Tail Spin

“Abercrombie, Mrs. Flint. No, I’m not an agent. I’m happy to report that Agent Crowne is asleep. Ah, do you know where I can find Tip Top Overhaul?”

She walked straight to the car repair two blocks over on Long Neck Lane, set off by itself, the big lot in the back closed in by a high chain-link fence. Only one person was around, a youngish guy wearing a tatty T-shirt, jeans, and black sneakers, and he was sitting on a folding chair, back chair legs against the wall in the single garage bay, chewing gum and flipping through a tattered old Playboy.

Playboy. Now that was good, that was really quite hopeful, Rachael thought as she stepped over an ancient radiator and into the dim space. When he looked up, she nearly turned and ran. She recognized him straight off—Roy Bob Lancer. He’d been a senior when she was twelve, captain of the football team. He blinked up at her, and blessed be, there wasn’t a hint of recognition in his eyes. It was obvious he didn’t remember the skinny twelve-year-old with braces.

Rachael gave him a smile designed to curl his toes and churn up lust in his belly, and prayed to the tight sweater gods. “I wonder if you towed my car in, Mr....”

He lunged to his feet. “Lancer, ma’am, it’s Roy Bob Lancer. Ah, you’re the Charger?”

“Yes, but I don’t see it.” She gave him another blinding smile.

“It’s out back, ma’am, all safe and sound.”

“Do call me Rachael. And I’ll call you Roy Bob.” Another toothy smile. “If I knew anything about fuel pumps, and indeed I don’t, I’m going to need you to fix it or replace it for me,” and she kept that delicious smile on her face, her shoulders back, breasts forward. “You’re the expert, everyone says so. And you’re honest, that’s what the sheriff says, and the dispatcher. So, what do you think?”

“Well, ma’am, I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet. I’m all backed up, you know?” Roy Bob quickly dropped the Playboy and toed it beneath an open toolbox. He looked back at the most beautiful girl he’d seen up close since Ellie had waltzed out on him nearly four months ago, off to the big city of Waynesboro where her cousins lived, she’d said, with a little wave. Rachael was giving him a helpless look that made him want to lay the world at her feet, but what could he do? Agent Savich was an FBI special agent, and it was Roy Bob’s duty not—

“You know what, Roy Bob? In addition to paying for your services, I’d sure like to add my own personal thank you with a cup of coffee over at Monk’s Cafe, or maybe even a drink somewhere—you know, a cozy little out-of- the-way place?”

He glowed, but then, he was shaking his head. “Oh yeah, well, no, shit—forgive my French— I’d sure like that, ma’am, you know, a beer, but I’m so dratted busy right now.” He waved his hand around.

Yeah, right. Savich had indeed gotten to him. It was time to find another mechanic. No, she would give it one more try.

“Listen, Roy Bob, I’ve got a super important deal I can’t miss up in Cleveland. I’ve got to leave as soon as possible. Maybe you and I could work something out, maybe—”

A loud bang sliced through the air near her shoulder, ricocheted off a tire rim, and thudded into an oil can, spewing 10/40 in a fountain. Another bang, this one sharp and loud, gouged into the wall a foot over their heads. TEN

“Hey—what was that?”

Rachael grabbed Roy Bob’s arm and pulled him down behind a stack of old tires. “It was a bullet. Stay down, someone’s shooting at us.”

“Nah, that can’t be, I mean, who—”

Another two shots slammed into the wall behind their heads.

“Holy shit—pardon my Irish—you’re right, but why? Who would do that?”

“I don’t know.” But of course she did. They’d discovered she wasn’t dead. But how? “Roy Bob, you got a phone in your office?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Don’t move.”

She managed to look around the side of the tires through the glass into his small office, saw the black phone on his banged-up desk, the door not more than six feet away. Still, she pulled out her cell first, dialed 911.

No signal.

“Listen, Rachael—”

A bullet sank into an old car seat hooked to the wall beside his head. He ducked back down fast. “Oh man, what’s this all about? You FBI, too, Rachael, and someone’s after you?”

“Roy Bob, I’ve got to get to your phone.”

“No, look, I’ll go.” He eased up enough to peer around the tires.

The next bullet struck a support column two feet from his head, spewing concrete shards and thick gritty dust. One spear of concrete sliced Roy Bob’s upper arm, and he yelped.

“Stay down, Roy Bob. I don’t suppose you have a gun?”

“Sure, my daddy’s old Remington. It’s propped up behind my desk against the wall, right under his favorite calendar. No, wait! I’ll get it, I’ll shoot this idiot’s head off—”

He paled, grabbed his arm, and fell onto his side, gasping.

“Tell me it’s loaded.”

“Yeah, yeah, two bullets.” No time, she thought, no time. Even if someone had heard the shots and called the sheriff—there just wasn’t time. They’d both be long dead. The only reason they were still alive was because the shooter simply hadn’t walked in and mowed them down. Why? Maybe he’d been warned she might have a gun with her. And she wondered again whether they’d checked to see the block of cement didn’t have her attached to it at the bottom of Black Rock Lake. No matter, someone had seen her, simple as that. But how had they found her, and so quickly? Get a grip, they knew she was here and they wanted her dead. She had to hurry. “You stay here, Roy Bob. Keep pressure on your arm, and keep down. Don’t give him a target.”

Both of them would be slaughtered if she didn’t do something fast. Before she could second-guess herself, Rachael crawled behind an ancient mop bucket, a stack of oil filters. Nearly there. She rolled through the open door into the office. A shot rang out, not a foot above her head, sending splinters flying out of the door frame. The shooter was firing from directly behind her, and that meant he was right in the middle of the bay opening. They were down to seconds. She felt rage shoulder aside fear. She rolled between the wall and Roy Bob’s desk, came up to her knees, grabbed the Remington, identical to her uncle Gillette’s that she’d learned on, and slammed down on her stomach onto the dirty linoleum as two more shots sprayed dust and clumps of Sheetrock over her head. Rachael jumped up, pumped it once, and fired toward the bay opening. She heard a man yell, curse.

Got him. She felt powerful, invincible in that moment. She shouted, “Drop that gun and step out where I can see you or I’ll shoot your head off!”

She heard heavy running footsteps. She scrambled to her feet, ran to the bay opening, saw him rounding a corner, and fired again. She missed, but it was close. The footsteps faded into the distance. Rachael ran after the man, saw him get into a black Ford pickup and burn rubber onto the street. She started to run after him, but realized there weren’t any more bullets in the Remington, and he might see her in the rearview and decide to stop and have another go at her. She lowered the rifle, a fierce smile on her face. She’d forgotten what it was like to feel strong and in control.

How had they found her so quickly?

“By gawd, ma’am, that was good, real good. You got the sumbitch—pardon my Italian—I saw a brief glimpse of him holding his sorry arm and running away as fast as he could.”

“Call me Rachael,” she said as she ran to Roy Bob’s phone and dialed 911. The dispatcher Mort asked her to state her emergency. She nearly laughed. She sucked it in and asked for Agent Savich. He wasn’t there ... wait a minute, he and the sheriff just walked in.

“Hello? Savich here.”

Rachael shouted into the phone, “A guy tried to kill us! Roy Bob’s place, hurry!”

When Sheriff Hollyfield, Savich, and Sherlock came running, every deputy in Parlow racing behind them, she yelled, “He’s in a black Ford pickup—that way! The first three letters on his license plate are F-T-E!” She wanted to go with them, but the last thing they needed was to haul along a civilian with an empty Remington. It was hard, but she stood still and watched them take off after him.

Sheriff Hollyfield yelled, “I saw that wuss car you’re driving. Take my Chevy, it’ll get you anywhere,” and he