Peabody regretted making such a bold statement in front of Inga. But he had, and now he must live up to it.
He surveyed his surroundings and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He was in a stable, complete with a gassy old horse. The hayloft where he had slept last night was fairly comfortable, but the foul-and quite audible-emissions from the horse’s hind end had wreaked havoc with his sinuses. All things considered, however, he had been fortunate to stumble across a structure this accommodating. After all, he was a fugitive now. A wanted man. An escapee. He thought it sounded quite romantic, actually, and wondered if Inga, wherever she was at the moment, was impressed with his new status. Perhaps he would become a man of some renown, like Robin Hood or one of the Three Musketeers. A hero for the common man; a strident force for good in the battle against evil.
He let loose a violent sneeze, which brought him back to reality. He’d have to contemplate his place in folklore later, after he found a way out of his current predicament. He was filthy and hungry, a forlorn soul straight out of a Dickens novel.
Peabody carefully descended the ladder from the hayloft. The horse stared from its stall with unconcerned eyes and broke wind. Peabody scowled at the horse, got no noticeable response, and was thankful the neighboring stall was empty: Twice the gas would certainly make the stable uninhabitable.
The only other structure in the stable was a small closet in one corner. Peeking in, Peabody saw a saddle hanging on the wall and a pair of rough-woven blankets on a shelf. There were also a couple of brushes and several oddly shaped metal implements-items that had something to do with riding this malodorous beast, Peabody assumed. No hand tools to be seen.
Even if he found some sort of useful tool, how was he to operate it? This quandary would require quite a bit of thought, he knew. But never fear: The brain is the most powerful tool of all, and he owned a dexterous one.
Weighing his options, Peabody turned to the peculiar contraption squatting just inside the stable doors. It looked like a golf cart on steroids, with four large knobby tires and HONDA painted on what seemed to be the gas tank. Not quite a motorcycle, but related to one. Peabody had no experience with such vehicles. Unfortunately, it appeared that he would have to look elsewhere for salvation.
Peabody strode to the wooden double doors of the stable and peered outside. Just a few minutes past sunrise, he surmised. Forty yards away stood a shambling old house with a rusty truck parked in front.
Then he heard a noise, the low growl of a motor. A few seconds later, another truck, a newer model, bounced its way up the driveway and stopped next to the first. A lanky gentleman in overalls and no undershirt climbed out and proceeded into the house.
Peabody was nervous now. He eased the door closed and focused on the decision at hand: Should he try to slip away undetected, or wait until the occupants of the house left the vicinity? Peabody was pondering the possibilities when the choice was made for him.
He heard two voices coming his way-a man and a woman, giggling. Peabody quickly scrambled back up the ladder into the hayloft, finding refuge just as the door to the stable swung open.
“-and we could get caught,” the woman said. “Frank is sleeping right on the couch.”
“I got news for ya, sugar. He ain’t sleepin’, he’s passed out.”
“Well, we gotta be quiet, you hear?”
More giggling followed, finally replaced by a lustful moaning. Peabody chanced a cautious peek over a bale of hay and saw two figures-the man in overalls and a brunette in a long nightshirt-kissing passionately. Peabody watched as the man clumsily fondled the woman’s breasts through her nightshirt.
The woman pulled free, gave a coy smile, then tugged the shirt over her head.
Ogling the woman with all the subtlety of a dog eyeing a pork chop, the man let his overalls fall to his feet. “Come to Daddy,” he said.
Peabody almost chuckled out loud. Surely the woman would be offended by such a crass come-on. The woman responded by jumping into the man’s arms, her legs wrapped around his torso.
The man shuffled toward a wall, the woman slid into place, and now they were coupling with remarkable vigor.
Peabody noticed that his own breathing had become rapid and shallow. Well, that was understandable. He was on the run and these people could possibly catch him. That’s what accounted for the changes in his respiratory patterns. It certainly wasn’t due to the tawdry scene unfolding before him. He was of too high a moral fiber to be seduced by the sight of two rednecks copulating like barnyard animals.
Peabody decided it was beneath his dignity to watch the whole sordid affair, so he quietly eased back and settled into the hay. A few grunts later, an idea struck him. These frolicking fornicators could be his ticket to freedom!
He peeked at the couple again, and it appeared they would be at it for quite some time. The woman’s eyes were closed and the man was facing the wall. Perfect. Ever so stealthily, Peabody made his way to the ladder and began a painstakingly slow descent. This was the vulnerable point. If the woman opened her eyes now, she would scream in terror and all would be lost. But she continued with her moaning, calling out, “Bubba, oh, Bubba.”
Peabody reached the ground, tiptoed over to her nightshirt, scooped it up, and scampered back up the ladder. The handcuffs rattled against the ladder a few times, but that was irrelevant at this point. He already had what he needed, and besides, the couple was still oblivious to his presence.
After ten more minutes, the couple finally reached a grunting, squealing crescendo. Peabody had decided letting them finish was merely the polite thing to do; he certainly had no voyeuristic interest in the event. The man-named Bubba, apparently-sagged forehead-first against the wall as the woman lowered her feet and stood on her own. She glanced over Bubba’s shoulder and said, “Where’s my nightgown?”
Bubba, in his postcoital bliss, didn’t reply.
The woman smacked him on the arm and asked him again.
“Right up here,” Peabody called.
He had never seen two people so startled. The man quickly tugged his overalls back up his torso while the woman cowered behind him. “Who the hell are you?” Bubba growled, glaring up at Peabody.
“There’s no time for that,” Peabody replied. “I’m afraid I’m in need of some assistance.”
They both gaped at him for a moment with all the intelligence of sheep suffering from heatstroke. Finally, Bubba said, “Mister, are you plumb out of your mind? What the hell are you doing hidin’ up in that loft?”
Peabody summoned his patience. “As I said, I’m in need of a favor.” He raised his arms so they could see the handcuffs. “Once you’ve helped me out of my current difficulties, I’ll gladly return the nightshirt.”
Bubba stared at Peabody as if he had just landed a spaceship on Main Street. “What the hell? You kidding me? Throw that goddamn nightgown down here or I’ll whup your ass for ya.”
But Bubba wasn’t listening anymore, he was moving toward the ladder, muttering obscenities along way.
Before Bubba’s feet hit the first rung, Peabody called out, “Frank! Hey, Frank!”
Bubba froze. “Shut the hell up, will ya! Goddamn, you tryin’ to get us all kilt?”
Peabody smiled. “No, actually, I had something quite different in mind. But it will require some sort of cutting implement.”
Five minutes later, Bubba returned with a pair of ratchet-action bolt cutters, scavenged from the cuckolded Frank’s toolshed. Peabody instructed the woman to climb up to the loft with the tool. Bubba started to object, but by then all the fight had gone out of him. He was nervously looking over his shoulder, just wishing to bring the ordeal to an end.
The woman did as she was told, bashfully climbing the ladder stark naked while trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. She failed miserably.
While Peabody attempted to conceal his perusal of her body, she pumped the handles of the bolt cutter and
