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September redialed when the connection failed, but Claire's number went to voice mail. She prayed the woman reached cover on time. Her garage, actually an old-fashioned carriage house, had withstood nearly a century of weather, after all.
Sunny Babcock's involvement made no sense. September didn't know the woman, had only briefly met her after the debacle involving the hog hunting reality show. Combs met Sunny there, too. And when she reached out to Combs this morning for P.I. help—had it only been this morning?—he sent Sunny.
A horrible idea reared its ugly head. When Combs arrived at BeeBo's, he'd been angrier than she'd ever seen, more than her presence justified. Last year, the Doctor and his mother had an insider on the police force, Combs's own partner. . .
The kids surrounded the stacked boxes of Damenia pills, chattering with excitement, especially Tracy. The bounty would relieve Claire’s financial worries, too.
Steven no longer took Damenia. She hadn't wanted to know about his treatment, wanted nothing to do with the child. He reminded her of an ugliness she’d never erase, but it wasn’t Steven's fault. Too late to make it up to the boy—or herself.
According to Claire, Sunny could show up at any moment. She’d have no compunction about eliminating witnesses, even kids. September squared her shoulders. Too late for Steven, but saving these kids might save her soul, if God even listened anymore. After losing Shadow, she doubted the Big Guy had any time for her. It was all on her.
For now, they were safe from the flood. But with no way out of the loft, they might as well have taped bullseyes to their backs.
It worked both ways, though. Sunny had no way to get into the loft, and didn’t know they were here. They could hide. Claire’s call to the police would bring Combs to the rescue.
"Tracy, leave that alone. It's evidence." The little girl stuffed a double handful of pill bottles into her jacket pockets, while Boris Kitty sat inside the open box, batting vials around.
"It's her medicine." Nikki sounded defensive. "That's why she and Lenny drove all the way from Chicago. Finders keepers." She put her hands on narrow hips.
Tracy ignored September and stuck several more vials in her pockets. "Eighty-four pills per bottle times 30 bottles, two pills a day, 1260 days 180 weeks 45 months 3.75 years. Not enough." She abruptly sat on the dusty floor of the loft, and pulled out her tablet from an inner pocket. "Internet is up." She fiddled with the screen.
No need to argue. Let her keep the medicine, for now. Hiding the kids took priority. "The man who made the medicine—"
"The Doctor." Nikki had appointed herself spokesperson for the little group. "That's what Tracy said." Her gaze shifted up and to the left, telling September the girl fudged the truth. As if to cover sudden nerves, Nikki fished Boris Kitty from the box and draped him over her shoulders.
September didn't care how or where Nikki got her information. "Tracy's mom called. Someone’s coming to collect the pills. We need to hide, or it could get dangerous." She scanned the loft. A pair of ramshackle bookcases, one against a wall and the other shattered across the floor, spilled back issues of Sporting Dog Journal and Certified Contender Report across the loft. Illegal as hell, the publications recorded which dogs won and tracked winning bloodlines. A few cardboard cartons filled with who knows what sat nearby. None were large enough to hide one kid, let alone the whole group.
"The storm blew everything to smithereens." Nikki scratched under the cat's chin. "Only place to hide is behind the stack of boxes. Or inside them." She rolled her eyes.
Smiling, September hugged Nikki. "You're brilliant."
"Careful of the cat." Nikki turned away, incredulous. "You don't mean actually get inside the boxes. We won't fit, they're full of stinky old clothes and Tracy's medicine. We can't throw it out, or she'd see." She pet the cat, defiant.
"She? You know who's coming?" September grabbed Nikki’s arm when she tried to walk away.
"Uh, no. How could I know that?" Nikki looked away again. "She, he, whoever. There's nowhere to dump the clothes so the person wouldn't see and suspect something."
"Sunny “The Babe” Babcock. It's a she. Will be here in six-and-a-half minutes. That's 390 seconds." Tracy kept fiddling with her tablet.
September stared, then grabbed the tablet from Tracy, expecting a CSI-like satellite view of a car speeding toward them. Instead, she saw a rudimentary BBS where posters could message each other. It reminded her of early days on the Internet.
Nikki snatched it back before she could read anything. "That's private." She returned it to Tracy. "It's a kid thing, our secret club. We're not allowed to go on Facebook. We're not hurting anything." She spoke too fast, and blushed.
She dismissed the childhood angst. She had no clue how Tracy knew about Sunny, but the fact she did lent credence to the predicted arrival. September stared toward the road. It sat thirty feet away, and nearly level with the loft elevation. Six more minutes and Sunny would be here.
"Everyone, quickly dump clothes from the boxes out the back of the loft into the water. Hide the pills in these magazine cartons. That'll make room for you to get inside." The Doctor transported the medication in mislabeled wardrobe boxes so nobody would search past the musty clothes.
"There are five boxes but six of us if you count Kinsler." Willie stuck out his jaw and she could see his dad in his belligerent pose. He clutched the dog and looked ready to argue his cause if anyone suggested leaving Kinsler behind.
"Kinsler goes with you. I'm too big for the box. It's getting dark, she won't see me. I've got a plan." She didn't like it, but had no choice.
September upended the two shabby cartons. Medical supplies spilled from one, including syringes, hemostats and suture material probably used to patch up dogs. The other carton contained a dozen or more plastic dagger-like objects, some with bite marks and blood on them. Break sticks, inserted behind the gripping dog's premolars to persuade him to release, usually were made from wood. September dumped them onto the floor with distaste.
The pill bottles overflowed the empty cartons, testament to the many customers the Doctor still controlled. September set the cartons atop the toppled bookcase, scooped the remainder into the prone shelves, and scattered armfuls of the fight publications to cover them up.
"Quickly now. Inside, everyone inside." September lifted Tracy into of the first box. "Turn off your tablet. If it makes noise and Sunny hears, we're sunk." She shut the lid, and reused the old tape to secure it closed.
"You next, Willie. I'll hand Kinsler to you once you're inside. Promise to keep him quiet." Willie folded himself into a Buddha pose and she handed the subdued dog to him.
Nikki and Melinda hopped into their respective boxes after September cupped hands for a boost up. "You sure this will work?" Nikki stared up at her from the bottom of the box, thin arms hugging her knees. "Where will you hide?" Worry etched her brow.
"I'll hang out. Literally. I want to try out that homemade ladder. Y'all got to climb it, and now it's my turn." September tried to smile, but quickly gave up. "I don't know what sort of equipment Sunny has. I'm banking on her taking the boxes one by one."
Clouds finally had started to break apart. The nearly full moon offered the only illumination, streaking the loft with sinister gloom. Good.
"Sit real quiet, like mice. Cover up your mouths if you need to when she moves your box." September shivered. "Melinda, she’ll probably leave keys in her truck. Once everyone's out and Sunny comes back for the last box, y'all take off."
Nikki shook her head, and started to pop back out of her box. "Leave you? That's not happening." Her lip trembled.
"That is SO happening, Nikki. Go to the police, drive like your lives depend on it." September shut their boxes and loosely taped them shut like the others, so they could easily get out.
From inside the closed wardrobe, Nikki yelled. "What about the cat?" Boris Kitty meowed, and hopped onto the top of the highest box.
Headlights pierced the gloom. "Too late, she’s here." September stage whispered, not sure how far her voice would carry, now the storm had passed. A green truck with a high rack-hunting rig tooled down the road, and jerked to a stop.
