A Bird in the Hand (22 page)

Greg drew the car to a stop on the road's shoulder and turned on the flashers. I reached over and turned them off, saying that it was simply a way for the killer to find us quicker. My husband, resolute law expert that he is, overrode my protests, calmly stating that it was the law, and he was
not
—repeat
not
going to add a traffic ticket to what had become a growing list of criminal offences. We disembarked, me with an injured look on my face and he completely ignoring it, the car's red lights blinking in holiday abandon behind us as we walked in silence toward the house.

I was nervous, no doubt about it, and I was glad to have my husband with me. Tucking my arm through his, I gave him a squeeze. Actions did indeed speak louder, particularly in our crazy, loving relationship. I was jolted out of my romantic reveries when Greg stopped abruptly, his arm tense under my hand.

"Look, Caro. We can't both walk up there," he whispered, his lips tickling my ear. I managed to stay still, if only to cut down on any unnecessary noise. "I'll sneak up and look through the windows, see what the lovely Stantons are doing." I began to protest, but he silenced me with a friendly hand across my mouth. He was lucky I wasn't hungry at the moment. "If you see me wave, go for the police. If nothing untoward is happening, I'll come back, and we'll go home."

He smiled down at me, waiting for me to agree with his hare-brained scheme. Obviously, I was the best candidate for the job, being smaller in stature and therefore able to conceal myself easier if matters dictated such an action. I told him so.

I left my irate husband standing at the end of the gravel drive, arms crossed and feet planted wide apart in the stance he adopts when just this side of angry. I grinned back at him and managed to twist my ankle in an unseen pothole, earning a shake of the head from my spouse.

"I'm fine," I hissed, and continued to hobble toward the house. I approached the largest window in a roundabout manner, careful to step on the softer grass of the yard rather than the gravel-pocked dirt. When I was certain that no one had spotted me, I darted toward my goal in what I imagined to be a stealthy, cat-like style. Standing on tiptoe—the windows were higher off the ground than I'd estimated—I peeked in. And began waving frantically at my husband. I trusted he'd seen me and had gone for help.

I'd always wondered about the phrase "frozen in fear," curious to know exactly what one might look like in that condition. One glance at a quivering Avery Stanton, and I had my answer: eyebrows hovering near his hairline, eyes all but bugging out of the sockets, and copious sweat dripping down his face. Whether from pain or fear I couldn't tell, but either way, this poor man was in a world of hurt.

"Pssst!" I tried to get Avery's attention without alerting Louise to my presence. The window was only opened a crack, so I tried again, this time putting pursed lips to the opening and hissing. His eyes flicked my direction and then back, but I could tell he'd heard me. "Greg's gone for help, Avery—just hang in there." There. That should reassure the man.

Or not. A large—a
very
large—backside passed in front of my face, and I dropped clumsily to the ground, soundly barking my shin on the wobbly stool. Great. Perhaps it would be better just to go up, knock on the front door, and let Louise know I was here.

It turned out that I didn't need to do that. A pair of strong hands grabbed me under my arms, yanking me to a standing position. A sudden rustling sound came from somewhere near and a rather scratchy bag was popped over my head. It smelled strongly of dirt and had a rough texture—most likely a potato bag, I surmised then shivered. I knew that these types of bags were found on the heads of folks who got to "sleep with the fish," or at least that was something I'd read in the course of research. I was suddenly very sorry that I knew as much as I did about murder and mayhem.

"You're coming with us," a gruff voice said at my right side. That would be Bag Boy, I was sure of it. I wanted to ask just where that might be, but I had a feeling that they might not have the capacity to handle my snarkiness in the manner of my dear husband.

Husband! In the middle of my own predicament, I'd almost forgotten that he'd taken off to round up the cavalry. If I could stall Thing One and Thing Two with my witty banter, hopefully Greg would return soon—with help—and rescue me. I took in a deep breath and began speaking.

"Look, gentlemen," this got a snort from the owner of the hands that still gripped me, "I'm sure that you've got better things to do than to pick on a woman." I paused, gauging their reaction, which was a tad difficult since I couldn't see their expressions. "Perhaps, if you just tell me what you want, I could help."

"Look, lady," this came from my right, "we ain't got time to conversate." Conversate?
Really
? And was I detecting a slight Brooklyn accent there?

"If you'll just give me a moment," I began, and was rewarded with a sharp slap to the side of my head. Instant anger burbled up in my brain, and I understood another phrase: "seeing red." I kicked out at the same time I threw my head back, and if the hue and cry was any indication, I'd managed a very satisfying connection with a nose and shin. And I'd managed to ascertain his height as well. He wasn't much taller than I, and I had a suspicion I was in the hands of Louise and Avery's youngest son, a pimply-faced, square-built weight lifter, one whose strength had more to do with performance enhancements than anything else. Brilliant. I'd just broken the nose of someone who could go crazy at a moment's notice.

A loud noise sounded to my left, and I heard the window being flung open, the old wood protesting at the sudden movement.

"Jensen! Joss! Get your useless behinds in here now!" I'd always known that Louise Stanton could bellow with the best of them, and this verbal explosion confirmed it. "And whoever you've got there, Jensen," so
that
was his name, I thought, filing it away for later use, maybe as a villain in one of my future books, "just toss her in the shed and get in here. I'm going to need your help cleaning things up." Another violent slam and the window closed.

"You heard Ma," said the Brooklyn-tinged voice. "Get the dame in the shed and be quick about it." Joss, I decided, most certainly a wanna-be gangster, had probably seen too many mob movies in his life.

"Quit calling her that, Joss" The voice was nasally, probably from my direct hit. "She hates that, and you'll just make her madder'n she already is." We were walking now, and a quick shove from Jensen sent me sprawling on the floor of what was undoubtedly the shed. As soon as I heard the door slam shut, I yanked the bag from my sweaty face and drew in a gulp of fresh air. Bags can get rather stuffy, another detail I could use in my next best seller.
If
I survived this.

I sat for a moment longer, looking about at the various gardening implements hung neatly along the walls. Since I'd had the feeling that this was an abandoned property, it was odd to see that these tools looked well cared for, almost new. Perhaps it wasn't as I'd surmised. Maybe someone
did
live here. Although, now that I thought about it, I was sure that if someone did call this home, they probably wouldn't be able to for long. I shivered, hoping that the homeowner was away and not
away,
so to speak. Louise Stanton was one scary lady, and those thuggish sons of hers—it was difficult to picture slightly built Avery as their sire—appeared to have sprouted from the same twisted branch of the family tree.

I'm not one for inaction, as my readers might have noted, and escaping from this shed was first and foremost on my current to-do list. Maybe a screwdriver to take off the door's hinges, or a—and then it hit me. As tough as those Stanton boys were, they were definitely not the sharpest tools in the shed, pun clearly intended. I got to my feet, walked to the door and
voila!
Just as I'd suspected. It was unlocked. No wonder Louise Stanton had to be the head of that crazy household. All brawn and no brain, another adage that popped into my mind, definitely applied to her offspring.

"Get your lazy behind off that couch and grab that rope. And you!" I could clearly hear Louise's stentorian voice—the front door had been left ajar by her two darlings. "Get that can and start in the back rooms. I want it thoroughly covered! Move it!"

I jumped as these last words were bellowed in full voice. I almost felt sorry for those boys. Whatever it was she'd asked them to do, they were scurrying now. Muted sounds of something metal clanging against walls wafted through the open door, along with the sudden acrid smell of gasoline.
Gasoline!
They were going to burn the house down! Where, oh where, was Gregory when I needed him? Apparently I would have to step in and save the day.

I dashed across the yard as quietly as I could—never an easy feat for one as clumsy as I—and managed to once again bark my shin. That was as good as an announcement that I had arrived, and I stood stock still, frozen, waiting for the inevitable. To my amazement, the only thing that happened was…nothing. Not to me, anyway. Above my head, through the thin pane of glass, I thought I could hear moans. Fabulous. I'd forgotten all about Avery Stanton.

My dear spouse has always encouraged me—nay, he's
badgered
me—to use common sense when it comes to making difficult, potentially life-changing decisions. Luckily, I tend to do the opposite; I say this because I could not imagine being as ramrod straight as he is, always erring on the side of the law. Literally. And being the impetuous lady that I am, I stood to my feet, peered in the window, and made what turned out to be a life-altering decision.

I broke the window.

The gasoline fumes hit me full in the face, and I gagged for a moment, willing myself to keep my breakfast where it had been for the past few hours: in my stomach. I reached inside and unlatched the window, raising the sash in order to access the room. Avery was silent now, and I could see that he had slumped forward, the ties that bound him to the chair causing his arms to stretch back in what had to be a painful position. The voices of the other Stantons were fainter now. I assumed there was a back door and they were taking advantage of it.

"Avery!" I hissed. "Open your eyes!"

There was no response, so I looked around for something to throw at him. I've utilized this technique before with Gregory, so I was confident of my ability to hit my target. I spotted a small chunk of concrete and grabbed it, apologizing silently to Avery as the missile made direct contact. I was rewarded with a slight movement of his head, although if he kept his head tilted forward the blood from the rather large cut on his forehead would begin to drip into his eyes.

I could hear Team Stanton moving toward the front of the house, their voices sounding as if they'd just had a relaxing visit with a well-loved family member, and I swung my leg up over the sill careful to avoid the broken glass, preparatory to rescuing Avery before the house exploded from the overpowering fumes. Not being either tall or graceful, I landed with a thump on the floor, my rather short legs folded underneath me awkwardly. At least Avery seemed semi-coherent now, his eyes fixed on me with a look that I normally associate with stunned toads.

"Mrs. Browning?" His voice was as slurred as a drunk's on free drinks day at the local bar, and I groaned inwardly. This was
not
going to be an easy task.

I got to my feet, voice modulated in a serious yet friendly fashion. I needed Avery to understand that this was not a joke, and that I needed him to listen up.

"Avery, I'm going to untie you, then we are going to walk out of this house before," I hesitated slightly, unsure of how to label his family, "anyone sees us leaving." I gave him a replica of Greg's encouraging smile, the one that irks me, and reached over to free his arms.

And stood stock still.

He was not bound at all as I had thought. Rather, he had wound his hands through the rope, simulating restraint. I honestly did not know what to make of this new situation. I was still pondering the issue when all the lights went out.

I've often heard about the bright light one sees at the end of the tunnel when one is, shall we say, at the end of the line. As I began to regain consciousness, I started to see something like a soft twinkle, a barely visible ray of light that seemed to move in and out of my line of sight. That, I realize, is a misnomer, since my eyes were not open in the physical sense. Instead, I saw it as it flashed across the inside of my eyelids, causing me to wince. Even the subtlest of illumination was painful so I kept my eyes firmly closed.

"I believe our resident Miss Marple has rejoined us, my dear." That was Avery Stanton, no trace of stunned toad apparent now in his voice.

Louise Stanton gave a snort, a most unladylike noise in my estimation. "Let's get this over with, Avery. We need to get this show on the road."

I heard the boys guffaw as if this was the funniest thing they'd heard in their lives. "'On the road!' That a good one, Ma." That was Joss Just Call Me Al Pacino Stanton, braying his merriment as loudly as any donkey.

This pronouncement was followed up with the sound of flesh connecting to flesh in a most painful manner, leaving Joss to blubber and Jensen laughing outright, his voice as high-pitched as a hyena's. (I've just realized that I might have offended those out there who love both donkeys and hyenas. My deepest apologies.)

"Your mother's right, boys." Avery again, this time sounding a tad impatient with his progeny. "Jensen, Joss, get Miss Nosy up and out of here. Louise, dear," he added, "I'll handle the rest." This was followed by the sound of a rather noisy buss, something that caused my stomach to roil in earnest. The mere thought of Avery and Louise and kissing was enough to put me off my groceries for a very long time. Or at least for as long as I was alive.

I managed to keep my eyes shut just enough to appear out of it. Only the merest slit of my eyelids served to show me exactly where the boys, as their sire referred to them, were going to take me. They each grabbed an arm, roughly hauling me upright. The aim, I assumed, was to walk me out the front door and to my fate.