“I guess you’re going to be happy to get on a plane back to Minneapolis.” Sheriff Carter wasn’t smiling, although his tone was light. He stood with Alan and Marjorie at the side of Baldy Mountain Road near the town limits. Next to him a portable battery-powered work light beat back the dark with a harsh glare. Down the road a quarter of a mile, a gas-powered generator spat out noise, fumes and what seemed like a million kilowatts of light through the thick black cable that snaked up the side of the road to a light tripod. The two lamps illuminated the remains of the Lincoln Lockem and Marjorie had rented when they landed in Spokane.
“I think the people at Spokane Auto Rental will not be happy,” said Marjorie. She was still trembling internally as a result of their near murder in the attack by the big ‘dozer. She’d learned years ago to control outward indications of anxiety or stage fright. Now, however, the bruises and scrapes she’d suffered were beginning to hurt in spite of pain killers and salves applied by the EMTs who showed up at the behest of the deputy sheriff, the one who initially answered the call from Edie.
“Oh, look,” exclaimed Marjorie. “There’s my purse. Can you fish it out?”
“Give me a minute to make sure this wreck is stable,” the tow-truck driver responded. Sheriff Carter had called in the largest tow rig he could access. It was the one used to move big multi-wheeled rigs. The operator and his helper had secured a chain cradle around the Lincoln so it could be lifted away from the tree where it rested. Now he cranked up the power on his engine and manipulated the hoist to prove to himself the car was secure. Then he crawled part-way through the open side and pulled Marjorie’s purse free of the bucket seat.
“Hey,” he said to Sheriff Carter, “She has a gun in here.”
“And a carry permit,” the sheriff responded. He took the big purse from the man and looked it over. Then he wiped it off before handing it to Marjorie. “It’s pretty scratched up, I’m afraid.”
“It’s old and I like it so I just may keep on using it. Thanks, guys.” She set about shuffling through the disturbed contents. Lockem watched, something akin to amusement in his eyes as Marjorie pulled out files, wads of crumpled note paper, lipsticks, pens, mechanical pencils and various personal items. “Oh, damn,” she said softly.
“What is it?” queried Alan.
“My favorite compact. The one I inherited from my mother? It’s got a big dent in the cover.”
“I bet we can fix that,” said Alan.
“Everybody clear?” called the tow-truck operator. He took a beat and then cranked up the hoist again. This time they tightened a lead chain attached to the front bumper and slowly dragged the Lincoln out of the trees and shrubbery, accompanied by screeching and groans from the distortions of the body and frame. A few tree limbs resisted and then cracked under the relentless tension of the tow truck crane. Once on the road, the crew made short work of hoisting the wreck onto the flatbed and secured it for the trip to the county garage.
“I’ll carry you to your hotel,” Sheriff Carter offered. There’s no need to hang around here. Crime scene technicians will work on identifying the ‘dozer and anything else they can find. We’ll get a report tomorrow or the next day.”
“Thanks. We need to get Sam’s car there as well. Edie offered to lend it to us until we can rent a replacement.”
“Best bet is to go back to the car agency at the airport in Spokane and get yourself another ride,” advised the sheriff. “There’s no rental place here in town that can supply what you need, and the dealers don’t have loaners.”
Lockem called the car rental agency and arranged for another vehicle. Sheriff Carter remembered he had to send a deputy to Spokane the next day and offered Lockem a ride-along. Then he said goodnight and left the battered and weary couple alone.
Cleaning up, Lockem and Marjorie ordered a bottle of chilled white wine from room service and crawled into bed.
* * * *
Afterward, Alan couldn’t exactly remember what had awakened him. His tired mind was still mired in fog. He tried once to sit up, but discovered he was lying on his back, arms and legs pinioned to the bed. A heavy weight shifted across his face, blocking out the light and pressing against his mouth. He caught his breath and tried to inhale but the weight on his face restricted his breathing somewhat. He mumbled something and the smothering weight shifted slightly. He curled his hands up at the wrists and tried to stretch his grasp. His fingers encountered a warm smooth surface that seemed to react to his touch. He mumbled again and tried to catch a breath, twisting his face to one side. The weight and resistance on his wrists and legs shifted as he struggled to identify what seemed to be an expanse of warm, naked flesh pressing down on him, but the mental vapor of his deep sleep continued to hamper his movements. Other feelings gradually made themselves known. He dug his heels into the mattress and heaved up at the hips. His action freed one hand. When he slid it out, up and over he encountered hair and then a smooth plane of living skin that pulsed gently under his fingers.
Warm and moist lips glided across the side of his face and a hoarse voice not to be ignored, muttered, “C’mon, old man, fuck me.”