raspy. A smoker’s voice. North Jersey accent. Newark, Jersey City, Elizabeth.
“No,” I said. “I’m not going into the store.”
“I need some help here,” the guy with the gun said. “We need to persuade Miss Plum to cooperate.”
A second man stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing the requisite ski mask and coveralls. He was taller and heavier. He was shaking a canister of pepper spray. Showing me he knew to make sure the gas is live.
I opened my mouth to scream and was hit with the spray. I felt it suck back to my throat and burn, felt my throat close over. I went down hard to my knees and choked, unable to see, closing my eyes tight to the searing pain, blinded by the spray.
Hands grabbed at me, digging into my jacket, dragging me forward over the doorstep, down the hall. I was thrown to the linoleum at the back of the store, knocking into a teary blur of wall and booth, still unable to catch my breath.
The hands were at me again, wrenching my jacket over my shoulders to form a makeshift straitjacket, binding my arms behind my back and tearing my shirt in the process. I gasped for air and tried to control the fear, tried to ignore the manhandling while I fought the pepper spray. It’ll pass, I told myself. You’ve seen people sprayed before. It passes. Don’t panic.
They moved off. Waiting for me to come around. I blinked to see. Three large shapes in the dark. I assumed they were men in ski masks and coveralls.
One of them flashed a penlight in my eyes. “Bet you’re not feeling so brave anymore,” he said.
I adjusted my jacket and tried to stand but wasn’t able to get farther than hands and knees. My nose was running, dripping onto the floor, mixing with drool and tears. My breathing was still shallow, but the earlier panic had passed.
“What’s it take?” Jersey City asked me. “We tried to warn you away. We tried to compensate you. Nothing works with you. We’re out here trying to do a good deed, and you’re being a real pain in the behind.”
“Just doing my job,” I managed.
“Yeah, well, do your job someplace else.”
A match flared in the dark store. It was Jersey City lighting up. He sucked smoke deep into his lungs, let it curl out from his nose. I was still on hands and knees, and the man swooped down and held the glowing tip of the cigarette to the back of my hand. I yelped and jerked my hand away.
“This is just the start,” Jersey City said. “We’re going to burn you in places that are a lot more painful than the back of your hand. And when we’re done you’re not going to want to tell anyone about it. And you’re not going to want to go chasing after Mo anymore. And if you do…we’re going to come get you and burn you again. And then maybe we’ll kill you.”
A door slammed somewhere far off and footsteps sounded on the pavement behind the store. There was an instant of silence while we all listened. And then the back door was opened wide and a shrill voice called into the darkness. “What’s going on here?”
It was Mrs. Steeger. Any other time Mrs. Steeger would call the police. Tonight she decided to investigate on her own. Go figure.
“Run!” I yelled to Mrs. Steeger. “Call the police!”
“Stephanie Plum!” Mrs. Steeger said. “I might have known. You come out this instant.”
A beam of light played across Mo’s backyard. “Who’s there?” another voice called. “Mrs. Steeger? Is that you in Mo’s backyard?”
Dorothy Rostowski.
A car parked at the curb. Headlights blinked off. The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Shit,” Jersey City said. “Let’s get out of here.” He got down on one knee and put his face close to mine. “Get smart,” he said. “Because next time we’ll make sure nobody saves you.”
James Bond would have shown disdain with a clever remark. Indiana Jones would have sneered and said something snotty. The best I could come up with was, “Oh yeah?”
There was scuffling at the back door and some frightened exclamations from Dorothy and Mrs. Steeger.
I dragged myself to my feet and leaned against a booth for support. I was sweating and shivering, and my nose was still running. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and realized my shirt was open and my Levi’s were unzipped. I sucked in some air and clenched my teeth. “Damn.”
Another deep breath. Come on, Stephanie, get it together. Get yourself dressed and get out there to check on Dorothy and Mrs. Steeger.
I tugged at my jeans, putting a shaking hand to the zipper. My eyes were still watering, and saliva was still pooling in my mouth and I couldn’t get the zipper to slide easily. I burst into tears and gave my nose another vicious swipe with my sleeve.
I gathered my shirt together with one hand and lurched toward the back door. Dorothy was standing, arms crossed over her chest. Self-protective. Mrs. Steeger was sitting on the ground. A man squatted in front of her, talking to her. He helped her to her feet and turned to look when I appeared in the doorway. Morelli. Wouldn’t you know it.
Morelli raised questioning eyebrows.
“Not now,” I said.
I backed up a few paces and sidestepped into the bathroom. I flicked the light on and locked the door. I looked at myself in the rust-rimmed mirror over the sink. Not a pretty sight. I used half a roll of toilet paper to blow my nose. I splashed water on my face and hand and buttoned my shirt. Two of the buttons were missing, but they weren’t crucial to modesty.
