Invisible (34 page)

Locked. An explosion of noise, and something crashed into the door just below my hand on the knob. I stood frozen for a split second as I realized what had happened. This guy named Bo had shot at me!

I couldn’t get around him to the front door. I ran for the other door, the one to the bathroom. Another shot. Something crashed to the floor as I slammed the door behind me. I threw the bolt that fastened the door. Which would crumble under one good kick. And even if it didn’t, what had I accomplished? I was trapped in here.

Trapped like a duck on a rail in a shooting gallery, I realized as another gunshot ripped through the door and thudded into the wall behind me. I pressed my back up hard against the wall by the toilet stool, trying to make myself as skinny as a grease smear.

Didn’t he care that he was shooting up his own property? Apparently not. Wasn’t he afraid someone would hear gunshots? No problem there. In the general deluge of industrial noise and traffic on the boulevard, plus the thunder, not even a machine gun would have been heard.

So he could just keep shooting until he nailed me. And he couldn’t miss many more times.

Another bullet. This one hit the sink, and a shard of porcelain flew across the room. It wouldn’t even matter if I managed to dodge every bullet until he ran out of shells, I realized. All he had to do then was crash through the gun-splintered door and grab me. Or let Duke do it.

I closed my eyes for a bare second.
I trust you Lord. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow. If this is my time . . .

Maybe not!

Frantically I climbed up on the stool and then on the tank at the back of it. Another bullet. This one grazed the mirror over the sink and sprayed splinters of glass around the tiny room. Carefully, or as careful as I could be when I was shivering and shaking, I stepped from the porcelain tank over to the sill below the small window, balancing myself with a clutch on the flimsy paper towel holder beside the window. I kicked out the screen and, blessing my scrawny frame, slithered through the narrow opening. I didn’t give any thought to what was below, just dropped as a bullet sang out the open window.

I hit something that boomed hollowly—another of those blue barrels, like the ones beside the other fence? Had Bo heard that? How could he not hear it? I rolled into a ball beside the barrel, listening as if my whole body were an ear. Two more shots whanged into the wall above me.

I unrolled and blindly crawled away from the office shack, my eyes not yet adjusted enough to see anything. The shop and office blocked the area back here from the yard lights, but a yellowish beam shafted from the bathroom window behind me. Then a flare of lightning lit up a metal jungle of barrels between me and the fence, some lying sideways on the ground, some stacked two high by the wooden boards.
If I can just reach those, climb up and over the fence before Bo and Benny realize I’ve escaped from the bathroom . . .

Another crash, this one different from the gunshots. Bo breaking into the bathroom. An outraged yelp. “Hey, she’s not in here! Where’d she go?”

Benny squeak-yelling something indecipherable. A flare and crack of lightning. Ping of raindrops on the barrels. Heart churning in my chest like some out-of-control cement mixer, heartbeat clogging my throat and ears.

A shape blocked light from the window as Bo peered through it. A sudden burst of rain blurred the figure. I huddled against a barrel, hoping he’d think I’d disappeared into thin air. But even if Bo thought it, Duke would know differently. A Bible verse plopped into my head:
A prudent man sees danger and takes refuge, but the simple keep going and suffer for it.
Was that me, simple and now about to suffer for it? Like Mac said, a Bible verse for every occasion. But no time to contemplate my errors now. If I was going to get out of here alive, I had to get over the fence before they turned the dog loose.

I scrambled toward the barrels as Bo let go with three shots through the window. I bumped into a barrel lying on its side, and pain hammered through my knee. Now, in the deluge of rain, I couldn’t see anything but shapeless blurs of barrels.

Rain was good. If I couldn’t see them, maybe they couldn’t see me.
Thank you, Lord.

My reaching hand found an upright barrel. Above it another one, with the fence right behind them. But no way could I get on top of the barrels stacked two high. Okay, then I’d have to knock a top barrel off. With all the junk around here, there had to be something I could pry with.

“She’s around back here, Bo!” Benny screeched. “I seen somethin’ moving.”

I peered in the direction of the voice. Even in the veil of falling rain I could make out a blurry figure standing at the corner of the office, on the line between light and shadow. Then another bigger shape joined the first one. Bo was outside now.

Random shots bonged hollowly into the barrels. Whatever happened to the good old six-shooter with a limited number of shots? Bo’s gun seemed to have an unlimited supply of ammunition.

I slithered farther into the haphazard stand of barrels, trying to put one between me and the gun. A barrel should at least slow down a bullet.

“Get in there, Benny! Run her out so I can get a clear shot at her!”

“I’ll go get Duke.”

“She’s going to try to go over the fence. We’ve got to get her before—”

“She’s an old lady! She can’t go over the fence!”

She’s going to give it a good try,
I thought determinedly. But all the barrels by the fence seemed to be stacked two high, unclimbable as the sheer face of a mountain cliff. Could I roll one of the other barrels up to the fence and stand it upright so I could climb on it? No, no time.

I tried to shove one of the top barrels off, but it wouldn’t budge. A bullet hit the barrel right next to me, close enough to vibrate the metal against my shoulder. Was Bo shooting randomly or was he zeroing in on me?

I got partway around two stacked barrels, right up next to the fence. Bracing my back against the fence I put my shoulder to a top barrel and pushed, straining like ol’ Atlas trying to lift the world. And over it went!

“She’s right over there!” Bo yelled as the barrel crashed to the ground.

“I’ll get ’er!” Benny yelled back.

I heard a crash that sounded as if Benny had run headlong into the rolling barrel. I scrambled on top of the barrel below the one I’d just shoved. If I could just get over the pointed ridge of boards . . .

“I can’t see nothin’, Bo!” Benny yelled. “Don’t shoot until—”

I grabbed the peaked top of a board and tried to swing my leg up, but it had been a long time since I was a tomboy playing backyard pirate and climbing fences. My foot hit another barrel, and this one toppled as if balanced on a needle point.

And then the whole junkyard world came unglued. The falling barrel hit another one, and that crashed into two more. Moving barrels everywhere, crashing and colliding and booming and bonging. A new game: bowling with barrels. Screams. Shouts. Shots. I lost my footing, tumbled to the ground, and saw stars and lightning when my head hit something.

Did I lose consciousness for a few seconds, maybe more, in the sea of moving barrels? I wasn’t certain. But it felt oddly peaceful just lying there with rain pattering my face as the storm deluge softened to a gentle drizzle. Sounds of the industrial plants and traffic had receded, and the junkyard was almost silent as the barrels stopped rolling. Or maybe the silence was only in my head. My mind felt as if it were looping gently overhead, too disconnected and distant to make my muscles move.

This would be a good time to be all-the-way invisible,
I thought dreamily. I had a nice vision of Bo and Benny and even Duke dashing around, asking themselves in bewilderment, “Where is she? Where’d she go?”

But I knew I wasn’t that invisible. In another minute Benny or Bo or Duke would find me. And then I’d be looking into the barrel of a gun.

31

I waited. The wooziness in my head slowly cleared, and still no one had shoved a gun in my face. How come? Did Bo and Benny think I was dead, killed in the avalanche of barrels? Were they even now inside conferring about where to dump or bury my body?

Then I realized how imprudent I was being, lying there wondering anything.
Don’t ask questions, lady. Just run, run while you have the chance!

I headed for the fence, crawling through the maze of fallen barrels with all possible speed, ignoring bits of glass and metal biting into my hands and knees. I grasped the rim of a barrel to pull myself to my feet. I was trying to climb on top of it when a second thought struck me. Did I have to take this difficult over-the-fence route? I didn’t understand why no one appeared to be gunning for me now, but maybe I could just sneak out the front gate.

I stood poised by the barrel, trying to make sense out of the odd situation. Yellowish light still streamed from the bathroom window, but all it illuminated was the jumble of fallen barrels. I could read the printing on one now. Hydraulic fluid. On another, motor oil. No sounds came from inside the office. The area by the wall of the shack below the window was all in dense shadow.

Were they toying with me? Planning to shoot me in some way that they could claim they’d mistaken me for a burglar? If that was so, making a silhouette of myself on top of the fence might only be playing into their scheme.

Standing bent-bodied in hopes of making myself a smaller target, I felt my way around the fallen barrels and slid toward the darkest shadow under the open window. From there I planned to slip over to the corner of the office and reconnoiter. Then, if the way looked clear—and Duke didn’t sink his teeth into my leg—I’d head for the gate.
Thank you, Lord!
Thank you for giving me this chance.

I was almost to the office wall when I stumbled over something on the ground. Something not metallic. Something different, softer . . .

I shrieked when I groped with one hand and found what it was. A body.

I found an arm, followed it up to neck and face. Encountered wetness warmer than rainwater. I stood up and thrust my hand into the shaft of light from the restroom. Blood.

I knelt down and felt around again. A big body. With a lot of hair on the head. Wearing a lightweight jacket that was now soaking wet. Bo.

My first instinct was to jump and run for the gate. My chance to get out of here! But something—Christian conscience?— made me reluctantly put my fingers to Bo’s throat and feel for a pulse.

Yes. He was alive. I tried not to feel disappointed. Apparently the avalanche of barrels had knocked him down, and he’d hit his head on something harder than I had, and he was out cold. But for how long? And where was Benny? Had he heard my shriek?

I wanted to just cut and run and put Ludlow Boulevard in my rearview mirror, but instead I started around the office to get to the door and phone. A second thought made me turn back. Where was the gun?

No clever searching on my part found it. I stumbled over it where it had fallen, a few feet from Bo’s hand. I cautiously picked it up and took it with me. It occurred to me that I was mixing my fingerprints with Bo’s, probably not a good idea. But at this point I was less worried about fingerprints than about Bo regaining consciousness and finishing me off.

I passed his car as I circled the office. The vehicle was big and long and foreign, expensive enough to finance a portion of the national debt.

Inside, I dialed 911. For the first time I realized I was soaking wet too, hair plastered to my head, clothes stuck to my body, shoes squishy. Duke, still chained to the desk, appeared unconcerned about me or my wet state. I gave the 911 people what was undoubtedly a garbled account of events here, given that both my brain and muscles were beginning to dissolve into wet mush. A businesslike woman interpreted it well enough to say they’d send police and an ambulance immediately.

“Are you in danger now?” she asked.

I eyed my available artillery, a double-barreled shotgun and a heavy handgun. I wasn’t too sure how to use either, but I figured I’d give it a good try if Bo or Benny showed at the door.

“I’ll be okay.”

I went in the bathroom and, ignoring the washbasin filth, washed the blood off my hand. A hint of wooziness returned as I watched all that red swirling down the drain, even if it wasn’t my own. I returned to the desk and scooped everything back into my purse.

Then I realized something. This was my chance to accomplish what I was here for. I tiptoed over, keeping an eye on Duke, and slid the girlie calendar aside. Bingo. Wall safe. Now all I had to do was find the key in the filing cabinet. Which I did, right up front in the second drawer. Ray knew what he was talking about. All I had to do now . . .

Then conscience got to me again. A man was lying out there injured and unconscious. Shouldn’t I be doing something? A couple of jackets, dusty enough to have been hanging there since last winter, were draped over hooks by the door to the shop. I grabbed them, put one around my own wet shoulders, and headed for the door with the other. On second thought, I went back for the handgun.

The good Samaritan with a gun. I didn’t stop to ponder the inconsistencies inherent in that.

Behind the shack, I was relieved to find Bo still alive. Even more relieved, I had to admit, to find that he was still out cold. I covered him with the jacket so he wouldn’t get chilled. Since the thunderstorm and rain, the air had cooled considerably.

I still didn’t know what had become of Benny. It didn’t seem likely he’d also been conveniently knocked unconscious. I tentatively called his name a few times. No answer.

The answer came a few minutes later, after two police cars and an ambulance arrived in a screaming parade of sirens and flashing lights. The medics loaded Bo, still unconscious, into the ambulance and sped off with him, sirens wailing. The police had a spotlight on their vehicle, and its roving beam picked out another body among the fallen barrels.

Benny didn’t need an ambulance. He was quite dead from the gunshot wound in his back. One of Bo’s shots meant for me had accidentally nailed Benny instead.