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“This is it baby. This is what we have been waiting for,” Bree said as she rested her hand on Tim’s thigh, squeezing it ever so slightly.
“Once you get this done, we will be out of here forever and together for the rest of our lives.”
Tim’s mouth was as dry as the scalp on Old Man Winston’s head, the principal at St. Isidore High, the jag wad who gave him his walking papers. Tim was having trouble swallowing and Bree’s hand on his leg was doing more harm than good when it came to getting him out of the truck and into what would become known as St. Izzy’s “Flaming House of Death” on Channel 22, and WSIR-AM, the Voice of Swingin’ Izzy.
The plan was simple. Still, Tim felt it bore repeating.
“I tell them the truck broke down. I go in. Hit Steven over the head, tie him up and shoot him. Kneecap him. Beat Debbie to death with him watching. Then I light the house on fire and run.”
“Don’t forget the money. It’s in the kitchen. The big cookie jar on the fridge,” said Bree. “And then, that’s it baby. That’s all there is to it. I’ll be out here with the engine running, ready to go.”
Bree was still wearing the baby doll nightgown that she had on when Tim rolled her up in the carpet. She’d forgotten her flip flops. Everything else was back at Tim’s house. They had no chance of returning.
“It doesn’t matter. We can buy new when we get up north. Besides it will be best if they think we left in a rush,” Bree said.
Throwing Bree over his shoulder and carrying her out to the truck was almost as good as the night of their faux kidnapping, for Tim.
Real caveman stuff, he thought.
What a rush! Now it’s time for the action hero stuff.
The rumble of a truck’s diesel engine outside was just the kind of thing that could drive Steven nuts. Debbie knew that and she was on edge because of it. There was no telling when Steven would blow or what exactly would happen when he did.
But she knew he would blow and Debbie knew it wouldn’t be good.
“What is that asshole doing?” Steven said. “I’m about ready to go out, get into that truck, and drive it up his ass.”
“Please don’t Steven,” Debbie said. “Whoever it is, they’ll leave soon enough.”
Steven really wasn’t spoiling for a fight. He might have looked like it and sounded like it, but he was not ready for another battle. Steven was still nursing wounds from the three rounds of hand-to-hand combat he had fought with his lovely wife, the other night.
He’d forgotten about the judo and karate classes she’d been taking with Bree. When Steven knocked her tooth out and smashed her nose, he and Tim thought that was it.
Big mistake. They were wrong. Tim left the stands in the bottom of the ninth before the home team came up to bat.
Debbie got up off the floor in one fluid motion and was on Steven like a cat fighting for the last mouse.
She gave almost as good as she got.
The damage?
Steven’s nose might not be broken, but it was swollen. His jaw ached and as for his balls, let’s just say it would be a while before Steven would ready for any kind of action with Debbie or anyone else.
Debbie was still recovering, too. Blood was still dripping out of her nose. Her mouth ached and a cracked rib had turned into a Taser shooting volts of electricity through her chest.
So it was another night of being one of the walking wounded and wondering how much more of this she could put up with.
The next fight will be the last fight. It has to be life or death, his or mine, Debbie thought, looking up at the guy that she thought would be the last love of her life.
Debbie was right.
He was destined to be the last, the final, the never any more.
Never again, she vowed to herself.
Debbie never had a chance to take it back.
Tim looked like the clumsiest action hero in the world as he did a half-crouching run from the truck.
He dashed across the street, tripped over the curb, fell on one knee, rolled on to his back, glancing back at the truck hoping Bree hadn’t noticed.
Tim felt a little light on one side, realized the Smith & Wesson was missing, crawled back into the street to get it, holstered it, brushed himself off and started off again with a half-crouching walk-sprint to the house.
Bree blew him a kiss partly to wish him good luck, partly to get him moving again, partly to assure he wouldn’t quit, and mostly to hide her laugh.
Good God, what a klutz, Bree thought. This guy has to be the biggest loser in the world. He deserves everything that is going to happen.
And so do I.
Everything.
Tim disappeared around the back of the house. Bree studied her nails, fingers and toes, curled up in the carpet and waited with the engine running.
Bree was just about ready to give up and drop it in drive when she heard the first shot.
Four shots. Then a fifth gunshot. Bree held her breath and touched herself where everyone else had to pay the price of admission. Two more shots, and a scream. Man or woman? Bree couldn’t tell.
But she knew a scream of pain.
Bree smiled.
Touched again and took a deep breath.
This was better than she had expected.