22 Tricky Twenty-Two (16 page)

“I’m sure they’re doing tests and giving him antibiotics. He’s not showing any symptoms, so if he has been infected it’s in an early stage.”

I was saying this as much to reassure myself as to reassure Gobbles. I needed to believe I’d be okay. I didn’t want to think for a single moment that I might die from the plague.

“Now that Becker is safe we need to get you back into the system,” I told Gobbles. “If I take you in tomorrow morning there’s a good chance that we can get you rebonded and released by the afternoon.”

“Sure,” Gobbles said. “Should I go to the courthouse or do you want to pick me up someplace?”

“I’ll pick you up at Julie’s house tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

I disconnected with Gobbles and Ranger gave me a bowl of ice cream.

“You should call Morelli,” Ranger said. “I’m sure he’s thinking he picked a bad day for a colonoscopy.”

“Is there ever a good day?”

Ranger selected a slice of apple from his fruit plate. “Not on my calendar.”

I called Morelli’s home number and cell number and he didn’t pick up either. I left a message on both telling him I was fine and with Ranger for the night.

“Babe,” Ranger said, “that’s not a reassuring message. If I were Morelli and I just had a colonoscopy, I’m not sure I’d want to know you were spending the night with me.”

“We aren’t exactly a couple anymore.”

“Had me fooled,” Ranger said.

I finished my ice cream and could barely keep my eyes open.

“I’m done,” I said to Ranger. “I’m going to bed.”

“I have paperwork to do, and I need to check on some things downstairs,” Ranger said. “I’ll be in later.”

I FELT RANGER
leave the bed, and I looked at the time. Five-thirty. Ranger’s day started early. I heard the shower running, and I drifted back to sleep.

It was a little after eight o’clock when I finally made my way to the kitchen in my new clothes. The Pilates pants had been a good choice. The material was soft and stretchy over my scabbed-up knee. A decanter of coffee, a bagel and cheese plate, and fresh fruit had been set out on the counter for me. The coffee was still hot. I helped myself to breakfast and found a note from Ranger telling me the Macan was in the garage and the key was in the glove compartment, and that Lula had my messenger bag. The note had been propped up against the little plastic container of antibiotics I’d gotten at the hospital.

I took one of the pills and washed it down with coffee. I brushed my teeth and tried to ignore the large scrape on my face. It’s just skin, I told myself. It’ll grow back. And besides, it takes the attention away from the pimple that’s almost all gone.

I took the elevator to the control room and went to Ranger’s office.

“I’m heading out,” I told him. “I had breakfast, and I took my pill. I’m set for the day.”

“Seeing you in those pants makes me wish I’d taken a chance on exchanging fluids,” Ranger said. “Be careful. Pooka is still out there.”

“If he’s already infected me, what more could he do?”

“He could shoot you,” Ranger said.

With that in mind, I descended to the garage, found the Macan, and drove to the office.

Connie looked up when I walked in. “Boy, I’m glad to see you. We were really worried when Lula couldn’t find you. She walked all around the neighborhood and finally found someone who said a lady had been hit by a white van and taken away. I guess they thought the guy in the van was taking you to get medical help.”

“He tagged me with my stun gun, handcuffed me, and loaded me into the back of his van. How could that possibly be interpreted as medical help?”

“It was a little kid,” Connie said. “The kid said the nice man gave you bracelets.”

The front door banged open, and Lula burst in.

“I got it. Heaven help me, I got the plague. I woke up and I was all itchy, and when I got to the bathroom I saw them!”

“Saw what?” Connie asked.

“The boo-boos. I got them. They’re all over me. I’m gonna die. I got plague boo-boos.”

“Have you been to a doctor?” Connie asked.

“No. I came straight here. I’m afraid to go to a doctor. He’s gonna tell me my fingers and toes are gonna fall off and then I’m gonna die. I read about it, and it’s not good to die from the plague. I’m gonna need a closed casket. I’m gonna look terrible. And I’ll tell you another thing. I want my money back on those dumb flea collars. They don’t work.”

“Where are the buboes?” I asked her.

“All around my neck and ankles.”

Connie got up and took a close look. “You’ve got a rash from the flea collars.”

“I never thought of that,” Lula said. “I guess I should take them off. I even wore them in the shower, and come to think of it they got all sticky.”

Connie gave Lula scissors, and Lula cut the flea collars off and threw them away.

“This here’s a big relief,” Lula said. “I thought I was a goner.” She looked over at me. “Holy cow, what’s with you!”

My hand went to my face. “You mean the scrapes and stitches?”

“I mean the Pilates pants and the little black T-shirt. That’s a total new look for you. It’s damn sexy. I might try that look on myself.”

“It’s comfortable,” I said. “The material doesn’t pull on my scabs.”

“We got an abbreviated version of yesterday from Tank,” Connie said. “And Susan Gower called and said you came in for some stitches, but you were okay.”

“I got some skin taken off when Pooka hit me with the van. I was lucky I wasn’t hurt worse.”

“Tank told us you were with Becker.”

“Pooka had been keeping Becker in the garage behind his house by Kiltman. I think he moved him when he moved the fleas.”

“Why’d he want Becker?” Lula asked.

“Pooka needed a blood source for his fleas,” I said. “He had Becker drugged, and he was taking blood from him.”

Lula’s eyes rolled back into her head, and she crashed to the floor.

“Either she just had a massive heart attack or else she fainted,” Connie said. “Get her feet elevated.”

I propped Lula’s feet up on a couch cushion, and Connie draped a wet towel over her forehead.

Lula opened her eyes, but she looked like she was still out.

“No blood,” she said. “You can’t have my blood.”

“No one’s taking your blood,” Connie said. “You fainted.”

“Did I pee my pants?” Lula asked. “I heard sometimes you pee your pants when you faint.”

We got Lula up on her feet and moved her to the couch.

“I didn’t actually faint,” Lula said. “I just had a moment. You better not tell anybody I fainted. It would ruin my reputation for being sensitive but tough.”

“I’ve got your messenger bag from Lula,” Connie said to me. “I put it in the bottom file drawer.”

I retrieved my bag and pulled my phone out. Twelve missed calls from my mother and four from Morelli. I didn’t want to talk to either of them. I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m picking Gobbles up so he can check back in with the court,” I said to Connie. “Hopefully we can get him rebonded right away, so he doesn’t have to spend a night in jail.”

“Vinnie’s there now. I’ll tell him to wait for you.”

“I’ll go with you,” Lula said. “And on the way back we can stop at a drugstore, and I can get some cortisone cream for my neck. It’s already feeling better now that the flea collar is off. Except I feel underdressed without my bedazzles.”

Gobbles was waiting on the sidewalk in front of Julie’s house when I pulled up. He got in the backseat, and he looked nervous.

“I hope this goes okay,” he said. “I don’t want to be in jail. It’s scary when they close the door, and you’re behind bars like a caged animal.”

“Vinnie is there now,” I said. “We’ll do everything we can to get you released.”

Ten minutes later I parked in the public lot, took Gobbles directly into the courthouse, and turned him over to Vinnie.

“He’s going to be okay,” Lula said. “I got one of those feelings again.”

I dropped Lula off at the drugstore, and Morelli called while I was waiting for her.

“I got a hospital report on you,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m good. I just have to wait to see if I get sick.”

“I’m not going to ask about last night,” he said. “I don’t want to know.”

“Nothing happened. I had a horrible day, and it didn’t seem like a good idea to leave me alone in my apartment.”

“I guess I can identify. I had a colonoscopy.”

“I heard. How are you doing?”

“I’m doing great,” Morelli said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you yesterday.”

“As it turned out, it was lucky you weren’t available. When you didn’t answer Lula’s call, she went to Ranger, and he was able to track me down. I was driving a Rangeman car, and I had the GPS key fob in my pocket.”

“I heard you got run over by a truck.”

“I was looking for an FTA and Pooka came out of nowhere and clipped me with his right front quarter panel. Have they found him yet?”

“Not that I know. Everybody and their brother is looking for him.”

“He must have had a contingency plan. As soon as the fireworks were discovered and confiscated, he was out of his apartment by the college and into another house. And he moved again after he captured me. He drugged me, drew blood for his fleas, supposedly infected me with plague, and he packed up and took off.”

“ ‘Supposedly infected’?”

“If I let myself believe it I get hysterical.”

“Any idea where he went?”

“No,” I said. “No idea at all.”

“I’m kind of sidelined today, but I’ll be back at work tomorrow, and I might be able to find out more. Are you staying at Rangeman again tonight?”

“No. I’m going back to my own apartment. Rex gets lonely when I’m away.”

Lula returned to the car and I said goodbye to Morelli.

“Who were you talking to?” Lula asked. “Did you get any more information about Pooka?”

“I was talking to Morelli. He’s off today, so he doesn’t have much information.”

“We heard he was having a colonoscopy. I don’t know why anyone would want one of those. First off you get a camera stuck up your butt. A camera! It might as well be a rhinoceros.”

“It’s a small camera,” I said.

“Don’t matter. It’s a camera. Not only do you gotta get it stuck way up there, but it takes pictures. I mean do you want people looking at pictures of the inside of your butt? Isn’t it bad enough everyone’s looking at the
outside
?”

“It’s not like it gets put on YouTube.”

“You don’t know that for sure. And that’s not even the worst part. I read about it. If they see something sticking out on the inside of your butt they knock it off with the camera. If you got one of them polyp things the camera knocks it off. And then what happens to it? Do they stick a vacuum up your butt and suck the polyp up? I mean how much stuff can you stick up there, right?”

I turned the radio on. Loud. If the radio didn’t drown Lula out I was going to crash the car into a telephone pole.

“What are we going to do now?” Lula yelled at me. “Do you want to go after the lawnmower man?”

“I’m taking the afternoon off. I need some downtime.”

“I get that. Me, too. I’ve been traumatized by my flea experience. And that’s my word of the day, by the way.
Traumatic.
I thought it was an appropriate word of the day. I bet I get to use it a lot today.”

I dropped Lula at the office and I turned into the Burg. No doubt my mother had already gotten a bazillion phone calls about me getting checked out at the hospital. I needed to show her I was okay, and it was all not a big deal. It would take some acting on my part, because it felt like a big deal to me. I was thinking that maybe I should give the pastry chef thing one more try.

I parked in the driveway and tried not to limp on my way to the front door. My knee hurt, and my elbow didn’t feel all that good, either. My mother was in the kitchen ironing. Never a good sign. My mother ironed when she was upset. She’d iron the same shirt for hours if she had nothing else to iron. My grandmother was at the kitchen table on her laptop.

“Tweeting?” I asked her.

“Nope,” she said. “I’m checking out bubonic plague. We heard you got it. And I have to tell you I’m not finding much good about it.”

“I don’t have the plague. I feel fine.”

My mother looked up from her ironing and made the sign of the cross. “Good heavens, just look at you!”

“I don’t think she looks that bad,” Grandma said. “I was expecting a lot worse. I saw this movie once where a guy got dragged down the road behind a pickup truck and Stephanie don’t look nearly that bad. And her pimple looks a lot better than it used to.”

“I thought I’d stop around for lunch,” I said. “I’m starved.”

“Hear that, Ellen?” Grandma said. “You can stop ironing now.”

“In fact I have a terrific idea,” I said. “Let’s go out for lunch.”

“I don’t know,” my mother said. “I’m not dressed.”

“We don’t have to go someplace fancy,” I said. “We could go to the diner on Route 33 or we could go to Cluck-in-a-Bucket.”

“I vote for Cluck-in-a-Bucket,” Grandma said. “And I don’t want drive-thru food, either. They screw you at the drive-thru. I’m going to get a double Clucky Burger with bacon and cheese and special sauce. And I’m going to get cheese fries.”

“You’ll be up all night with heartburn,” my mother said.

“I never get heartburn,” Grandma said. “You’re the one that gets heartburn. I’m going to get my purse.”

My mother unplugged the iron, Grandma returned with her purse, and I loaded everyone into Ranger’s Porsche Macan and drove to Cluck-in-a-Bucket. Cluck-in-a-Bucket is on the edge of the Burg. It’s fast food at its best. Cheap, greasy, and salty. The building is yellow and red inside and out, and on weekends some kid desperate for money dresses up in the Clucky suit and struts around the parking lot. Everyone in Trenton, either sooner or later or all the time, eats at Cluck-in-a-Bucket.

I PARKED IN
the Cluck-in-a-Bucket lot, and we all went in and ordered our food. I got two pieces of chicken and a biscuit, my mother wimped out with a salad and grilled chicken strips, and Grandma went full on with the double Clucky Burger.

“This is nice,” my mother said. “We should do this more often.”

“I agree,” Grandma said. “It’s good to do things like a family. Going out to eat is so civilized, too. You get to sit and relax and enjoy your food and you don’t have to do the dishes after.”

We were in a booth by a window, and I looked out and saw Lula pull into the lot and park. She got out of the Firebird and waved at me on her way to the door.

“I was driving by on my way home and I saw your car here,” Lula said. “It’s a good idea to have lunch out like this. Do you mind if I join you? I don’t want to horn in on a family outing.”

“Of course you can join us,” Grandma said. “Go get your food. We just got started.”

Lula came back with a bucket of chicken parts and a bucket of biscuits.

“It’s good to see Stephanie getting out after her
traumatic
day yesterday,” Lula said. “Everything happened to Stephanie yesterday. First off, she wasn’t watching where she was going, and she got hit by a van.”

“I was watching,” I said. “And it wasn’t just any old van. It was Stanley Pooka’s van. I saw him drive by and I went to look for him. He must have pulled into a driveway or, for all I know, he could have been in someone’s backyard. Anyway I went to cross the street and he came roaring out and ran me down.”

“Who’s Stanley Pooka?” my mother asked.

“He’s an idiot college professor at Kiltman,” Lula said. “He was building fireworks in one of the fraternities there, so he could fill them with bubonic plague–infected fleas and shoot them off over the campus. Then the fleas would jump on people and give them bubonic plague and everyone would die.” Lula buttered a biscuit. “Actually everyone might not die. Some people might just have their fingers and toes and dicks drop off.”

“How would a man tinkle if his dick dropped off?” Grandma asked.

“It would be a problem,” Lula said. “I guess he could tinkle like a lady.”

My mother was speechless. She had her fork halfway to her mouth, and she was frozen.

“Wait a minute,” my mother finally said. “This man, Stanley Pooka, intentionally hit you with his van?”

“He sort of clipped me with his right front quarter panel,” I said. “It wasn’t a direct hit.”

“And that’s how you got all these scrapes and cuts?” she asked.

“That wasn’t even the worst of it,” Lula said. “He kidnapped her and took her to a house where he kept his fleas. He had another guy there, too, and he was sucking the blood out of him to give to the fleas.”

“He wasn’t
sucking
the blood out,” I said. “He was using a syringe.”

This wasn’t going well. I’d wanted to take my mom to lunch to get her calmed down. I’d wanted to give her the facts so she wasn’t upset by exaggerated rumors.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I said. “I’d like to relax and enjoy my lunch.”

“No,” my mother said. “I want to hear about this. What happened to the man who was giving his blood to the fleas?”

“His name is Becker,” Lula said. “He’s a college student, and Pooka kidnapped him, too. And when Stephanie got there she rescued Becker and then Ranger rescued her.”

My mother was holding her fork so tight her knuckles were white, and her eyes were scary looking. “What happened to Pooka?” she asked.

“He got away,” Lula said. “Everybody’s looking for him, and I don’t know how anyone can miss his beat-up white van. I bet you anything he’s riding around distributing his plague fleas, right under the nose of the FBI. He’s like the invisible man.”

“Do you really think the fleas got the plague?” Grandma asked.

“Sure they got the plague,” Lula said. “And everyone they suck on is going to get the plague. Trenton’s going to be known as the plague capital.”

“No one knows if the fleas have actually been infected,” I said. “So far no one has shown any symptoms of the plague. We’re waiting for lab test results.”

Waiting
was an understatement. My stomach was sick with dread that the tests would be positive.

“We need to go proactive,” Lula said. “We should be out there helping the police look for Pooka. I bet we could find him. You just gotta think like Pooka. And then I can use my extra perception to fine-tune it.”

“His plan was to shut the college down,” I said. “I can’t see him moving away from that plan. It was an obsession.”

“Yeah, but there’s cops all over that campus now,” Lula said. “They got people in uniform and people in street clothes. And I’m sure the kids and the faculty are all looking for him. No one wants to get bubonic fleas.”

“So he’s being sneaky,” I said. “He’s probably parking his van where it’s hidden, and then he goes to the campus in disguise and distributes his fleas. He gets in and out fast.”

“He might even be in a different car by now,” Grandma said.

“I’m sure the police have thought of all those things,” my mother said.

“Yeah, but they don’t have my special skills of sensoring,” Lula said. “I say we go on a manhunt!”

“I’m with you,” Grandma said. “Let’s go hunting.”

“I have ironing to do,” my mother said.

“The ironing is all done,” Grandma said. “There was no ironing to begin with.”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ride around the loop road,” I said, “but I don’t think we should get out of the car. We don’t know where he’s already dumped fleas.”

“Exactly,” Lula said. “When we spot him we call the police.”

We finished eating and trooped out to my Macan. My mother sat in the front, next to me. Lula and Grandma took the backseat. I drove across town and turned onto the Kiltman loop road. I drove slowly so we could scan the campus. Nothing turned up on the loop road, so I wound my way up and down the smaller roads that led to dorms and classroom buildings and fraternities. I honestly didn’t expect to find Pooka but it gave us all an activity, and I knew Grandma and Lula would have nagged me until I drove them around.

“Try some of the side roads,” Lula said. “The ones with regular houses. If it was me, that’s where I’d park on account of there’s trees to hide you from helicopters looking for you. And those houses have garages that might be empty.”

I drove off campus and into a neighborhood of faculty and student housing. I was cruising down a street that was completely shaded by old growth oak trees and I spotted a van on the next block. It wasn’t white but it was the right shape and had an appropriate amount of rust and dents. Someone had clearly taken spray-paint to it, so that it was a mix of brown, green, and tan.

I parked just short of the corner. “Someone call the police,” I said. “I think they should check this out.”

“It’s him,” Lula said. “I know it’s him. My Lula Sense is humming. I’m getting vibes all over. I’m going to take a look.”

“Not a good idea,” I said. “Wait for the police.”

“It’s okay,” Lula said. “I got my gun.”

“I’m going with you,” Grandma said. “I got my gun, too. Don’t look, Ellen. Pretend you didn’t see that I got a gun.”

“No!” I said. “Do
not
leave this car.”

Too late. Lula and Grandma were already out of the car and creeping up on the van.

“Good heavens,” my mother said. “What are they doing? Your grandmother is going to get herself killed.”

“Stay here,” I told my mother. “I’ll go get her.”

I got out from behind the wheel and ran to Grandma. I pulled up next to her, and the back door of the van flew open, and Pooka jumped out. His hair was dyed black and buzzed short but everything else was the same. Same stupid amulet. Same stupid pajama pants. Same insane glazed-eyed expression.

“You!” he said, glaring at me. “What are
you
doing here? You’re supposed to be chained in the house. Not that it matters because you’re going to die.” His face was red and veins were bulging in his neck.
“Die!”
he screamed at me.
“Die!”

He threw a glass jar that smashed about ten feet in front of us. Close enough that I could see fleas flying out everywhere. Thousands of them.

“Dirtbag,” Grandma said, and she fired off four rounds at Pooka.

All four rounds missed Pooka, but Lula had her gun out, too, and she was blasting away at him.

Bang, bang, bang!

“Did I hit anything?” she asked. “I forgot to bring my glasses when I changed my purse.”

Pooka jumped into the van and took off.

I hobbled to my Macan and got behind the wheel. Grandma and Lula scrambled into the backseat.

“Don’t let him out of your sights,” Lula said. “You can catch him.”

I didn’t want to catch him. I wanted to keep my eyes on him, so the police could catch him.

“Call police dispatch,” I said to Lula. “Tell them what’s happening. And then call Rangeman. They can track us by my key fob.”

Pooka drove out of the neighborhood and turned onto Olden Avenue. There were six cars between us, but I was sticking with him. He turned off Olden onto a newly paved road that led into a light industrial park. I knew the area, and I knew the industrial park was bordered at one end by woods. If he got to the woods it would take a lot of manpower to find him. There were no cars between us now. I floored the Macan and caught up to him. I was looking in my rearview mirror, hoping to see police lights, but it was just the two of us on the road.

I could feel everyone leaning forward, eyes glued to the van. No one was saying anything. We were all in the moment. Focused. We were all aware that this wasn’t trivial. This man in front of us could be spreading bubonic plague, and he had to be stopped. It was up to us.

The van sped ahead, and I followed. I was two car lengths behind. Lula was on the phone with the police. The road in front of me was straight, and we were almost at the entrance to the industrial park. Taillights flashed in front of me as the van came to a screeching stop. I stomped on my brakes, but I smashed into the van. Everyone in the Porsche was thrown against their seatbelts, and the air bags went off. I fought my way free of the airbag and saw that the front of the Macan looked like an accordion. Totally smushed, steam coming out of the radiator.

“What the hell was that about?” Lula yelled.

“He stopped short,” I said, breathing heavy after getting hit with the air bag. “I think he did it to wreck our car so we couldn’t follow, and he did a good job of it.”

“He can’t get away with that,” Lula said.

She leaned out the back window and fired off six shots into the back of the van. I heard
Pop! Pop! Pop!
and
Zing! Wannng! Bang!

“Omigod,” I said. “He was carrying fireworks back there. And blasting powder!”

I tried to back up, but the Porsche was stuck to the van, hung up on its back bumper.

“Everyone out of the car!” I said. “Now!”

We all scrambled out of the car and saw that Pooka was also out of the van and running for the industrial park entrance.

“Get him!” Grandma yelled. “Get the bastard.”

I thought this wasn’t a bad idea because we didn’t want to be near the van if it still held blasting powder.

We took off after Pooka, and we were about fifty feet down the road in front of the van when it exploded.
VAROOOM!
A black mushroom cloud erupted from a huge fireball that consumed both vehicles. Tires and chunks of fiberglass sailed through the air.

Everyone stopped, including Pooka. We all paused, utterly gobsmacked for a moment, and then Pooka took off down the road at a run.

I hobbled after him, Lula was huffing and puffing beside me, and Grandma was a couple paces behind us. My mother was off like a shot.

I was shouting
“Stop! Stop!”
and Grandma was shouting “
Go, Ellen, GO!”
My God, I thought, what’s my mother thinking? What will she do if she catches him?

“She’s gaining on him,” Lula said. “Who would have thought she could run like that?”

“She ran track in high school,” Grandma said. “She was pretty good.”

My mother was about three feet from Pooka. She threw herself forward, grabbed hold of his shirt, and they both went down to the ground. They rolled around a little and by the time I reached them, my mother was on top, punching Pooka in the face.

“She’s beating the crap out of him,” Lula said. “Way to go, Mrs. P.”

I pulled my mom off Pooka before she killed him, and Lula sat on him to keep him from running again. Police cars were turning onto the road, lights flashing. They paused behind the burning vehicles and slowly went off-road around them.

Trenton PD was first on the scene. Ranger and Tank were close behind in a Rangeman SUV. Two fire trucks and an ambulance followed. Pooka was bleeding from the nose, his right eye was swelling, his shirt was torn, and his power amulet had gotten ripped off his neck. My mom was a little dusty, and she had a skinned knee, but otherwise she looked okay.

Lula got off Pooka and turned him over to one of the cops.

“What happened to him?” the cop asked.

“He tripped while he was running,” Lula said. “It was these baggy pajamas he’s wearing. They’re good for letting your boys breathe while you’re watching television, but you don’t want to run in them, what with your nuts knocking around in there.”

“This is Stanley Pooka,” I told the cop. “The FBI and Homeland Security people will want to talk to him. And I think he’ll tie into Morelli’s three homicides.”

“That was righteous,” Lula said to my mom. “You kicked his ass.”

“I did!” my mother said. “I was pissed off. He hit Stephanie with his car, and she got all scraped up. He could have killed her.”

The cop walked Pooka past my mom on the way to the patrol car, my mom kicked Pooka in the back of the leg, and Pooka went down to one knee.

“Hey, lady,” the cop said, hoisting Pooka up, “you can’t do that. He’s in custody.”

“Sorry,” my mom said. “Restless leg syndrome.”

Ranger ambled over. “I’m guessing that the smoking, molten black lump in the road back there used to be a Porsche Macan.”