Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1) (10 page)

I sighed. “Yeah.”

“Because of that man?”

“Which one?”

Eli kicked at a pinecone, sending it skipping across the ruts. “The one riding the dirt bike.”

I bit back a question and held my breath.

“He looked in the windows and even went in the kitchen for a minute, but you were gone. He tied a bag to the door handle.”

“Did you look in the bag?”

Eli shook his head — vigorously, maybe too emphatically. I knelt and pressed his cold little hand between mine.

“Eli, I won’t be angry. Tell me the truth.”

“I didn’t,” he whispered. Tears welled in his eyes. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But it doesn’t have anything to do with you. Just me. I want you to stay close to the bunkhouse and Walt until this is resolved. The most important thing to me is your safety. Do you understand?”

A chipmunk charged halfway across the road then noticed us. It froze bolt upright, paws pulled against its chest, nose twitching. I lost Eli’s attention as he stared back at the little creature.

I squeezed Eli’s hand. “Do you understand?”

He nodded, but wouldn’t look at me.

No point in pressing the issue. I pushed to standing, startling the chipmunk into a hightailed skitter into brushy shelter. I started walking, and Eli fell into step beside me.

I don’t know where he came from — the man with the knife. I certainly didn’t hear him, but the chipmunk had given us a thorough scolding from its hiding place, and I’d been chuckling at the tiny creature’s outsized indignation and looking at the top of Eli’s tousled head as if I could somehow read his thoughts through that thatch of hair and I glanced up and there he was.

CHAPTER 13

I don’t know why I noticed that the knife was clean and shiny. But it was hard not to stare at it. My eyes flicked between the blade and the man’s eyes. There was no mistaking his intent.

Eli and I merged. He flung himself against my side so hard my knee almost buckled. I wrapped an arm around his shoulder and imprinted my palm on his chest to hold him tight. I could feel his heart hammering through his thin jacket.

“It’s him,” Eli whispered.

Dirt bike man. Finger courier.

He looked like an upscale trail runner, the kind who spends a lot of money on his hobby — lean and muscular; Spandex leggings; waterproof black jacket cinched in at his waist; lightweight, flexible shoes very similar to the Merrells in the back of my closet at home.

Running would have been a good option except the man was close enough to grab us, and I hadn’t even registered that he’d advanced. He twitched the knife inches from my face. There was a gleam, an excitement, in his dark eyes as though he would enjoy carving his initials in my cheek.

I’d been mugged, once, in San Francisco, and that guy was so nervous and fidgety, probably high, he’d been so distracted by my purse and any cash it might contain that he’d emptied it on the spot. I never felt in physical danger from him even though he’d robbed me. In the end, he was the one who’d run away.

This man was nothing like the mugger. His eyes locked on mine, and he jerked his chin to the side — a command.

I squeezed Eli’s shoulder and started moving. We had a better chance in the woods — with tree trunks that could serve as shields, branches or rocks that could be picked up and used as weapons, an opportunity for Eli and me to separate and Eli to exhibit his ability to disappear. I couldn’t take the risk that the man might also have a gun and easily pick us both off if we tried to flee down the road. Not to mention I was sure he could run faster than I could.

I stomped through the brush as loudly as possible, although I didn’t expect anyone to be around to hear. I propelled Eli in front of me, about to give him a shove on his way to freedom when I felt pointy pressure low, near my left kidney. A rough hand gripped the back of my neck.

“Quiet. Keep the boy close,” Dirt Bike Man rasped, his breath warming my ear.

We marched between trees linked together like a chain gang — my hand on Eli’s shoulder, Dirt Bike Man’s grip on my neck never lessening. Dirt Bike Man kept us moving fast, and in a few minutes I realized he was steering from the rear. We climbed a slight rise and stumbled into his spartan camp in a small hollow on the other side.

The dirt bike — but not dirty; it still had showroom shine — was propped against a craggy cedar, and a mummy bag lay crumpled in a smooth area cleared of pinecones and twigs. A blue plastic bag that looked like an exact match to the one that had held the finger hung from a low branch.

Dirt Bike Man kicked me in the back of the knees, and I slammed to the ground. Eli whirled around and got the knife brandished in his pale face.

“Down,” the man grunted.

Eli huddled against me.

“You have to run, as soon as you can,” I whispered in his ear.

Eli shook his head, his blue eyes determined.

“Yes,” I hissed.

The man was digging through a pouch strapped under the dirt bike’s seat, his head down. He could probably see us in his peripheral vision, but it was the best chance we’d had yet.

I pinched Eli. “Go!”

Eli winced, but he clung to me even more tenaciously. I was trying to pry his hands free when a loud snort and shuffling sounded in the brush.

I froze.

Eli grinned, revealing new front teeth growing in too big for his mouth. “Wilbur,” he breathed and returned to grinning.

Wilbur. Was I supposed to know who Wilbur was? I blinked back at Eli.

Irate squealing reverberated off tree trunks as a pink and black and brown barrel-shaped bundle of fury charged into the hollow. I sat up fast and gathered my arms and legs and Eli into the smallest bundle I could, anything to stay out of the creature’s path.

The animal spun around, pawing the ground, snout outstretched in one direction, and stiff, squiggly tail in the other. Then it lowered its head and latched its beady glare onto Dirt Bike Man.

Dirt Bike Man dropped into a crouch,  his face placid but eyes fierce. The odds looked even to me. I scooted backwards with Eli.

Dirt Bike Man lightly bounced the knife in his hand as if testing its weight, and he rocked on his haunches. His whole body looked like a spring, and I realized he planned to throw the knife at the pig.

I opened my mouth to cry a warning, but a deep, drawling voice above me said, “Hold it,” immediately followed by the unmistakable sound of a shotgun pump.

I tipped my head back to see the underside of tense arms and long gun belonging to a man who stood behind me. An old man with a long, scraggly white beard and tattered clothes.

While all the humans in the group complied with the man’s instructions, the pig had no such qualms. It darted forward and chomped onto Dirt Bike Man’s pant leg.

Judging from his angry yelp and vigorous gyrations, I’d guess the pig got some skin and maybe muscle between its teeth along with the fabric. Spandex is no protection in a pig attack. The knife went flying and landed in a clump of ivy.

The pig, in a horrible flurry of grunts and snorts, chomped other vulnerable locations while Dirt Bike Man flailed about, screaming things I’d prefer Eli didn’t hear. Half of them were in Spanish, but I’ve spent enough time in Central and South America to get the gist of his rather creative feelings.

I scrambled to my feet, pulling Eli with me, and ducked behind a large trunk.

Dirt Bike Man kicked free of the pig and grabbed the bike’s handlebars. He jumped on the starter and got off to a wobbly start, narrowly veering around trees. For a few long seconds, he teetered on the edge of wiping out, but the knobby tires took hold and shot a rooster tail of dirt and rocks as he rocketed up over the rise and out of sight.

The pig actually looked disappointed. It sought consolation in Dirt Bike Man’s sleeping bag, rooting its snout around until it found the opening and poked its head in.

The droning whine of the dirt bike’s engine dwindled, and I drew a deep, shaky breath.

“You all right, ma’am?” the old man asked.

Upon closer inspection, he didn’t look all that steady. His brown eyes under bushy white brows were faded with cataracts, and his hands trembled as he slid a lever and unloaded the shells into his palm. He leaned down, slowly, and propped the gun against a tree.

Rust spots pitted the gun’s double barrels, and there was a deep crack in the wood stock. I wondered if the gun was more likely to explode than fire and was glad he hadn’t tested its integrity by pulling the trigger.

“Dwayne Cotton.” The old man extended his right hand.

“Nora Ingram-Sheldon.” The hyphen was becoming habitual. His hand was warm and big and calloused, and all I wanted to do was hang onto it. I was trembling myself.

He didn’t seem to mind, just pressed his thumb a little firmer into the back of my hand.  “Relation of Skip’s, then?”

“Wife.”

“Well, any friend of Eli’s is a friend of mine.” Dwayne nodded toward the boy, who was scratching Wilbur’s back with a stick.

“Thank you.”

Dwayne smiled, showing that he hadn’t been to the dentist in a very long time. Hadn’t been to the barber or a clothing store in a long time either. Could have been a matter of inadequate finances. How do hermits earn a living, anyway? I wondered if he was hungry.

“Don’t mind causing trouble once in a while, or interrupting trouble, as the case may be.” A mischievous glint lit up Dwayne’s dull eyes. “I take it you don’t get along with that fellow?”

Eli darted a quick glance at me, and I knew he would absorb whatever answer I managed. Trying to work around a precocious child’s understanding was a tricky business.

I nodded. “He’s a messenger. His boss doesn’t like a few things I did.”

“Not fond of bosses myself.” Dwayne reached into his beard and scratched his chin. He kept glancing at the bird whistle which hung on the strand from my neck. It had been jostled loose from my clothing during the skirmish.

A firm nose bumped my calf. Wilbur grunted up at me, his eyes half closed. I couldn’t tell if he was calculating another ankle rampage or expressing his extreme satisfaction with the outcome of the first one. I stopped breathing, glued to the spot. Do good ankles taste different from bad ankles? Maybe he wouldn’t bite a girl.

“It’s okay.” Eli handed me the stick. “He doesn’t like to be touched, but you can pet him with this.”

The stick worked magic. I probed Wilbur’s fatty rolls with it and drew the end across his stubbled back while he snorted with pleasure. He sagged to his belly and lolled in the dirt, eyes closed. I could have sworn he licked his chops, already dreaming of his tasty morning snack.

“Coffee?” I can’t believe how deep the hostess role is bred into me. My mother would be proud. “Would you like to come up to the house for some coffee and—” I frowned. “Well, we have Oreos. Maybe toasted English muffins and jam.” I racked my brain for something more enticing for a hungry hermit.

Dwayne suddenly found the worn toes of his boots fascinating. “Not much for social calls,” he mumbled.

I touched the sleeve of his canvas jacket. “That’s all right. I just wanted to say thank you. Maybe I’ll see you later when the FBI arrives to collect the evidence?” I pointed to what remained of Dirt Bike Man’s sleeping bag. He might also have left some blood thanks to Wilbur.

“FBI?” Panic edged Dwayne’s voice.

My breath caught in my throat. Of course there would be a reason Dwayne was a hermit, and that might involve not wanting to be found by law enforcement. Whatever he’d done, he must still be worried about the statute of limitations. Why hadn’t I thought of that sooner?

“Yes, FBI.” I kept a firm grip on his sleeve and tried to reassure him with a steady gaze. “But I understand if you’re busy.”

“Busy,” Dwayne muttered.

“If you have other things you need to do. I think the earliest the FBI could get here would be late afternoon, maybe even after dark.”

Dwayne nodded slowly, his beard brushing against his chest. “I see.” He bent and hoisted the shotgun to his shoulder. “I am indeed busy.” He cracked a slight grin, turned, and strode off between the trees.

I exhaled hard, my cheeks puffing. Had I just encouraged a murderer, or a bank robber, or a counterfeiter to slip away from the law? Whatever he’d done in the past, Dwayne had just saved my life, and Eli’s. He deserved whatever help I could give him.

“Well, Eli—” I turned. And found that I was talking to myself.

Myself and a sleepy pot-bellied pig.

“Where’d he go?”

The edges of Wilbur’s nose crinkled, but he didn’t have an answer.

I sighed down at the pig. “If you want Oreos, you’d better come with me. Matt isn’t going to believe a word I say unless you put in an appearance.”