The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (The Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mysteries) (37 page)

Oh, for the good ol’ days.

But it wasn’t a mob. It was only Domino.

Only
Domino? Only the
sixty-pounds-of-raw-muscles pit bull normally kept locked up all day “just in
case.” Somebody had let him loose early. And here I was all bloody and smelling
like a butcher shop.

We stared at each other. My fingers tightened
spasmodically on the scissors, but I knew I could never use them. He wasn’t
growling. But he didn’t look especially friendly, either.

“Hi, boy,” I rasped. My throat had closed up and I
sounded like a three-pack-a-day-for-twenty-years smoker. I tried clearing it,
but it was so dry I feared it would spontaneously combust if I used too much
friction on it. “Hi, Domino,” I tried again.

He stared at me.

“Good boy, Domino. Don’t eat me, ’kay?”

More staring. I took an experimental step backward.
He didn’t blink, but neither did he lunge for my throat. I took another step.

He turned and peered back toward Megiddo. Since he
always looked like a coiled spring, I couldn’t tell if he’d grown more tense.
Something down that way had snared his attention anyway.

I took another step.

A growl—low and mean—sprang from his chest and I
almost wet myself, but his focus remained on the back trail.

When I took another step, he swung back and
charged. He jumped up, paws punching into my stomach, and I went down. The next
few moments were spent flat on my back, trying not to suffocate under the
onslaught of doggie kisses slathered over my face. As quickly as the lovefest
began, it ceased, and Domino streaked back toward Megiddo, running silently,
but with seeming purpose.

I lay panting for several minutes, dog slobber
cooling my cheeks, while my heart tried to find its way back to the recommended
lub-dub, lub-dub rhythm that normally worked so well.

A
s I neared the
meth camp, my ears picked up a percussive thud—not my chest this time. Heavy
metal music thrummed through the woods. As isolated as Maggie’s group was, I
was nevertheless surprised at their apparent willingness to risk discovery. But
then, if they were using the stuff, they wouldn’t be making the best judgment
calls anyway.

The odor of cat pee was the second clue. A few more
feet through the bracken and I found the trailer again. I crawled behind the
bushes at the edge of the clearing and scanned the area carefully. The
windowless shed was quiet.
Too quiet?
I shivered.

After another look around to make sure one of the
meth heads weren’t on guard or out having a smoke or something, I hunched over
and ran to the back of the padlocked shed. The music was so loud I didn’t worry
about being overheard, but that meant I wouldn’t be able to hear someone
creeping up on me, either. I called Beth’s name twice, but no one answered. I
banged on the wall. Still nothing.

Dread thickened in my veins; my blood, brain,
everything, shifted to slow motion.

I knocked again. This time, opposite the rhythm of
the pounding music.

Three loud thuds, in quick succession, answered
back. Then someone inside started yelling.

“Let me outta here. Right now, you motherfu—”

“Beth. Shut up. It’s me. I’ll get you out as soon
as I can.”

She thumped one more time as if to underscore her
demand. I circled around to the front, keeping a wary eye on the trailer. The
shed door’s hinges were on the exterior—a good thing—but they looked rusty and
obstinate. The padlock that dangled from the metal hasp looked new, while the
hasp looked as old as the hinges. I tugged on the lock, just in case one of the
druggies had forgotten to snap it shut, but no luck there. It was a keyed lock
too—not as easy to bust open if I had to go that route. Still…

I smiled at a memory, and continued my circuit
around the shed until I reached the spot where I had first hailed Beth.

As if sensing my presence, Beth banged on the wall
again.

“Workin’ on it!” I assured her.

Sort of.

I had part of a plan, but it would be smart to
know who was in the trailer and what they were doing before attempting
anything. I picked my way across the littered yard, trying not to trip over the
trash that still hadn’t been cleaned up. You would think a bunch of religious
freaks would pay a little attention to “cleanliness is next to godliness.”

Blankets and towels had been hung over the
windows, but there were gaps. The nearest was too high up for me to get a peek
inside. I circled the trailer looking for a solution and lucked out in the
back. Somebody had stacked bales of straw around the bottom, probably to
provide more insulation. The downside was it was probably overrun with critters
that just couldn’t wait to crawl up my skirt and say howdy.

I shuddered. Then I pulled up my big girl panties
and crept over to the bales under the side window nearest the front of the
trailer. Through a two-inch split in the blanket, I saw a section of the living
room. There weren’t any lights on, but a bright glow from the next room over
provided enough light for a clear view. And suddenly hanging out with rats
didn’t seem so bad.

I gagged. Mounds of nasty trash covered every
horizontal surface in sight, including the floor. Several stacks had tipped
over, creating a moldy smorgasbord of grease-stained pizza boxes, burger
wrappers, and an avalanche of Mountain Dew cans.

Across the room in the shadows, a heap shifted.
One of the tweakers lay curled up on his side, facing the back of the couch,
oblivious to the filth all around him. Sleeping or passed out? His butt cheeks
hung precariously over the side, and for a fleeting moment, my “nice girl”
voice wanted to warn him. I wasn’t certain, but I thought it might be the
stocky guy who had escorted Maggie away from me at the Naming Ceremony. Nothing
more to see there, so I moved down to the next window.

I could hear someone moving around, so I peeked in
a little more carefully. The kitchen was a complete contrast to the other room.
Somebody, probably Maggie, given her aborted chem degree, had created her own
little science lab in the deep woods. Meth lab, that is. A big one.

None of the trainings I had gone to on
methamphetamine abuse had begun to describe this kind of elaborate setup.
Still, there was no denying what was going on inside. Only the sink and a
grubby-looking fridge in the corner remained to tell anyone this had once been
a kitchen. The upper cabinets had been torn out and the stove removed. Shelves
made of untreated planks held bottles and jugs and other supplies. The counters
had been arranged assembly-style, as a work station. A blender sat nearest one
end, followed by several buckets covered with cheese cloth and then four
globe-shaped flasks with aluminum bases. Card tables rimmed the walls where the
cabinets ended—a continuation of the meth factory.

Maggie was running the blender, a pile of empty
boxes of cold medicine beside the whirring machine the only sign of
disorganization in the immediate area. As I watched, Maggie shut the blender
off, gathered the boxes, and tossed them in a trash can. Dark circles raccooned
her eyes, and the sores on her face stood out in stark contrast to her sickly,
pale skin.

I raised my hand to tap on the window, then pulled
back.

Stupid. I had no idea where the third guy was or
if there were more than three cooks on site. I tended to think not. For an
operation like this, Father would want to keep a tight grip on who knew about
it. Enoch had surely known. And Gabriel, obviously, since we had seen him here.
My guess was that prior to Enoch’s defection, every man in the Seven would have
known. Having a secret was a great way to bond people together. Makes for a
special, I’m-in-the-inner-circle feeling. Risky, though. As Father had found
out.

So it was probably just the three cooks, but too
much depended on the outcome to not be absolutely certain.

I moved from window to window, but the rest of the
trailer was dead quiet. Before heading back to the shed, I picked up three
discarded aluminum cans.

Time to get Beth out.

Chapter Thirty-Four

I
knew my friend
wasn’t the most patient sort, so I was a bit surprised that she hadn’t chewed
her way through the shed before I got back from my reconnaissance mission.
Which, now that I thought about it, would have saved us a lot of time.

I darted around the shed to get out of sight, and
knelt on the cold ground, dumping my cache of pop cans in front of me. I needed
to cut out three or four strips of aluminum in more or less an M-shape.
Preferably without slicing a finger off.

That done, I folded the tops of each strip down
and then folded the sides up. What was left was a middle prong with a
reinforced top that hopefully wouldn’t tear when I twisted it.

Taking the strips, I peered around the corner to
make sure no one had decided to come outside. The music still boomed. Doing
this in broad daylight was crazy stupid, but I had the feeling it wouldn’t be
too much longer before the Megiddo troops realized I was missing and Justus or
Baara blabbed about my betrayal. I slid around to the door, stuck three of the macgyvered
lock shims between my lips and got to work. Because it was a keyed padlock,
there were two slots where the shackle—the U-shaped part of the lock—latched
into the main part. On a combination lock, the ones I used to slip open in my
misbegotten youth, there would only have been one slot to finagle. Two were
trickier.

I wrapped one of the strips, prong-side down
around the shackle, molding the aluminum around the post, which created a
graceful curve in the strip. Then I started working it down, sliding it around
and around. The idea here was to glide it around between the shackle and the
slotted part where the shackle hooked with the body of the clock. Had to be
careful, though. The aluminum strip was fragile and a wrinkle or tear could
ruin it.

I realized I was humming softly. Years ago, my
sister and I would sing a bastardized version of
Mary Poppins
“Chim Chim
Cher-ee” while I worked at shimming open the lock of Daddy’s beer fridge. Yes,
refrigerator. Cabinets were for sissies. We had a fridge in the garage that was
dedicated to chilling booze. Daddy had bolted a hasp to the door but only
bothered to use a combo lock to secure it. He highly underestimated his
offspring. Used to be I could pop that sucker in less than thirty seconds.

 I told myself it took much longer now, because my
fingers were so cold. Not only that, but whoever had installed the hasp had
done so at eye level, making the blood drain from my arms as I worked. When the
first strip nestled in place, I did a well-earned victory butt wiggle.

Now for the second. I had to hold the first shim
in place with my thumb while I worked the second around the shackle. I went too
fast, and the shim buckled. When I pulled it out and examined it, I saw it had
torn too. Not much, but if a piece tore off inside the lock, that would be the
end of it.

I tossed it aside and picked up the third strip.
Before starting, I waggled my arms, trying to coax the blood back into them. I
molded the shim around the cylindrical shackle and eased it into place. Working
slowly, and oh, so carefully, I slid it down and around. Each twist brought it
closer to the slot it needed to cover in order to release the shackle. So
close.

It tore.

I hopped in place, swearing inside my head, which
is at least eighty-five percent less satisfying than swearing outside my head.
I forced myself to take several deep breaths, willing my tense muscles to
relax.

One strip left.

This time I said a prayer before I started the
process. Slowly. Gently. Working it down, around, down and around.

The shackle shifted slightly between my fingers. I
held my breath, then pulled gently. The lock popped open.

I didn’t have time for another butt wiggle. As
soon as the door opened, Beth and a second figure slid out, and I pushed them
around to the back of the shed. As they stumbled around the corner, I replaced
the padlock and clicked it shut, then picked up the shims. I didn’t think
anyone would notice them at first, but as soon as they discovered their
prisoners had escaped, they would figure it out.

The bear hug Beth gave me would have snapped my
ribs if it hadn’t been one-armed.

“Are you hurt?” I whispered. I pushed her sleeve
back; bruises were already blossoming.

“Just banged it up a little,” she said. “It’s not
broken.”

A figure moved next to Beth, coming to her side.
Priella. Her body odor made my eyes water.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” I said. “How long have you been
in there?”

“She doesn’t know,” Beth answered for her.
“Probably since she first left. Or rather, since they first hauled her over
here. She’s not in good shape, either. I think she’s in shock.”

“Could be,” I said. “Isolation does horrible
things to a person’s psyche.” I turned to Priella. “We’re going to get you out
of here, honey. Okay?”

I waited til I saw her head bob once. She wrapped
her arms tightly around her body, but even though it was a chilly November
afternoon, I guessed it was for comfort rather than warmth.

“Are you going to be okay, Priella? We may have to
walk a long w—”

“Walk?” Beth interrupted. “I don’t think she can.
I really don’t. She’s weak, Letty. They forgot to feed her sometimes.

Priella sank to the ground with a soft thud.

“Whoa. Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded, but kept staring at the ground; I
looked at Beth. She shrugged.

It was obvious we weren’t walking out. “Maybe we
could get the key to the truck,” I said.  “Do you know if Justus has been here
yet?”