Chapter Thirty-Nine

Monday Morning Showdown

Vicky looked from the truck toolbox back to Joan and Ruby. She debated a split-second before deciding to go all in. “The sheriff’s on his way. I’m going to tell him you blew up the RV.”

Rage snarled Joan’s face. She whipped her arm up from the truck bed and pointed a handgun at Vicky. “Goddamn you.”

Oh shit. Vicky automatically raised her hands in the classic surrender position, though with one arm at her side, holding onto the crutch, the effort was half-assed. At least they were out in public. Surely Joan wouldn’t shoot. No way. Surely not. Not after they’d built up rapport over cookies and shared secrets.

Joan punched the handgun into Vicky’s side. “Put your hands down.”

“Come on, Joan. Please. What are you going to do? Put that away. You need to get to your meeting.”

Perhaps she shouldn’t have pushed Joan about Alisa and Rick. Or needled her about the meeting. Or bluffed about knowing what Joan was up to. That had clearly struck a nerve.

And now it was clear why.

Nine or ten minutes had passed since the suits entered the lawyer’s office. Sheriff Linden was still a good twenty minutes out.

“Joan, come on. Think about it. What good would it do to shoot me? It’d make a big mess and you’d have to do something with my body.” Vicky gave a nervous chuckle. “Then you’d never make it to your meeting on time. That’s the important thing now. It’s fine, I’ll wait here for you.”

Joan opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

“I’m fine here.”

Joan slapped her thigh. “Ruby.” The dog immediately jumped to the sidewalk, her eyes on Joan. “Guard.”

Ruby snapped to high alert, ears lifted, muscles taut, teeth bared. Saliva dripped from the right side of her gaping mouth. Vicky wasn’t one to stereotype, but this kind of dog was fierce, bred to guard and protect. In this case, Joan.

“Get in, or I’ll put her on you. Or shoot you. Or both.”

Ruby growled on cue. Her drool formed a string halfway to the ground.

“You’re driving.” Joan prodded Vicky with the gun. “Get in.”

“I can’t go. But when you come back, I’ll tell you the rest of what I know.” Vicky gestured with her crutch. “Can you please not point that gun at me?”

“Don’t be stupid. Get in. We’re going somewhere to talk.”

Sure, or somewhere less conspicuous to kill me. Vicky could barely breathe. She had always fervently believed in the rule about never getting into a vehicle with the bad guy, but that was before someone had a gun aimed at her gut. She edged around to stand inside the open door.

“Where’re we going?”

“Shut up and get in.”

“You don’t have much time.” Vicky glanced around the cab and located the handle above the door. No running board. A long step up to the seat. With her damnably short legs, one injured. Awkward.

Joan stood outside the open passenger door, gun in one hand, Ruby behind her. “Move it.”

“Really, Joan, you don’t want to risk being late. You have to be there to get your share.” Vicky backed up against the passenger seat. “Ha, the seat’s so high up, this’ll take me a sec.”

Gripping the overhead handle, Vicky clumsily pulled her crutch close, put one foot on the floorboard, and prepared to haul herself up. Joan backed up one step to make room.

With a kick and a shove, Vicky threw herself onto the bench seat as she whipped her crutch up to smash Joan’s hand. Years of yoga tree poses and planks paid off—the handgun and crutch went flying. She dragged herself up behind the wheel and jerked the gear shift into drive—thank God the truck was running.

She jammed on the gas. Crouched, head low, she tore out of the alley, turning into the street as the open door slammed shut and tires screeched. Or was that Joan yelling? Shit, should have gone toward the diner. Breathing hard, Vicky cautiously raised her head, then jerked back down at the harsh bang of a gunshot from behind. A hole appeared in the windshield.

She stole a glimpse out the back. The rear window had a similar hole, surrounded by a spiderweb of cracks. Joan had one leg over the tailgate, holding on with one hand while the other held the gun.

Vicky slammed on the brakes, then the gas, swerving, trying to topple Joan. A glance in the rearview mirror showed Joan hanging on, still coming, her face contorted with rage and hate. A car in the other lane left little room to maneuver. Vicky was quickly running out of town. Main Street was about to turn into a country road. She needed to be around people. Someone must have heard the gunshot.

Vicky glanced in the side mirror. Oh great. Ruby was chasing them. That would make it tough to stop and jump out, even if she managed to dislodge Joan, who now had both feet inside the truck bed, holding on with her left hand, pointing the gun with her right.

Coming up to the road that went to the campground, Vicky hit the brakes, spun the wheel, and cut a sharp U-turn to the right. Somehow Joan managed to drop to her knees and hold on. Dammit. She was like the melting metal robot in that cyborg movie.

As she sped back toward town, Ruby was running full tilt toward the truck. The dog had a bad hip or leg. An odd gait, anyway. Vicky had an instant debate with herself about whether to mow down that part of her problem, but instead swerved to miss the dog. She bumped up onto the sidewalk and back down to the street. It wasn’t Ruby’s fault her owner was a kidnapper and maniacal would-be killer.

Now blocks from the diner, she laid on the horn, blasting at people about to cross the street. They scattered. Vicky wondered if Sheriff Linden had arrived yet. At least now for sure someone would report a pickup barreling through town with a crazy driver and a madwoman waving a gun in back.

Just past the diner, Vicky slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel to miss a car backing out of a parking space. But she didn’t quite miss. The vehicles collided in a cacophony of crunching steel and blasting horns.

Her scream echoed, the entire front of her body in agony. Eyes burning, she shoved the deflating airbag aside and yanked the door handle, searching for Joan, her mind racing, her ears ringing. The door was jammed by the rear end of the car she’d hit. Trapped.

A man opened the passenger door. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

“Whoa. Yeah. God.” She turned to look for Joan, but her body shrieked at her to stop. “Help me get out, okay? Is there someone in back?”

The man glanced at the truck bed. “No. Are you sure you’re okay to move?” Several people crowded behind him.

“Yes! Get me out. Quick. Please.”

“All right, all right.” He slid his arms under her and gently pulled her to the passenger door. “Can you stand?”

“Yes, yes. Help me out.” He helped her to her feet.

“Thanks.” She leaned against the truck. Damn she was dizzy. She scanned the people gathered around the two vehicles. Sam was there, and Rita stood next to Sara.

Shit. Where was Joan? “Is anyone hurt?”

A woman’s voice came from the other side of Joan’s pickup. “I’m fine. But it looks like you totaled my car.”

“I’m sorry.” Vicky looked toward the other driver. “Glad you—"

Her rescuer jerked away, saying “Okay, okay.”

Vicky spun back to see him lifting his hands, backing away from Joan and her gun. Dammit. Joan grabbed Vicky’s arm and pressed the gun into her face. How the hell had she held on to it through all of that?

“Damn you. Damn you.” Blood covered Joan’s face. Good. At least she was hurt, too.

Tears filled Joan’s ice-blue eyes. “All of you back there, move around where I can see you.” The dozen or so bystanders shuffled toward the diner.

“Come on, Joan. Don’t,” Vicky gasped. “It’s over. And now there’re all these witnesses.”

Three or four people put their hands in their jackets or bags as they backed away. Vicky raised her hand. “Everybody, calm down. It’s okay! Nobody shoot or anything. Do what she says, okay? Please.” Her heart hammered. “Joan, come on. Let’s not make things any worse.”

Joan responded by jamming the gun deeper into Vicky’s jaw. In the silence that followed, Vicky assessed her situation. Clearly not great. Where was the sheriff? She wanted a SWAT team stealthily moving into position in front, back, and overhead, in a classic police standoff scenario.

But that wasn’t going to happen. There would be no military-grade command post vehicle, no cameras or listening devices, no helicopter hovering overhead, no trained negotiator building a bond with Joan.

Vicky spoke in a low, soft voice, which was all she was capable of anyway. “Joan, listen.” It sounded more like “oan ith-n,” but Joan eased up with the gun enough for Vicky to say, “Joan, you need to go to your meeting. There’s still time. Then at least you’ll get your inheritance and still have a chance to enjoy it.”

Joan growled, “Why couldn’t you leave me the hell alone?”

“You need to be there, or you won’t get your share. It’s yours.”

“How do you know about that?”

“What’s the difference? No matter what, you need to be there at ten. Then you can deal with anything else, including the cops. Getting your share is what’s important right now.” That, and getting Joan away from the truck. And the gun away from Vicky’s head.

The pressure of the gun lessened slightly, which made it easier to talk. Vicky continued in her low, encouraging tone. “It’s okay, Joan. You just panicked. But you need to be there to get your share. You’ll lose that chance if you’re not there. You only have a few minutes.”

Vicky willed Joan to concentrate on the future instead of the immediate situation, which was looking increasingly unfavorable for all involved. “You have to be there to get your share.”

A thin, sharp voice interrupted Vicky’s mantra. “Joan, what’re you gonna do here?”

Oh hell. Sara. She stood between Joan and the diner. Wild eyes, messed up hair, hand inside her leather bag. Vicky thought—hoped, to be honest—that Joan would point the gun at Sara instead of her.

Sara cried, “I’m not going to take the blame for this.”

“Shut up, Sara. Just shut up.” Joan’s grip tightened and the gun poked deeper into Vicky’s face. The steel was hot. She’d been this terrified only once before, when she was a child, and back then she didn’t fully comprehend the possibility of actually dying.

Sara kept spewing, disgorging a fast, choppy stream of words. “She said she just wanted to give Rose a present, that she’s like her aunt, too”—she glanced at her sister— “since her brother was married to Rita.”

“Shut the hell up, Sara.” Joan’s low voice vibrated through the gun pressed against Vicky’s face.

“She told me to call her whenever she could see Rose alone.”

“Shut up, you goddam tweaker.” Joan’s growl sounded deadly.

“I never thought she’d take her! Honest, I didn’t!” Sara looked at Rita and shrieked, words rushing to escape. “I’m sorry! I freaked out. What was I supposed to do? Tell you I helped someone kidnap your kid?”

Sara pulled out a handgun. “You’re a blackmailing bitch!”

The instant Joan lifted her gun from Vicky’s face to aim at Sara, Vicky launched. She didn’t think but might have prayed. She heaved against Joan, ramming her with all her might. She grabbed the weapon and shoved it toward the sky.

Crack! Sara and half the crowd dropped to the ground screaming, “Shit!”

The blast of gunshot drove all thought from Vicky’s mind as she tangled in a twisting jumble of struggling arms and hands and bodies. Her injured leg screamed. She fought through deadened waves of throbbing sound and sensation.

“Her gun’s there, Sheriff,” said Sam. “You can let go, Vick. We’ve got her.”

Sheriff Linden, gun drawn, pushed Joan’s weapon away with his foot. Deputy Merrill handcuffed her, face down on the pavement. She screeched an ungodly noise, a fierce guttural sound.

“You okay?” Sam helped Vicky to her feet. “You okay, Vick?”

“I can barely hear you.” Vicky took a deep breath as she scanned her body. Everything hurt but no major new injuries. “Yay. I’m not dead. Is everyone okay? Did anyone get hit?”

“Looks like everyone’s all right.” Sam looked as though she couldn’t believe what just happened. Vicky suspected she had the same expression on her face.

Joan’s howls quieted to an eerily liquid, visceral moan. Vicky was reminded of a nature show that caught the sound of a zebra taken down by hyenas, its hindquarters being eaten while it kept trying to run.

Vicky took deep, calming yoga breaths. Breathing had never before been so wonderful. One more deep exhale, then she pointed to the back of the truck. “Sheriff, the toolbox. Check the toolbox. I think Rose is inside.”

Please, please let her be okay. Please God.

A rush of excited comments flowed through the crowd.

“She’s in there?” Sam squeezed Vicky’s shoulders. “Rose is in there?”

Rita rushed to the truck. “Rose? Rose?” Vicky and Sam put their arms around her and held her tight.

“Please, God, I think so, I hope so,” Vicky whispered. “Looked like Joan was leaving town. And it’s weird there’d be holes drilled in a toolbox like that.”

Without a word, Sheriff Linden reached in to lift the lid. It didn’t budge. He told Deputy Merrill, “Put Joan in my truck and get the bolt cutters. All you people, back up now.”

Another deputy pulled Sara toward the sheriff. Linden shackled her hands behind her as she twitched and jerked, futilely trying to yank away. Then the fight seeped out of her, her shoulders slumped, and she sobbed.

“What the hell, Sara?” Sam punched Sara’s shoulder. “How could you?”

Vicky leaned around Sam. “Sara. I’m glad you’re okay.” Vicky didn’t like asking in front of everyone, but who knows when she’d have another chance. “Why’d you help her?”

She didn’t really expect an answer, but words tumbled out of Sara’s mouth between fast, shallow breaths. “I’m not going to take the hit for this. She’s crazy. I’ll tell you and everyone else what happened.”

“Good. But Sara, you’re gonna need a lawyer.”

“After what I put my own sister through? And that poor kid? God, I hope she’s okay. I don’t care. I’ll tell everything.” Tears streamed down Sara’s face, mingling with the sweat from her forehead and the snot from her nose. “She said she had to make sure Rose wasn’t at some meeting, or she’d lose out on a lot of money.”

“Today’s meeting?”

“I don’t know! Shit. All this for a few bucks.”

“Well, this part’s over now.” Vicky reassured herself right along with Sara. “Things can still work out okay. Was Don helping Joan, too?”

Sam took a napkin from her apron and wiped Sara’s face. Sara didn’t seem to notice. “Don, that asshole. You can’t trust anything he says. He tells Joan stuff. She’s a blackmailer. She has shit on lots of people.”

Linden ordered the deputy holding Sara to put her in his unit. As he led her away, she cried, “I’m sorry, Rita! I didn’t know anything like this would happen.”

Rita turned away.

Merrill returned with a long metal tool and handed it to Linden, who ordered “Everybody back up.” Rita, Vicky, and Sam ignored him.

The sheriff hoisted himself onto the truck bed. Rita tried to climb up behind him. Linden said, “Please, Rita, wait.”

She sagged between Vicky and Sam. She cried softly. “Rose, my baby, please God.”

There were two large padlocks on the toolbox, which stretched the width of the pickup. Linden snapped the lock farthest from Vicky. Someone murmured, “Please, please, God please, let her be okay.” It took a moment to realize it was her own voice.

Several people screamed and the watching crowd jumped apart. Ruby rushed limping to the truck, snarling and barking, teeth snapping, sides heaving. Merrill and the other deputy pulled their guns. Sheriff Linden raised the bolt cutter like an axe.

“No! Don’t hurt her!” Several people—including Vicky—yelled at the officers. Ruby jumped, trying to get into the pickup bed, but fell back, growling, then barking furiously as she tried again. She was having trouble with her hind legs.

Poor Ruby looked fierce but confused, her owner nowhere in sight. Merrill talked quietly to the dog while the other deputy got a snare pole. Ruby calmed down until the noose was around her neck, then resumed barking and snarling while twisting frantically, trying to escape. The deputy walked her away from the truck.

There was an audible snap as Sheriff Linden cut the second lock. He glanced at Rita once before he slowly lifted the lid. His face hardened. He took a visibly deep breath, then reached in with both hands. A moment later, he looked up with a huge grin. “She’s here! She’s alive. Merrill, get an ambulance.”

His eyes reddened as he glanced at Rita. She shoved Vicky and Sam aside and climbed up onto the bed of the pickup, screaming, “Rose, thank God, Rose!”

Vicky didn’t even try to stop weeping. Linden lifted out a small child. Her head lolled back. She was unconscious, hands and feet duct-taped together.

The sheriff said again, “She’s alive,” as Rita sobbed and clutched her daughter.