A Tiger's Tale (A Call of the Wilde Mystery) (18 page)

In a rush, we were on our way, zooming over the little bridge and down the road. I pulled out my phone to call Kai—maybe he could look at the tabby under a microscope and . . . then I remembered.

I couldn’t contact Kai.

Jake had made it quite clear. As a possible suspect in the murder of Bob Ligner, it was best if I kept my distance, unless I wanted to make things worse.

Guilt extinguished my excitement. My shoulders slumped under the weight of reality.

By the time I pulled into my spot at the condo, I was beyond bummed.

Moss nudged my cheek from the backseat, sending a wave of love to envelop me like a warm hug. I sighed, looped my arm around his neck, and roughed his ear.

“Thanks, big guy.”

I grabbed both my and Brooke’s purses from the front seat, swinging them onto my shoulder as I sluggishly opened the door and slid to the ground.

The temperature had dropped like a stone and I shivered in the crisp night air. The gold lamé did zero to ward off the chill.

Why did fall in North Florida have to be so bipolar? Hadn’t it been seventy that morning?

I started to reach for the back door handle to let Moss out and froze.

A gun barrel was pressed against the back of my head.

“Don’t move.”

It was a redundant order. I was pretty sure it would have taken a herd of rabid elephants to make me move at that point.

“Don’t make a sound.” The male voice was no more than a raspy whisper. “And if you think about siccing that mutt on me, I’ll blow your head off.”

I had a flashback to a month ago when I desperately needed to open the same door in order to save my life. My hand rested on the handle. Moss was silent, teeth bared, ready for action, but I knew my hand wasn’t faster than a bullet.

“Take your hand off the door.”

I did.

“Now take a step backward. Good. Keep moving.”

The farther we moved away from Bluebell, the harder my heart pounded. Panic bubbled up inside me. Suddenly, my mind shifted from compliance mode to hell-no-you-will-not-be-taking-me-anywhere mode.

I stopped.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Your purse.”

“Fine, here—” I started to peel the straps off my shoulder but he jabbed the gun into the base of my skull.

“Don’t move unless I tell you.”

I froze.

“If you want my purse just take it.” I’d been trying for calm and reasonable, but the words had come out rushed.

“Relax. I’m just putting some distance between me and your mutt. Now, keep moving.”

We’d reached the edge of the lot. “Isn’t this far enough?”

“Sure . . .” The sly sarcasm in his voice sent a chill through me. “Get on your knees.”

On my knees?

“No.” The word snapped out of my mouth before my brain could think of something better.

“There is a silencer on this gun,” he informed me. “Get on your knees or I’ll shoot you.” As motivation, he jabbed the middle of my back with the gun.

The pavement bit into my skin through the thin fabric as I knelt.

Hamni-handachi.
The aikido technique I’d practiced with Emma popped into my head. I had scoffed at the idea of fighting on my knees, but she’d told me it was about more than that. What had she said?

It was about balance. Making my attacker overextend. But this wasn’t hand-to-hand. The guy had a gun, which he’d once again pressed to my head.

What could I do? If I screamed, he’d shoot me. If I tried to run, he’d shoot me.

I thought about Moss and had a sudden flash of inspiration. I couldn’t scream. But Moss could howl.

A wolf’s howl can be heard miles away. My assailant seemed concerned with keeping quiet—maybe he’d run if Moss raised the alarm. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was all I had.

I could see my dog from my position and realized my attacker also had a clear line of sight. If Moss started making noise, he might shoot him. I focused as much as I could and sent out the mental order.

Get down on the floor. Now, Moss! Down.

Moss slipped to the floorboards. The thick steel of Bluebell’s door would shield him from being seen or shot.

Howl!

Moss belted out a deep, menacing howl. The sound was enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. I hoped it would be enough to scare off my mugger.

Relief flooded me when the pressure of the gun was lifted from my skull.

It worked!

I turned my head slightly and out of my peripheral vision saw the man’s arm come up as he aimed the gun toward Moss.

The bastard was going to try to shoot my dog.

Something in me snapped. It was one thing to mug me and even try to kill me, but my dog?

Unacceptable. In a fit of what I can only assume was insanity, I spun on my knees, ignoring the sandpaper effect the pavement had on my skin, reached up, grabbed the gun, and yanked.

There was a loud
pfft
sound and concrete exploded into shards next to me.

The gun had gone off.

Okay, pulling was not such a good idea.

My attacker jerked his hand and twisted, trying to dislodge me. But I had clamped my fingers over his wrist and was clinging to him like a barnacle on steroids.

I knew I should have been focusing on my attacker, not the weapon, but it was a lot easier said than done.

“Let go!” he growled.

“Right, so you can shoot me?”

Just then, I heard a familiar voice calling from the front door of our building.

“Hey! What’s going on out there?”

Mr. Cavanaugh.

I never thought I’d be happy to hear his voice.

Before I could call out for help, my attacker grabbed a handful of my hair and tried to pry me off. I bared my teeth and made a sound that was part growl, part scream.

“What—what are you two doing out there? Decent people don’t have to stand for these sort of perverted S and M shenanigans!”

We struggled a beat longer then paused.

S and M?

I glanced up at my attacker. I couldn’t see his expression because his face was covered with a ski mask, but I had a feeling he was as stunned as I was.

“I’m calling the police!” My neighbor punctuated the statement by slamming his door.

I couldn’t believe it—Mr. Cavanaugh had seen me struggling on my knees with a masked assailant and he’d assumed I was engaged in a sadomasochistic romp in our parking lot.

What. An. Ass.

My attacker recovered before me, twisted the gun away, stripped the purses off my arm, and sprinted into the night.

It took me several long moments to get my heart rate under control. Once I managed that, I staggered to my feet and limped to Bluebell.

I stopped at the rear door. Moss was beside himself with the need to chase down my assailant and tear him into little, tiny pieces.

I was in no condition to stop him physically, so I gave him the only command that had any hope of working.

Moss, guard.

For once, he obeyed, and when I opened the door he anchored himself to my side, still snarling like a rabid, well, wolf, of course—some things can’t be helped.

Leaving the carrier for later, I scooped up Voodoo and, what seemed like a decade later, made it up the stairs and into the condo.

My legs didn’t give out until I’d turned into the kitchen. I collapsed with my back against the fridge, shaking like an idiot.

Moss whined and moved to inspect my wounds. He sniffed at my bloody knees and I just managed to set the kitten down and raise my hands to block him before his tongue made contact with my skin.

“I understand you want to help, but that’s just gross.”

Moss let out a long, grumbling sigh and glanced at Voodoo. The kitten had rediscovered the water bowl and was batting at the liquid with the uniquely feline combination of curiosity, confusion, wariness, and excitement. Moss lowered himself to the floor and laid his head on my lap.

Okay?

“Yeah, I’m okay. I just need a minute.” Or twenty.

The adrenaline rush long gone, I sat there in a daze, as if my mind had lost the power to function along with my body.

Sometimes, when I’m asleep or even just overly tired, the door to a deeper side of my mind slides open, letting the thoughts of the closest animal slip inside. It can be confusing to wake up with an odd desire to chew on a tennis ball or feel the urge to run as fast as possible down the beach. Confusing, but pretty mundane—most of the time.

Then, there are the other times . . .

Moss lifted his head. A rush of tension and hostility erupted from him, sending a wave of pinpricks over my skin. If I’d had hackles, they’d have been raised.

Guard
. Moss’s low growl was followed by a loud knock at the door.

He sprang to his feet.

Before I knew it, I, too, was standing, ready to fight. To protect . . . someone. It took me a moment to realize what had happened and a few more to wrench my mind free.

One bonus, the shockwave of pure aggression had kick-started my system, and I no longer felt an ounce of fatigue.

The knock sounded again. “Sheriff’s office. Open up.”

At the sound of the man’s voice, Moss’s growl evolved into a snarl.

“It’s okay, Moss.”
Easy.
I urged him to calm down. The last thing I needed was my dog sinking his teeth into a cop. But even as I tried to soothe him, I knew it was pointless.

“Just a second,” I called out. Then, to Moss I said, “Sorry, big guy,” before looping his leash through both refrigerator handles and clasping it to his collar. Emma’s appliances were commercial-grade stainless steel. It would hold, right?

“I’ve got to get the door. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Moss tried to accompany me out of the kitchen but quickly reached the end of his tether. He glanced back at the leash, then shot me a look.

“I’ll be fine.”

He let out a vehement snort of disagreement. I left him with a pat on the head and made my way through the foyer. I opened the front door to find a deputy waiting—not all that patiently.

His brow furrowed as he took in my gleaming gold outfit. “Have you been drinking, ma’am?”

“What? No!”

“Your neighbor, Mr.—” He glanced at the little notebook in his hand.

“Cavanaugh,” I supplied, already knowing where this was headed. “Who, for the record, is an idiot.”

“Mr. Cavanaugh claims he witnessed you—”

I raised my hand. “In the midst of shenanigans. Yes, I know.”

“So that’s not the case?”

“Of course not. Do I look like that type of person?” Indignant, I crossed my arms, belatedly realizing the movement enhanced my already exposed cleavage.

Great. Perfect.

My weariness returned in a rush. I suddenly had no desire to explain what had happened. I wanted to forget about the attack, crawl into bed, and sleep for a week.

“You know what?” I said with a sigh. “You’re right. I’m a shenaniganist. I’m sorry to have disturbed the peace. It won’t happen again. Good night.”

I started to close the door in his face, but he caught it with the toe of his shoe.

“Ma’am—”

I glared at him, but his gaze was not on my face. He was focused on my torn pant legs and bloody knees.

He lifted his eyes to meet mine and said, “Tell me what happened.”

I told him everything I could remember—even managed to summon enough energy to accompany him to the parking area to walk him through it. He dutifully took notes and scanned the area with his Maglite.

The glint of metal sparked in the beam. The deputy bent down and studied the object. I moved closer and saw what it was.

“A bullet casing?” I asked.

“Yep. I’ll collect it and log it as evidence.”

His radio squalled to life. I listened as he updated the dispatcher, and though I’m not up to speed in police codes, I gathered my status had gone from perpetrator to victim.

Thankfully, Ponte Vedra Beach is part of Saint Johns County, so neither Kai nor Jake would hear about my drama.

“There was a robbery at a convenience store off Third Street a couple of nights ago,” the deputy said as he walked me back to the door of the condo. “Guy had on a ski mask. It could be related. We have some leads on that case—it’s only a matter of time before we catch the guy.”

I thanked the deputy and dragged myself back into the condo.

In the kitchen, I found Moss had managed to drag the fridge a good two feet into the room. He looked up at me and hacked out a cough.

“Well that’s what you get for trying to pull a refrigerator around with your neck.”

Loose. Now.

I was too tired to reprimand him for his demand or try to shove the fridge back in place. With a sigh I freed the very perturbed Moss from his restraint and was shuffling toward my room when I heard the front door open behind me.

“Mr. Cavanaugh called,” my sister announced from the foyer. She tossed her keys on the entry table, flipping on the light as she walked toward me. “So, you’re turning tricks—”

She froze mid-sentence. “What are you . . . Is that gold lamé?”

I turned to face her and Emma’s eyes went wide with alarm.

“What the hell?” My sister rushed forward. Moss, who was still on edge, let out a snarl that would have made grown men wet themselves.

Emma only paused for a moment then continued forward more slowly.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

“What happened?”

“You know that knee-walking technique? It’s not so good on cement.”

“No. I would think not.” Emma guided me into her bathroom. “Come on. Sit on the edge of the tub and let’s have a look.”

Though my medical training definitely trumped my sister’s, I obeyed passively, comforted by the way she went into big-sister mode. She fumbled with the large, shredded pant legs but managed to push them up over my knees. “Tell me what happened,” Emma said as she dabbed at my scrapes with a washcloth.

“Mugged.” I explained everything, starting from the moment I felt the gun pressing against my head. By the time I’d finished, we had moved to the living room, my wounds were clean and dry, I’d changed into cutoff sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and my sister had gone into Terminator mode.

Most days, I was her personal pain in the ass. But mess with me, and I became her baby sister. Like a tiger anxious to sink its teeth into its next meal, she prowled in front of where I sat on the couch.

“Criminals can’t just come here and mug people. This is Ponte Vedra.”