I've been working on book #4 in the Plague Walker Medical Thriller series, which now has the working title of The Wildfire Pathogen. I'll have more details in March but it begins with Leigh Austen investigating a suspicious plane crash...one where the plane was carrying something very, very bad!
Which Way to the Dragon?
Michael Angel Schnitzengruben, Bavaria. 635 A.D. (Tuesday) The herd of sheep grazing in the pasture didn't stand a chance. Quietly, the dragon approached from upwind, the better to hide her stink of sulfur and brimstone. Her outstretched wing tips brushed the edges of the twin peaks which overlooked the valley. She descended with the breeze, silent as a ghost-feathered owl. It was only when the sheep heard the final beat of her wings that they bleated in terror, scattering in all directions like a spilled pile of soap flakes. The dragon pistoned her talons downward in a scooping motion. She caught a single fat ewe by its woolly haunches and carried the animal off. She headed for the cleft between the peaks to consume her lunch at leisure. Now, had anyone of an appreciative mind been watching, they’d have declared the dragon a singularly beautiful animal. Long and sinuous like a great golden-red snake spiked at the ends with claws and teeth. Unfortunately, no appreciative mind was available as a witness. The shepherds angrily waved their crooks at her from far below. The dragon sped off, disappearing into the glare of the bright midday sunshine. “Damn you, you sheep poaching lizard!” one of the shepherds cried, “A thousand curses on you!” The sound of cantering hooves cut him off. A gray stallion came into view over the hill, and his rider reined him in. The rider was a big man, as it was reckoned in this part of Europe. Gray eyes glinted from beneath a shaggy mane of straw-colored hair. He jingled as he rode, and the glint of chain mail was visible beneath his black fur-trimmed coat. The handle of a long bastard sword, sheathed in a worn, scaly scabbard, projected up from between his shoulder blades. “Ho, shepherd,” the man said, holding up his palm in a gesture of friendship, “Which way to the dragon?” The shepherd, who looked at the newcomer peculiarly, simply pointed in the general direction of the peaks. “Up there?” the rider asked. “Ja,” the shepherd said, “She feeds up there.” “All the better.” “Better for what?” “For doing my job,” the rider said, as if explaining the concept to a small and not particularly bright child. With a dramatic flourish, he pulled his sword from the sheath with a mighty ringing sound. “Behold, for I am Rothgar, son of Wulfgar, and I am a slayer of dragons!” The shepherd considered. “You work for the church?” “No,” Rothgar said, puzzled. “I work for myself.” “Ah,” the shepherd said, making up his mind. He pointed to the cluster of natty houses below. “A solicitor, then. You'd best be off down there. The town council will speak with you.” “My thanks, shepherd.” “Neh, don't thank me. I wouldn't expect too much.” Rothgar scratched his head as the shepherd walked away, but he nudged his mount forward and down into the valley. The town was tidy and thrifty looking, with neat cobblestone streets and buildings coated with fresh paint. Rothgar was surprised, therefore, when he saw that the town council was having a noisy meeting in what was undoubtedly the local tavern. “We must move forward with this resolution!” an old man stated with authority. The other men gathered at the tables banged their beer steins against the table in agreement. “We are resolved that we shall try to rid ourselves of the dragon!” “Try?” Rothgar snorted, and the room went silent but for the sounds of creaking chairs and swiveling necks. “You need not try, for it shall be done. I am Rothgar, son of—” “Ratgar?” someone asked. “Rothgar,” Rothgar repeated, more loudly. “Son of Wulfgar, slayer of dragons.” “Really?” the speaker said, “Ja, then I am Jalk the Giant Killer.” “Jalk and his beanstalk is a fable,” Rothgar said, “Your dragon is not. Hire me and you shall be free of it.” “Why should we hire a foreigner?” someone asked. “I am not a foreigner,” Rothgar said, “I was born in the north, near to the eaves of the Teutoburg Forest.” “Well, you talk funny, so it's really the same thing.” “Do you want this dragon slain or not?” Rothgar said, his temper slipping a notch. “Oh, very well,” the speaker said, “We were about to put the whole thing to a vote, but go ahead, let's hear your proposal.” “Fine,” Rothgar said, settling down a bit. Now things were going according to the script. “Tell me about the dragon.” “Speaker Erbrechen! Speaker Erbrechen!” came the clamor. The old man waved tolerantly, cleared his throat, and addressed Rothgar. “She came upon us nigh ten days ago,” said Erbrechen, “She swoops down upon us, taking our cattle and sheep. If we shoot arrows at her, she burns our barns and shops.” “How big is she?” “Forty feet long!” someone interjected. “Forty-two!” someone else said. “Neh, it's fifty as if it were a day.” “Aren’t you counting her tail?” “Look,” Rothgar interrupted, “She's big. I get the picture.” “Big enough,” Erbrechen agreed. “Long teeth?” “Like swords!” “Tail?” “Bladed.” “Breathes fire?” “Oh, lots.” “Hm,” Rothgar considered. He counted on his fingers, then said, “Counting time and materials, I will do the deed for fifteen hundred gold crowns.” There was a stunned silence; then the crowd burst out laughing. The townspeople started speaking all at once. “Fifteen hundred?” “Feh, we could bribe the dragon away with that kind of money.” “Ridiculous! What does he think we are?” “Mister Rothgar,” Erbrechen said as he tried to still his shaking belly, “Thank you for your offer, but we've come up with some cheaper alternatives.” He turned to the crowd. “Vote?” The villagers raised their left hands, fists clenched, and shouted, “Stimmen sie zu!” The meeting broke up rather quickly after that. Rothgar stood in the middle of the empty floor, flabbergasted. He slumped in the nearest seat, dejected, until the barkeeper came up and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, you. Buy a drink or get out.” (Wednesday) Rothgar sat on the tavern's back porch, chin in hands. The townspeople gathered on the open field to the east. He took a sip from his stein, and then went back to his sulky watch. The sips were small, as he wanted to sit for a while. “Okay!” one of the townspeople said, “here she comes!” The dragon flew across the lake by the town, a fat cow clutched in her talons. The townspeople dove under the tarpaulin of red and yellow fabric they had set out before dawn. On cue they stood up and began marching forward. The person at the front held up the frame of timber and straw, fashioned to look like a dragon's head, complete with working jaw and eye flaps. The other members of the team swayed their parts of the dragon’s body back and forth in a sinuous motion, banging on drums and bells and creating an incredible din. The dragon stopped in mid-air and dropped her cargo. The bovine gave a plaintive 'mooo!' as it plunged into the icy water and began cow-paddling to shore. The dragon swooped down low, nose to the ground, and with a great snort, sent a sheet of fire over the false dragon on the ground. The townspeople, their hair and eyebrows set smoldering, quickly dropped the cloth and rolled in the wet grass or jumped in the lake. The dragon circled the town once before it left, and it let out a deep, throaty laugh like thunder. Rothgar smiled. He downed the rest of his beer in one gulp and strode over Erbrechen, who was brushing ashes off his tunic. “Whose bright idea was that?” Rothgar asked sardonically. “The snake handler,” Erbrechen pointed to a young boy who had a corn snake draped over his bony shoulders. “Well, dragons are like snakes,” the boy said, “And snakes don't like loud noises or challengers, ja?” “Try a stupid stunt like that again and you'll all be so much roasted meat,” Rothgar said. Erbrechen and the boy exchanged a look. “What did you have in mind?” Rothgar flexed his biceps and smiled. “I have, in my mercy, re-considered my offer. Fourteen hundred crowns, not a pfennig less.” A look of consideration passed over Erbrechen's face. “Care to discuss it over a cup of herb tea?” “No! Take it or leave it, old man!” “Okay,” Erbrechen shrugged, turning away from him. Erbrechen raised his voice to the townspeople. “Let's go, time's wasting if we want to try the next plan!” Rothgar swore and stomped off. That night he drank enough beer to float a longship. (Thursday) The dragon landed atop the bull's carcass and began tearing off chunks of meat with gusto. The bull had been staked out in the middle of a clearing in the woods just outside of town. “What do you think?” one ratty looking peasant said to Erbrechen. Erbrechen, Werner, and Rothgar had hidden in the deep underbrush, out of the dragon's sight. “She looks pretty occupied, Werner,” Erbrechen replied. “Your boys going to do anything soon?” “Ja, don't you worry,” said Werner. He pointed to the nearby cottages. “They’re all the village’s best timber jacks. They made our homes from these trees, they know what to do.” With a crack, the largest tree behind the dragon began to topple forward. Rothgar stood, eyes locked on the large pine as it curved forward towards the dragon's back. The dragon snapped her head around, as fast as a whip. She caught the falling timber in her massive jaws and swung her burden around. With a careless flick, she tossed the tree away. The mass of timber whirled end over end and came to rest with a crash on top of a row of the cottages. “Scheisse! My house!” Werner wailed. The dragon turned in their direction. She blew a ring of smoke in derision, and then flew off, unconcerned. Rothgar coughed into his hand. “Erbrechen, I've been thinking. How about we settle up for twelve hundred gold crowns?” “Twelve hundred? Are you joking?” “Eleven!” Rothgar said, his palms out in supplication. “Sounds like you need the work. Care to discuss it over some herb tea?” “Damn it, I don't want any tea, I want the job! Why won't your lord pay me for my services?” “Lord? Who said we had a lord?” “Well, I just assumed—” “Ja, you assumed,” Erbrechen said wryly. “You like bridge tolls?” “Well, no.” “Highway tolls?” “No, not really. What does this have to do with what we're talking about?” “How do you think a lord 'pays' you for your services? Taxes, that’s how! Well, this town doesn't like taxes, so we broke away and set up independently.” “But you're the town speaker.” “So? Feh, you think I would hold meetings in the tavern if I had money to build a town hall? It's expensive to meet in the tavern. You can't even sit down there unless—” “You buy a drink,” Rothgar groaned, rubbing his eyes. “I know, I know.” (Friday) This time they had ten sheep carcasses staked to the ground in a clearing across the valley. “You people are just stupid if you think she's going to fall for that again,” Rothgar grumbled. The dragon made a neat banking turn on her left wing tip and settled in the clearing for her meal. She picked delicately at the warm mutton, pausing every now and then to burp up a stringy ball of wool. Erbrechen looked at Rothgar. “Shut up,” Rothgar growled. Erbrechen and the snake handler boy were in the thicket with him. Finally, unable to keep quiet, Rothgar tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Tell me one thing,” Rothgar said, “How do you know that the dragon's a female?” “Oh, that's simple,” the boy said. He plucked the corn snake from its perch around his shoulder and held the wriggling animal upside down. “See? This one's a girl too.” “There's the flag!” Erbrechen said, pointing at the green piece of cloth which waved from the top of a nearby hillock. Behind the summit, the townspeople's huge catapult twanged as it loosed the five ton boulder from its hide platform. The rock whistled over the hillock and came down silently from almost straight above. The dragon gave a squawk, and as it spread its wings, the boulder smashed it with a horrid crunching sound. Black dragon blood flew through the air in a fine mist, sizzling as it hit leaves and grass. The outstretched wings which stuck out from under the rock quivered once and were still. A raucous cheer went up from the townspeople. They whooped and tossed their hats in the air, rejoicing. They had almost settled back down when with a mighty shudder, the rock tipped back on its edge and rolled off. Rothgar stepped forward, drawing his sword. The dragon raised its head shakily. With an angry shriek, she beat her wings and rose above the clearing. She roared, making the waters of the lake quiver, and she spat forth a jet of flame which set the woods to the west afire. Erbrechen hurriedly detailed all the village’s men to fighting the blaze before it reached the town while the dragon flew off unsteadily. Rothgar was waiting at the tavern, stein in hand, when Erbrechen returned. He motioned Erbrechen to take a chair, sized the man up, and spoke. “Nine hundred. Don't tell the dragon slayer's guild or I'm in trouble.” Erbrechen considered. “Care to discuss it—” “Over a cup of herb tea,” Rothgar nodded fiercely. “Fine, whatever the hell you want, let's deal!” “Hermann, let's have the special over here,” Erbrechen said. The tea was laid out, steaming hot, and Erbrechen carefully poured two cups. He picked his cup up, inhaling the aromas and savoring the scent. Rothgar tossed his off and pounded the table with his fist. “I've satisfied your stinking custom, old man. Now do I get the job or not?” “After all we've done, only to fail? You've got it.” “About time! Now, the dragon's lair, can you show me how to get to it?” “Ja, I'll draw you a map.” Erbrechen pulled out a sheet of parchment and drew in lines and noted landmarks in a flowing script. He laid it out on the table. Rothgar studied the parchment shrewdly. It was hard to make out some of the smaller words. He lay his head on the table, got a good look at the lettering, then let out a great snore. (Saturday) Rothgar awoke with a moan, sick to his stomach. He lay on his back, and he could make out the sides of an open wagon around him. He tried moving his arms and legs, and it came as a bad shock when he discovered he was bound. Erbrechen and a second old man leaned over him. “What the devil are you doing?” Rothgar demanded. “Untie me at once, or I'll cut your hearts out with my sword!” “Can't do that, son of Wulfgar,” Erbrechen replied. “You see, you took the job, so you have to finish it.” “You drugged me!” “We had little choice,” Erbrechen shrugged. “That dragon, she's intelligent for her kind. She speaks some human tongue.” “Ja, and apparently, we were successful in our efforts to drive her off,” the second old man agreed. “Sort of,” Erbrechen said. “She flew down in the midst of our efforts to fight the fire after you left. She said that we were becoming mighty fine pests after we clobbered her with that rock.” “Liar!” Rothgar snarled, “She would have eaten you all!” “Oh, neh,” Erbrechen said, “She's smart. Why work for your food when you can pick up a fat cow or sheep whenever you like? If she killed us she'd be depriving herself of her meals. But she promised us that she'd leave for other parts, so long as we promised her two things.” Rothgar didn't like the way the conversation was going. “First,” Erbrechen continued, “She wanted us to give her a dozen sheep carcasses, for rations when she sets out. Second, she wanted us to sacrifice to her our most beautiful maiden.” “What for?” “Well, it's just good form. If the word got out that a dragon had gone soft, well, nobody would take her seriously! This way, both she and our town save face. It's a win-win situation, and it’s very economical.” “I'm hardly a maiden, old man,” Rothgar said through clenched teeth. “Well, we’re in luck there. Dragons can't see too well.” Erbrechen reached down, lifted Rothgar's head by the hair so that the dragonslayer could see. “You should be flattered. We were able to lengthen my daughter's blue gown before we slipped you into it.” He held up part of Rothgar's scalp lock. “And the young girls at the school braided these lovely mountain daisies into your hair—” “You bastards!” Rothgar shouted, straining mightily to free himself from the ropes. His muscles bulged under the robins-egg blue dress, but they failed to part the bonds. “I swear, I've slain entire families for less than this!” They came to the end of the road, right below the cleft of the peaks. They carried the struggling Rothgar from the wagon and lashed him to a nearby tree. Erbrechen pulled out a small box and opened it. “Lipstick or rouge?” Rothgar told him where to stick both items. “If you don't decide, I'll use both,” threatened Erbrechen, “And I'll pick shades that don't match.” Rothgar seethed. “Lipstick.” Erbrechen finished his work and climbed into the wagon with the others. They started their creaky ride back down the mountain slope. “You have my word, we'll do our best to make sure your next of kin gets the six hundred crowns!” “Nine hundred!” Rothgar called back. He cursed them floridly as they dwindled in the mist. In due time, he ran out of breath. Later that day, all was silent except for the beat of approaching leathery wings. Medieval accounts about dragons incorrectly liken dragons to simple animals. Dragons were quite intelligent, thoughtful creatures at heart. And once their word was given, they always kept it. Schnitzengruben, with its easy-handed government and light taxes, soon became a major trading spot known throughout Europe. People would remark about the calm waters of the lake, the high, dark forest, the charming houses and the clean streets. The people themselves were also highly thought of. Their services were sought throughout Germany as blacksmiths, carpenters, and bankers. However, they never produced so much as a single dragon slayer. The End The Pusher’s List
Michael Angel Colin Webb cursed as his stack of shopping carts stopped with a jolt in the middle of the supermarket’s parking lot. He rubbed his chest where he’d been pushing the rear cart’s handle with one threadbare mitten. Grumbling, he bent down and squinted at the wheel housing as the night wind blew through the lot with a chilly moan. A sheet of paper had blown up against one of the wheels and stuffed up the works but good. Colin pulled the paper free, gave a shove, and got the stack moving again. He maneuvered the carts into the market’s holding area, and then ducked around one of the concrete pillars that made up the decorative façade of the Stop n’ Save. Colin dug around in the pocket of his windbreaker for his pack of Lucky Strikes. Instead, he came up with the same damned piece of paper that had gotten stuck in the cart’s wheel. He’d just jammed it into his pocket without thinking. He unfolded the sheet out of idle curiosity. The black ink of a felt-tip pen spelled out a ten-item shopping list. The flowing cursive print was neatly stacked in two rows. It was unremarkable, save for a couple minor misspellings. And one more thing. O.J. Pizza W.Wheat Bread Whol Milk Lettuce Jell-O Pop Albicore Tuna Chkn Soups DFH2X6 The last entry made Colin bite his lip in thought. He knew most of the obvious abbreviations, like ‘orange juice’ for ‘O.J.’. But DFH2X6? It sounded like a kind of cough syrup. With Thanksgiving only a week away, people had been coming in for meal fixings, snacks, and flu remedies. Colin moved to throw the paper in the garbage can. He felt something wet on his index finger. He pulled his finger back and saw it was coated in scarlet. For a crazy half-second, he thought it might have been blood from the mother of all paper cuts. But as he rubbed his skin, the color flaked off in little red particles. Puzzled, he turned the shopping list over. It bore a scrawled message. HELP US PLEZE WE R KIDNAPED Colin’s index finger had smeared the bottom left leg of the ‘H’ into a long, bloody comma. He felt his body temperature plummet and his skin goose-pimple as if one of the store’s jerkweed butchers had shoved him into the store’s meat locker. “Ho-lee crap,” he rasped, “Someone’s gotta be screwin’ around.” Colin looked up and down the lot. The air held a strong hint of rain mixed with the sharp undertone of gasoline. Except for the puddle-filled potholes, the blacktop shone like an oil slick from the drizzling rain. Almost every space had a car in it. And most of those were American-made SUVs, vans, or stretch-cab pickups. Michiganders liked Detroit steel, and a lot of it. Enough space in just about any jalopy here to stow a couple of people, he thought. Unless this is all a big joke on me. He grimaced at the thought. Colin Webb had eked his way through high school, just another slouchy kid with a choppy shag of brown hair. His counselor had called him a ‘floater’. Colin had ‘internalized’ it, as the counselor would have said, in his nose-in-the-air fashion. If by ‘internalizing’, it meant pounding down every sort of booze a 21-year old could get his hands on in Roscommon County. In a strange way, Colin’s mom took more pride in her son’s completion of the local version of Alcoholics Anonymous than his high school graduation. And there was still a long way back up. Spending his mid-twenties as a cart pusher and bagger at the local Stop n’ Save wasn’t great. But it was the best he could do when his mother’s welfare check barely covered the rent. He let out a frustrated breath and rustled the paper again. The store at his back was full of people, but the parking lot was dead, activity-wise. No one wanted to stay out in the chilling wind spilling off of Lake Skegemog. It was the lake that made up his mind. The wind always blew in one direction – from off the water. In a direct line from the water, there was a frontage road, the lot’s double-sized driveway, a half-dozen rows of cars, and then him. Beyond his line of carts were the dumpsters, and then acres of open, weedy fields. The note had to have come from someone in one of the lot’s cars. The odds of someone writing a note, tossing it into the wind, and having it strike his line of carts – it was pretty long. Almost ‘tossing a bottle in the ocean’ kind of long. Not the kind of odds you’d take if you just wanted to screw around with somebody on the low end of the totem pole like Colin Webb. His skin goose-pimpled as he thought of two people crammed in some back seat, stuffed in some trunk, cuffed in the back of one of the vans or SUVs. Part of him wanted to dash out into the lot, hammering on doors and trunks, shouting and demanding for someone to answer. Yeah, great idea, idiot! What if they’re gagged, bound, and can’t respond? What if one or more of the kidnappers is waiting in the vehicle? They see you coming, banging around like a maniac, they’ll plug you and leave you to die bleeding at this effing Stop n’ Save. Colin turned and dashed around the side of the store. He pushed through the curtain of orange-tinted plastic strips that made up the loading dock’s door. He spotted two figures in the gloomy light of the storage area. Recognizing them, he ran up, waving the paper in one hand like a trophy. “Josh! Al!” he said, huffing from the run. “You’ve got to see this.” “Slow down, Webbster. Don’t go trollin’ when we’re doubled down with no extra help,” said the heavier of the two. Josh Asher was a blond-haired fireplug of a young man whose only aim in life was to be a goalie for the Detroit Red Wings. “You heard him, Colin. This whole night’s been a lick on us.” This from Alberto Amador. Colin had worked with the older man enough to learn his personal slang. Any bit of hardship, from a dented fender to an especially demanding work shift was ‘a lick’. “Yeah, I bet. But check this out.” Colin handed the note to Al, who reclined on a pile of canned goods, sweating like a marathon runner. Josh looked over the man’s shoulder in order to read the note. He let out a snort after Al flipped the page to see the shopping list. “Okay, pal. You had your fun. Where’d you get the mascara to write the ‘help us’ note? I mean, come on. This is really lame.” “This ain’t mascara,” Al pointed out. “It’s lip gloss or something. Weird.” “I sure as hell didn’t make this note up,” Colin replied coolly. “I found it. It had to have come from of one of the cars in the lot. There’s two people stuffed into a car in our lot on their way to be ransomed, or worse.” Josh and Alberto exchanged a look. Colin gritted his teeth. These guys were co-workers, sure. They were nominally friendly. But they weren’t friends. A guy like him didn’t rate friends, he figured. Josh’s next comment confirmed that thought right quick. “Yeah, right, Webbie. You know what? I think you’re gettin’ the damned D-Ts from putting the bottle down and trying to climb back on the wagon.” Colin clenched his jaw. Josh was okay sometimes. Other times, Colin wanted to smash the guy’s teeth in. Just out of frustration. Small town, back woods people never forgot what they saw. Once an alkie, always an alkie. Didn’t matter if Colin made it through the next twenty years, dry as a bone. They’d still be tempering their assessment of him through those eyes. “You’re a real Ash-hole sometimes.” Colin said, pulling out the nickname that he knew Josh Asher hated. It worked like a charm. Josh’s hands curled into fists and he took a step forward. “Hold on!” Alberto stopped him with an upraised palm. “We get into it now, it’s a whole bunch of licks on us.” He glared at Josh. “You doubtin’ this? That’s cool, so am I. Humor him a bit. Say he’s right.” “Yeah,” Josh sneered, “A gang of kidnappers just decided to stop in and pick up some thimbleberry jam, Yooper-brewed beer, and some smoked whitefish. You know, in case they get hungry and decide to piece around while they decide when to call in for the ransom.” “Why not?” Colin demanded. “They’ve got to feed the man, woman, whomever they took, especially if they plan to keep ‘em for a while.” “Girls. They’re probably twin girls,” Alberto said sagely. He stopped, held his side, and let out a little moan. “At least, that’s what makes sense.” “What’s wrong?” “Just my side. Gimme a sec.” “He’s been like this off and on all evening,” Josh put in. “Sweating, groaning, generally being a lazy-ass.” “Screw you, Josh. And the horse you rode in on.” Al said with a smile. Colin wasn’t smiling. He knelt down and indicated with a gesture to have Alberto raise the lower edge of his shirt. When Al did so, the lower right side of the man’s abdomen looked swollen. Colin didn’t touch it, but held his hand near and felt the dull heat of inflammation radiating from the dusky red skin. “I’m no doctor, but I’m sure it’s appendicitis,” Colin said, “I had mine out in junior year, same thing happened.” “I can work through this. Tough it out like a man.” Alberto said. On the heels of that statement, like a dark comic punchline, he coughed, dry-heaved, and fell to the floor on his hands and knees. “Holy—” Josh said, going white-faced. “I better get Kendall back here.” “Wait! We can—” Colin said, but Josh had already disappeared through the rubber-edged swinging doors that separated the storage area from the supermarket aisles. Al carefully eased himself onto his back, and then jammed the note into Colin’s hand. His face was as gray as slate gravel, and coated with a thick, sticky sheet of sweat. “It’s okay,” Colin said, “We’ll get you to a hospital. Get you in my car.” “Oh, hell no.” Colin reddened. “It’s a heap, I know. Okay, your car.” “Hitched a ride with Josh today,” Al gasped. “Your car’s too small…for me to stretch out. Need the back seat in the Ash-hole’s pickup.” “Yeah, that figures. Al, I need to know…what makes you think that note’s from a couple of little girls?” “Been watching too many crime dramas. To me, looks like…a little girl wrote that note.” “Because she used makeup? I mean, lipstick to draw with?” “No, hell no.” Al held himself rigid and let out another groan. Colin didn’t know what to do. When he’d had appendicitis, it hurt for anyone to touch him, anywhere. “That note’s color…it’s dark. Sexy red. Grown woman’s makeup. The handwriting looks like a kid’s.” “What makes you think it’s two girls?” “You been working too many night shifts. Ain’t been watching the news. Two nine-year old girls went missing in Ann Arbor last night. State Senator Halloway’s twin daughters.” “I’ll call the cops!” “Hope they get…get here in time. Damn town is in the boonies. Saginaw cops’ll maybe get here in twenty, thirty minutes. You got a license plate, car make, anything to give ‘em?” “No! That’s just it, I don’t know which car!” “Better figure out which…which car it is before it pulls out. If you’re right, they’re gonna slip right through.” “Shit! It’s a lick on me, ain’t it?” Colin looked up. He heard the sound of angry voices, approaching footsteps. Not much time now. “Not if you figure it out, Colin.” Alberto let out a gasp of pain that made his knuckles clench white. “Like they say…most days you’re the windshield, but every now and then you get to be the rock. Get to…hit something, not stand around and get hit.” Al arched his back as if he was having a terrible cramp, and let out a scream. And right then, Josh burst through the double doors with the night manager at his side. Kendall Price was a ‘Citiot’, an unflattering name for an unpleasant person from the Detroit City suburbs. He had a tall beanpole of a frame topped by a mop of bright red hair. Josh had once called him ‘the human matchstick’. “God damn it all,” Price cursed, over Al’s scream. “You had to go and get sick on this effing shift, didn’t you?” “Sorry…to cause trouble, sir.” Even in pain, Al managed to convey just the right tone of ‘screw you’ in his voice. “Come on,” Colin said. “Josh, help me get him to the back seat of your pickup. You gotta take him to County Medical.” “Can we call him an ambulance or something?” Price said harshly, “We’re so damned short-handed now, we got a line halfway down the aisles.” “Josh can get him to County Med before the ambulance can make its way out here,” Colin pointed out. The manager glared at him, eyes ablaze, as Colin and Josh lifted Alberto as gently as they could and got him into the pickup. When he returned, Kendall Price hadn’t budged an inch. “That was damned insubordinate,” Price said, “And I’m docking your pay for the time you just spent screwing around back here when you should’ve been pushing carts!” Colin bit back his first reply. Hell, his first ten. “I’m heading out to the lot now, Kendall. I just figured, if an employee died on your shift, you’d be a mite concerned how it’d look on your monthlies.” “Didn’t know you cared so much, Webb.” “You don’t know the half of it.” Colin snatched the note out of his pocket and held it up. “I found this in the lot just now. We’ve got someone kidnapped in a car out there, and we’ve got to call the cops. I don’t have my cell so we need to use the land line in your office. We gotta do it now.” Price read the note, astounded. His eyes swiveled back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. Colin could practically see the gears turning in the man’s head as he seemed to be juggling, weighing things on the fly. “This is pretty serious. You know which car?” Colin shook his head. “Okay, then I’m going to call it in. You, I need working.” “What? When any of those people out there could be one of the bastards who snatched whoever wrote that note?” “Shut up, Webb. You better watch your tongue. I could axe you from this job so quick that you’ll be left wonderin’ where your beer money went to.” Kendall Price snapped his fingers under Colin’s nose. “I got a new job for you. Now that you sent Dumb and Dumber to the hospital, all I got left is your ugly ass and Ginnie LeVoss. Get up front and bag.” Colin sighed. “I’m on it.” “I’ll be watching you. Like a goddamned hawk.” Price gave Colin a little nudge to get him moving, and then stuck the note in his shirt pocket. “You got to understand something, Webb. There are two kinds of people in life: people who like their jobs, and people who don't work at Stop n’ Save anymore.” And with that, they pushed through the double doors and into the clean, tiled expanses of the supermarket proper. Price marched into the manager’s bullpen area, located at the end of the rows of registers, while Colin hurriedly donned a bright red Stop n’ Save apron and went to the bagging position. Normally, bag duty was a mind-numbing task. Tonight, it was nerve-wracking. Colin couldn’t help but keep glancing at the long, impatient line of customers. Wondering which of them was a kidnapper. Either a scared, desperate amateur, or a cold, calculating type like in the movies. He didn’t know who it could be. Dammit, he knew most of the people in line, and it could be one of them, for all he knew. He rubbed his brow, wiping away sweat caused more by nerves than exertion. At least, that’s what he told himself. His heart was pounding like a big metal gong. Colin looked to one side, almost over his shoulder, at what Alberto jokingly called the ‘secret spy mirror’. One of the old, transom-style windows at the front of the store was tilted in just such a way so that one could make out what was going on in the manager’s bullpen. Price had taken out the note and was re-reading it. Colin could see the man’s lips moving silently. “Where’s Al and Josh?” Ginnie asked, between loud pops of her chewing gum. Her breath reeked of what a poorly educated chemist thought peppermint should smell like. “Al fell sick. Josh took him to County.” “Dang it,” she said, more annoyed than alarmed. She moved the items over the beeping scanner pad a tad more quickly. “It’s a lick on us.” “Yeah, it is.” He glanced once more at Kendall Price, trying to will the man to pick up the phone. What the hell was he waiting for? Price was pacing back and forth like a caged leopard. Colin had to turn away to face the next customer, a portly middle-aged man he’d seen playing the pipe organ at his mom’s church. “Paper or plastic?” Mr. Organ Player wanted paper inside plastic, as he expected. Folks with less than 20 items usually went for the plastic. If people had a lot of stuff to haul, it was paper bags, with or without plastic. And there were enough groceries coming off the conveyor belt to feed a small army. Colin threw himself into the work as his mind churned. The two sides of the note flashed in his mind like brightly lit X-ray plates. But do they tell me anything? Come on, focus! Say that Alberto was correct. That it was the Halloway twins stuffed in one of those cars. Trapped, but resourceful enough to get a note written with whatever they had at hand. Their captor, or at least one of their captors, must be a woman. There was Alberto’s comment about the makeup used. Colin’s gut agreed with it. The color he’d seen was the deep red of romance novel covers, seductive lingerie, or the roses Stop n’ Save sold around Valentine’s Day. The flip side of the note came into his mind next as Mr. Organ Player wheeled his cart off and the next customer stepped up. He thought about the neat cursive script of the handwriting. It looked like a woman’s writing to him. It also implied that she was still here in the Stop n’ Save. Most people crossed out found items on their shopping list with a pen. The words on this list were pristine. Especially DFH2X6. What the hell was that? A kind of medicine? A food additive? Cleanser, maybe? He’d done some stacking of dishwasher detergent boxes and some of the latest brand names were pretty weird. Okay, so what if I can’t figure it out? I can look for the other nine items. And I can look for that scarlet shade of makeup. His knuckles tightened around a loaf of whole wheat bread as he saw most of the items from the list fall into place in front of him. A can of frozen orange juice. A pint of skim milk, a head of lettuce, two liters of Coke, and a can of Bumblebee tuna in water. And the bread. “Please be careful, Colin,” a woman’s voice said. He looked up, and gazed into the kind face of his seventh-grade English teacher. Her hair had been done up in a powder-gray bun, but no other makeup. She wore a collection of bright green scarves to stave off the cold. “I think you’re gripping my groceries a little too tight. You’re going to leave your fingerprints on my morning toast!” “Sorry, Mrs. Isaacs,” he apologized, as he put her groceries carefully into her cart. “Just a lot on my mind, I guess.” The next customer stepped up. A man, of Middle Eastern descent, wearing a camouflage-colored parka that looked like it had been purchased at a Wal-Mart ‘Last Chance’ sale. His dozen or so items were mostly auto-related, including three quarts of motor oil and a spray bottle of Armor-All. Colin shook his head, sending a droplet of sweat flying. He felt like his mind was stuttering, trying to speed up after a lifetime spent in whatever gear was labeled ‘amble’. His forehead felt like it was burning up. He cursed under his breath, which earned a glance from Ginnie LeVoss and the guy with the camo parka. He saw all of the assumptions he’d built up come crashing down. Had to, unless he thought that Mrs. Isaacs was the kidnapper. The kidnapper could’ve left her purse with cosmetics in the vehicle. But it didn’t mean that she was wearing that particular red shade. Or any makeup at all. It didn’t mean that what he saw on the bag line here would match the list. After all, the list had been forgotten in the car. Worst of all, nine of the ten items on that list were pretty generic. Anyone, even Mrs. Isaacs, could and would buy them. Camo parka guy took his groceries and left. Colin forced himself to slow his breathing. Wasn’t going to do those girls any good if he passed out. What Colin did know was that there was only one way out of the store – through him. If he could figure out what DFH2X6 was, then he’d know that he’d hit paydirt. That made him feel better, like a ray of sunshine had passed over his face. The feeling vanished in an instant as he glanced up at the ‘spy mirror’. His stomach did a somersault as he saw what his manager was up to. Kendall Price shoved the note into the paper shredder. Then he bent down, out of sight, and came up with the phone line from behind the desk. He took out a butterfly knife and slashed the dangling cord in two. “The hell?” Colin said in amazement. Ginnie cleared her throat and nodded impatiently at the groceries that were piling up at the base of the conveyor. Absently, he started packing the items. The first paper bag got filled with a quart of milk and a twin-sized carton of orange juice. He stuffed the next one with a couple cans of Campbell’s Chicken & Stars, a jar of thimbleberry jelly, cans of tuna fish, and a loaf of wheat bread on top. It was a pretty close match to the list he’d pulled off the cart, but like Mrs. Isaac’s items, it wasn’t exact. For a moment, he put aside the mystery of Kendall Price’s odd behavior. The last damned item on the mystery shopping list kept rolling around in his head like a loose can of beer in the trunk of his car. “Hey, space case!” Ginnie said, with a loud pop of her gum, “You know if our beer sale covers the pale ales, or just Bud?” “It’s all beer, Ginnie,” Colin said absently. He looked up at the next customer in line. A couple. The man was broad-shouldered, with a brown leather vest and a greasy-looking black mullet. The woman was a blonde with a nice, willowy figure that showed through, even in her ill-fitting jeans and sweater. “You want your alcohol in a separate bag?” The woman shook her head but said nothing more. Colin simply grabbed the two six-packs of beer and set them in the cart. The bottles were a cheery brown and white, labeled with a drawing of a fish, and the words Palo Santo. The hairs went up on the back of Colin’s neck. He squinted at the fish drawing again. The brand logo under it was Dog Fish Head. Colin blinked. A couple six-packs of Dog Fish Head beer. DFH2X6. Just the right amount of alcohol for a lush’s evening. Or a hot time on the town with a pair of kidnapped girls stuffed in a closet somewhere. A tap at his shoulder. Kendall Price looked at him, his mouth twisted in a wry expression. The tones in his voice sounded as canned as the tuna that Colin had been bagging. “I called the cops,” he said. “They said that they’ve been on the lookout. Don’t do anything, they’ve got everything under control.” Colin didn’t have the energy to pretend anymore. Price wasn’t just an annoying night manager anymore, a guy in love with his own voice and his petty sense of authority. He was a liar. “No, you didn’t. I saw you. You didn’t call. You sliced the phone line.” “Why, you must be mistaken, Colin. You want to rephrase that?” Colin’s insides turned to ice. When challenged, Kendall Price was a blowhard, a total jerkweed. He wasn’t calm and polite. “Go on,” Price said. “Everything. Is under. Control.” And then Colin saw that his prick of a manager wasn’t talking to him. Price was looking over his head at the couple he’d just bagged groceries for. As if in a bad dream, Colin saw the three exchange glances. Price nodded at the mullet-haired guy. Mullet-head nodded back, grabbed the sacks of groceries, and calmly walked arm-in-arm with the woman out the door. “Hey, you left your receipt!” Ginnie called, but they ignored her. So did Colin and Price. “I think you and I need to have a little talk, Webb. Man to man.” “You and I got nothing to talk about, Price.” Kendall Price’s gaze swiveled towards Colin like a rifle sight. “Manager’s bullpen. Now, Webb. Don’t make me break you. Or you won’t be able to get so much as a job digging turnips in Cheboygan when I’m done with you.” Colin’s made as if to speak. Then his face fell, and his expression went slack. He really did need the job. He and his mom did, if they were going make it through the winter. “Okay, Price. You win.” Head hanging low, Colin followed Price as they walked along the front of the store towards the bullpen. Through the plate glass, he saw the couple crossing the parking lot towards a beat-up looking Chevy Impala. They were holding hands, and they didn’t seem to have a care in the world. Time seemed to slow to a crawl for Colin Webb. He felt like he was floating. “That’s all you are,” the voice of the counselor said in his ear. “A floater.” “Tryin’ to climb back on the wagon?” Josh’s voice said. “Yeah, right.” The voice shifted to Alberto’s. “Figure it out, Colin. Most days you’re the windshield, but every now and then you get to be the rock. You get to hit something, not just stand around and get hit.” Every now and then you get to hit something… He and Price were just passing the pre-cut bundles of firewood. One of the mesh bags had split open. Without stopping to think, Colin grabbed a chunk. The wedge-shaped piece of wood fit his hand perfectly. Colin decked Kendall Price across the back of the head. The man went down with a groan. The customers in line who saw what had happened let out a shriek or a shout. Ginnie’s gum rolled out of her open mouth in a sticky white mass and landed in the open cash till. “Oh my god!” shouted one of the customers. “He’s gone crazy! Someone call the cops!” “Yeah, do that!” Colin shouted back, as he dashed out the door. An icy droplet of rain smacked into his upper lip as he ran outside. The slam of a car door. The couple had gotten into their vehicle. Colin heard the sound of a motor starting as he ran around the side of the market. He sprinted to where the employees were allowed to park. He felt more drops of rain patter on his head and hands as he threw open the door of his shot-to-hell Kia Rio. The tiny car was on its last legs. The Rio’s hatchback refused to open, so Colin had had to store the cargo net, tire jack, and his spare toolbox on the floor in front of the passenger’s seat. Alberto Amador had been right to be nervous about going to the hospital in Colin’s automobile. Colin belted himself in, fumbled with the keys, and then slapped them home in the ignition. He cranked the motor. It rattled and squeaked like a nest of hamsters that had gone on strike. Colin went through an entire string of four-letter words. Through it all, his mind hummed along like a parent chiding their child. You know if you let them get out of this lot, they’re as good as gone. And whoever wrote that note is as good as dead. He twisted the key again. He heard the metal creak as it bent. But the Kia’s rattletrap engine sprang to life. He shifted into reverse and swung the little car around. He gunned the motor and took the speed bump at the corner of the lot at speed. The Kia’s cheap shocks decided to not cushion the blow. The toolbox spilled open. His head struck the hard plastic on the underside of the roof. He saw stars for a second. The balding tires squealed in protest and skidded on the wet asphalt. Up ahead was the driveway leading to the frontage road. If he could block it, then the rules of the game would change. But the Impala was pulling up to the exit. It wasn’t moving fast, but the large blue car was a lot closer. No way could Colin get to the driveway in time. He swallowed hard. He hesitated, but with each blink of his eyes, the image of that note burned on the inside of his lids. HELP US PLEZE. Colin crushed the gas pedal underfoot. He couldn’t get to the driveway first. But he could get there at the same time. The Impala rolled to a stop at the driveway. The car’s turn signal blinked on in a friendly pulse of yellow. The driver hadn’t seen the approaching Kia. Colin had left the headlights off. Maybe I’ll get a ticket for that, he thought wildly. A shattering CRASH! Colin hit the Impala just ahead of the driver’s side door. He felt the impact of his face into the airbag. Heard the sickening crunch of metal on metal. The acrid smell of battery acid and wiper fluid. The iron taste of blood in his mouth. The world spun crazily and resolved itself into the broken hulks of the two cars and the blaring of a horn. He saw through the half-shattered windshield that it wasn’t his horn going off. The blonde woman lay unconscious, face buried in the flaccid folds of her own deployed airbag, chest up against the horn button. Colin groped in the dim light inside his car. His fingers closed around the metal crowbar from his tool kit. He stumbled out of the wreck of his Kia, tool held low at his side, and came around the banged-up hood of the Impala. He felt a trickle of blood run from one nostril. His left elbow felt two sizes too big. The rain started to come down hard, like icy needles against his skin. But he ignored it all as he saw the massive frame of the mullet-headed man begin to climb out of the passenger-side door. In the man’s right hand was a gun. Colin was too pissed off now to be afraid. He kicked the side of the door as hard as he could. It smashed mullet-head’s hand against the door frame. The gun went off. The bullet whined off into the night. Colin kicked the door a second time. The gun dropped and skidded away. Something in the man’s hand snapped. He let out a howl. Snarling, the man shoved his way out of his seat. He made it to his feet just as Colin clocked him with the crowbar. His eyes rolled back and he fell to the asphalt without a sound. Colin heard muffled cries and banging from the rear of the Impala. He went around back. One of the tail light covers had fallen out. A little white finger waggled desperately through the opening, trying to attract attention. “Get back!” he shouted, and the finger withdrew. He jammed the end of the crowbar into the bottom of the trunk lid. It popped open with a single heave. Gasping, he looked down on two frightened little girls. Their wrists, ankles, and mouths had been bound in duct tape. Colin pulled out his pocket knife and sliced through their bonds. The Halloway twins shrank away from him until he lifted them out of the cramped trunk space. Then they began to cry, and as they did, they grasped on to the sides of his dingy Stop n’ Save apron. He knelt, wrapping his wiry arms around the two little blonde girls. He heard the distant sound of sirens. Colin didn’t think he’d ever have thought they sounded so sweet. “Shh, it’s okay,” he crooned. “You’re safe now.” “Who…who are you?” one of the girls asked him. “My name’s Colin.” He beamed as he added, “I got your note.” He had to hand it to Alberto Amador. The man was right. You never really knew how your day was going to end. Some days, sadly, you were the windshield. But tonight? Tonight, Colin had gotten to be the rock. And that was a lick on everyone else. |
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