Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers (33 page)

“He must’ve watched that show a hundred times with his father,” Bonnie said. “They plumb near wore out the videotape.”

When the driver of the SUV realized he wouldn’t be able to force us off the road, he decided to try ramming the back bumper instead.

BAM!

Our necks whiplashed from the impact and Nick fought to retain control of the Impala.

“Speed up!” Bonnie cried.

“If I go any faster I’m gonna kill us all!” Nick hollered.

It was true. Besides the fact that the night was dark, the road had dangerous curves and blind intersections.

What to do?

Think,
Tara.
Think.

And then the words from the fortune cookie came back to me.
Don’t let the turkeys get you down.

I knew how to take this guy out without firing my gun. All I had to do was send a turkey
up
.

I grabbed the frozen turkey from the floorboard, my newly developed muscles straining with the effort. “Open the sunroof!” I cried.

“Got it!” Bonnie punched the button and the sunroof slid back.

I leveraged myself with my knee. Then I huffed, and I puffed, and I hurled the turkey straight up and out the sunroof.

KLUNK!

Klunk-klunk-klunk!

The enormous frozen bird hit the SUV’s windshield, ricocheted up off it, and continued in a rolling bounce back along the car’s roof.

Instinctively, the driver veered.

Right off the road.

Right into the trunk of a black hickory, one of the area’s hardwood trees.

Neener-neener.

chapter forty

Vigilante Justice

There was another loud
BAM!
as the truck met the tree, followed by the rattling, tinny sound of metal pieces falling to the asphalt.

I grabbed the handle over the window and Bonnie braced herself with a hand on the dash while Nick braked to a quick, screeching stop and whipped the car around. He pulled the car off the road, jabbed the button to activate the emergency flashers, and pulled his gun from his boot.

“Stay put,” he ordered his mother.

Nick and I exited the car and rushed to the SUV.

Guns at the ready, we circled the vehicle, which was giving off pops and the hiss of leaking fluids meeting hot engine parts. Its headlights were still on, the beams illuminating the woods, the rear taillights reflecting off the highway behind the car.

We approached the driver’s window. The airbag had deployed and now hung flaccid from the steering wheel, like an oversized used condom. The driver, a stringy-haired blond man, sat there, dazed. The pool-cleaning equipment had slid forward during the crash and poles crisscrossed the vehicle like life-sized Tinkertoys. The smell of chlorine permeated the air.

“You recognize this moron?” I asked Nick, gesturing to the man with my gun as we stepped up to the window.

“No. You?”

“Nuh-uh.”

Nick reached out and yanked the door open. “Get out of the vehicle!” he demanded. “And keep your hands where we can see them.”

The man put his hands up and turned his head, a trickle of blood running down from a cut across his forehead. “I need to undo the seat belt.”

“Keep your arms up,” I told the man. “I’ll get it.” My gun still trained on him, I stepped around to open the passenger door, reached across the seat, and punched the button to release the restraint. The seat belt slid back with a snap. Glancing at the windshield, I noted it bore a large shattered oval where the turkey’s belly had impacted the glass, fractures splintering out from the center.

The man swung his legs over the side and stepped out of the car, stumbling over a scattering of large pine cones. “I hope you’ve got good insurance,” he spat. “This car was in mint condition. It’s not going to be cheap to fix.”

“Mint condition? Are you kidding me?” I said. “The car was a piece of crap. Besides, this whole thing was your fault, dumbass.”

Nick grabbed the man and spun him around, bending him over the hood of his SUV and slapping handcuffs on him.

The faint sound of a siren came from far off in the distance.

“Who sent you?” Nick demanded, shoving the man flat on the hood when he tried to get up.

“I’m not telling,” the man spat from his prone position across the car. I hoped the hot metal was burning his skin. It may have been. Something smelled like roast turkey, but it wasn’t the frozen bird. The turkey had rolled off the side of the road and lay against the base of a spindly sapling, its plastic wrapper surprisingly intact.

While Nick kept watch on our prisoner, I poked around inside the SUV, looking for clues as to who had sent this man to kill us. I found his wallet inside the console. Inside were three checks for $50 for pool cleaning services. The first was signed by a Nelda Barclay. The second was signed by a Jim MacDougal. The third was signed by Darren Williams’s wife. Also inside the wallet were ten hundred-dollar bills.

“One of the Tennis Racketeers sent him,” I told Nick. Looked like I hadn’t been mistaken when I saw Williams make the cutthroat motion in court.

Nick’s jaw flexed with barely contained rage. He yanked the guy to a standing position, raised his gun, and aimed it at the pool cleaner’s face. “You were going to kill my woman?”

“Yeah,” I said, raising my gun to his face, too. “For a mere grand.”

“Two fifty,” the man snapped back. “I was supposed to take out your partner and the lawyer and the FBI man, too.”

Two hundred and fifty bucks? The paltry sum was insulting. Heck, the girls who worked the VIP room made nearly that much per trick. Surely my life was worth more than a single bump-and-grind session.

Nick’s eyes burned with fury. “You think Tara’s life is worth only two hundred and fifty dollars?”

Realizing he should have kept his mouth shut, the man looked from Nick to me as he tried to determine what answer would be least likely to get him shot in the face. “That’s a lot of money to me!”

Nick ran his thumb along the side of his gun as he stepped closer to the guy. “What do you think?” Nick asked me. “I could take out this loser before the cops get here. We’ll toss his body in the trunk and dump it in a lake. No one would be the wiser.”

I knew Nick was only trying to put the idiot in his place, but the idiot didn’t know that.

“Why not?” I said. “He asked for it.”

“Do it!” Bonnie Pratt hollered, leaning out the window of her car.

Nutty stuck his head out of the window next to her and woofed in agreement.
Woof-woof!

“On your knees,” Nick said in a deep, dark, emotionless voice that even put a little fear in me.

Hands manacled behind him, the man sank to his knees, crying out when his kneecap landed on a spiny pine cone. “Don’t kill me! Please!”

“Wait for me!” Bonnie called, climbing out of the car. “I want to see this.” She stepped over and stood beside her son.

“Close your eyes,” Nick demanded.

The man was shaking uncontrollably now. He closed his eyes so tight they became mere slits.

Nick stepped behind the man, lowered his gun, and picked up a small rock. He chucked it with all his might at the back of the guy’s head.

Pop!

The man shrieked and buckled, falling sideways to the ground, wailing.

“You worthless piece of garbage,” Bonnie spat. “You could’ve hurt my baby.” She reared her leg back and gave the man a solid kick in the shins.

Nutty barked out the window and wagged his tail in approval.
Woof-woof!

A police car from the nearby town of Pirtle pulled up then, siren wailing and lights flashing. Before climbing out, the officer cut the siren but left the flashers on as a warning to any cars that might pass by. He stepped over to us and nudged the pool cleaner’s butt with the toe of his boot. “This the guy who was trying to run you off the road?”

“Yes, sir,” said Nick.

The cop eyed the crumpled SUV. “I take it his plan backfired.”

“In a big way.” I handed the wallet to the deputy, and both Nick and I showed the officer our badges.

He nodded and fished around inside the wallet for the pool cleaner’s driver’s license. “Keep an eye on him,” he told us. “I’ll run his license.”

While Nick stood guard over the pool cleaner, the policeman slid back to his car and I continued to rummage around in the SUV. In the cargo bay I discovered a hundred-pound plastic pail of bromine pool tablets. Looked like we’d found the man who’d sent the powder to Judge Trumbull. I wondered how much Williams had paid the guy for that stunt.

The officer returned a moment later. “He’s got three warrants out for his arrest. One for unpaid traffic tickets, another for a hit-and-run, and a third for failing to appear on a public intoxication charge.”

“Your mother must be so proud.” Bonnie kicked some dirt and pine needles into the man’s face before returning to the Impala.

The police officer took the guy off our hands, stowing him in the backseat of his cruiser and calling a tow truck to come retrieve the SUV. Nick and I, on the other hand, retrieved the turkey from its bed of pine needles. The bird looked none the worse for wear.

Nick looked from the bird cradled in his arms to me. “Throwing this bird out the sunroof, that was some pretty quick thinking.”

“Quick thinking is what I do.”

“What else do you do?” His amber eyes were aflame.

I gave him a sly smile. “You’ll see.”

chapter forty-one

Holiday at the Holloways’

We arrived at my parents’ Victorian farmhouse to find the front porch covered with pumpkins and gourds of all shapes and sizes. A scarecrow sat in one of the rocking chairs, his arm raised in welcome. Mom had set a bushel basket full of Indian corn at his feet.

A couple of barn dogs greeted us, tails wagging when they realized we’d brought them a new friend. Nutty and the dogs exchanged butt sniffs. Finding each other acceptable, they wagged their tails.

My mother and father stepped out onto the porch, my mother giving Nick and me a hug before clasping Bonnie’s hand between her own. “So wonderful to meet you, Bonnie.”

Bonnie returned the sentiment. “What a lovely home you have. The decorations are so festive.”

Dad ambled over to me Quasimodo style, giving me only a poor imitation of his usual bear hug, his back still too sore for much physical activity. He shook hands with Nick, giving him a simultaneous shoulder pat. “Nick. Good to see you again, son.” He turned to Bonnie next, extending his hand. “Harlan Holloway. Pleased to meet you, Bonnie.”

When the greetings were complete, Dad followed me and Nick to the Impala to unload our things. While I retrieved the turkey from the inside of the car, the two men stepped around to the trunk.

“What in the world happened back here?” Dad asked. “This bumper is barely hanging on.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Tara.” My mother put her hands on her hips. “Don’t tell me you got yourself in a mess again.”

Sheez. My own mother, too. Did no one have faith in me?

Nick came to my defense. “It wasn’t her fault. One of the men she testified against hired his pool cleaner to kill her.”

“Dear God!” My mother put a hand to her mouth and plunked down on the porch steps. “I swear, Tara, one day your job is going to kill us both.”

I raised my hands in the air and spun slowly around. “No need to worry, Mom. Look. I’m fine. Not a scratch on me.”

“You may be fine,” Dad said, pointing to the back of the car, “but this bumper’s going to need some baling wire.”

Nick brought the suitcases and the rest of the food inside. With his back out, Dad couldn’t carry anything heavy, though he insisted on helping with the pies.

While we women set about finding spots for the food in the fridge and deep freezer, the men went to the barn in search of baling wire and wire cutters. In minutes, the food was stashed, the bumper secured, and the five of us were sitting around the kitchen table with steaming mugs of hot spiced rum.

As we sipped our drinks, Nick, Bonnie, and I detailed the car chase and crash for my parents.

My mother eyed Bonnie over her mug. “You ever worry that one day their luck is going to run out?”

“All the time,” Bonnie said.

“How do you deal with it?”

Bonnie set her mug down. “I pray hard and keep myself busy. You?”

“Same thing.” Mom raised her mug. “I’ve found drinking on occasion helps, too.”

She downed her spiced rum and got up to pour herself a second brimming mug. I supposed I should be ashamed of myself. I was driving my mother to drink.

When we finished our spiced rum, Mom helped Bonnie get settled in our guest room while Nick took his overnight bag to my brothers’ old room.

As I reached for the extra blanket in the top of the closet, Nick stepped up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and nuzzled my ear. “If you want to sneak in here tonight, I wouldn’t mind a bit.”

I grabbed the blanket, tossed it onto the bottom bunk, and turned around, still clutched in his arms. I put my hands on his rock-hard chest and looked up into his eyes.

Nick’s jovial demeanor turned serious. “We could’ve been killed tonight, Tara. Maybe we shouldn’t wait. Maybe we should live for the moment.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed myself against him, still looking up into those gorgeous, whiskey-colored eyes. “I’d do it if I didn’t think my father would come after you with his shotgun.”

Nick ran a warm finger over my cheek. “Given what I plan to do to you, I couldn’t much blame him.”

My girlie parts quivered in anticipation.

Nick bent down and placed a soft kiss on my forehead. I closed my eyes and savored the feel of his warm lips on my skin, the velvet tickle of his mustache. Amazing how Nick could be so tough and hard one minute, yet so gentle and soft the next.

He stepped back, took hold of my shoulders, and turned me toward the door. “You best get out of here before I lose control of myself.”

With that, he gave me a pat on the bottom and sent me on my way.