A Hoe Lot of Trouble (22 page)

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Authors: Heather Webber

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery & Detective, #General

BOOK: A Hoe Lot of Trouble
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When he took the path that wound around the office, heading toward the storage barn, I scampered over to his car for a better look. Just to be sure.
Unfortunately, along with the tools I'd just seen him put in, some of the missing equipment was in his trunk too. And his bumper looked like it had just recently been fitted with a trailer hitch.
"Oh, Marty."
What would I say to him? How would he react? That thought gave me pause. Did I really want to confront him out here? Alone? He didn't strike me as the violent type, but then again, with his wholesome good looks, he didn't look like a rake robber, either.
I heard the cracking of wheels and panicked as Marty came around the corner pushing a spreader. I looked around, but there was no place to hide.
My gaze darted back to the pear trees. A good fifty yards. Panicked, I couldn't move, didn't even think to run until it was too late. The rhythmic sounds of the spreader came closer. Having no other choice, I eyed the trunk. It'd be a tight fit. But desperate times and all that.
I climbed in, cursing as my dress caught on a pair of snip pers, and tore. I scrambled into the dark shadows in the far reaches of the cavernous trunk, out of the fading sunlight.
Trying to keep as still as possible, I listened as Marty wrestled the spreader onto the trailer. A few dozen curse words later, he apparently got the job done. He slammed the trailer gate closed.
I jumped at the sound, banging my head. I borrowed some of Marty's colorful adjectives. Hope he didn't mind.
Marty's trunk stank of loam and oil. I've smelled better, but I could think of worse, so I counted my blessings.
The roar of Marty's Taken by Surprise truck startled me, and I banged my head yet again. Sheesh, you'd think I was on edge or something. But I also recognized that this might be my only chance to make a run for it. It would take him a few minutes to park the truck in the garage on the other side of the lot.
Carefully, I tried to find some leverage. Just as I leaned forward, I realized that Marty was
backing
the truck into the garage. I was in plain view. I ducked backward, my dress ripping yet again.
Breathing hard, I struggled to think of what to do. How did I get myself into these things?
A few quick moments later, Marty's footsteps neared. Whistling filled the silent night. Hmmph. Glad he was so chipper, the pickax pilferer. Without warning, he slammed the trunk closed.
Blackness engulfed me.
The teeth of a hand cultivator bit into my bare leg as I wiggled, and I held back a yelp as the engine turned and caught.
Faint sounds of Barry Manilow floated in from the back seat. Barry Manilow?! Marty just didn't fit the thief bill. Nothing about his stealing from me made any sense whatsoever.
I fought back rising panic as Marty hitched his car to the trailer and drove off.
After a few stops and starts, we spent a lot of time at a high rate of speed. I passed the time by lip-synching to the music. We'd gone through "Mandy," "Weekend in New England," "Copacabana" (twice), and "Could This Be Magic" before the car slowed.
Marty lived in downtown Cincinnati, so I assumed that's where we were headed, though I'd made a lot of assumptions lately that had turned out like crap.
The car slowed to a stop and started again a moment later. Stop sign? Red light?
An interminable amount of time later, the car rolled to a halt. A door creaked opened, and the car rocked as it was slammed closed.
I held my breath as I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
What had possessed me to get into this trunk? This was precisely why I should mind my own business and let the police handle criminal matters. When faced with two choices, I always picked the wrong one.
If I'd just confronted Marty in the TBS parking lot—and not been chick-chick-chicken—I'd probably be safe at home right now, and not cuddling with a flat-nose shovel.
What if Marty didn't open the trunk tonight? What then? Why hadn't I thought of
that
? I patted my pockets, hoping I had my cell, but I didn't.
Of course.
I pushed on the back seat but it wouldn't budge.
I wasn't claustrophobic by nature, but without Barry's soothing voice, I felt those first stirrings of anxiety.
An image of a coffin jumped into my thoughts. My breaths came fast and shallow.
The air evaporated.
Could I die in here? Was there enough oxygen to sustain a hysterical woman?
I needed to get out. Now.
I kicked. I screamed. I clawed.
Using the flat nosed shovel, I banged on the trunk.
A second later, it popped open. An overhead streetlight illuminated several sets of heads as they peered in at me, but I recognized only one.
I scrambled over the tools, threw myself into Marty's arms.
His eyes widened as he caught me. "Nina?"
Locking my legs around him, I held on tight, still fighting panic.
One of the kids said, "Dang, man. What you doin' with a white girl in your trunk?"
Latching my arms around Marty's neck, I took deep gulps of the night air. My heart pounded in my ears.
Another kid, a born smart-ass, quipped, "You're s'posed to kill 'em first."
This got a huge laugh from the group of preteens gathered around the car. White teeth flashed bright against their dark skin.
"Knock it off," Marty told them, prying my legs from around his waist and setting me on the ground. Small bits of
something
dug into my bare feet. My knees wobbled.
He glanced between the trunk and the utility trailer, a guilty look on his face. "I can explain," he said.
Maybe he could, but I was in no mood to hear it. My hands were still shaking. Deep gulps of the night air didn't seem to be helping the tremors.
Compassion and sincerity shone bright in his eyes. He blinked innocently. "Please?"
"Really, Marty, I'm in no mood."
"What if I begged?"
Finally, finally, I stopped shaking. I groaned. "All right.
You can explain while you drive me back to the office." I just wanted to go home, and right now he was the fastest way I was getting there.
"You're the best, Nina."
"Yeah, yeah. Spare me."
Apprehension swept across his young features. "You're not going to tell Ana, are you?"
"Ana's the least of your worries." And that was saying a lot. I folded myself into the passenger seat, pressed the play button on the Barry CD, and leaned my head against the cracked headrest. "This better be good, Marty."

Twenty-two

"A restoration project?" Ana's voice echoed across the line.
I pressed my cell to my ear with my shoulder as I started down Jaybird, heading home. It was near eleven and I was bone tired. "You should have seen it. It was beautiful."
Marty had driven by the old lot turned neighborhood garden before taking me back to the office. He'd explained that no one in the area had tools of their own, so he'd borrowed some of mine, with the intention of returning them all.
"Did he happen to mention why he didn't just ask for the tools?"
"Embarrassed. Young male pride is a powerful thing. He'd told his Boy Scout troop that he'd take care of all the details, but when it came down to it, he was broke. Spent all his money on uniforms for the kids, so they'd feel like a real troop."
"Gullible. That's what you are."
I stopped at a light. "Am not."
"I bet you volunteered something. What? To sponsor the troop?"
Actually, I'd volunteered Taken by Surprise to oversee any project the young scouts wanted to take on in the inner city, but I wasn't about to own up to it just so Ana could say she was right. Instead I said, "How'd it go with Jean-Claude?"
"Oh, he went straight home after dropping off the truck."
"What's that I hear in your voice?" Sounded a bit like giddiness.
"Static? Your battery dying?"
I checked it. "Yep. So talk fast."
"Well, I followed him home, hid in the bushes and peeked in his front window."
"And?"
"His brother caught me."
"No!"
"Yes." She giggled. "We have a date next week."
"Leave it to you."
"What?"
"Leave it to you!"
"Nina? I can't hear you!"
I shouted a final good-bye and snapped my phone closed. I couldn't wait to get home to bed. I was too tired to let intruders and runaway reptiles stop me from getting a good night's sleep.
I turned on the radio, then shut it off again. I was too filled with nervous energy to be calmed by music. Just after turning right onto Mockingbird, a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror, the car moving quickly, trying to pass.
The hairs rose on the back of my neck and I shivered. I flipped on the heater. I slowed and pulled the wheel slightly to the right, giving the car more room.
I let out a small cry as the car came too close. I jerked hard to the left to correct, cutting the driver off.
The car was a compact with tinted windows. White. Small. A small white car. What had Mr. Cabrera said that day? A small white car with a skulker . . . Could it be the same?
The car eased back and I sped up. He was tailgating me. I thought of slamming on my brakes, but realized that there was no air bag in my ancient Corolla, and going through the windshield just didn't appeal to me.
Pressing my foot to the floor, I could feel my nerves jumping. A trickle of sweat ran down my temple. It tickled, but I didn't dare take my hands off the wheel to wipe it away.
Who could it be? Chanson? Someone he hired? Tim? A strange lunatic just out for cheap thrills?
Tim
had
known I was at the office—thanks to Bridget's phone call. Had he been lying in wait?
My tires squealed as I whipped around a corner. The white car stayed right behind me.
As far as I knew, Tim didn't drive a white car. But that didn't mean anything. He could have borrowed it, bought a cheap junker, stolen it.
My car bumped over some train tracks at a crossing on Knickerbocker. My transmission, I was sure, was going to fall out, but amazingly the car still ran.
My speedometer read 55. The speed limit posted on the side of the road said 35.
There was a stoplight ahead. It flashed from green to yellow and finally red. I slowed ever so slightly, checked for cars, then ran the red light. I was just chalking up the violations.
I slowed at another intersection. Suddenly, I flew forward, my chest ramming into the steering wheel as I was hit from behind. I glanced up and saw the car backing up. Leaving?
Reaching out, I fumbled for my phone, punched in 9-1-1 before realizing the battery was dead.
As I heard an engine rev, I panicked. He wasn't leaving; he was gathering speed to hit me again!
My bare foot stomped on the gas pedal and my tires screeched. I fishtailed but managed to gain control of the car. I needed to lose the lunatic. I could think of only one sure way to get him to leave me alone. I banged a U-ey, making a wide arc around my pursuer as I headed toward the police station.
As I passed by the car, I saw nothing. The tinted windows blocked any view of a face. I didn't have time to dwell on who it might be in the car—I just wanted to get to safety at this point.
My sweat-dampened dress stuck to me. My hands turned clammy as I gripped the wheel. The car made a U-turn too, closed in on me. It was so close I couldn't see the headlights—or had he broken them when he crashed into me a few minutes ago?
I lurched forward as he hit me again. I didn't slow as I ran yet another red light at the intersection I had crossed through only moments before. I just prayed that no one else was coming.
I heard a loud
thunk
as I went over a pothole. In my side mirror, I saw my hubcap roll away.
My Corolla felt sluggish as I stepped on the gas. The white car was still behind me, but it too had slowed. When I looked ahead, two red lights, side by side, were blinking.
My heart skidded to a stop.
Blink, blink.
"Oh-no. Oh-no." A shiver swept down my spine. I let up on the gas. My luck had just run out.
The railroad gates lowered. I heard the train's whistle in the distance. If I didn't get out of there I was a goner.
Making a sudden decision, I stepped on the gas. Pressing the pedal to the floorboard, I hoped to get around the gates in time.
My car wobbled.
The pothole must have given me a flat! No, no! This wasn't happening.
I would not allow something so trivial as a flat tire to be my downfall. I rode the rim, hoping to make it over the tracks. It was my only hope.
Crossing over the safety line, I sped up only to skid to a stop before I reached the tracks when I saw the headlights of the train coming right at me.
I checked my rearview mirror. Big mistake. I screamed, my voice garbled and choked, as the white car rammed me from behind. My car jerked forward. I felt my front tires bump over the first railroad track.
I pressed the gas pedal. My tires spun, permeating the air with the smell of burning rubber.
The train's engineer must have seen me, because the whistle blew continuously. The train's brakes screeched. My ears hurt.
I threw the car into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. I was fighting a losing battle. The white car pushed me into the path of the train, nudging me farther onto the tracks.
The brakes on the train were deafening. I looked to my left and the lights on the train blinded me. It was maybe a few hundred feet away. Horrible screeching filled the air. Sparks flew everywhere.
I threw the door open, scrambled out. Dove forward, somersaulting away from the tracks. I hit my head on the pavement, but my hiney took the brunt of my rolling fall.

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