Skating Over the Line (24 page)

“It wasn't my life being threatened.” Hmmm. Wrong thing to say. The vein pulsating like a ready-to-strike snake on Lionel's neck was frightening.

“Look,” I said, taking a percussive step forward. “You always get a call about fires, and you always show up. After the way last night went, I figured you were taking a break from the strange feature-film turn my life has taken. I wouldn't blame you. I'm not sure I want to be part of my life right now.”

The vein in his neck stopped undulating. “I was at the Bloniarz Farm, delivering a breach calf, when the calls came in. I heard my phone ring, but I couldn't answer with my hands jammed up into the cow.”

Personally, I could have done without the visual. And I noticed that each word Lionel said got progressively more clipped. Lionel was working on a serious case of pissed. What a coincidence—I was, too.

“I'm sorry I didn't call you. Things were a little busy on my end,” I shot back in a not very friendly tone as I waved my arms in the air. “I saw the fire. I called the cops. Then I noticed that this time the body inside the car was real. So instead of calling you and crying on your shoulder, I decided my time would be better spent trying to rescue the guy. And I tried to save him. But I couldn't. He died. And I had to watch him die. And now I can't even figure out why the hell he was in that field in the first place. So if you want to be mad at me, do it somewhere else. I've had enough drama for one night.”

A tear leaked out from under my eyelashes, then another. I couldn't help it. A guy had died, and my boyfriend was busy complaining that I hadn't followed dating protocol. Call me crazy, but I was pretty sure the manual didn't cover these kinds of situations.

Lionel seemed to agree with me. Instead of yelling back, he reached over and grabbed the empty bowl. Leaning down, he picked up the popcorn decorating my floor. By the time he'd finished cleaning up, my tears had stopped. Good planning on his part.

He took the bowl into the kitchen. I heard it clatter as he put it in the sink. A few moments later, he reappeared with a large glass of water and the crooked smile that always made my breath catch.

Without a word, he offered me the glass. I took a drink and stepped into his arms.

“Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” he asked, brushing his lips gently against my hair. “Between the death threats and what happened this evening, I don't like leaving you alone.”

I settled against him and sighed. “I'd like that.”

“Good,” he said, guiding me toward my bedroom. “And once we get comfortable, you can tell me why the hell you are wearing Sean Holmes's shirt.”

 

Eighteen

As it turned out, I didn't get around
to telling Lionel about Sean's shirt. I remembered the painful process of putting on an oversized Northern Illinois University shirt and a pair of sweats. After that, I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I knew, I was waking up as sunshine crept through the blinds.

No Lionel. But he'd left a note reminding me to see Doc Truman. I was also supposed to call him later.

The Motrin from the night before had worn off, as had the nifty drug Doc had given me in the ambulance. Now that I was drug-free, one thing was absolutely clear: I hurt. Every muscle in my body ached, and the burns were worse. They screamed for attention. Ouch. Action flicks always make being the hero look cool and exciting. Now I knew the truth. Being a hero was painful and a bit of a letdown. Then again, I hadn't really done anything heroic, since the person I'd tried to save had died. Success was probably a really good painkiller.

I took some more Motrin with a glass of juice. Thus fortified, I braved a look under the gauze of my right hand. Yikes. My knees sagged. I leaned against the counter and thanked my lucky stars I hadn't chosen nursing for a profession.

The burns had left my hand looking wrinkly and splotchy. In two places, tiny white blisters looked ready to pop. I shivered and slid the gauze back into place. Doc Truman was definitely first on today's to-do list. Then I'd do my best to figure out why Kurt Bachman had died in Indian Falls.

I took a mildly warm shower, taking care to keep my wrapped hand out of the water. I washed the rest of my injuries gently and rebandaged as best I could. When it was over, I was still in pain but clean. A definite improvement. Pulling on a denim skirt, I rummaged through my wardrobe for a shirt that would cover up the majority of my burns. After shimmying into a black polo shirt, I slipped on my sneakers and headed for Doc's office.

Eleanor Schaffer was manning the front counter as I walked in. She had been Doc Truman's secretary and girl Friday since I was a kid, which was probably how Doc convinced her to work on Sunday. Eleanor had dyed black hair, brightly painted red lips, and a big personality to go with her equally large physique.

I smiled and tried not to remember the time Pop had attempted to get information out of Eleanor. He'd promised to show her a good time. That's when I'd walked in and found Eleanor lounging on this very counter, looking like the dominatrix from hell. Today she was dressed in a breezy blue top and a pair of white pants. Good thing. Dominatrix was not her color.

“Oh, Rebecca.” Eleanor squeezed her ample body around the counter and gave me a careful hug. “Doc told me all about last night. I swear I almost broke down and cried when I heard how you tried to save that man. You're a genuine hero. Your mother would have been so proud.”

Tears pricked the back of my eyes. “I hope so.”

Eleanor beamed. “I know so, honey. And Arthur was busy bragging about your finding both stolen cars.”

Great. Once Sean heard about that, the nicer, kinder version of him would be gone forever. “I would rather have found them before they were set on fire,” I said with a grimace. The pain in my hand was getting worse.

“Well, you couldn't help that,” Eleanor clucked. “Just like you couldn't help finding a man unconscious in that car. Doc did the preliminary part of the autopsy this morning. Poor man. Unofficially, he died of smoke inhalation, but there was a big bump on his forehead. Doc says the bump must have happened just before the guy died. He was probably unconscious during the whole thing. I've always said I want to die in my sleep, but now I'm not so sure.”

I blinked. Normally, I had to employ unusual methods to get information out of Eleanor. Almost saving someone had given me a free pass. Strange.

Eleanor's excited monologue had confirmed one thing: Sean was definitely wrong about suicide. Kurt Bachman had been knocked in the head and was unconscious during the fire. That meant someone had murdered him. And that someone was still out there.

*   *   *

Once Doc examined my burns and gave me a prescription for some happy pills, I motored off toward the drugstore, pondering the strange turn my life had taken. I'd been so busy tracking down leads and training my new manager that I hadn't had the chance to do anything normal—like celebrating finally selling the rink. I wasn't even sure I felt like celebrating. Not that I wanted to keep the rink. I was on emotional overload. Once my dad turned up and people stopped setting fire to things, I'd be ready to celebrate my good fortune.

The store was blissfully empty, so I didn't have to recount last night's adventure to the patrons. Still, I had to tell Lenny Bemis, the pharmacist. Lenny had graduated the year before I got to high school. The minute he got his pharmaceutical degree, he moved back into his mother's basement and resumed his duties as president of the Indian Falls
Star Wars
Fan Club. Hearing about my strange evening was big excitement for Lenny.

Pills in hand, I headed out of the store and back to the parking lot. As I rounded the corner, I heard my father's voice yell, “Leave me alone.” He sounded scared. Stan was never scared.

Feet flying, I raced into the parking lot. The big Spanish guy from the rink lot was back. And he'd brought friends—four of them.

The guy who'd threatened me waved his arms in the air at my father. His face was so red, it looked ready to pop. The four shorter guys next to him were nodding. The shortest of them was holding some big metal object that looked like a torture device.

Not sure what else to do, I charged.

“Hey,” I yelled. “Leave him alone.”

The five big men turned toward me. I stopped dead in my tracks. Okay, charging five angry guys hadn't been one of my better ideas. Now I had their attention squarely on me.

“What do you want?” I asked, trying not to sound terrified. On the inside, I really wished I were cowering under a bed.

The big dude from the other night yelled something at me in Spanish. I shrugged and turned toward the other men for a translation. They all looked at me blankly. I guessed none of them
habla
'd English.

The big dude said something again, put his hand in his pocket, and came out with a really long wire. The second guy pulled out some kind of wrench. The third and fourth pulled out other metal things and began waving them in the air at me. Then they all started yelling at once.

Stan gave me a wild-eyed look. Then he turned and ran. It took a second for the gang in front of me to realize he had gone. With a shout, the shortest guy whacked the big guy in the arm and pointed down the street. The big guy yelled something else and the four little guys pounded the pavement after Stan.

The big guy didn't move. He stared at me in a way that made my spine tingle. It was hot as hell outside, so no one was roaming the streets. And none of the businesses was crazy enough to forgo air conditioning and open their windows. I realized no one would get here fast enough if I screamed for help.

I clutched the bottle of pills and prepared to launch a surprise attack if the guy charged. But he shook his head and turned away from me, muttering something else I couldn't understand. Then he raced after his compadres, leaving me alone and wondering what had just happened.

For a second, I considered chasing after them. Then I came to my senses and called Sean. He answered after only one ring and asked how I was feeling. Sean was still in nice mode. I gave him a rundown on this morning's events. Then I described the guys who had chased after my father and the direction they had all run in. Sean told me not to worry and disconnected.

Chewing my bottom lip, I got in my car. Despite Sean's self-assured tone, I was seriously disturbed. Stan was being chased by a small but angry mob. Sure, the guy had ditched me years ago, but I didn't want him beaten like a piñata.

I revved up my car's engine, hit the gas, and followed in the direction my father had taken on foot.

Nothing.

No Stan. No bad guys. Just Sean's cruiser coming up the street toward me. It was reassuring to know Sean had moved so quickly. I waved at Sean as our cars slowly passed. He waved back and shrugged. He hadn't seen the guys, either.

After driving up and down the streets for a while longer, I steered my car toward the rink. Pulling into the parking lot, I scanned the area for the angry quintet. None of them was here. Weird. Not that I wanted them here. Personally, I would have been happy if they decided to move to Greenland. But up until today, all their intimidation had been directed at me. First the wire dude, then the two guys looking for me but running into Pop, and, finally, the threatening note. The whole thing with Stan might have made sense had they not run after him. I, the object of their escalating intimidation, had been standing right in front of them and they'd left. Why?

When I walked into the rink, all thoughts of the Spanish guys and my father's plight flew out of my head. The place was going wild. A strange synthesized version of Bizet's
Carmen
was pounding out of the speakers. A dozen kids were jumping up and down on the sidelines, screaming. Parents were trying to get their offspring under control, which only added to the chaos. And that was nothing compared to what was going on in the center of the rink.

A dozen women dressed in hot-pink spandex, silver elbow pads, and silver-pink-and-black-striped helmets were zipping around the rink on speed skates. One chick, who looked more like a linebacker than a lady, flung out her arm and clotheslined the girl trying to pass her. That girl went flying face-first into the wall. Another one skated around a couple of high school students. Then she made a beeline for the linebacker. She squatted on her skates, stuck out her leg, and tripped the linebacker, sending her skidding to a halt right on her ass. Meanwhile, in the center of the rink, George was blowing his whistle so hard, it looked like his head was going to explode from the pressure. Only no one could hear him.

I scrambled through the sideline mayhem and into the sound booth just as one of the spandex gang was shoved toward the sidelines. One moment she was on the rink, the next minute her face was smashed into the glass window. Right in front of me. She slid out of view, leaving a wet lip print behind.

Yuck.

Before another skater put her lips on my glass, I killed the power on the stereo. Then, grabbing the microphone, I hit the On switch.

“Open skate is at noon. Any skaters who are not here for private or group lessons will leave the floor immediately. Or I will call the cops.” I didn't think Sean could take the insane speed skaters single-handedly, but he had a gun. That counted for something.

My announcement worked. The pink ladies whizzed off the floor, leaving George looking dazed and confused in the middle of the rink. After exiting the booth, I reassured the parents that class would begin immediately. That handled, I turned and faced roller skating's answer to the Dirty Dozen.

“Thank you for clearing the floor.”

The linebacker chick pulled off her helmet and shook out a large mane of streaky blond hair. “Are you in charge?”

I nodded.

The woman held out a callused hand. “I'm Typhoon Mary, captain of EstroGenocide.”