Authors: Kathleen Bacus
I returned to the car and opened the glove box to check for a trunk switch. I shined the flashlight in the glove compartment,
shoved aside a thick, oversized manila envelope and located the trunk-release button, and popped the trunk. I fingered the
manila envelope and tried to remember what I had stashed in the glove box. I picked it up and looked at it. Tampons? Nah.
Parking tickets? Nah. I’d had to pay all those when I renewed my registration back in March. I opened the envelope and peeked
inside. My eyes crossed. My breathing grew shallow. In my very own grubby little mitts, I held a wad of greenbacks the likes
of which this poor working girl had never seen before. I blinked. Oh, working in retail, I’d seen hundred dollar bills before,
just not this many. Not all at one time. And never in the glove box of my ‘87 white Plymouth Reliant.
My heart began to pound. Perspiration pooled above my upper lip. There had to be ten grand here, easy. Mentally, I calculated
how many curly-Q’s on cone tops that would figure out to. How many, “May I take your orders?” How many double-dips and maraschino
cherries? My mind reeled at the implications.
An owl hooted nearby, pulling me out of my money-induced catatonia. Ten grand or not, I was still afoot until I changed the
tire. I shut the glove box, put my car key in my vest pocket, and returned to the rear of the vehicle, figuring if I couldn’t
manage to change the flat, what the hey? I’d buy four new tires in the morning. New tires? Heck, I’d buy a brand new car.
One of those radical red jobs with the spoiler in the back, wire wheel covers, and real leather seats. I inhaled deeply. I
could almost smell that new car aroma already.
I smiled and threw open the trunk just as the flashlight conked again. I grunted, thinking a trunk light would be a nice luxury.
Not that I would have to worry about flat tires—not with my new shiny red sports car.
I pounded the flashlight with my palm. No luck. I hit it on the back of my car and it came on. I shined the waning beam into
the trunk interior, puzzled to find a large, bulky gray canvas where my spare tire should be.
“What the—?” I grabbed hold of the tarp and pulled it back. Two large, buggy, surprised eyes stared back at me. “Holy Mother!
Sweet Jesus!” I scrambled away from the car and into the grassy ditch, fighting the strong urge to pee in my pants. “Son of
a bitch! What the hell?” I rasped, all past pledges concerning my language overhaul forgotten. I ran a shaking hand across
my eyes and focused on corralling my heart rate and breathing back into healthy parameters.
I gathered what wits I had left and reflected on this latest complication. I let out a long, noisy breath. Okay. Okay. It
was starting to make sense now. I took another deep breath in and blew it out. Okay. I had it. This was someone’s idea of
a sick joke. One of the wise-asses at work had copped onto an old mannequin from apparel and stuck it in my trunk in a juvenile
attempt to scare the wits out of me. Okay, okay, so it was a successful attempt.
Who knew how long the sick little perp had been waiting for his moronic joke to unfold? As often as I opened my trunk, I could’ve
been carting Mr. Mannequin around since Christmas. My lip curled. There was only one individual I knew who had the kahunies
to mastermind such a despicable trick and the patience to sit back and wait for results. Ranger Rick.
I crawled up out of the thigh-high grass and retrieved the flashlight I’d dropped. The dumb jerk. I’d probably end up with
chigger bites up the wazoo thanks to his latest stunt. I stomped to the trunk with only one thing on my mind: payback.
I shined the flashlight at the dummy for a closer look.
Whoa.
I’d never realized the male mannequins at BC looked so much like Grandville’s own news-making, drug-smuggling attorney, Peyton
Palmer, right down to the stiff-looking hairpiece and quarter-sized nose holes.
I grabbed hold of the dummy’s chin to turn the head and flinched. The dummy’s face felt cold and leathery against my suddenly
tap-dancing fingertips. I moved the flashlight for a closer inspection. Everything went dark. “Dammit!” I pounded the flashlight
on the open trunk lid. “Come on, you piece of crap!” I gave it another hard thunk and the light popped back on. I followed
the path of the beam into my trunk and right into a big, dark, bloody hole on the right temple of the poorly treated mannequin.
I stared at the seeping hole and, for a few moments, applauded the lengths to which Ranger Rick would go in order to play
this macabre joke, complete with bloody head wounds. As the seconds passed and I stared at that half-dollar sized hole, I
began to process the grizzly scene. The blood and matter oozing from the deep headwound. The lifelike skin and eyes framed
by thick eyelashes. The not-so-lifelike hair. I put my hand out and took hold of the dummy’s toupee and gave a hard pull.
I tried again, this time tugging the rug for all I was worth. I gasped and yanked my hand away.
Well, damn. Looked like I owed Ranger Rick an apology. He hadn’t played a nasty practical joke on me, after all. There wasn’t
a mannequin in my trunk. There was a dead body in my trunk. And he used to be Peyton Palmer.
My flashlight went out. I let loose with a scream that would have put those horror movie queens of scream to shame. I dropped
the flashlight and ran like you-know-what.
I hadn’t run since the girls’ state track meet my senior year when I ran the third leg of the thousand meter medley. We came
in sixth. Okay. Dead last. But we would’ve won if Callie Carter hadn’t botched the handoff and made me drop the baton. Coach
Willetts would have choked on his whistle at the pace I set on that dark, rock-riddled dirt road. I sucked air into underused
lungs and sounded a lot like a lifelong asthmatic during a full-blown attack.
A stitch appeared in my left side, but trooper that I am, I ignored it. The vivid mental image of the stiff in my trunk loomed
rather large in the motivation department, and provided more than sufficient incentive for me to keep motoring down that country
road; shin splints, blisters and hyperventilation notwithstanding.
“Why me?
Why me?
” was the litany that kept me company as I plodded along in those had-to-have sandals, each pebble and stone underfoot a painful
reminder of my unwise investment. (Hey, a girl can go without eating, but she must have a new pair of shoes at least monthly.)
I hit the lighted intersection that heralded the state highway and headed for the nearest farmhouse, still about three-quarters
of a mile and a good half-dozen blisters away.
I started across the highway when lights topped the hill and bore down on me. I’m almost certain I had that deer-in-the-headlights
look before I screamed and dove for the ditch to the sound of screeching brakes and rubber being transferred from tire to
pavement. The shock of a sudden cold-water dousing generated a body-length shiver. The only consolation I could muster was
the hope that the low water temperature would kill off any disease-carrying mosquitoes that happened to dip their wick in
my fair skin. I would not permit myself to contemplate the reptilian factor.
A car door slammed. The beam of a flashlight—a powerful one, not a wimpy one—flickered from side to side as the occupant of
the vehicle made his way back to my not-so-scenic locale among the tall grass and foul water. I was appalled when my teeth
began to chatter louder than those fake wind-up ones you bring out when you’re bored. Undecided as to whether I should come
out, come out, wherever I was, or stay put, the decision was taken out of my hands when a beam of light struck me full in
the face, blinding me. I raised a shaking hand to block it.
“Good God! I should’ve known it was you!”
I started at the familiar and unwelcome tones of a certain fish-and-fowl officer. You know. The one who was placed on this
earth to be a major irritant to me. My very own life-sized hemorrhoid that no amount of cooling gel or soothing pads could
shrink.
I pulled myself to a sitting position, wincing at the pain in my shoulder and the sogginess on my butt. “You almost ran me
over, you—you speed freak!” I lashed out, the terror of the evening fueling my response. That and my wet hiney and lovely
new water moccasins. I felt myself being hauled up out of the ditch with a sincere lack of gentleness.
“Run you over? Run you over? Hell, you were in the middle of the gawd-damned road in the middle of the gawd-damned night!”
Far from the soothing, sympathetic, reassuring tones I needed, my rescuer’s voice was harsh and accusatory. “Tressa Jayne
Turner, you could be the poster child for the slogan
shit happens,
“Ranger Rick continued, his own anger evident by the erratic shaking of the flashlight in his hand.
Humpf.
Clearly, this big, dumb oaf had missed Oprah’s series on “Sensitive Men and the Women Who Love Them.” I yanked my arm out
of his grasp and slapped at the hand that held the flashlight. “And you could be the pin-up boy for Habitat for Inhumanity,”
I snarled back.
Rick shined the flashlight on me, from the top of my dirty, straggly, sweaty head, to the tips of my grungy little piggies
encased in water-logged, now putrid-white, no-sling-back sandal. I’d lost one in the murky depths of the ditch, but I wasn’t
about to go fishing for it in front of Rick Townsend. Instead, I stuck my nose in the air, hoping to salvage a bit of dignity.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Ranger Rick took my arm and steered me toward his pickup, which was up the road a
piece. “That old Plymouth poop out on you again?”
I stopped. I clamped a hand to my mouth. My Plymouth! I gasped and grabbed Rick’s arm. The body in the trunk! I gasped louder
and clamped my hand back over my mouth. The money!
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ranger Rick asked, no doubt in response to my weird contortions.
I grabbed his arm again. “My car!”
“Yes?”
“Flat tire,” I managed to get out past those again chattering teeth.
“Okay. Where?”
I pointed a quivering finger in the general direction of home. “Farley Road, before you get to 120th.”
“Let me guess. Your spare tire was flat. Or nonexistent,” my knight in rapidly tarnishing armor remarked. “You do know how
to change a tire, don’t you?” I could sense that
whatta-ditz
tone in his voice.
“I most certainly do know how to change a tire,” I replied. “I’m a farm girl, remember? Besides, my dad made me pass his change-a-tire-in-seven-minutes-or
you-don’t-get-your-driver’s-license drill. I just couldn’t
get
to the spare tire.” My voice began to crack again, recalling the reason I couldn’t get to the spare.
“Full of empty pop and beer cans?”
My limited supply of patience with this khaki-clad cad barely registered on my tolerance dipstick and my temper gauge was
in the red.
“Actually, no.” I chose my words with care, delivering them through clenched teeth, anticipating a certain grim satisfaction
by the huge helping of crow the ranger would have to chow down on when I presented him with the cadaver in my car. “I couldn’t
get to the tire due to the corpse in my trunk. You know. The one with a hole in his head big enough to be a cup-holder.”
Even with the limited light of the flashlight, I could imagine the rapid blinks in succession, the rolling of his eyes, the
curled lip, the...
“Are you nuts? Or drunk? On something?”
“Maybe. Definitely not. Probably should be,” I said in answer to his predictable response.
“What in God’s name are you talking about? Corpses and cup-holders? Of all the ridiculous—”
“It’s true!” I grabbed hold of his arm and started pulling him toward his pickup. “Swear to God, there
is
a dead body in my trunk! He was all covered up with a tarp or something and when I lifted the plastic,
ugh,
there he was. Of course, at first I thought it was some asinine practical joke you—some asinine practical joker played. But
the closer I looked, the more I realized it wasn’t a dummy at all. It was Peyton Palmer! Of course, Gramma would say it was
still a dummy, but that’s beside the point.” Once I began to verbalize my ordeal, I couldn’t seem to stop. The words tumbled
off me like the four-pack towers of toilet paper I bowled over at the store last week. “So, I dropped the flashlight and ran.
I was so scared I left the money behind. I did consider going back for it at one point, but decided against it. I mean, like
it’s not as if the cops are gonna let me keep it or anything. They won’t, will they?” I squinted at my brother’s pal. “Hello!
Are you getting any of this?”
“You’re telling me that you found a dead body in your trunk, that the body had a hole in his head, and that the body just
happened to be that of Peyton Palmer, local attorney, Kiwanis president, sports booster, and ex-city councilman?”
“You forgot accused drug smuggler,” I said, then nodded. “Yes,
yes!
That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” I shoved him toward his blinking four-by-four (he knew right where his hazard lights
were located, Mr. Smartypants) and opened the driver’s door. “Now get in there and get help,” I yelled. “This is an emergency!”
I ran around to the passenger side door. Okay, so I couldn’t actually run due to my flapping footwear, but I moved as fast
as I could. I hauled myself up into his monstrosity of a truck, expecting to see Ranger Rick dialing 911 on his cell phone
to call in the cavalry. Instead, he flipped the dome light on and turned to stare at me, a look of this-takes-the-cake on
his too-handsome face.
“Well?” I asked. “Why aren’t you calling the police? Don’t you have your cell phone?”
“Take it easy, Tressa,” he said, and grabbed for the cell phone in the console at the same time I did.
“Aren’t you going to call the cops? Don’t you think they might be a tad-bit interested in checking out a report of a body
in a trunk? A dead body with a big, oozing, black hole in the side of its head? The dead body of a well-known local attorney
with a big, oozing, black hole in the side of his head? Or are you afraid you might interrupt a donut break?”
“Listen, Tressa.” Townsend ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t call the sheriff’s office with an unconfirmed report like
that.”
I stared at him. “What do you mean unconfirmed? I saw it with my own two eyes. I’m an eyewitness!”
Townsend shook his head. “I need more, Tressa. You’re not all that... uh... reliable,” he faltered. “Oh, I think you think
you saw something in the trunk, but I don’t think you saw what
you
think you saw.”
“Huh?” I said. Ranger Rick was beginning to sound a lot like me.
He wiped a hand over his eyes. “Look, Tressa. Think about it. There you are. All alone. Dark country road. Car breaks down.
Naturally, you’re uneasy. Things have a way of seeming more dramatic than they really are. Characteristics are tainted by
dread and fear. It’s natural, really.” He patted my shoulder again. “It’s not uncommon.”
I shrugged his hand off my shoulder. “Cut the psychobabble, Townsend. You’re no Dr. Phil. You want confirmation, Mr. Ranger,
sir?” I snapped. “You’ll have your confirmation. But you better step on it. It’s a warm night, and Mr. Palmer is decomposing
as we speak.”
Townsend gave me another shake of his head, put the pickup in drive and pulled out. My spit began to dry up at the thought
of seeing the body again. But, hey, why would I have to see it again? I could just point Townsend in the direction of the
trunk and stay a safe distance away—like, the next area code. Much as I wanted to be a part of the moment when Ranger Rick
gazed down on poor Peyton Palmer all twisted up like a Mr. Salty in my trunk, and was forced to acknowledge I was right, I
didn’t think I could handle another peek, especially under the super-high intensity beam of Townsend’s state-issued flashlight.
No, I’d keep a safe distance away. Like, inside the pickup. With the doors locked. And the windows rolled up.
“How much further?” Townsend asked, and I jumped.
“Should be just ahead,” I said, as our headlights revealed the outline of a white car with the trunk open.
“You didn’t use your four-way flashers?” Townsend asked.
“They weren’t working,” I snapped.
“You need a new car, Tressa.” Ranger Rick shook his head.
“Of course I need a new car. Someone dumped a dead body in my trunk. I could never drive a car that had a body dumped in it.”
I shuddered. “It wouldn’t be... right.”
He expelled a noisy breath and pulled up behind the abandoned car. I shut my eyes so I couldn’t see the outline of Palmer
Peyton sardined in my trunk.
Townsend grabbed his flashlight. “Stay here,” he ordered.
Like I wanted to get out and have another look-see.
He exited the truck and walked to the rear of my vehicle. He raised his flashlight and aimed it at the contents of the trunk.
I closed my eyes again and held my breath, waiting for Townsend to beat a path back to the truck and, of course, apologize
profusely, then get on the phone and call out the county mounties. I waited. And waited. I opened one eye just a bit, then
opened both eyes wide when I saw Townsend had disappeared. Where the devil was he? My heart was just beginning to make little
rat-a-tat-tats
in my chest when I caught sight of his silhouette near the front of my car. Why wasn’t he phoning the proper authorities?
Townsend wasn’t trained for crime scene investigation. I’d seen enough crime shows to know that. This was a matter for the
sheriff’s office. The state police. Those state DCI technicians who wore the ugly blue jumpsuits with “Crime Lab” on the back
and drove the big, honking crime scene van chock-full of evidence bags, yellow crime scene tape and latex gloves.
I watched as Townsend pulled his six-foot-three-inch frame out of the driver’s compartment of my car. He walked toward me,
his slow pace at odds with the urgency of the situation. He stood at the hood of his truck. “Tressa.” He motioned to me.
I cracked the window an inch. “What do you want?”
“Could you step out of the truck for a moment and come here?” he asked.
“Why?” I queried, a sense of unease building that I couldn’t explain.
“I have something to show you,” he said. “Come here.”
I shook my head. “I’ve seen it. I’ll have the picture branded in my subconscious for years to come as it is. I don’t care
to reinforce the image by catching something I might’ve missed the first time around.”
“Tressa.”
“Oh, all right,” I said, knowing that my stubborn streak was equaled only by Rick Townsend’s own pigheadedness. “I’m coming.
But don’t blame me if I puke all over and destroy all kinds of forensic evidence.”
I opened the truck door and scooted to the ground, losing my other sandal in the process. I took teensy-weensy baby steps
until I reached the right front quarter-panel of the truck. “Okay, I’m here. What do you want?” I asked Townsend, who was
now at the open trunk of my car.
“Come here, Tressa.” He held out a hand.
“I can’t,” I told him. “I think I’m in shock.”
“Tressa.”
“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” I said. “Just don’t be surprised when I sue you for the cost of my therapy.” I inched closer to
the trunk.
“Sometime tonight would be nice,” Townsend remarked.
“What’s the hurry?” I asked.
“He’s
not going anywhere.” I motioned toward the trunk, expecting to see poor Peyton Palmer’s sightless, staring eyes, and blood-matted,
lacquered hair. What I saw was a set of jumper cables, a fishing pole, and, from a cursory look, a couple of really raunchy
magazines. My mouth flew open.