Under a Bear Moon (18 page)

And she was in love with him.

GREG TOOK his free hand and gently pressed Lynda's head against his shoulder. They sat, motionless, while the theater emptied.

“Come on,” he said at last, tightening his grip for a second before moving his arm. “Let's get that ice cream.”

He held her hand all the way out of the theater.

Stepping past the auditorium door, Lynda let go of his hand and wrapped her arms around her bare shoulders. “I should have brought a coat. For once, you remembered, and I forgot.”

Greg released the door and joined her on the steps. “That's easily remedied.” He slipped out of his wind-breaker and draped it over her shoulders, surrounding her with warmth and a spicy scent.

Lynda smiled and slipped her arms into the jacket. “Thanks.”

The cuffs extended past her fingers, and she had to bunch up the sleeves to free her hands. When she reached down to connect the zipper, she realized it hung two inches below the hem line of her dress. Lynda hadn't worn a garment that oversized since she last played dress-up with her father's clothes. Glancing in the reflecting glass of the auditorium doors, she found she resembled a big yellow balloon. She kind of liked the look.

“Haagen Dazs or Bresler's?” Greg asked.

She thought a moment. “Let's stop by Ida Noyes Hall and get Haagen Dazs. They make the best chocolate.”

WALKING UP the sidewalk in front of her house, Lynda licked melted ice cream off her lips and grinned. “I had a wonderful time.”

Greg turned to face her. “So did I.” His hand cupped her head and flowed down her hair.

Lynda closed her eyes. Now she knew why cats loved to be petted. She lost track of time, place, and her ice cream cone in the wonder of his touch.

A ribbon of melting ice cream oozed over her hand, and her eyes sprang open. “I better give back your jacket before I get chocolate all over it.” Handing Greg her soggy cone, Lynda shrugged out of the windbreaker.

“Thanks.” He slipped it on before walking her to the front door. Tom had left the porch light on, and the yellow bulb cast a welcome glow over the steps.

She lay her hand on Greg's arm and felt his warmth and strength through the thin jacket. “Why don't you come in for a while? My brother's gone to a party and won't be home until later. We could listen to CD's, or something.” Reaching up, she tentatively stroked his cheek. “I'd really like you to stay.”

Greg took her hand in his. “Me too. But you know my folks; they want me home early.” He looked up at the sky. “And it's already pretty late. I'm sorry, but I have to go.”

Some things never change. Sighing, Lynda let go of his arm. She took the house keys out of her purse and unlocked the door before turning back to Greg. “Thanks for a great evening.” The words caught on her disappointment, coming out halting and breathless.

He closed the gap between them. “No. Thank you.”

His arms enfolded her. Lynda felt his lips touch her hair, looked up, and smiled. Closing her eyes, she pulled his head toward her. Their lips brushed, met, and merged. She was lost in the warm universe of his embrace when Greg stiffened. His arms slipped, his knees buckled, and he slumped against her. Too heavy for Lynda to hold, his weight pulled her down, until she was kneeling on the ground, cradling him in her arms.

“Greg?” He lay limp and motionless. “Greg, are you all right?”

“Hello, sweet thing.”

There was no mistaking the gang leader's cold mocking voice. Just beyond the porch light's reach, stood four shadowy figures.

They stepped forward, and the golden light fell across the features that had haunted her dreams, the handsome face with deadly eyes.

The leader was gaunt, as if he'd been ill. The tattooed tears stood out against his unnaturally pallid cheeks, and his left arm dangled in a dark blue sling. A small weighted leather bag, a sap, swung from his right hand. Behind him, the youngest boy struggled to restrain a monstrous dog. All muscle and bone, the dog's broad, flat skull and tiny butchered ears betrayed its fighting ancestry.

Lynda opened her mouth to scream, but before she could force sound from her frozen throat, the leader shoved Greg aside like a sack of cement, grasped her elbow, and dragged her into the house. Seconds later the others joined him, hauling Greg's motionless form over the threshold. Soon, the only outward sign of the crisis was the shattered cone and melting ice-cream on the front step.

HE PUT HIS arms around her, and she melted into him. Brushing his lips against her hair, he savored her scent, a combination of roses and sunshine. She raised her lips, and their soft warmth met and captured his. His world contracted to this moment, this girl, this kiss.

Until a blow knocked him into oblivion.

Spinning in a black whirlpool, he floundered far below the surface of reality. Pain floated above like an oil slick. Thick and ugly, it waited for his inevitable rise.

“WHERE IS IT?” The question leapt from the gang leader the moment the door closed.

Lynda tried to pull away. “Where's what?”

The two larger boys struggled to haul Greg into the dining room. The taller boy, Lynda remembered the leader had called him Slo-Go, grappled with Greg's shoulders. The smaller boy stooped under the weight of Greg's feet.

Their leader let go of her elbow and pointed to his useless arm. “The dog. The one that did this.”

“Dog?” Lynda said, sidling toward the dining room. Whatever happened, she didn't want to be left alone with him.

The gang members dropped Greg onto a dining room chair. The chair sat in front of the dining room window, and Lynda's hopes rose when she saw that Tom had left the curtains open. She prayed her neighbor would look out her bedroom window and notice the gang members man-handling Greg. The hope died when Slo-Go turned and yanked the curtains shut.

Slipping off an army-green backpack, he dumped it on the table with a metallic clang and took out a length of nylon cord. Lynda winced when he jerked Greg's hands behind his back and tied them together. Wrapping the cord around Greg's arms and the back of the chair, Slo-Go pulled the slack down and bound Greg's feet.

The gang leader grabbed Lynda's shoulder and swung her toward him. “Look at me, damn it! I want the f—ing dog that broke into my headquarters. The one that damn near tore my f—ing arm off.”

Lynda's tongue grew heavy and seemed to stick to the bottom of her mouth. “I don't have a dog. I don't know what you're talking about.”

The leader struggled to regain control. “I was flying, but not that high. I remember it didn't do nothing ‘til I hit you.”

He pointed to the dog that threatened to pull the youngest boy from the entryway. “I brought Slaughter here to teach it respect. Nothing dis's me and gets away with it. Bobby! Gimme that leash.”

Tossing the sap to the boy, he grabbed the leash and brought the dog roughly to heel. “You better pray I find that dog. If I don't, I'll let Slaughter loose on you. And your boyfriend,” he added when the dog kept straining toward the dining room.

The gang leader pushed Lynda toward Bobby. “Tie her up, then help us look. Slo-Go, Retread, take upstairs. I stay down here.”

Bobby clamped his fingers around Lynda's bare arm and forced her into the dining room. Her arm ached by the time he shoved her into a chair. She tried to rub the bruises, but Bobby jerked her hands behind her and, grabbing another length of cord from the backpack, bound them with rough efficiency. After throwing a few loops around her body and tying her legs together, he left to join the search.

Desperate, Lynda tried to think. She considered screaming, but realized that noise would attract her tormentors before the police. She tested the rope binding her to the chair; it was too strong to break. Twisting and pulling her hands, she tried to get free, but the rope was so tight, her fingers had already started to swell. She only succeeded in scraping her wrists.

A crash from upstairs and a muffled curse gave her the inspiration she needed. Blessing her mother's obsession with polished wood, she kicked against the floor and inched her chair across the slippery surface, closer and closer to Greg.

He hung forward, supported only by the cord binding him. His chest rose and fell with strong, even breaths. Except for the visible lump on his head, he could have been sleeping.

Lynda maneuvered her chair behind his and froze when the door in the kitchen creaked open and slammed shut. She heard footsteps and the click of claws on the linoleum floor.

Forcing air into her lungs, she whispered, “Greg, wake up! We've got to untie each other.”

She inched back until she felt her chair bump into Greg's. Though her fingers felt like overstuffed sausages, she fumbled with the knots binding Greg's wrists and, to her surprise, found them loosening.

“Greg!” Despite her best intentions, Lynda's voice rose. “Help me. I think the knots are coming loose, but you have to help. Please, Greg, wake up!”

Her voice must have reached through the layers of unconsciousness, because Greg moaned and lifted his head. “Lynda? What happened? Where are you?” His shoulders flexed as if he was trying move his arms. “What's going on?” he asked in a louder voice.

“Shh! I'm right behind you.” Her mouth and throat were so dry she had to swallow before she could continue. “The gang that grabbed me after Richard's party is here. They tied us up and are ransacking the house. We've got to get away. I managed to scoot my chair behind yours and I think I've loosened the rope around your wrists. Can you move them?”

He jerked his hands against the cord. “A little. I can't get them out, though.”

Lynda ignored the burning in her fingertips. “Let me try the knot again.”

Greg pushed his wrists back toward Lynda. She tugged; he twisted and pulled. They almost had his hands free when footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Lynda's fingers dropped. “They're coming back,” she moaned.

Greg's shoulders bunched, then relaxed. “No, they're headed for the other side of the house.” He paused and shook his head as if trying to clear his vision. “What's that on the table?”

Lynda twisted so she see over Greg's shoulder. “A backpack,” she said, wondering if the blow had scrambled Greg's mind. “That's where the rope came from.”

He leaned forward as if trying to peer into the dark opening. “There's still something inside. A gun, maybe. My hands are nearly free. If we run out of time, I'll grab it. For now, move your chair back to where it was. We don't want the gang noticing anything different.”

The seconds crawled by. Lynda scooted her chair to its original position; Greg's chair rocked while he struggled with the cord. The old house creaked and groaned. Lynda flinched at very click and bump, every rustling branch outside and every muffled curse inside. Her breaths came too fast, as if there wasn't enough air in the room, and Lynda found herself staring at the doorway, waiting for their captors to reappear.

“I've almost got it,” Greg panted. “There!” His hands flew out of their bindings with an almost audible pop. He tore at the rope confining his arms, and soon had them free as well. “Let me get my feet—wait, they're coming.”

Lynda strained her ears and thought she heard approaching footsteps. Still bound to the chair, Greg leaned forward, but couldn't quite reach the backpack. He threw himself toward the table. The chair tipped forward, and Greg caught himself on the table's edge. He snagged a pistol from the open bag and pushed back into position. It took him less than a second.

Greg put his hands behind the chair and let his head drop onto his chest. He looked as if he were still unconscious. The only signs of his previous exertion were his flushed neck and rapid breathing.

Moments later, all four gang members appeared. The dog lunged into the dining room, half dragging the gang leader with him. Lynda looked at the man's murderous expression and felt her hopes plummet. His eyes promised death.

“It ain't here,” he growled. “You got one last chance, slut. Tell me where you hid your dog, and I won't let Slaughter here loose on you.”

The dog snarled.

Whipping his arms around, Greg pointed the pistol at the men in the doorway. “You've got five seconds to get out of here before I start shooting.”

Though his voice remained calm, Greg's face grew deathly pale. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Lynda suddenly remembered how dogs reacted to Greg and realized he must be as afraid of the dog as she was of its handlers. Whatever Greg's feelings, he kept the gun aimed straight at the gang leader and started counting.

“One. Two.” The three followers threw frantic looks at their leader and bolted out the front door, knocking over a small table. “Three.”

The gang leader smiled and lifted his hand in a placating gesture. “Hey man, be cool.” He seemed to shift his weight, as if preparing to turn, but dropped the leash and dove behind the dining room table. “Slaughter, Kill!”

The dog leapt toward them, jaw stretched to reveal yellow-tinged fangs. Cringing in her chair, Lynda closed her eyes and waited for the teeth. She heard a loud pop and a canine shriek. Her eyes flew open. A hole blossomed in the dog's chest. It fell. Blood spewed from its mouth dappling her mother's shoes. The dog jerked once, then lay motionless on the dining room floor.

“Drop it.” Lynda turned her stunned eyes toward the voice. During his dive behind the table, the gang leader had grabbed the backpack. The recoil from the pistol had knocked Greg's chair back and his arm up, giving their adversary time to take out a sawed-off shotgun and cock it. He crouched behind the table, aiming the gun straight at Greg.

“Don't give him the gun,” Lynda said, amazed at how steady her voice sounded. “He'll kill us both, if you do.”

The leader swung the barrel toward Lynda. “She's dead if you don't. Throw the gun down, and I won't kill her. You got five seconds.”

Greg's eyes shifted like caged animals from Lynda's ashen face to the gang leader's mocking smile. His eyes locked onto Lynda's, as if pleading for her understanding. She saw sweat pool at his temple and run past his clenched jaw.