Tinkerbell on Walkabout (6 page)

Two men are moving around the LeBaron. I recognize Coop as
he rounds the rear bumper and turns his face back into the light from the
Caddie’s parking lights. He bends to the trunk latch and my stomach flip-flops.

“Son of a
bitch
!” Coop straightens, taking swift
inventory of the lot. “Someone’s
messed with the car. There’s
something broke off in the lock.”

One of the other guys sidles up to him. A flashlight winks
on.

“Perry?”

“Perry knows what’s in the trunk, moron. Someone else has
been here. Maybe they’re still here.” Head rotating like a radar array, he
steps out from behind the car, drawing his gun.

I’m close enough, and the light is just good enough, for me
to see that it’s a Glock. Possibly the gun that killed Bob Wray. I think
longingly of my little blue Taurus, tucked away in the Petersen’s gun locker,
and wonder how Goldilocks would have fared if the three bears had carried
sidearms.

I sidle back along the pickup truck, then hunker over and
run. I’ve barely covered three yards when I collide with someone. We fall in a
tangle of arms and legs.

Training kicks in and I ball up like a pill bug and pop to
my feet again in defensive posture. July faces me across a tiny arena defined
by a pack of leering grilles, her gun aimed at me.

“
Damn
it, Gina—!”

She’s
silenced by a shout nearby.

“Less talk. More fleeing.” I bolt toward the parts shop,
thinking of the workbench with its concealing tarp.

We serpentine through the cars, the sounds of pursuit
closing. Flashlights slice through the ground mist. Why aren’t these guys
speeding away in abject fear? What’s in that car trunk that makes it worth the
risk?

The parts cottage looms so suddenly it brings me up short. A
second later, a flashlight beam lances over my shoulder and splashes on the
shop’s bright blue front door. A guttural yell and a warning shot follow it.

The workbench is a no-op. Plan B, then. I let momentum carry
me into a painful collision with the front of the building. My head grazes the
frame of the single front window; my left elbow makes solid contact with one of
the panes, shattering it. I make a flailing grab through the jagged hole into
the interior of the shop—grasping at straws, and giving my new leather jacket
lots of character in the process.

“Hands behind your heads!” The male voice is sharp.

I pull my arm out of the broken windowpane. Shards of glass
fall to the ground with tiny, thin explosions. Hands on my head, I peer through
the shattered window into the dark room beyond and pray that Bob was as
consistent as he was orderly. I try to breathe evenly, and not imagine being
shot in the back.

“Hey,” says a second male voice about ten feet behind me.
“It’s a woman!”

Someone approaches me from behind, stops about three feet
away, and says: “Turn around.”

I do. A flashlight beam hits me full in the face, making me
wince and blink.

“This one’s a girl, too.” He takes a step closer, then pats
me down—thoroughly—taking my cell phone and fanny pack. The backwash from the
flashlight is enough for me to see the stupid leer on his face.

“Definitely a chick,” he says, and squeezes a telltale spot
as if to confirm it. If he didn’t have a .38 pointed at my throat, I’d cheerfully
kick him in the narlies.

“What are you two fine young things doing messin’ around a
junkyard at night, China Doll?”

No points for originality. “I’m Japanese. And I could ask
you the same question.”

His grin broadens. “You first.”

“I need a spare part for my Harley.”

“Yeah, right,” says the guy who’s just patted July down.
“You always go shopping in the middle of the night packing heat?” Over Coop’s shoulder I see him hold up
July’s automatic.

“Okay, you got us. We were ripping the place off. You gonna
call the cops?”

“Don’t have to,” Coop’s buddy says. “Got a cop right here.”
He holds July’s open wallet up in the beam of his flashlight. Her shield
catches the light.

The smile is sucked from Coop’s face as if by Hoover. “Sonuvabitch,” he says and glares at me as
if he’s just now detected the
animosity I directed at his narlies. “Son of a
bitch
.”

A man of limited vocabulary, our Coop.

“What now?” asks his pal.

“Let me think.” Coop proceeds to do that, expending less
effort than I expect. Then he grabs me by the collar and flings me backwards
against the wall of the shop. My head makes painful contact with the window
frame for the second time.

The gun jammed into my neck, Coop gets real intimate,
pinning me to the wall with his body. He smells of cigarettes, and damp
leather; Budweiser breath tickles my cheek; his face is starkly up-lit by his
flashlight.

I think, nonsensically, of campouts and ghost stories.

“Was that your work, China Doll—the lock on that wreck?”

“What wreck? I told you, I was ripping the place off. The
nice policewoman there was busting my chops when you intervened. Thanks, I
guess.”

Coop glances back over his shoulder at July. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she concurs. “Now, if you’ll give me back my badge
and gun, I’ll just take my prisoner and—”

“And leave us to go about our business?” Coop finishes.

“Why not? You have a right to protect your property.”

She’s giving them an out. Taking advantage of my eclectic
upbringing, I pray to Moses, Buddha, Jesus, and Saint Boris that they’ll take
it.

Coop’s wiry body relaxes and I think my prayers have been
answered, when his buddy says: “Just a f—ing minute! This badge is CHP. She’s
got no business busting somebody out here.”

Great. All the skinheads in California and we get one with
legal acumen and a grasp of geography.

Coop steps back so fast, I topple over. He grabs my
shoulder, heaves me upright, and shoves me toward July and Mr. Smarty Pants.
They march us to the corner of the lot, where Plaid Man pops out of nowhere,
holding something small and red between thumb and forefinger.

“I think I know what’s jammed in the—damn! What you got
there, Coop?”

“Cops. What you got?”

“Swiss Army . . .
Cops?
Oh, man,” moans
Plaid Man. “This is f—ing bad.”

I feel Coop’s rush of fear and fury like a cold spray of
water down my back, smell it on him as he grasps my elbow and propels me the
last several feet to the Cadillac.

“Shut up, you moron.”

“
I’m
a moron?” says Mr. Plaid in apparent disbelief. “I didn’t bring any f—ing cops into this.”

“I said, ‘shut up.’ Did you move the stuff?”

“Lock’s still jammed.”

Swearing, Coop and Smarty Pants drag us to the rear of the
wreck. Coop holds a gun on us while his buddy checks out the lock. He has a
handy dandy locksmith’s kit in his back pocket, and I decide that if I survive
this, I’m going to get one too—no offense to Saint Boris.

I pray again to the
autovoi
—this time that my broken
knife blade will put up a fight. It doesn’t. Smarty has the blade out and the lock open in less time than it
takes most people to pick a popcorn kernel out of their teeth.

“Don’t be stupid, Coop,” I say. “Killing us is a death
sentence for you too.”

“Bet that just tears you up inside, huh?”

“Not really. But I’m trying to appeal to your ass-saving
instinct. People who kill cops in the state of California tend to fry.” I sound
cocky as hell, except for the fact that my voice is all raspy with fear.

“
If
we get caught. And we won’t get caught. Get the stuff moved,” he
says to Mr. Smarty Pants, then escorts us back to the Caddie at gunpoint. “You
two are going for a ride.”

“The place is under surveillance,” says July.

Coop snorts. “Yeah, every half hour.”

She and I share a glance; no way we’re telling them about
Lee.

We are relieved of the contents of our pockets, including
the Saint Boris medal. I tell myself I don’t mind. I don’t really believe in all that stuff and the darn thing
was useless anyway.

Then we watch as, one armful at a time, Coop’s buddies move
the contraband from the LeBaron to the Cadillac. The canvas-wrapped packages
come in assorted sizes and shapes; some are large and obviously awkward to
carry; others are smaller and lumpy. They roll into the blackness of the
Caddie’s big trunk and disappear with dull thuds.

The rear of the car has sagged to within inches of the
ground. Would a highway cop really notice?

“Done,” says Plaid Man as he drops his last load into the
car.

Coop nudges July. “You first, baby.”

July shoots me a stricken glance, then climbs into the
trunk. When my turn comes, I put up a fight, flailing with my feet, trying kick
out a taillight.

I fail. Coop is too strong and my legs are too short.

Inside the trunk, my suspicions about the contraband are
confirmed. It’s hard, metallic, and all angles. It clatters when I roll in on
top of it.

We are riding on a big canvas-covered pile of firearms.

Coop leans into the trunk over me. “All those guns, and not
one of ’em loaded. I’ll show you a loaded gun when we get where we’re going.”

In the flashlight glare, I see him grab his crotch. Now, I
really
do
regret not having unloaded on his gonads. I feel a deep,
sickening quiver of fear as he closes the trunk on us.

We are crammed in like spoons in an over-full drawer; I can
feel July’s breath in uneven bursts on my neck. The guns dig into our ribs and
hips; the trunk lid presses down claustrophobically, pinning us. Smelling oil,
gasoline, and fear we each face our demons in silence.

I think of Mom and Dad.
Bring a sweater,
she said. It couldn’t have been, “Don’t go out without your gun?”

The engine of the old Caddie roars to life; there is a
stomach-turning lurch and we are in motion. July gasps as the guns shift under
us.

I try praying again. Third time’s a charm. I pray to the
autovoi
that the Caddie will run out of gas, or her wheels fall off. I invoke Saint
Boris. But we are turning right, and then we are rocking and bumping as the car
navigates the rough old firebreak to the highway. I send one straight to God,
bypassing any intermediaries, then I look to my own internal resources. I take
a deep breath and focus. I’m
lying on my right side, facing the rear bumper. Practically in front of my
nose, I can see the faint glow of a taillight.

My right arm is wedged under me but my left, though pinned
against the trunk lid, is relatively free. I wriggle my left arm forward,
trying to extend it toward the taillight well.

The final bounce as we pull onto the smoother expanse of
Highway 49 shifts the load and my arm shoots forward, my hand connecting
painfully with the bare metal of the trunk lid.

That’s
when I hear sirens so faintly I think my ears are ringing. I grope upward,
toward the light, feeling for the wires I know must be there.
O, autovoi . . .

“Gina, you all right?” gasps July, and I realize I’ve been
growling and muttering during this entire, possibly futile exercise.

My questing fingers have stretched as far as they can when I
suddenly realize they have met with wires. “Fine,” I pant, and pull as sharply
as I can.

The wires, old and brittle, wrench free and the taillight
flickers, but doesn’t die.
Then I realize that the sirens have begun to wane.

I envision the Nevada County Sheriff’s Patrol responding to
the security breach at Wray’s Wrecks, pouring into the empty parking lot,
finding gates wide open, and a groggy guy sitting in a Honda across the street.
How long would it take them to figure out that Lee isn’t a suspect? That
someone else set off the burglar alarm. That the back fence is agape.

I begin counting in my head, trying to establish distance. I
haven’t counted far when the car slows and veers right and up. An off ramp.

Before my eyes, the taillight winks out.

We swing hard left onto the cross street, not slowing down.
Aging shocks overloaded, the Caddie wallows like a barge, scraping its rear
bumper on the road. Then it picks up speed and holds steady. We are headed for
Penn Valley, or points beyond—Marysville or Yuba City. Who the hell are these
guys that they need this much ordnance?

My thoughts blur. The air in the trunk is thick and reeks of
exhaust fumes. I’m overwhelmed by sound: the protesting creak of the Caddie’s
outraged suspension, the whine of tires on tarmac.

Suddenly, I think I hear sirens again. Or rather, a single
siren. It draws closer, or I imagine it does. And then it seems to be
overtaking us. I try to care more, but I’m cold and damp and blind and I can’t
move my legs and I really want to sleep.

The car slows, then comes to a stop on the shoulder of the
road. The siren passes by and winds down in front of us. I hear the faint sound
of a car door slamming.

The voices are mere mumbles. Coop says something and then
the cop says something and I wonder if the cop could hear me scream.

Then the Caddie rocks gently and the slam of a door sends a
ripple of vibration all the way to the trunk. A moment later I hear the cop’s
voice again, closer, but phasing in and out like a bad AM signal.

“Well, son,” he says, and delivers a speech of which I catch
only the words “fix-it ticket.”

Coop’s voice is muffled, too. “No problem, officer,” he says
sweetly.

Gravel crunches dully under their feet. I draw as deep a
breath as I can and shout.

Or at least, I
intend
to shout. What comes out is a
breathless croak. I try to move, too, to wriggle, to rock the car, all the
while letting out explosive little squeaks, which is all I can manage. Behind
me, July barks like a dog.

But we’re
too weak to rock the heavy car. And I doubt we’re loud enough to be heard outside the trunk. The cop is two feet
away and we can’t make him
hear us.