Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery) (29 page)

“Max and Miss David were an item?”

She turned to look at me, her cool gaze gouging fresh wounds into my chest.

“He cares for me as much as he does for you, it seems. If you know where Maksim is, tell Mr. Agadzinoff so this
mu’dak
can remove his gun.”

“Yuri put down your weapon. Max isn’t here,” I said, then worried Max might pop up and prove me a liar. Of course, with a blown knee, he couldn’t pop. But he could holler.

“If Max were here to save Miss David, I’m sure he’d not lay around worrying about his own ass, even if that was the more intelligent option. I think he’d know he couldn’t do any good jumping up to save you,” I called loud enough for Max to hear and shifted to peer around the tree toward the house. “He’s got enough chivalry to make a stand, but your timing is not good.”

“Why you look at house?” said Yuri.

“I have all kinds of people trying to kill me,” I said. “I told you it was a bad day, Rupert.”

Behind the house, the goats bleated a warning. I watched for movement in the area beyond the Hummer’s headlights. The sky darkened by the minute, giving the shooter easy cover.

Rupert laughed. “My dear. You are too much.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Rupert. “Seriously, though, someone is trying to kill me. Have you not noticed the Hummer is shot to hell? You should take off.”

Yuri leaned out the window to get a better view of the Hummer. He turned around to look at Rupert. “It is true.”

“Maksim’s not here,” said Miss David. “Let me go.”

“Get in the Jag, Miss Tucker,” said Rupert.

That was not the option I wanted.

Thirty-Nine

“S
o Miss David and Max,” I said, wondering how long I could hedge a conversation from behind a tree. “Did you hire me to do your portrait thinking Max would get jealous? Because it’s not like that between us. In fact, you’re better off hunting down the Real Artist of Forks County, Shawna Branson. Particularly if you don’t really care about art.”

“I had hoped you working for me would make him squirm a bit,” he admitted. “Anything to keep Maks in place. He’s very difficult to control.”

“If you’re worried about Max squealing about your SipNZip scheme, don’t. He hates the police. I’m the one who can give up Yuri, not Max.”

“Give up Yuri?” said Rupert. “What do you know about Yuri?”

I knocked my head against the tree, hoping some sense would seep in. I had confessed my knowledge of a crime they hadn’t suspected I knew. Idiot. When I peeked from the tree, Yuri had his gun directed at me. Miss David scrambled from the car.

“She is unnecessary if Maksim is not here,” said Rupert. “But Yuri is very interested in what you know about him.”

I strode out from behind the tree, praying Miss David could get in the house and not be killed by Yuri or the mystery shooter. I also prayed for the man underneath his big-ass jeep to keep still and for my own hide to stay in one piece. I threw all those thoughts toward heaven and hoped most of them stuck.

“So what now?” I said, stopping in front of the car. “Secret’s out. I know Yuri held up that Dixie Cake truck, killed the driver, and then killed Tyrone, the witness. I called the cops and reported the fugitive. Max and Miss David had nothing to do with it.”

“When I cannot find you in the house, we leave,” Yuri said. “Police is too slow. Where are files? Where is Maks?”

“And here I was looking for a BMW, not a Jag. This is not my day, but I guess I’m getting my comeuppance.” I raised my face to heaven, waiting for my prayers to fall back toward earth and smack me in the head. “Lord Almighty, I swear I did not mean to agitate all these women with Todd’s nudity. If I had lust in my heart, I never meant for it to come out of my paintbrush.”

“What is she saying?” said Yuri to Rupert.

“Get in the car, Miss Tucker,” said Rupert, “Or Yuri might shoot you.”

I edged toward Rupert’s door, then rounded the back of the car and ran. Every woman who has ever watched Oprah knows you never get in the car. Rule number one in a kidnapping or carjacking. I hated abandoning Max, but I hated more the thought of not reporting his location and my brains exploding over the back of the car. Or worse, giving up his location in fear of said brain explosion and watching his brains explode instead.

Through the screen of the porch, I could see Miss David crouching behind a rocking chair. “Unlock the door,” I yelled. “Get in the house.”

Behind me, I heard the slam of a car door and the cursing of Yuri. His gun cracked, but I didn’t flinch.

Officially desensitized by violence.

Miss David peeked out from behind the chair, then dropped back.

“Get out of there,” I yelled, still twenty yards from the porch. “There’s a key in the empty PBR can on the windowsill.”

She turned to look and reached for the beer can. The gun fired and shot through the window above her. The beer can flew from her hand and she dropped behind the chair.

I didn’t risk a look over my shoulder, but could hear Yuri walking toward the house.

“Open. That. Door,” I screamed.

The can rolled toward the front of the porch. Miss David scrambled out from behind the chair. Yuri fired again. The screen tore off the door and the bullet thwacked the side of the house. Wood dust filled the air. Miss David screamed and ran back toward the chair.

My Grandpa would be sore ticked about all these holes in his screens.

“That chair is not going to keep you from getting killed.” My legs pounded across the weedy centipede lawn and hit the stepping stones to the porch. “Get that key.”

She shook her head.

Gasping, I pounded up the porch steps, grabbed the screen door, and ripped it from the eyehook latch. I pounced on the can and shook out the key.

“Get up,” I wheezed and canted toward the door.

Miss David screamed again and pointed. I imagined she pointed at Yuri, but I was too busy fumbling with the lock to look. I heard the gun fire. I ducked as splinters and wood dust from a shutter rained on the porch floor. I reached for Miss David’s arm and yanked her toward the front door.

Yuri’s feet smacked the stepping stones before the porch. I pushed the lever on the door and shoved it open. Miss David fell inside. I catapulted over her. I heard the bang of Yuri’s feet on the wooden steps.

“Close the friggin’ door,” I yelled.

She pushed it shut with her feet. I lunged to turn the deadbolt, then grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the door.

“Push stuff in front of windows,” I said and shoved her toward the back of the house. “No. Call 9-1-1.”

Yuri’s gun fired. A bullet blasted through the wood above the door handle. Miss David screamed and ran toward the back bedrooms.

I sprinted through the kitchen to the mud room and gun cabinet. The tall, wooden cabinet had drawers above and below a glass plated door to the rack. Grandpa kept it locked, but the key hid on a nail behind the dryer. Yuri’s gun fired again, hitting another window. I snagged the key, unlocked the drawers, and grabbed a box of ammo.

My skirt had no pockets. Of all the times not to wear jeans.

I folded my top up toward my bra, bound the loose material into a knot, and dumped some of the cartridges into the fold. Neither comfortable nor practical, but I ignored that fact and opened the cabinet door.

Skipping over the Browning and Marlin, I grabbed the Winchester Featherlight, the rifle Grandpa had used for my deer hunting education. I knew this gun. Knew I could load and drop rounds quickly. Knew the recoil and my range.

I tried not to think about why I might need to use those rounds.

Taking a deep breath, I walked out of the mud room and through the kitchen. As I walked, I slid the bolt back and loaded the gun with three cartridges from my shirt. I lost two bullets to the floor from hands that wouldn’t quit with the shakes, but by the time I reached the doorway to the living room, the rifle was mounted on my shoulder.

And Yuri was gone.

“Miss David?” I yelled. “Did you call 9-1-1?”

I heard a rambling in her foreign tongue from a back bedroom.

“Just stay back there.”

Keeping my back against the walls, I moved toward the front porch windows. Otherwise intact, each window had a spider web of cracks spiraling from the bullet hole. Grandpa had secured the house with some nice double panes.

I hoped Grandpa had insurance to cover bullet holes.

Kneeling before a window, I peered into the darkness. The dome light in the stolen Jag shone on empty seats. The back doors were open. The headlights of the HMV and Jaguar still brightened the lane. The Jag’s beams spotlighted Rupert and Yuri dragging a body from under the Hummer.

I yanked open the front door, yelled over my shoulder for Miss David to lock it, and flew off the porch. I stopped in the yard, wished I had night vision, and aimed at the dirt several yards away from the men.

“Stop right there,” I yelled. “Get your hands off of him.”

The rifle cracked, the ground exploded near the men, and I felt the wincing pain of recoil in my shoulder. Quickly, I slid the lever back to release the bullet and pushed the next round into the chamber. This time I aimed at Yuri’s body.

Rupert and Yuri rose from their crouch, holding their hands up. In the lane next to the Hummer, Max lay unmoving. Behind the fence, goats screamed and brayed. I could hear them galloping in the paddock, stirred into a frenzy by the gunshots.

“Keep your hands where I can see them. Police are on their way.”

“Calm yourself my dear,” said Rupert. “We are carrying Maks to safety. He needs medical attention.”

“Did Yuri shoot him?” I called, startled by the bite of pain in my throat and eyes. “Get away from him. Keep your hands up.”

“I’m not dead yet,” called Max. “Get the Beretta from Yuri.”

Keeping my rifle trained on the men, I slid-stepped toward them as they backed into the Jag. I reached behind Yuri and snagged the pistol he had shoved into his back waistband. My experience with handguns was limited to Uncle Will’s gun safety courses he made all the Tucker kids take. I checked the safety and shoved it into my skirt. Returning the rifle to my shoulder, I backed toward Max.

“Artist,” he said, struggling to sit. “You impress me with your courage. And your fashion sense.”

“Like the midriff look, huh?”

I gave Max the Beretta to make him feel better and gently pushed him down. “The police’ll bring an ambulance. You shouldn’t move. I can tell you’re in a lot of pain.”

Max gave me a hint of a smile, and I stroked his cheek. Behind me, I heard the gallop of hooves. Tater rushed toward me, braying.

“Not now, boy.” I rose with the Winchester mounted, but held a hand out to Tater. He nudged his horns against my hand and took a hunk of my skirt in his mouth. “Where did you come from? Perfect timing as usual.”

I shoved him off, and he bent his head to investigate Max’s prone body.

“Leave the Bear alone,” I said to Tater, nudging him with my hip, and refocused on the men standing in my farm drive. “So who’s the great mastermind? You’re arranging fake hijacks to fill your gas stations with black-market food. What happened, Yuri? When the wrong driver didn’t stop in the designated place, did you follow the truck and shoot him?”

“He pulled gun on me,” said Yuri. “Self-defense.”

“He thought you were holding him up. That’s armed robbery.”

“
Idyët
,” said Rupert.

“What about Tyrone? Was that self-defense, too? You shot him in cold blood. I know Tyrone didn’t have a gun on him.”

“Who is Tyrone?” said Yuri.

“The witness. The guy hanging from the pole who saw you take off your ski mask after you shot the Dixie Cake driver.” My voice shook with anger.

“
Idyët
,” repeated Rupert.

“Yuri didn’t shoot witness,” said a female voice behind me. “I did. Put down your gun.”