude opened the door and entered her home, lit up an unfiltered cigarette and went through the house to sit
on her back porch. She poured a gin and tonic on the way, adding ice from the kitchen refrigerator freezer. The phone rang, and she answered it reluctantly, hoping to keep the serenity of the moment.

“Hello,” she said. “This is Maude Rogers, whose calling?”

“Miss Maude, it’s me, Ernest. I thought I best call you. I went to see Farley Dawson, and sure enough, the boy is there. Farley said his nephew dropped him off yesterday morning. He said that his nephew sounded crazy as a March hare, saying that Bobby is gone and is never coming back. He warned Farley to keep quiet about the boy if he wanted to live.”

Maude was quiet for a minute, trying to digest the information Ernest had given her. “Thank you Ernest. I don’t know what all that mea
ns, but if the boy is safe, that is a blessing. I appreciate you for taking the time to help out once again.”

“Yes,
ma’am, anytime you need me, just pick-up the phone,” The deputy said, ending the call.

The rocking chair called her name, her butt so tired she could hardly wait to sit down.
The stress of the trip to Phoenix was still taking its toll on her body. She sat down heavily in the chair, kicking the boots off her feet, sighing loudly as the evening air cooled her toes through thin cotton socks.

The gin hit her empty stomach and threatened to come back up, the brief nausea from the alcohol a temporary condition. Before long the drink eased her tensions and she sat back in the chair and closed her eyes, the shade of the porch overhang shutting out the last of the evening sun.
Her last thought before she dozed was gratitude to God that the boy was safe.

The sound of gunfire and the
whizz
of a ricocheted bullet passing near Maude’s head made her jump awake, moving her out of the chair. She cursed her bad knees for the slowness of movement. Another loud
pop
and
zing
of a near miss had her on the floor looking for cover.

The only solid object on the porch was a large metal milk can, its circumference adorned with painted flowers. The can, a leftover from Grace’s domain, was filled with sand to keep the winds from toppling it in the storms that
blew quickly through the countryside.

Maude crawled behind the can, reaching for her
gun in the holster on her belt. Another loud
pop
came from down the hill this time, near her rent house. The impact of the bullet that followed broke the large double paned window of her bedroom, causing Maude to curse loudly.

“Son of a
gun, I’ll have to replace that glass!” she yelled, positioning herself directly behind the milk can, trying to see where the shooter was hiding. She saw the swaying limbs of a peach tree near the backyard garden of the rent house where Mary Ellen’s sunflowers waved bright yellow faces in the evening breeze.

Positioning the pistol against the handle of the milk can, Maude fired the gun at the peach tree, her finger gentle on the sensitive trigger, repeating the process once, then twice. Moving as fast as her knees would propel her forward, she headed away from the back porch, toward the large post and open gate that separated the rent house from the main residence.

The sun was lowering, filling the western sky with its bright red and orange goodbye, the phrase, ‘red sky at night, sailor’s delight’ reassuring Maude that there would be no rain before morning. She sat behind the post, using its breadth for cover, trying to keep from being shot.

Th
e silence in the dusk was eerie; the experience of her long years affirming that danger still lurked downhill from her location. Easing herself away from the post, Maude began a slow crawl low to the ground in the direction of the last gunfire, her socked feet damp from the moisture in the grass finding the goat heads, the meanest kind of stickers in the grass.

“
Ouch,” she said, pulling the burrs off the wet socks. “Dang stickers and sprinklers,” she said to herself. Her movements were slow and cautious with the ache in her hips beginning to demand that she stop and rest, but there was no time. Darkness would be on them soon. Even then, in the early part of dusk, the stars were becoming visible.

A peach tree and a pear tree grew about fifty feet from the rear entry
of the rent house and near them the utility shed housed garden tools and the push lawnmower used for the yard and garden upkeep. Maude always allowed her renters to plant their own garden as long as they didn’t let it become an overgrown jungle of unattended plants.

The utility shed was large enough to conceal a person intent upon hiding himself, a thought that drove her away from the shed, keeping watch for movement in other places as she crawled on her stomach. The loud
pop
of gunfire began again, one following another, the shots whining as they penetrated objects in the yard. Maude was pissed.

“Coward,
” she yelled, rolling away from her former position. “Come and get me.”

The bullets began peppering the ground where she had lain just moments before, all emanating from the right side of the utility shed. Maude found her cell phone in the pocket of her jeans
, and forced her hand inside to retrieve it, the awkwardness of her position causing the phone to hang on the seam of her pocket. Finally she had it.

Quietly she opened the
device and made a whispered call for backup. She knew that the sounds of law enforcement and emergency vehicles would soon permeate the night air. There were only a few minutes left to finish her job.

Hugging the side of her rent house, Maude knew she was concealed enough to get off the ground onto her knees
and begin a fast painful crawl toward the left side of the shed. When she got closer, she could see the door was partially opened, the inside dark and forbidding. Scuffling noises were coming from the shed, sounds of metal clinking against metal indicating someone was inside.

T
he door suddenly burst wide open and a dark figure propelled the pedals of a mountain bike across the yard headed for the open street. Mary Ellen and her roommate had both owned bicycles, and Maude had stored them in the shed after the murders, waiting for their families to claim the property. Maude fired a shot toward the fleeing figure, nicking the rider in the left shoulder. She saw the figure hesitate for a minute, then turn and fire toward her position.

A bright
-burning sensation started near her waistline on the left side, the pain intense and continuous. Maude pulled her pants aside and saw an entry wound above her hip, a pass through hole that was bleeding slowly. In spite of the pain, the detective knew that she couldn’t stop and wait for help for the shooter would get away. She knew it was Dawson for there was no other who would stalk her in her own home.

She reached inside her shirt and unhooked her bra,
then slid her hand inside the sleeve until she could find the straps. Pulling the cotton fabric through the sleeve holes she removed the garment and folded it tightly against the wound in her side. The injury didn’t look life threatening, it just hurt like hell.

Putting pressure against the wound with the fabric of her bra, Maude used her belt
across her hips, stopping the bleeding and easing the pain somewhat. She took some deep breaths, her nerves tight from pain, anxiety, and fear.

Determination that the killer wasn’t going to get away drove her toward the utility shed where she pulled the second bicycle away from the wall and mounted it
, stripping off the burr filled socks but Maude’s problems were increasing. She hadn’t been on a bicycle since she was sixteen years old. Her weakened condition aside, Maude knew she had to give chase before the killer disappeared again. She straddled the craft and began pedaling barefoot, weaving across the yard as she tried to gain control, using the brakes and the handle bars for support. She fell once, but recovered in time to grab for the side of the house to keep from hitting the ground.

Finally the weaving stopped as the front wheel rolled onto the pavement of the street, in the direction of the departing shooter. Up ahead, Maude could see the faint outline of a figure moving down the darkening road, the object of her chase within sight, giving her the incentive to pedal the machine faster.

The bicycle weaved again as the speed of her forward motion increased. Maude reseated herself, restoring her balance on the awkward rolling contraption. The front wheel settled and began to move faster, easing closer to the figure ahead. She gritted her teeth against the pain in her side and the ache in her bare feet as they turned the rough pedals, the pads of her feet scraping the pavement looking for balance. There was some small comfort from the knowledge that she wouldn’t keel over dead from her wounds.

The escaping bicyclist had slowed and began weaving across the road, possibly hoping that his pursuer would become over
-confident after seeing the shooter’s addled movements. Maude took advantage of the slower speed of the man in front of her and closed some of the distance between them.

Suddenly the sound of gunfire began again as the rider ahead began firing a weapon from the weaving bicycle, first toward Maude, then toward the headlights of a car in the shooter’s lane. The four wheel vehicle was moving fast toward the bike rider, the car’s high beams blinding both Maude and the shooter. She drew a deep breath knowing that the driver of the car had probably saved her life by distracting the shooter’s aim.

Keeping her speed, Maude drew closer to the other bicycle, dodging to the side of the road as the oncoming car spotted the two riders and tried to avoid connecting with either of the bicycles. A rock or a hole in pavement or possibly a distortion of the tar that had melted and reset on the street threw the front wheel of the first bicycle into the street, heading into the space that lay between the car driver’s ability to stop and his unchecked forward motion. The screeching of older style drum brakes and the sound of metal crushing against metal was all Maude heard until the agonizing scream of the bicyclist drowned all other sounds.

Maude stopped
pedaling and touched the hand brake, hoping she could stop without falling. Miraculously, her feet drug the pavement beneath her and she realized that the chaos had come to an end. The side pain had returned with a vengeance and blood from the wound was dripping down her left leg, weakening her body. But in the end, it was the pain from pushing the metal bicycle pedals with her bare feet that caused her to move to the side of the pavement where she dismounted and sat, out of the way of traffic.

The car that had collided with the fleeing shooter stopped, the driver shocked by the suddenness of the accident
, but unhurt by the wildly flying bullets that had been fired at him. He called for the cops, but the dispatcher at 911 told him that emergency vehicles were already en route.

Maude could
only sit and watch the scene in front of the automobile’s headlights. Any further response was impossible. The pain from the gunshot wound at her beltline was excruciating, the injury worse than she had at first thought. Her weapon was still in the holster where she had placed it before she began the chase. She was grateful that it hadn’t fallen to the pavement in the wild ride, knowing that she wouldn’t have lived it down had she lost her gun on the roadway.