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The RV swerves and rumbles, the entire vehicle rattling like every screw holding it together is loose. I slink out of the back bedroom and crouch behind the spot where the refrigerator should have been. There’s no refrigerator, of course. Instead, it’s crammed full of boxes packed with odds and ends and unwashed clothing and all sorts of other things Old Man Barry had apparently thought he couldn’t live without.
There was a lot of junk Old Man Barry thought essential to his life that really wasn’t.
If I survive this, I’m feeling a definite urge to go home and clean out my closets.
The gun is heavy in my hand.
I peer around the corner and watch Grant in the driver’s seat at the front of the RV. Am I really going to do this? Am I really going to threaten to shoot him if he doesn’t pull over? What if he calls my bluff? Is it a bluff? Could I actually shoot him?
My heart flutters in my throat.
We’ll just have to hope he doesn’t call my bluff. Even if he were the worst person on earth, I’m not sure I could shoot him. Not even in the kneecap.
Golly, I’m not even sure I can effectively threaten to shoot him.
I shake myself.
First things first. I have to get close enough where he can even see that I have a gun. At this point, he could swerve violently and send me flying into one of the kitchenette cabinets and knock me out again.
A flare of pain stabs in my brain, and my stomach rolls unhappily.
He might not need to take me out. I’m concussed as it is. My ribs ache. I’m just a big wad of pain. Fortunately I’m stubborn. And, right now, I’m actually feeling really angry. Stupid Grant lied to me. Pretended to be someone he wasn’t. Hit me over the head. Locked me in a closet. Oh, and it looks like his reckless driving may have killed Aaron.
No. He didn’t kill Aaron. Aaron is fine.
I redouble my grip on the handgun.
If nothing else, I’m angry enough that I can pretend that I’m capable of shooting him.
I lean forward and crawl through the dirt and grime on the floor tiles. My knees throb with every inch, the sharp pinch of overstressed joints forced to press against an unyielding surface. My trousers will never be the same after this. I’m surprised they haven’t ripped and torn with all the abuse.
As I inch forward, I keep eying the gun in my hand.
Why do I have to have a gun? Can’t I charm Grant with my charismatic personality? Can’t I ask him nicely to pull the RV over? Why can’t I just skip the part where I threaten to shoot him?
He swerves again, and a box full of dishes and pots and pans tips off the counter and lands unceremoniously in the middle of my shoulder blades.
In the front, Grant curses. I drop flat to the floor and squeeze my eyes closed, praying he doesn’t look back and see me. The RV is rattling worse now. Almost like something in its construction has snapped.
Maybe I won’t have to threaten him. Maybe he’ll have to pull over regardless.
Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?
He’s still driving. He hasn’t started screaming. Or shooting.
Whew.
He must not have noticed me. I open my eyes and peer through the blanket of dishes and skillets that are currently camouflaging me as I lay on the filthy floor.
Slowly, carefully, I dislodge the pots and pans that have undoubtedly left bruises scattered down my back and set them aside so that I won’t bump them as I crawl through them.
One step at a time, one knee at a time, I make it off the tile and onto the carpeted area where the motorhome’s table and bench seat separate me from the cockpit. Now I’m crawling through random piles of dog food. I never really figured out where it came from. Knowing Old Man Barry, there’s probably a bag of it somewhere just in case.
The upholstery might have been high quality in the 70s, but at present it’s so dirty and gross that I can’t even tell what color it’s supposed to be. I crawl past it.
Almost there.
I’m so close.
God, don’t let him turn around.
I’ve got to get to my feet so I can at least seem a bit more threatening than a half-beaten-to-death church secretary with a gun. I mean, that’s what I am, but if I can alter Grant’s perception of me it will help. I can’t be tough from the floor.
I take a long, deep breath and ignore the foulness of the stale air.
The windows are cracked open, I’m just noticing. No wonder Grant hasn’t heard my approach.
I blow out my breath and use the couch to stand up while I take a big step and aim the gun at Grant’s head.
“Grant!”
In his reflection on the windshield, his eyes widen, and his hands clench the steering wheel in shock.
“You—” His mouth hangs open. “How did you—What are you doing?”
I have never been so proud of myself. I’m holding the gun steady. My hands aren’t even shaking. Surely he’s got to take me seriously.
“Pull over!” I shout.
Oh, my voice is trembling. That’s not very tough.
Something drips down my face.
Tears?
Great. The gun is steady, but I’m crying.
Yes, Trisha, very tough.
In the mirror, Grant’s expression turns into a cruel sneer. Bozo. Doesn’t he realize how dangerous it is to be threatened by a church secretary when she has a gun she found in an RV?
“I’ve got to admit it.” Grant turns his gaze back to the road. “You keep surprising me.”
I shake the gun at him. “Pull. Over.”
“Where did you find that?”
“I have a gun, Grant! I will—sh—sh—shoot you if I have to!”
There you go. ‘Atta girl. Got the words out.
“I’m impressed you know which end to hold.” He laughs.
He’s laughing at me.
Oh well. So much for being intimidating.
“If you found it in the boxes back there, it’s unloaded.” Grant’s reflection in the mirror eyes me.
“Every gun is loaded. Always.” I take the grip in both hands, still pointing it at him.
“This isn’t a stupid gun safety course, Trisha.” His mouth curls into a smirk. “That gun isn’t loaded. And even if it were and you had the guts to shoot me, what then?”
My lower lip is trembling.
“You shoot me? We’ll go out of control.” He gestures to the highway in front of us.
I’m not sure where we are. Going this fast, the road signs are blurs. I don’t recognize the landmarks. But then, I’m not really looking. All I can see is my hands holding the gun at Grant’s head.
How did it come to this?
How do I even know how to hold a gun? Why is this something I have to do? I wasn’t built for this.
Could I actually shoot him? Could I actually kill someone?
My hands are shaking now.
Stupid Grant. Stupid me.
“How about you put that thing down and have a seat?” Grant nods at the upholstered inset chair on the wall next to the entry stairwell. “We won’t be driving much longer anyway. So you’ve saved me some trouble of coming back to fetch you.”
The wind whipping through the RV tosses my hair around, matted with blood and dirt as it is. The sky in the distance is black and boiling with dark clouds, all of them with the distinctive greenish hue of oncoming hail.
“You’re driving into the storm?” I shout.
Grant doesn’t answer. He checks his mirrors and the clock on the dashboard. Then, inexplicably, he guides the RV into the neighboring lane. Then, he pulls into a ramp that leads to a rest stop.
We’re stopping?
Why are we stopping?
Oh. I have a gun.
I point it at him again.
“Oh, stop.” He laughs at me. “We both you know you’re not going to shoot me. Even if you had a loaded weapon, you couldn’t do it.”
“Then why—”
The RV squeals as it comes to a halt, rumbling and shaking and rattling. Grant throws it in park, and in a flash he’s on his feet and his fist cracks against my face again. I topple backward, smashing the back of my head against the wall as I sink into the chair he’d indicated previously. He snatches the gun out of my hand and turns it on me.
Great, Trisha.
Bold.
Capable.
MI6 will be calling you asking for your resume within the week.
I wipe the blood from beneath my nose and try to stem the tears.
“God, you’re useless.” Grant checks the weapon and aims it at me. “Maybe I should just put you out of your misery?”
I start to speak.
Grant pulls the trigger.
Click.
My breath bursts out of me in a half-choked sob, as if losing the gun wasn’t humiliating enough.
“See?” He shakes the gun. “Told you it wasn’t loaded.” He pulls his own firearm out of the back of his pants and aims at me. “But this one is loaded. And unlike you, I have no problem with shooting you. So just sit still and shut up.”
He returns to the driver’s seat.
“What are we waiting for?”
“I said shut up.” He dashes a line of sweat off his forehead.
Now that the RV has stopped moving, the wind isn’t racing around us, and the temperature of the RV’s interior is steadily climbing.
“I hate Kansas,” he mutters, making sure my keys are in the ignition.
He reaches for the air conditioner and switches it on.
The innards of the motorhome’s ventilation system gurgle and groan, wheezing and puffing out clouds of something that smells rotten and decaying. If I wasn’t ready to throw up before, I am now.
“What the—?”
The air conditioning chokes and bangs and whirs, and in a plume of foul cool air, a piece of dog food shoots out of one of the vents and bounces off the carpet.
Then another. And another. And suddenly it’s a barrage of dog food spitting out of the RV’s vents, pelting Grant like an automatic BB gun loaded with kibble.
He yelps and flails in the driver’s seat under the spray.
I don’t know why the RV is spitting dog food out of its vents.
I don’t care.
The instant Grant is back on his feet trying to evade the kibble-turned-ammunition, I’m on his back.
He thrashes and screams, trying to unseat me. We’re about the same height, but he’s much skinnier than I am. And I put my whole weight onto him. He bends somewhat and scrambles for the gun, but I wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze. He chokes and warbles. As he bends in the middle, the dog food from the vents pelts his face. It’s getting in my hair too, but I won’t let go.
He jerks to the right and tries to scrape me off against the partition. He tries to beat me against the cabinets. I squeeze harder.
Grant gasps and wheezes. He’s on his knees, and I still haven’t released him.
The heat in his face burns against my forearms.
He’s shaking.
I hold on.
He passes out and collapses in a heap, taking me with him. We both tumble into a stack of trash bags and a hailstorm of dog food still spitting out of the vents. It’s even coming out of the vents at the back of the RV.
Finally, I release Grant. He gasps for breath, but he’s still mostly out.
Snatching a roll of duct tape off the floor, I seize his arms and bind them behind him. I wrap up his ankles too. And his knees. Why the heck not?
Now he’s thrashing and shouting and cursing.
Mouth.
He needs duct tape on his mouth. I don’t need to listen to him. And I have plenty of duct tape.
In spite of his screaming and his attempting to bite me, I manage to get the tape around his mouth. I even tape his hair. That’s going to hurt when it comes off.
I sit back, breathing hard while he writhes and wriggles.
That won’t work.
So I tape him to the floor.
“There.” I say, panting. “Take a good deep breath of that carpet.” I drop the roll of duct tape on his head as he moans and wails against the blockage over his mouth.
I limp to the front of the RV, arm up to block the barrage of kibble, and switch the air conditioner off. With a whirring groan, the rain of dog food ceases. I turn the ignition of the RV off too and limp down the stairs, swinging the door open as a roar of thunder rumbles overhead.
That’s just what we need.
I step out into the sunlight that’s filtering through the clouds.
“Freeze!”
I startle and clasp the door frame as seven armed police officers emerge from all around the RV. They all have their guns aimed at me.
“Don’t move! Tonkawa police!” One of them shouts as he approaches me. “Hands over your head. Get down on your knees.”
I release a heavy sigh and slowly, carefully sink to my knees against the sun-warmed asphalt.
Cuffs snap around my wrists.
I should tell them what’s happening. I should tell them who I am. I start to speak, but all that comes out is a sob. Before I know anything else, I’m bent over bawling into the ground. The tears come so hard and so fast that I can’t get a word out.
I’m in hysterics.
Sure, that’s probably to be expected. I was just kidnapped and beaten and threatened. Not that such things are unusual for me anymore, but they’re still upsetting.
With my luck, the police will probably think I’m the one who kidnapped Grant.
I probably had better try to explain that part of it and why the drug dealer is duct taped to the floor surrounded by dog food. But the more I try to talk, the louder the sobs come out.
This is really irritating.
I had a gun.
I threatened Grant.
And then I choked him out and duct taped him to the floor of the RV.
Who does that? Was any of that illegal? Am I going to be arrested for that?
A flurry of voices chorus around me as another rumble of thunder rolls overhead, and someone pulls me up to my knees. With a clacking and clicking the cuffs come off, and someone’s arm is around my lower back. I’m crying still, and everything is blurry. And now it’s raining.
“You’re all right now.” A gentle hand takes my chin and turns my face to the side. “You saw some action, didn’t you?” The kind voice keeps speaking in a low tone, saying things that don’t really make sense. But the voice is nice.
My vision clears enough to zero in on a man’s face. Policeman. Taller than me. Broad shoulders and dark eyes and dark hair. He sits me on a picnic bench under the protective roof of one of the eating areas at the rest stop.
“Trisha Lee?” He raises dark eyebrows at me.
I nod.
“Okay. You’re okay.” He holds my gaze. “You’re safe now.”
I try to speak again, and only a miserable hiccup escapes.
He sits next to me and lets me clutch his arm. It’s grounding, anchoring as the sky opens up and pours down on the world in a hazy gray mist. My breath is coming easier now, less shallow, fewer gasps. The world isn’t spinning as much.
“There you go.” The officer pats my knee. “You had a scare.”
I nod.
“You did good, young lady.”
I glance at him. “How did you—find us?”
His eyes are warm, and his grin is bright as he nods to the RV. I frown and follow his gaze.
“There aren’t many RVs that fit this description.”
I scoff. “Old, smelly, and inexplicably full of dog food?”
He snorts. “That—and dragging a trail of doll heads.”
I draw back and peer more carefully at the RV.
Sure enough. One of the strips of duct tape from the plastic sheeting over the back window must have caught on the dolls as I was pitching them outside, because there’s a string of duct tape about ten feet long dragging from the undercarriage of the RV. Dotted all along it are the doll head’s, each one with their ugly faces and creepy teeth intact and smiling demoniacally at the rain pounding down on them.
“Duct tape for the win,” I say.
“Oh, it’s the stuff that holds the world together.” The officer chuckles. “Speaking of, you really must not have wanted that dude going anywhere. SWAT is having to use their knives to cut him off the floor.”
I smile. “Just be sure that when you yank it out of his hair, you pull really hard.”
“No worries, young lady.” The officer puts his arm around my shoulder. “We won’t even warn him.”
