“Yes,” she said, but I could see the lie in her eyes.
I picked up a stone the size of a quarter and aimed at her head.
“Okay, I did,” she said, catching my intent. Where was my tape recorder when I needed it? “Bob wanted a bigger cut of the money after he killed Kent. He became a serious liability.”
Unbelievable! This woman had set-up a real robbery and a fake one, with the intention of leaving all her partners in crime for the lynch mob-Tony, Bob, and Kent.
“You killed Tony?”
“He found out what I was up to. He broke into my house. It was him or me.”
I shook my head. Maybe I should let her take her chances in the Escanaba River. My Barney hadn’t deserved to die at its hands, but I didn’t feel the same conviction about her. The woman was pure evil.
“Who attacked the trailer and hurt Kitty?” I wanted to know.
“That wasn’t me.” She said it like that made all the difference in the world. At long last there was a malicious, violent act that couldn’t be attributed to Shirley. “That was the Orange Gang.”
“Why would the gang care about us? The Trouble Busters weren’t involved.”
She did that eye thing again.
“You told them we had the money,” I said “Didn’t you?”
Shirley didn’t answer, but I knew I was right. I watched another car approaching, kicking dust up in its wake. I would flag it down and ask for help. I stared down at the package of money, before moving back and letting Shirley struggle up. I had a fistful of small stones in my other hand in case she came at me.
“You’re going to tell the truth when it comes time,” I said. “No more lies.”
She looked down the road. “Oh Gawd,” she said, staring in terror at the oncoming car. When my eyes darted to see what was up, she broke into a run heading in the opposite direction. Even with my running shoes on, I wouldn’t catch her. But I had a plausible story and the package of money that had been delivered under her name. That didn’t seem like as much evidence as I’d originally thought it was, but it was better than nothing.
Why hadn’t Shirley fought me for the money? It was as if she’d forgotten all about it.
Then I heard the approaching car’s bad muffler.
The Orange Gang had found us.
Chapter 35
SHIRLEY RAN AROUND THE SIDE of the embankment, scrambling for the best way down to the river without breaking her neck. My reflexes weren’t quite as fast, so the Orange Gang got me before I even made it off the road.
Bob’s brother shoved me against the Caddy while the other two chased Shirley. I’d hidden the package down the front of my pants where it slid sideway, the edge jabbing me in the crotch. The gun in the punk’s hand worried me more than a little physical discomfort. I’d also managed to pick up a few stones.
It was the best I could do. I used to have an arsenal of weapons. That was before the truck pitched from the cliff. Stones would have to do.
Based on the size of this guy’s head though, the stones would be about as effective as raindrops.
“Where is it?” he said.
I knew better than to say, where’s what? His eyes were cold like those of a bottom-feeding fish. “I threw it over the edge,” I said.
I heard Shirley scream. A gun shot pierced the air below and I wondered if it had struck its target.
This whole country seems to think a handgun is more accurate than it really is. Unless you’re a sharpshooter, with hours of practice under your belt, you’ll discover that a moving target is hard to hit. A shooter’s experience and the gun’s accuracy have to be in perfect synch.
Common criminals like these dopes buy cheap guns to go with their small brains. My guy carried a Saturday night special that had less fire power and accuracy than Grandma Johnson’s pathetic pistol.
So I took a chance. When my captor went to the railing to scan for the money and the source of the last shot, I clocked him in the head with my largest stone. I have a decent arm considering all the years we’d had stone- skipping contests at this very river. I heard the thunk of it striking his head at the same time that he fired wildly in my direction.
At first, I didn’t feel a thing. Then my left arm gave a shout of pain. Blood drops plopped on the ground beside me, while I stared at them in disbelief. A random careless shot and it had struck me?
Bob’s brother dropped to his knees, holding his eye where the stone had made a direct connection with his eyeball. I ran around to the other side of the Caddy. The punk raised his gun, squinting in my direction.
I needed a giant rock. Or a passing car. Or something. The next shot from him hit the Caddy and blew out a window. A zillion bits of shattered glass rained down on my head. I spotted a few loose chunks of concrete where Tony had bashed out the railing when he’d gone over.
The Orange punk was wobbling on his feet. If I didn’t hurry, his tiny mind might clear. My second shot with the clump of hardened cement missed completely, partial due to the pain in my injured arm. The third one hit its mark but didn’t have enough velocity to do any harm. I didn’t have any more fight left in me. I thought I was doomed, as I watched the chunk of concrete graze his thick arm.
Then his gun discharged. He screamed.
I’ve never seen anyone really shoot himself in the foot before, but it was a wonderful sight to behold. He hopped around while I assessed the hole in my arm and the amount of blood hitting the road. In the end it might turn out to be a flesh wound, but the amount of blood I was losing scared me almost to death.
The Cadillac driver had messed up big time, thinking he and his boys were infallible. He’d left the keys in the ignition. So while the big bad guy whimpered and nursed his little footsy, I started the car and drove off.
Let them figure out how to escape this one on foot.
A mile down the road, I passed Dickey and George. Dickey was driving. I had to turn the big boat Caddy around and chase them. Then I had to almost run our acting sheriff off the road to get his attention.
Once I got it and we were pulled over to the side, George noticed my lifeblood draining out and talked Dickey into putting down the weapon he had trained on me.
“Follow me to the bridge,” I shouted from the driver’s seat, one arm in the air in surrender, the other sopping with blood. “Wait until you see what’s happening there.”
George tried to stop me, yelling that he’d drive, but I didn’t feel I had time to play musical chairs, so I took off. They followed.
The Orange Gang punk was waiting for his partners on the side of the road, right where I’d left him, still cradling his foot. For once, Dickey had the opportunity to draw on somebody other than me. He handcuffed the creep to the Caddy bumper.
George bandaged my arm while we waited for reinforcements and an ambulance. We didn’t see Shirley or the other gang members from where we stood. Several hours later, they pulled Shirley out of the Escanaba River, where she was shriveled up from the cold water, but still alive.
It turned out that the bad guys couldn’t swim, so she weathered it out in the cold water, while the Orange Gang ran up and down the shoreline, taking pot shots at her.
And last, but not least, I pulled the package containing the hundred thousand dollars out of the front of my pants and presented it to Dickey, who took all the credit for recovering it when the news trucks showed up that evening at the jail.
I don’t remember much about the ride into the Escanaba hospital. I recall the stretcher and strong arms securing me with straps. The loss of blood must have made me woozy, but I have a vivid image of George in the back of the ambulance with me, holding my hand and whispering comforting words.
Barney was there, too.
My husband had watched from the sidelines while the ambulance people worked, preparing me for the trip into Escanaba. He had a loving smile on my face and at first I thought he was happy because I was finally joining him wherever he was.
But he shook his head at that. “It’s not time yet,” he said. “It’s going to take more than a shot in the arm to do
