Suddenly the driver’s door opened.
Chapter 19
Josie to the Rescue
“Cut it out!” His voice was still low, but heavy with fury.
I cowered from his rage.
“Comfort this flea-bitten mutt until I get back. One more sound and it’ll be your last.”
As a journalist, I couldn’t help but notice he was speaking in clichés. Were all bad guys idiots or did they mimic other villains in movies and television shows—heck, even Saturday morning cartoons—and then come back ready to try them out on their own victims?
When I wrote about this event, and by God I was going to . . . Forget feeling afraid. Forget allowing this estúpido gringo, as Senora Mari would say on a very bad day when the butcher from Alpine tried to deliver bad fish, to control my life and stink it up and make me and my family sick with grief and suffering.
I gave myself a mental slap. Now who was being melodramatic?
Frank dangled Lenny inside the door and my heart leapt. I pushed and shoved the boxes away, reaching for him. He needed me, to feel my arms around his quaking body.
“Psych.” He chuckled low and smarmy. “You ain’t getting him back until I’m good and ready.” Quietly he closed the door and locked it.
“Yip, yip, yip,” Lenny complained from the other side of the door.
I counted to thirty and then tried the driver’s door. Nothing. What had he done to make it impossible to get out? Could you install a child safety lock on the driver’s door? Doubtful. If he could set up a fireworks display and figure out how to kill someone with a stun gun and an extension cord, then this jackalope could keep the door from opening on the inside.
I banged my head on the driver’s headrest. When would he monologue? Weren’t villains supposed to start monologuing? Giving the good guys a chance to get away or talk them out of it? Or something?
My vision narrowed to hyper focus. I turned on the flashlight, praying someone would see it, but it glowed only dimly. The front of the van was parked away from the crowd. No way would they be able to see the light inside even if the full cabin lights were on.
Why? Why had Frank Fillmore, Aunt Linda’s prom date, killed Lucky Straw? I couldn’t imagine the frustration and despair he must have felt to watch his wife die without the proper care. But why would you do something criminal if you had proof that you would be caught, tried, and relocated to death row?
My arms and legs, even my lungs, were heavy from the long ordeal. My heart was slowing. Adrenaline was wearing off. Not good. Not going to help my flight instinct.
“Ugh.” I slapped both hands to my forehead, and I did it another eight times for good measure. I had a cell phone somewhere in the back of this van. With the help of the dying flashlight, I found the battery and finally the rest of it. The battery slipped into place. Hallelujah!
I crawled through the cargo, fireworks explosives, and crates full of sparklers, watching my screen for any change in service. I stood, neck and shoulders bent, moving the phone like a divining rod. If there was service in one micro inch of this van, I was going to find it.
Did I mention I prayed? I do that. And not just when I’m in trouble. Though to be honest, more fervently when I’m in trouble.
After minutes that felt like hours, I slumped back into the driver’s seat. I was going to have to go for it. This loser was going to kill Lenny if I didn’t get out of there. Heck, if I didn’t get out of there, he was going to hurt us both. My heart dropped to my socks. If I escaped he might not just hurt my friend. He might do much more.
The screen on my phone flickered to life. I had one bar. I sat up straight and unlocked the screen. The bar disappeared. I held my breath. I slumped back into the seat, and sure enough, the bar came back. I dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one Emergency Services Big Bend County. What’s your emergency?”
“I’m being held against my will in a white fireworks van at the county fairgrounds near the fireworks platform.” I took a breath and realized that my voice sounded thin and reedy. The bar had disappeared. NO SERVICE displayed quietly on my screen.
I exploded into action, hitting the driver’s side window with full force. I screamed like a banshee. I threw my weight into it. My shoulder ached and lactic acid began building in my underused biceps muscle and still I slammed the light into the window.
I stopped and inspected my flashlight. The lamp cover was dented in several places, but the lamp itself was intact. I was going to get out of this piece of junk. Now.
I turned the flashlight off and found a crate I could haul into the front seat. Ridiculous. I couldn’t hit the window with a crate full of fuses. I reached for the stun gun. Gone. No wonder I could sit and maneuver without feeling the ripping and pinching of the stun gun in my front pocket.
I went back into the cargo bay with my wounded flashlight until I located a gorgeous tire iron, the old kind actually fashioned out of iron. I grabbed the remaining two stun guns and turned one on. Nothing. No charge. I flew back into the front seat and began hacking at the window with the tire iron. I swung and swung until with a pop the window cracked.
Success. I changed hands to give my
