Nothing.
This is what came from not working out. This was what came from missing your walk for thirty more minutes of sleeping. I kicked with both feet a few more times, my long-lost adrenaline surging back to the fore. Suddenly, my right boot heel went all the way through the upper right-hand side of the cracked pane of splintered glass.
I nearly screamed with relief until I suddenly remembered Frank.
I moved my boots to the left side of the window and kicked like a mule on speed. The window released from its moorings and fell out onto the grassy scrub beyond. Quickly I reached out of the hole where a window had once been and tried the handle. It was locked. Small shards of glass littered the window seal, but my gut told me I had seconds to spare. My gaze landed on the floorboard and I knew I hadn’t misjudged the opportunity. I grabbed the floor mat and stuck it through the opening.
I had my legs through the window opening when it dawned on me my curves might get stuck. Had dancing made me flexible enough? Too late to find out.
I grabbed onto the upper window seal, too late feeling a sting in my palm. I hefted myself up, threw my head back, and slid into the opening. Now my feet dangled out the window, my, uh, curves sliding slowly, ever so slowly, downward toward the ground. The floor mat was moving with me until I felt it fall out the window below me.
My breath squashed out of my lungs and for a few scary moments I just knew I would hang there by my, uh, bra for eternity. My head thrown back. My legs dangling above the ground. Bent backwards like a wilted prawn.
Desperate to not be caught by the nutjob while I was hanging out the van window, I changed the position of my hands and surged through. I hit my back on the door handle on the way down. I fell to the ground in a puddle of relief. Despite my own heavy breathing, I heard footsteps in the scrub somewhere to my right. I slithered to the ground and rolled underneath the van. My back throbbed where I’d hit it and my palms smarted. The Maglite was still in the van. My only weapon. The stun gun too.
I inched away, slowly. The steps grew closer and came to a halt inches from my nose. I lifted my hand and felt for my phone in my back pocket. It was still there. Yes! Thank you, God!
The steps began again, rounding the van to the other side. I inched back to the other side. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and the fireworks and in the distance the glow of flashlights and battery-operated lanterns. The footsteps stopped. They dropped to one knee. I tucked my head and slithered to the back of the van like a salamander.
“Josie,” he whispered.
I made it to the edge of the undercarriage and skedaddled out from under the van far enough to bang my head on the bumper.
I hissed and rubbed my head as stars added to the rockets still bursting in the sky above. Before I knew it, he was on me. He grabbed me by the arm.
“Let me go, you turd!”
“Josie! Be quiet! It’s me.”
My vision cleared. It wasn’t Frank the freak fireworks guy who had my dog. It was Lightfoot. Strong, dependable, Detective Quinton Lightfoot.
Chapter 20
On the Trail
Those nasty tears—caused only by adrenaline—trickled down my face once again, and I silently cursed them and wiped them away. “How’d you know where to find me?”
Lightfoot watched me closely. “You called Patti and she called nine-one-one.”
“But I swear I didn’t. I barely managed to dial nine-one-one.” My voice came out high and screechy. “I called her on my way here, but she didn’t answer.”
Keeping a careful eye on me, he slowly surveyed the scrub around us. “You can thank your pants. They dialed for you.”
“But how did she know where to find me?” I grabbed his arm.
“Breathe.” He placed his hand briefly over mine. “You told her you would be here tonight with your family.”
“Oh, my God.” Suddenly I felt light-headed. “Give me a minute to catch my breath.” I was taking deep lungfuls of air and thanking God that he blessed my cell phone connection. I must have looked as overwhelmed as I felt.
“Senora Mari was out in the parking area when I arrived.” He took my arm. “Steady. Don’t rush off. Take your time.”
I wanted to scream with anger. “He wouldn’t let me out of that stupid van!” I began to cry in earnest. I refused to look at him. I didn’t want to see his reaction to Josie Callahan, reporter, losing it.
He let go of my arm and put his arm around my shoulders.
Any second, I was going to pull myself back together and go and find Lenny. Lightfoot’s arm was so steady, so . . . there. I turned into his chest, laid my head on his shoulder.
“Uh, Josie?”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t move. I just needed to stand there with my head against his chest and share his strength.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I will be. Give me a minute.”
It was time to go if I could just clear my head. “Quint?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you mind putting your arms around me for a minute?”
I couldn’t take it back. And I was too overwrought to be embarrassed. I was thinking that I might need to apologize if I’d embarrassed him
