Escape Route (Murder Off-Screen Book 1) (14 page)

There are perks to having a Lab. You don’t have to eat alone, and you don’t have to do the dishes.

I collapsed back onto the pyramid of pillows, a fork in one hand, a steak knife in the other—which was silly. The ham fell apart with the slightest touch. Aunt B knew her way around a pig. Seventeen hours since my early morning cuppa with Francine and nothing to eat except a few of Jimmy’s chips.

As promised, I fished one out of the bag and showed it to Doofus.

“Jimmy says you’re to have one a day. Shake on it?”

Doofus grinned, slobbered and shook and ate the chip. “Jimmy misses you very much.”

I stroked his head, slid the silk of his thick ears between my fingers. “You’re home now. No more shelters or crazy politicians or bad men. This is it.” I kissed him right between the eyes, square on Jimmy’s spot.

I snuggled into my cocoon and dug in. “My turn.” Ham, peas, baked potato and one of her biscuits, pre-buttered. Heaven on a plate. She’d also wrapped a hotel mini-fridge bottle of wine in the napkin.

Every April, at the Toronto Bead Festival, she raided the hotel room’s fridge, and brought home a minuscule, twenty-dollar bottle of wine as a memento. “2011. A very good year for screw top wines.” Which I proceeded to unscrew. “White. Does white go with ham?”

I toasted Doofus. “It’s also official, my new dinner companion, you’ve earned the Frank and Betty Shanahan seal of approval. You’re one of us now. Family.” I gave him a ham bit in honor of the event, while I polished off the wine.

Somewhere between the ham and peas, I dozed off. The clatter of the plate spinning on the wood floor woke me, but only long enough to shove the knife and fork in the bookshelf next to my probably dead phone so I wouldn’t fillet myself, and it was lights out.

Until—I was introduced to what it is geckoes do when it’s dark out. José fancied himself a tenor. In my REM daze, I thought I was in a cave full of bats. New priority—buy a gecko how-to book. I was sure this screeching was his celebratory rendition of
It’s Great to be Not Fish Bait
.

I stumbled out of bed, picked up the spotless dinner dish, put it in the sink and made a mental note not to be fooled in the morning and sterilize it after a thorough washing. There was not a gecko supply store nearby, so I pinched up a few tissues for a bed, put a dozen mealworms in a lid and tucked José inside his jar.

“Sorry, little guy. Until you get a voice coach, you have to sleep in the marina.” I trudged across the parking lot, again, and set his jar on the counter. He wailed another chorus as I left.

“Buenos noches, José.”

Exhausted, I sleep-walked back to the boat, and climbed back down to the salon where my puffy mound of pillows and yellow dog awaited.

The man with the bolt cutters was new.

Doofus was sniffing the bolt cutters, wagging his tail.

“Who are you? What do you want? Get off my boat.”

There was no fear in my voice because I was just too tired and annoyed. A crazy thought zoomed past that maybe he was the pizza guy, and had returned with dinner. Which did not explain why he thought he might need to cut a bolt.

I raised my arms to Doofus.
What were you thinking?
Most definitely, the dog and I needed to have the Stranger Danger talk.

The trespasser petted the dog while he mimicked me in a squeaky voice. “‘Who are you? What do you want? Please don’t hurt me.’ You all say the same things.” He stood and opened and closed the cutters. “I need your ponytail. Hold it up.”

I pinned my back to the steps. “Well, that’s not happening.”

He sighed. “Your ponytail or the dog’s ponytail. Pick.”

I yanked my ponytail to the cabin roof, marched right over and turned my back to him.

“Pull that pink thing away from your skull a couple ‘o inches.”

I moved the scrunchie like he asked and, snap, off with my do. Just like that. Gone. I’d been meaning to go short for summer, anyway, but no way he was getting a tip.

“Hat.”

“Hat? Oh, hat.” Dell’s ball cap was on the navigator’s table. “There.”

I pointed, then patted my scalp to check for blood loss. I was thankful he’d cut off a body part that didn’t require a tourniquet.

He picked the cap up and put it on. It was too small and sat on the top of his shaved head like Humpty Dumpty’s hat. “Future reference,” he said, “when you’re hiding out, don’t wear a billboard.”

Mental note. I’d strolled right into Francine’s mansion, cap on head. I’d driven past the security cameras, cap on head, in case she’d forgotten that
Dumford’s Marina
was stitched across the front.

He took the ball hat off, stuffed my hair, still wrapped with the scrunchie, inside the hat, and shoved both in his jacket pocket.

“So you’ll be off then? Ridding the general populace of offensive ponytails?”

“Great. You’re a talker.” He rubbed his eyes. The arm gesture lifted the jacket enough for me to see the revolver holstered to his belt.

“For both our benefits, I’ll say this once so I don’t have to keep repeating myself.” He took a deep breath. “The dog and I are getting on my boat.”

“What boat?”

He tipped his head toward the V-berth at
Brother’s
bow.

I scrambled across the mattress and looked out the porthole. He wasn’t lying. An enormous, white-and-blue cabin cruiser shimmered under Dell’s security lights. He’d parked it straight across our slip, blocking us in. A heavy mist had crept across the inlet, but that didn’t excuse my not noticing a boat that size when I came back from tucking José in for the night
.

“You,” he pointed at me, “will be towed in the dinghy behind us. It’ll be a rough ride, so you’ll have to hold on.”

“That’s not fair,” I said. “I’ve had a very long day.”

“Then
, when we get to our spot, I shoot the dog, clip off his marked ear, tie an anchor around his neck and over he goes.”

This guy wasn’t kidding. No bravado or threatening dares. Just a laundry list of who was going to get whacked and how. Nothing personal.

“Doofus. His name is Doofus.” I’d seen that on one of Gertie’s cop shows. Use names to make the bad guy feel—bad. “I’m Jaqie, and,
hello,
you’ll hurt that dog over my dead body.”

“I was just coming to that.” He studied the ceiling, probably counting to ten. “Then you, in your unlit dinghy, bob around the foggy shipping channel until one of the tankers rolls over it turning you into chum.”

Nowhere in my yearbook was it written
girl most likely to be turned into chum.
But this guy was pretty certain of my future.

Then, maybe to justify a reason for his existence when he wasn’t slaughtering ponytails and helpless animals, he said, “I do one good deed per day. It’s just who I am.”

What! Adding sociopath to the description I’d give the police with my dying, fish-tainted breath.

Keep him talking. I was a friendly person. Maybe we’d become friends.
“What was today’s good deed?” I couldn’t wait.

“I didn’t break that kid’s arm. I broke his dad’s. Pops didn’t want to tell me who had the dog, so I gave him the choice.”

Francine had to have solicited this goon to finish what Avery and Costello couldn’t. That’s why they hadn’t followed Joe or me at the intersection. She’d tracked Joe down through the license plate number Avery had texted her, and kept Joe busy on the phone until Carl arrived from Baltimore, only two hours from Oakley Beach.

He’d made Joe choose—tell him who had the dog, or pick one of his sons to have his arm broken. He’d keep breaking arms until he found out. If Joe spilled the beans right off, only his arm would be broken.

Francine Cuthbart had lied to me. Balderdash.

“According to the clock,” I said, “it’s past midnight. Time for another good deed.”

~~^~~

His wide shoulders slumped. Carl ran his hand down his face, which made his bushy eyebrows go haywire. “Okay. You can ride in the boat, but I’ll have to tie you up. Give me your cell phone.”

I pointed to the pillows. “It’s in there somewhere.”

“Go on, then.”

Doofus pranced the length of the salon. He knew we were going on an adventure and was anxious to get started.

“So here’s a question,” I said as I made a show of moving the pillows while I finessed the knife and the phone off the bookshelf. “Why are you doing this? What did the dog ever do to you? What did I ever do?”

“I’m doing it for the money. Phone.” He held his hand out, palm up.

“Here.” I stretched my arm far out to the right, while I slipped the knife in my waistband with my left. “Phone.”

He yanked the cell out of my hand and dropped it in his other jacket pocket. “Let’s go.”

“Doofus isn’t familiar with the concept of these steps, yet. You go first, so you can lift. I’ll push from the bottom.”

He studied the steps. Studied Doofus’s puzzled expression. “You try to pull one stunt, the dog’s dead now.”

“No stunts. Not a one.”

One of Uncle Frank’s hidey-holes was what looked like an ordinary back-stop on the middle step of the companion way stairs. It was a spring-loaded affair that opened with a push. This compartment usually held the flare gun. It was early in the season, and he may not have rigged it yet, but it was my best hope.

He climbed the steps, set the cutters on the hatch roof and crouched. “Come on. We’re wasting time.”

“What’s your name?” I called up the stairwell.

“Why?”

“So I don’t have to keep calling you,
Hey.
”

“Carl.”

“Carl, when his elbows clear the deck, grab Doofus under the front legs and lift him. I’ll push from the bottom. He weighs about ninety.”

I called Doofus to me and bent down. “I absolutely forgive you. But we need to put on our thinking caps in the future. Okay?” He licked my face.

I got his front feet on the ladder, and said, “Up.” I pressed my back against his and he pulled himself to the hatch. As Carl struggled to lift him out, I punched the fourth step and the backboard popped open.

The flare gun was right where it was supposed to be—loaded. There were four extra flares. I mashed the gun into my waistband, but only managed to jam one flare in my front pocket.

Doofus and I had two chances to make it out of this. As Gertie would say, ‘You only need one.’

Carl lifted Doofus into the cockpit, then drew his gun out of its holster. “Now you.”

I kept both hands on the railings, in plain view, as I climbed. The blade of my knife jigsawed my backside with each step.

The cockpit area was eight-by-ten feet, an oval with benches formed from the same fiberglass that comprised the deck. The captain’s wheel was set off-center with a chair bolted to the floor. When I stepped through to the cockpit, Carl automatically backed up, glancing behind him for obstacles.

I snatched the flare gun from under my shirt and pointed it at his chest. Flares are not terribly accurate for target shooting, but from ten feet, I could hit him.

“Doofus, run. Go. Go find José.”

Carl had not dropped his gun, which I thought was implied because I had mine aimed right at him. Doofus hopped to the dock, but that was it. He did not run off, as instructed. Neither had he gone in search of the yodeling gecko. He’d chosen to sit and watch events unfold.

“Who’s José?”

“The marina’s security guard. Big guy. Huge.”

“I’ll have to be on the lookout.”

“And we’re not going anywhere. You’ll have to kill me to get to that dog.”

He nodded. “I can live with that.”

The element of surprise was on a bus out of town. Having an incendiary device zeroed in on his left ribcage didn’t appear to bother him. Actually, it seemed to amuse Carl, if his facial tick was an indicator.

“You realize this flare gun can penetrate a hollow-core door at twenty feet.”

“Glad I’m not a door.”

“I put my ex-husband in the hospital today. I broke his nose.”

“Glad I’m not your ex-husband.”

He stood still but his eyes scoped Dell’s parking lot and the waterway leading to the bay. Doofus and I were running out of time.

I lunged across the port bench, fired my flare gun straight in the air and clamped my teeth onto Carl’s substantial back thigh muscle. It was an impressive hamstring. Normally I prefer a leaner cut of beef, but I hadn’t had a decent meal in twenty-four hours.

While he danced around, howling, with me attached to his leg like a rattlesnake, I popped the extra flare out of my pocket and reloaded. The flare I’d used as a warning shot, fell back to earth. More accurately, fell back to cabin cruiser and smoldered on the canvas cushions of Carl’s open cockpit.

He was a short-tempered individual. His sturdy build prevented him from finding an angle that allowed him to grab me by the throat. Earlier in the evening, Carl might have snatched me by the hair, but that hair was in his pocket not doing either one of us any good.

He flopped his gun over his shoulder and tried a backward Annie Oakley shot, but she’d used a mirror, so that bullet piffed into the water between
Brother
and the dock. Doofus didn’t like any of this. He started at Carl, and then backed away, confused. He could see I was engrossed with a chew toy, but he didn’t understand the howling and the gunfire.

I let loose of Carl’s leg and aimed my re-loaded flare gun at him and pretended he was a hollow-core door, when I caught a sparkle of flame out of the corner of my eye.

As did he.

For a big guy, Carl was fast. He whirled on his tenderized leg, and kicked the plastic gun out of my hand. It clattered to a stop under the captain’s chair. He grabbed me by the front of my T-shirt and hauled me upright.

Doofus wasn’t confused by that at all. My cuddle-bunny, slobbering, dishwasher launched his ninety-pound primal self off the dock and caught Carl squarely in the chest, who then pitched backward, landing hard on
Brother’s
uncushioned bench. My dog latched onto Carl’s gun hand and shook it like a rag.

I scrambled across the deck and retrieved the flare gun.

“Call him off! Get him off me!”

“Drop your gun.”

“It’s going in the water! Call him off!”

I stood up and leaned over Carl and watched him release the gun. It fell into the muck around the pilings and slid out of sight. I patted him down from knee to ankle and didn’t find any other weapons.

“Good boy. Okay, now. Good, good dog.” I pulled Doofus back by his collar. He wasn’t quite sure if he was in trouble or not. He gave me his paw and smiled, just in case. He was panting and still wild-eyed.

Carl pushed himself up, rubbing his wrist. “I could sue. That dog hurt me.
You
hurt my leg.”

“Glad I’m not your leg.” I waved the gun to make sure he saw it. “FYI. Your boat’s on fire.”

The rest really is a blur, like they say—in slow motion. Carl got to his feet—I don’t know how—now with a knife in the hand that used to have a gun in it.

I aimed the flare gun at him, and wrapped my finger around the trigger. Carl batted my arm sideways. My trigger-finger twitched and the flare whooshed down the dock and careened through the window of the cruiser. Red fireworks and smoke spurted from the cabin.

Carl tackled Doofus and wrestled him to the deck, then used his legs to get him in a head lock. He pinched Doofus’s marked ear and pulled it taut with his left hand. He raised the knife with his right.