Trapped! (12 page)

“He’ll be in soon,” Rosemary said, ignoring his other question.

“If you don’t want to discuss the bites, tell me about that leg wound,” the officer said, but Bick shook his head.

“I already told the admitting clerk,” he said, “and I told the nurse. If a doctor wants to come and stitch me up, right now, I’ll tell him. Otherwise, I’m out of here.” He stood and reached for his pants.

Officer Dingam turned to Rosemary. “Would you please see if the doctor is ready to examine Mr. Thorsen?” he asked.

She hurried out, returning almost immediately with a doctor.

“I’m Dr. Fleming,” he said. “While I take a look at your leg, Mr. Thorsen, suppose you tell me exactly what happened to you.”

Bick sighed loudly, as if this were a huge imposition, then lay back on the table again. While the doctor probed the area on Bick’s thigh, Bick repeated the story about accidentally shooting himself while he was putting the gun in its holster.

“I need to clean this wound,” the doctor said.

“Then do it,” Bick said. “I’ve been here too long already.”

“Are you right-handed or left-handed?” Officer Dingam asked.

“Right-handed. What difference does that make? It’s my leg that’s hurt, not my hand.”

Rosemary handed the doctor some peroxide and gauze
pads for sterilizing Bick’s thigh. The doctor began wiping the area around the wound.

“What did you do with the cat?” Officer Dingam asked.

“What cat?”

“The one you stole from a backyard in Valley View Estates?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I have a witness who saw you drive out of Valley View Estates with his family’s pet cat in your truck. The cat was yowling and scratching at the window, trying to get out.”

“The witness was mistaken. I didn’t steal any cat.”

“You didn’t accidentally shoot yourself while putting away your gun, either,” Officer Dingam said. “I can tell the bullet’s angle from the wound. When the gun went off, it was held at shoulder height, aimed from right to left across your body. If you had been putting the gun in the holster when it fired, as you say you were, it would have been pointed straight down and you’d have held it much lower.

“Since you’re right-handed,” Officer Dingam continued, “the gun would have been in your right hand, and if it went off when you put it in the holster, the wound would have been in your right leg. Either someone else fired the gun or you were aiming it elsewhere when it went off.”

Bick scowled and said nothing.

“Who were you aiming at?” Officer Dingam asked.
When Bick didn’t reply, he said, “Maybe it was a person who scratched you. Who’d you fight with?”

“I was alone. There wasn’t any other person.”

“Then you must have been aiming at the cat,” the officer said. “You were trying to shoot the cat, weren’t you, the one you stole?”

“Why would I steal a cat? I don’t even like cats. Snoopy creatures, always poking their noses where they don’t belong.”

The officer shrugged. “We already have a complaint against you for trespassing and theft. I can always add lying to an officer.”

“Okay, okay,” Bick said. “I got scratched and bit by a cat, but you can’t pin any theft on me. I can’t help it if a cat got in my truck and I didn’t notice him until I was a few miles down the road.”

Bick started to sit up, but the doctor said, “Lie still, please. I’m putting Novocaine in that wound so you’ll be comfortable while I clean it.” Bick lay back down, frowning.

Using cotton balls saturated with disinfectant, Rosemary began dabbing at the scratches on Bick’s face. Bick winced, gritting his teeth. “You got no proof of trespassing or theft,” Bick said. “You got no proof of anything.”

“We have a witness who saw you drive off with his cat who was yowling and trying to get away, and you have multiple cat scratches and bite wounds. If the cat had been in
your truck by accident, all you had to do was open the door and let him out.”

Rosemary continued to clean the scratches.

Bick closed his eyes.

“Four people heard a gunshot,” Officer Dingam said, “and saw your truck racing away from the area immediately afterward. They got the license number, then drove a short distance and saw blood on the side of the road. My department is checking that out as we speak. If you weren’t shooting the cat, who were you shooting? Are you saying instead of theft, you could be held for attempted murder?”

“No! There wasn’t anybody with me. You can’t commit murder when you’re alone!”

“If you were alone, then you’re the one who pulled the trigger.”

“That’s right. I already told you that. I didn’t shoot anyone else, and I didn’t shoot a cat, either. I accidentally shot myself.”

“Whose blood was on the side of the road?”

“Mine. From my leg.”

“We can check that. DNA makes it easy to prove or disprove.”

“So check it,” Bick said. “It’s my blood, all right.”

“If nobody else was there, and the gun didn’t discharge as you put it away, what did happen?” Officer Dingam asked.

“Maybe the cat shot him,” Rosemary said.

The officer looked at the ceiling, as if to say, Oh, sure.

“Really. I read about a case where some guy was shooting a litter of puppies he didn’t want and the last puppy struggled, and his paw hit the trigger. The guy’s gun went off and he shot himself in the arm. The puppy got taken to a shelter, and dozens of people tried to adopt it. Too bad the man had already killed the other two puppies, or they would all have found good homes.”

On the examining table, Bick squirmed, looking away from the officer.

“Don’t move,” the doctor said. “I’m putting on the dressing.”

Officer Dingam said, “I suppose the cat could have done it, if he kicked hard enough and caught the trigger exactly right.” He stared at the patient, waiting for him to deny that he’d been shot by a cat, but the man was silent, refusing to meet his eyes.

For a moment nobody spoke. Then the incredulous officer said, “That’s what happened, isn’t it? You were trying to shoot the cat, and somehow he got you instead.”

“Stupid cat,” Bick sputtered. “He fought like a wild tiger! I thought he was going to put my eye out with those claws. We struggled, and next thing I knew I heard the gun go off and felt the bullet hit my leg. His foot must have hit the trigger.”

Rosemary swabbed disinfectant on the bite marks.

“Where’s the cat now?” asked Officer Dingam.

“How would I know? I dropped him when the gun fired, and he took off, hightailed it into the woods with his fur puffed up like he’d stuck his tail in an electrical outlet. Last I saw him, he was streaking away faster than a shooting star. He’s probably crossed the state line by now and is still running.”

“Change Mr. Thorsen’s chart, Nurse,” the doctor said, “to show that the gunshot was inflicted by a cat.”

It was all Rosemary could do not to laugh out loud.

“Perhaps you should change the name on the chart, too,” the officer said. “I believe your patient is Bick Badgerton.”

Bick’s jaw dropped, but he did not deny the statement.

“Why didn’t you tell the truth to begin with?” Officer Dingam asked. “You could have saved us a lot of time.”

“Would you want to admit that a cat shot you in the leg?”

“No,” the officer said, “I wouldn’t. I’d never live it down.”

“There you are,” Bick said.

“All done,” the doctor said as he removed his gloves. “I’m going to give you two prescriptions: one for antibiotics, and one for a painkiller. Take two pain pills tonight, and then one as needed.” He wrote on a prescription pad, then tore the pages off and gave them to Bick.

Bick looked at the papers. “You got any free samples of these?” he asked. “I’m a little short of cash.”

“I’m afraid not. You can try an over-the-counter painkiller. It might be adequate. But you should take the antibiotics.”

Bick gingerly swung his legs over the edge of the bed as he sat up.

“Call if you have any problems,” the doctor said. “Otherwise come back tomorrow to get the dressing changed.”

“I don’t need to come back,” Bick said. “I can change it myself.”

Rosemary wanted to object, imagining this man with dirty fingernails removing the dressing, but she said nothing because she didn’t want to intrude on the doctor’s conversation.

“Clean those scratches on your face with hydrogen peroxide twice a day,” the doctor said. “If you change your own dressing, sterilize your hands first.”

Bick put his pants on, then started to untie the hospital gown.

Dr. Fleming turned to Rosemary. “You said the puppy who stepped on the trigger was adopted. What happened to the man who tried to shoot him?”

Rosemary finished writing on the chart. “He got arrested,” she said, “and charged with animal cruelty.”

“Funny,” Officer Dingam said. “That’s what’s going to happen in this case, too.”

“You can’t prove a thing,” Bick said. “Whatever I said here is confidential between me and my doctor. I was talking to him, not you.”

“You deny that you tried to shoot that cat?” Officer Dingam asked.

“What cat?”

A
lex fought back tears
as he listened to his dad call the police. It seemed impossible that Pete had been taken away by the same man who had let Piccolo fall off the truck, but he knew that’s what had happened. Benjie often made up wild stories about flying green panthers and other pretend creatures, but he would not have made up a story about Pete being kidnapped.

Benjie had seen Pete trying to get out of the man’s truck, but what had happened after that? What did the man do to Pete up there in the woods, where he thought no one would see or hear him?

Oh, Pete, Alex thought. Where are you?

Mr. Kendrill hung up and said, “They’ll let us know if they find Pete or the truck driver—but don’t hold your breath. Although the man on the phone was sympathetic, it isn’t realistic to think that the police will spend a lot of time looking for a lost cat.”

“He isn’t lost,” Benjie said. “He’s kidnapped.”

“Can we go back up there and look for him?” Alex asked.

“It’s awfully dark, son,” Mr. Kendrill said, “and there are hundreds of acres of forest.”

“I know, but we have to keep looking. He might be hurt, and I’m sure he’s scared. We can’t stay here and do nothing.”

Mrs. Kendrill said, “We all need some dinner before we do anything else. Let’s eat, and then decide.”

Alex had no appetite, but he took a few bites of his grilled cheese sandwich and swallowed part of his tomato soup. Nobody talked during the meal.

When Alex carried his plate to the kitchen, Lizzy rubbed against his ankles. She wonders where Pete is, too, Alex thought. “Can we go back now and look some more?” he asked.

“Someone needs to stay here to answer the phone,” Mr. Kendrill said. “The police will call if Pete’s found, and our phone number is on Pete’s collar, so we need to be here if someone finds him and calls. There’s a chance that Pete got out of the truck before it ever left Valley View Estates, in which case he might find his way home. He could show up at the door.”

“We heard the gunshot up in the woods,” Alex said.

“Maybe he shot a bird. Maybe it was target practice.”

Maybe, Alex thought, except target practice and bird hunting don’t leave you with blood on your face.

“Benjie and I will stay here,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “You and Alex go look in the woods some more.”

“I want to help look,” Benjie protested. “I don’t want to stay here.”

“If we haven’t found Pete by tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Kendrill said, “you can go and help search. For now we need to work in shifts.”

Alex put on his denim jacket and his Seattle Mariners baseball cap. He put extra flashlight batteries in his pocket.

“Don’t stay out too long,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “And watch where you step. There’s no telling how many traps are in that area.”

Alex shuddered. He couldn’t bear to think of Pete caught in one of those awful traps.

“We’ll be careful,” Mr. Kendrill said. “We’ll stay together.”

When they got to the third wide spot, where they’d found the drops of blood, Mr. Kendrill pulled over and they both got out of the car. Mr. Kendrill opened the trunk and removed the kerosene lantern that they used when they went camping. He lit the lantern and set it on top of the car. “To be sure we can find our way back,” he explained. “It’s mighty dark out here.”

Alex nodded. He had never been afraid of the dark, but he had to admit he wouldn’t want to be alone in this place at night. There were no streetlights, no houses, no cars on the road. It felt as if he were in one of those scary movies where he and his dad were the only two people on Earth.

His flashlight and his dad’s flashlight made two bright pools of light on the ground. They agreed to walk straight into the woods, perpendicular to the car, on the theory that if Pete was running from Hogman, he would have run in as straight a line as possible. They stayed two car lengths apart, in order to search as much of the undergrowth as possible.

“Pete!” Alex called. “Here, Pete! Where are you?” Each time he called, he was quiet for a few seconds, hoping to hear Pete respond, but he heard only his dad’s shoes on the forest floor.

He kept his flashlight pointed down, just ahead of him, and he kept his eyes down, too, mindful of the possibility of another trap. The darkness stretched ahead of him and closed behind him, as if he were a ship cutting through dark water.

Once, Alex thought he heard an animal sound, a meow perhaps, and he stopped walking. His dad must have heard it, too, because he stopped at the same time.

“Pete?” Alex called. He swept his light in an arc, searching. “Pete!”

A flapping sound came from partway up a tree a few feet in front of Alex, followed by a whoosh! He jerked his light upward in time to see a big brown bird flying away. Its wingspan must have been nearly three feet.

“Owl,” Mr. Kendrill said.

Alex’s pulse raced. He wondered if owls were carnivores. A bird that size would have sharp talons and a big beak. It would make short work of a cat.

Alex took a deep breath and tried to think of something else. He noticed that his dad’s flashlight was moving up and down from tree to ground, as if he were riding a carousel horse. Dad’s checking the tree branches as well as the ground, Alex realized, in case Pete had climbed a tree. He began swinging his flashlight up and down, too.