Gone in a Flash (8 page)

‘That new black-and-white-striped tee with black leggings and that new red mini,’ Alicia said.

‘Oh, that’ll look good,’ Bess said. ‘I’m thinking about that tie-dye maxi with the blue shrug.’

‘I’m going old skool,’ Megan said. ‘Jeans and a tee. Probably the one from that Taylor Swift concert.’

‘Can’t,’ said Alicia, heading out the door. ‘New rule: no tees that advertise anything, even bands, etc.’

‘Well, that sucks!’ Megan said.

‘Tell me about it,’ Alicia said as she headed down the stairs, followed by her sisters.

The girls found their parents in the kitchen: Willis at the stove stirring a pot and E.J. at the bar, cutting veggies for a salad.

‘What do you have there, Dad?’ Alicia asked. She still felt a little uncomfortable calling him that, after the drama of the summer when Willis had left E.J. and Alicia had found out it was partially her fault, but now he seemed to preen every time she called him dad, so she figured it was all good.

‘My two-alarm chili, without beans, of course, and a small batch of no alarm for the ladies,’ Willis said.

‘I guess I’m no lady,’ Megan said. ‘Bring on the two-alarm for me!’

‘You know, Dad,’ Bess said, taking the plates from Alicia, who had pulled them down from a cupboard that was too high for Bess to reach, ‘it’s now three against two, what with Graham off at college. The small batch should be the two-alarm, not the no alarm.’

‘She’s got a point, Willis,’ E.J. said.

‘Who eats seconds around here? AND takes leftovers to work for lunch? Me, that’s who!’ Willis said. ‘The big batch will, as always, remain two-alarm. Thank you very much,’ he finished with a bow.

Megan applauded.

‘Megan, use your hands for something more useful – like setting the table,’ her mother suggested.

‘They’ve got it taken care of,’ she said, head-pointing at her sisters.

‘We need napkins, or really a whole roll of paper towels. This is going to get messy,’ Alicia said. ‘And pour drinks, please.’

‘Jeez, you’re needy! And bossy!’ Megan said, but set about doing her chores.

By the end of the meal they all agreed that their respective chilies had been great, even though there might have been a bit more heat than advertised in the no-alarm chili. The salad and the plate of fruit dealt with that successfully.

The girls were cleaning the kitchen and arguing when the front doorbell rang. E.J. and Willis went to the front of the house and all three girls looked at each other.

‘That’s him, I bet!’ Megan stage-whispered.

‘Should we go in now?’ Bess whispered back.

‘Maybe we should wait until they call us in,’ Alicia whispered.

So the three dried their hands and stood in the kitchen, waiting. They could hear talk from the living room – mostly two male voices, their dad’s and another man’s – with an occasional female laugh. Then they distinctly heard their mother say, ‘I’ll just go get them.’ And in she came. ‘The police chief is here to get your statements about that white car,’ she said.

The girls nodded and walked single file into the living room, like stair steps going up – first Bess, then Alicia, with Megan at the end.

Willis and the man were both standing up. ‘Girls, this is police chief Barry Donaldson. Barry, my daughters, Bess, Alicia and Megan.’

The chief was shorter than their father, maybe just six foot, with snow-white hair and skin darkened by years in the sun. He was just a little overweight, mostly in the stomach, but still wore his uniform well. He had bright blue eyes that sparkled.

‘Ladies,’ he said, and bowed slightly. ‘Why don’t y’all have a seat while I ask a couple of questions.’

They all sat down on the long part of the sectional sofa, with Willis and E.J. taking up one end and the chief the other.

Chief: ‘Now when did y’all first notice this car following you?’

Bess: ‘I was driving and I noticed the car pulling out of our street as we left, but didn’t really pay any attention. I noticed it because there aren’t any white cars on our street.’

Chief: ‘And when was the next time you noticed it?’

Bess: ‘We were talking, you know? So I wasn’t really paying attention until we pulled into the shopping center. I saw the car behind us and it didn’t really mean much at the time, but I’d pulled into the wrong driveway – the theater is the second driveway not the first, and I had to go all around Kohl’s and Academy to get to the Metroplex and, when I found a parking place, I saw that car again. It was right behind us.’

Alicia: ‘She called it to our attention, and Megan and I both looked and it looked like the two men Mrs Luna had described the day before.’

Chief: ‘Dark hair, swarthy complexions. Is that right?’

Alicia: ‘Yes, sir.’

Megan: ‘Yes, sir.’

Bess: ‘Yes, sir.’

Chief: ‘Did any of you notice the make or model?’

Alicia: ‘It was a white Ford Taurus. Fairly new.’

Everyone in the room turned to look at Alicia. She turned pink and said, ‘I like cars. I notice these things!’

The front door opened and a young patrol man burst in. ‘Chief! A white car just came up the street, saw us, and went speeding off!’

‘Well, follow ’em, for God’s sake!’ the chief said.

‘Morris went after ’em. He sent me in to tell you.’

The chief sighed. ‘See that thing up there on your shoulder, boy?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘What is that thing?’

‘It’s a radio,’ the patrolman said, his face turning red.

‘Now you and I are both stuck here without transportation and Morris’s driving solo after two miscreants. Is that about the situation as you see it, boy?’

The patrolman hung his head. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

Willis stood up. ‘Come on, Barry, we’ll take my truck. You can deputize it.’

You!’ the chief said, pointing a finger at the patrolman. ‘Stay here. On the front porch. Anybody, I mean anybody, comes by this house, you radio me, you got that boy?’

‘Yes, sir!’

The chief sighed. ‘Let’s do it, Pugh.’

OK, so the Smithsonian isn’t just a museum. It’s like a hundred and fifty museums. Well, maybe not that many, but a bunch. Monticello was very nice – that’s the house Thomas Jefferson lived in – and took up the morning, then we had lunch at a cafeteria that was very good, but a tad expensive, then we headed to the Smithsonian. And that shot the entire afternoon! I’m not kidding! The whole baritone section didn’t come with us when we left the Air and Space building, wanting to see
everything
, not just the interesting stuff, and we lost a few more in the Lifestyles or whatever building – the one with Archie Bunker’s chair from
All in the Family
. I wasn’t really interested in any of that fal-de-ral, but then I found this building that had this big walk-in display of the dresses worn by the first ladies over the years. Now that was something! Me and Rachael sorta got stuck in there, discussing the intricacies of some of the hand work. Who knew? Rachael sewed, just like me, and she didn’t need a pattern either. There was a bench, and we just sat there for the longest and oo’ed and aw’ed over those dresses.

But by the time we were more or less through with the Smithsonian (and we hadn’t even seen
all
the buildings), it was time for dinner back at the hotel. I decided to go up to the room and get room service because, and I hate to admit this, I was tired. A couple of the other people my age also left for their rooms. Three hours later, Rachael still wasn’t back in the room. And all I could say to that was, ‘Told you so.’ I turned off the light and went to sleep, hoping, sorta, that she didn’t stumble getting to her bed in the dark.

‘I think we should call Mr Brown,’ Mr Jones said, looking behind them as Mr Smith sped out of Black Cat Ridge. He could see the cop car trailing behind them, lights flashing. This was not a good sign.

‘Shut up!’ Mr Smith said, trying to lose their tail by weaving his way speedily through the streets of the subdivision.

‘I think he’ll be interested in hearing how you’ve botched this whole thing,’ Mr Jones said.

‘You know I’m going to kill you, don’t you?’ Mr Smith said.

‘I’m calling Mr Brown right now!’ Mr Jones said, pulling out his cell phone.

Mr Smith took one hand off the wheel, reached into his shoulder holster and brought out his Beretta. He shot Mr Jones in the foot before he dialed the first digit.

Willis and Chief Donaldson met up with Morris, the driver of the chief’s car, about seven blocks from the Pugh home. He was standing outside the cruiser looking around.

Willis pulled up next to him and the chief got out of the car.

‘Whatja doing, Morris?’ he asked.

‘Well, sir, I was chasing that white car, but then I lost it, but I think it was OK because it wasn’t the same license number as the one reported.’

‘Did you get the license number of
this
white car?’ the chief asked.

‘Yes, sir, I called it in.’

At that moment, the dash computer let out a ping. Morris looked at the chief and the chief said, ‘Go on, see what it says.’

Morris crawled in the front seat of the squad car. ‘Those tags belong to a white 2010 Ford Focus—’

‘So it wasn’t even a Taurus you were chasing?’

‘Sir, it says those tags were reported stolen earlier today at the Wal-Mart on highway twelve.’

‘So it
was
them?’ Willis ventured from his vantage point, still in the cab of his truck, but with the window down.

‘Yeah, coulda been,’ the chief said. ‘Shit.’

‘You shot me in the goddam foot!’ Mr Jones screamed.

‘So don’t threaten me, asshole!’ Mr Smith screamed back. ‘You’re not calling Mr Brown, you got that?’ He brandished his weapon at Mr Jones. ‘You got that?’

‘Yes!’ Mr Jones screamed. ‘I got that! I really, really got that!’

‘OK, then,’ Mr Smith said, settling back in his seat, a calm mist descending over him. He looked over at Mr Jones, who was trying to get his foot up in the seat, but was having trouble because of his long legs. ‘Guess we should deal with your foot,’ he said.

‘Ya think?’ Mr Jones asked, the sarcasm abundantly clear. ‘Take me to a hospital!’

‘Can’t do it,’ Mr Smith said. ‘They have to report all gunshot wounds to the police.’

‘Well, you should have thought about that before you shot me!’ Mr Jones said.

Mr Smith found his way out of Black Cat Ridge without being followed and pulled onto a side road that went down to the river. He pulled under the bridge that connected BCR to Codderville, shut off the engine and turned on the interior light.

‘Get your foot up here,’ he said to Mr Jones.

‘I can’t!’ Mr Jones said. ‘My leg doesn’t bend that way!’

Mr Smith sighed. ‘Get out of the car and lift your foot onto the seat.’

Grumbling, Mr Jones got out of the car, limping and, holding on to the door, stuck his injured foot onto the passenger seat.

Mr Smith studied the foot. The motorcycle boot Mr Jones was wearing had a hole in it in the baby toe vicinity. ‘OK,’ he said to Mr Jones, ‘I’m gonna take off the boot. So hold on to the door.’

Mr Jones held on and screamed like a little girl when Mr Smith yanked off the boot.

‘Big baby,’ Mr Smith said. There was a lot of blood on Mr Jones’ white sock. Mr Smith pulled that off, eliciting yet another child-like scream of pain. Taking the already ruined sock, Mr Smith cleared the area of blood. There was a small divot cut out of Mr Jones’ foot, right below the smallest toe. It was less a wound and more a severe scrape. But in his position, Mr Smith noted a large hole in the floor of the car.

He threw the bloody sock at Mr Jones. ‘Jesus, Jones,’ he said, ‘the car got it worse than you did. Get in.’

Mr Jones looked down at his foot. ‘It’s still bleeding,’ he said.

‘Then keep the sock on it. Jeez, get in the car and let’s go.’

Mr Jones got in the car, leaning down to wrap the bloody sock around his wound before shutting the door. ‘Where are we going now?’ he asked Mr Smith.

‘Now we gotta get another car.’ Mr Smith sighed. ‘This is getting old.’

The next morning was hectic. Nobody got much sleep the night before, knowing those two men were still out there, but it was the first day of school, the first day of being juniors for all three girls. It wasn’t as cool as being seniors, of course, but they were now upper-class women, and that was something. They got dressed, Bess and Alicia just as they’d described the night before, and, after much throwing of tops hither and yon, Megan managed to find a three-quarter sleeve, handkerchief-hemmed gauzy Indian print top, low-cut enough to show boobage, but not so low cut as to instigate a riot – either with the boys at school, the school authorities, or, she hoped, her mother.

Megan lucked out. Her mother was too busy making breakfasts and fixing lunches to care.

‘I’d rather eat in the cafeteria,’ Megan said, turning her nose up at the brown bag her mother had prepared.

‘Eat it and shut up,’ E.J. said. ‘Email notice last night. The kitchen will be closed for at least one week pending the completion of the remodeling.’

‘That’s what you get when you go with the lowest bidder,’ her father said from his stool at the counter.

‘Where are we going to eat?’ Megan demanded.

‘The cafeteria will be open. The kitchen is cordoned off,’ her mother said.

‘Just great,’ Megan mumbled.

‘You’ll live,’ Alicia said from her stool where she was finishing up her cereal.

‘I’m driving this morning!’ Megan called.

‘Nope.’ E.J. pointed to a whiteboard on the refrigerator. ‘It’s Alicia’s turn.’

Alicia stuck her tongue out at Megan. ‘Very mature, Alicia!’ Megan said, sticking her tongue out back at her.

‘Gawd,’ Bess said. ‘Mother, may I please take the bus?’

Megan pushed Bess, who pushed back.

‘Finish eating, please,’ their mother called out. ‘And don’t anyone touch anyone else. At all. Do you hear me?’

They ignored her but bent down to their cereal bowls.

Ten minutes later they were out the door and piling into the minivan, both Bess and Megan shouting ‘shotgun!’ at the same time.