Skeleton Letters (35 page)

But Ava was terror-stricken. “How bad?” she gibbered. “Do you think the bullet's lodged in my brain? Am I going to end up a vegetable?”

Carmela put her arms around Ava and gently pushed back a hank of dark curly hair. A quick, cursory inspection revealed the problem. “You weren't hit by the bullet. But you've got a small shard of glass stuck in your forehead.”

“Pull it out!” Ava screeched.

Carmela hesitated. “It could hurt.” She could also mess up big-time, leaving her friend with an ugly scar.

“Please!” Ava pleaded. “I don't want a hunk of glass sticking in me!”

“Okay, okay,” said Carmela. “Then just ...try to hold still.”

“I will, I will.” Shaking like a leaf and practically stupefied, Ava hunched forward.

Carmela pinched at the glass with her thumb and forefinger but wasn't able to get a good grip. “Doggone.” Between the ooze of blood and Ava's trembling . . .

“Just do it!” Ava begged. “Yank it out!”

Carmela gulped a quick breath and steeled herself. She got what she hoped was a firm pincerlike grip and gave a sudden yank. And she got it! The glass, thankfully, came out clean.

“Am I gonna have a scar?” asked Ava. “Will I need a plastic surgeon?”

“Shh,” said Carmela, wiping at Ava's forehead with her scarf. “Maybe a single stitch at best. Or just a Steri-Strip. It's not bad at all.”

Ava touched a finger to her wound. “But I'm still bleeding!”

“Head wounds always bleed like crazy,” Carmela murmured. “But that's not our problem right now.” She shot another quick, worried look toward the front door.

“Can they get in here?”

“We're not going to stick around to find out,” said Carmela. She grabbed Ava's wrist and pulled her to her feet. “Come on,” she said, as she hauled her friend toward the narrow stairway.

Which was exactly when the lights winked out and the entire camp house was plunged into total darkness.

“What happened?” cried Ava. They'd only made it up the first step. Now Ava clung to Carmela as if she were a lifeline.

“Somebody cut the generator.”

“So we clamber around in the dark?”

“Wait here,” Carmela told her. Putting her hands in front of her, she shuttled her way to the bookcase, where she knew a flashlight was always stashed. Batting her hands around crazily, she knocked a row of books to the floor.

“What's happening?” asked Ava.

Carmela's fingers finally touched the reassuring rubber grip of the flashlight. “Nothing. I got it.” She snapped the light on. “Let's get upstairs.” She waved the thin beam in an upward motion.

“Won't we be trapped?” Ava quavered, as they climbed the stairs.

“No,” said Carmela. They scrambled up and she flashed her light around the small loft, revealing a bed, small table, and dresser. “We'll be safe.” Depositing Ava on the bed and the flashlight on the small table, Carmela scurried back and dropped the trapdoor into place. It slammed shut with a satisfying bang.

“What if whoever's outside gets
inside
?” worried Ava. “What if they climb the steps after us?”

Carmela grasped the four-drawer wooden dresser and muscled it across the floor until it sat squarely atop the trapdoor. “They won't. And if they do, that's gonna hold them.”

“Now what?” asked Ava. She was still dabbing at her forehead, still coming away with touches of blood.

“What I'm going to do is take a look out there,” said Carmela.

“Out there?” said Ava, not quite comprehending. “You mean
out
out there!”

“That's right.” Carmela crept over to a small cantilevered window and unscrewed the latch. She had to see what she was up against!

“Please don't!” Ava cried. “Stay here!”

Carmela hesitated at the window. Should she go? Or wait here and hope help showed up? No, she didn't want to articulate her base fear to Ava, but maybe a rescue brigade
wouldn't
arrive. Maybe Shamus would mess up, or Babcock wouldn't be home, or the local sheriff would be too busy with some other sort of emergency.

Slowly, quietly, Carmela raised the hinged window. Cold rain lashed in, instantly chilling her to the bone. Holding a finger to her mouth, Carmela said, in a low whisper, “One quick peek.”

Ava shook her head vehemently. No, she didn't want Carmela to go.

“You just hunker down,” Carmela whispered. “You'll be okay.” She propped open the window, took a deep breath, and put one foot on the roof.

Instantly, she was hit with a swirl of wind and rain. It flattened her hair, soaked her clothes, obscured her vision, and scared her to death.

Still, Carmela kept moving. She ducked through the window frame, scrunched around, then pulled her other leg through. With barely a glance backward, she stepped out onto the tin roof.

Rain sliced down in torrents now as Carmela crept along the roof. The footing was slippery at best, and Carmela prayed to the Lord above that she wouldn't fall.
Oh please, don't let me slide down, hit the ground, and break a hip. Oh yeah, and get shot in the head while I'm lying in the mud, writhing in pain.

Thunder rumbled like a bowling alley in the heavens, and streaks of lightning slashed the sky. Still Carmela walked the ridgeline of the roof like a tightrope walker, placing one foot carefully before the other, arms extended for balance.

She reached the edge and hesitated. Brushed rain from her eyes, took a deep breath. This was the tricky part. She had to keep her balance and still look down without succumbing to vertigo.

Suddenly, a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the sky. And in one quick, starkly revealed instant, like a camera flash exploding, Carmela caught sight of a woman sneaking along the side of the camp house. The woman's head was down, her shoulders hunched forward as she stealthily picked her way.

Carmela's gun lay heavy in her pocket. If push came to shove, did she dare use it? If she shot someone, would it be classified as self-defense or would she be convicted of manslaughter?

Another flash of lightning gave her a flash of insight. Yes, she'd use her gun. Because in that quick moment, she'd seen a gun clutched in the woman's hand, a gun that was pointed even and straight, ready to fire.

Was this Rain Monroe? Carmela ground her teeth together and made a shallow growl. Had to be! And how dare she come after them! How dare she stalk them and terrorize them! Carmela's fury rose up inside her like molten lava and she screamed, as loud as she could, “Rain!”

The woman below jerked as if she'd been hit with a muscle spasm. She flung herself to the left, then the right. Not seeing anyone, the woman hesitated for one startled moment, then cranked her head back and looked up.

Another bolt of lightning tore across the sky, and the woman—not Rain—stared directly at Carmela! As their eyes met, a knowing, feral look crossed the woman's face.

Fumbling for her own gun now, realizing she had to defend herself, Carmela struggled to drag it from her pocket.

That was when Marilyn Casey, wannabe mystery writer and certified crazy lady, slowly raised her gun at what appeared to be an easy target.

Time slowed to a crawl for Carmela as she juggled her weapon and tried to maintain balance on the slippery roof.

But Marilyn had the upper hand by a couple of seconds. Enough to let her take careful aim at Carmela's fluttering heart!

At that precise moment, Carmela's feet shot out from under her and she fell flat on her back.

Marilyn's shot ripped across Carmela's left shoulder as Carmela slid wildly down the angled roof of the camp house, as if she were careening full tilt down a giant waterslide.

For a few sickening, heart-stopping moments, Carmela was airborne, catapulted almost horizontally through the air. Then she was falling, falling, falling, letting loose a shrill scream that reverberated in her head and seemed to go on forever. Still clutching her gun, she landed on her back with a bone-rattling, teeth-jangling thump.

Wind knocked from her lungs, head befuddled, Carmela found herself sprawled awkwardly in six inches of sticky mud and decaying vegetation. Blinking away rain, Carmela stared up at the woman who had a gun in her hand and murder in her eyes.

But this time Carmela had the advantage of a precise and perfect angle. Without an eyelash of hesitation, Carmela pulled back on the trigger and felt the gun buck hotly in her hand. She gasped as her shot hit its mark!

Marilyn cried in pain and fired one useless shot into the air. Then her gun flew from her hand and Marilyn, howling like a banshee in the forest, dropped in the dirt like a sack of spilled canned goods.

T
HROWING back her head, neck straining with pain, Marilyn Casey let loose a strangled, enraged howl. “Owwww!” She twisted and contorted herself back and forth, clutching her wounded knee as blood spurted everywhere. “You shot me!” Marilyn's voice was a high-pitched, agonized gurgle. “I'm going to get you for that! I'll
kill
you!”

Carmela knew she wasn't out of the woods yet. Marilyn's gun had flown out of her hand, but it lay somewhere nearby. Struggling to sit up, every muscle and fiber in her back screaming in protest, Carmela glanced wildly about. Where was Marilyn's gun?

Marilyn continued to groan and thrash, jabbing her good leg at Carmela and kicking at her head. Then Marilyn seemed to lose interest in that and began frantically patting the ground around her, trying to locate her gun.

“I will kill you!” Marilyn growled as she gnashed her teeth and bits of foam and spittle flew from her mouth.

“Stop it!” Carmela cried, aiming her gun at her. “Stop or I'll shoot again!” If she could just pull herself up ...if only her back didn't feel like it was alive with hot coals.

Marilyn's eyes rolled wildly in her head as she pawed around. Then, a sudden, demonic glint shone in her eyes.

Carmela saw instantly what Marilyn was after. Marilyn's gun lay maybe six feet away.

“Don't!” Carmela warned, still struggling to get her feet under her and failing miserably.

Marilyn flopped over onto her stomach, flailing and trying to pull herself along on her elbows.

“Stop it!” Carmela warned again.

Now Marilyn was three feet from her gun, her arm straining to reach it, her fingers working reflexively.

Wrenching herself around, Carmela kicked frantically at Marilyn's outstretched arm.

“Arwahhh!” wailed Marilyn.

With no tricks up her sleeve, other than shooting Marilyn, Carmela spun herself about in the sucking muck. With one final effort, she flopped both legs across Marilyn's outstretched arms and pinned her down tightly.

They were still struggling weakly when Carmela heard the first hint of a motorboat putt-putting up to the dock. Hurried footsteps splashed toward them. Then, through the curtain of rain, a pair of mud-splattered boots slowly appeared. A kindlylooking man in his early fifties, wearing a khaki brown uniform with a yellow Fish and Wildlife Services patch on his arm, shone a bright light on them. “Holy horse pucky,” he muttered.

“Help me,” Carmela cried out weakly, as she stared up at her rescuer. “She's got a gun!”

The Fish and Wildlife guy took a step closer and planted his size-twelve boot on top of Marilyn's gun. “Not now she doesn't.”

 

 

Five minutes later, it was pretty much over. At least the exciting, shooting part, anyway.

Marilyn sat handcuffed and dripping on a straightbacked wooden chair just inside the door, a tourniquet applied to her injured leg. She muttered and mumbled to herself like a person possessed, shaking her head as if the entire episode had been one huge misunderstanding.

Ava was splayed out on the sofa, casting angry looks at Marilyn. If she'd been imbued with supernatural powers, she'd have cast a spell and turned Marilyn into a garden-variety toad.

The Fish and Wildlife Services officer, whose name Carmela came to learn was Bobby Stump, chattered madly via radio to the local law enforcement center.

And, wonder of wonders, Carmela had finally been able to reach Edgar Babcock by phone.

“She shot at me!” Carmela cried, hot tears trickling down her cheeks. “She tried to kill me!” Standing on the front porch, she gazed into the purple darkness of the bayou. Raindrops still pattered down, and the occasional streak of lightning lanced the sky.

“You're safe now,” Babcock crooned. “You're okay, you did good, sweetheart. Time to stand down.”

“But I ...but I ...I'm all the way out here in the bayou.” A small sob escaped Carmela's lips. “Kind of in the middle of nowhere. And Ava's hurt! She got hit by a chunk of flying glass.”

“I understand all that,” Babcock soothed. “We'll take care of it, we'll get her to a hospital.”

“It was Marilyn Casey all along!” Carmela cried. She wanted to kick herself for not seeing it earlier.

“We just figured it out,” said Babcock, sounding excited. “We took the note back to the lab and one of my guys—he wasn't even supposed to be there—thought the handwriting looked familiar.”

Carmela sniffled. “Seriously?”

“Yes. It seems Marilyn had been interviewing him and she left a list of questions.”

“Bold,” said Carmela.

“Brazen,” agreed Babcock. “But that's how criminals often operate. They think they're smart, so they do stupid, arrogant things.”

“She was writing that wretched book,” said Carmela.

“That's right. And, apparently, she didn't think a historical thriller was exciting enough. She wanted to write about true crime. And probably gain an instant local readership.”