Take the Monkeys and Run (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #1) (26 page)

“What about Toes?” asked Frankie.

“He the guy that shot Howard?” Colt asked.

“He’s da one.”

“They can’t offer him amnesty. Right, Agent Smith?” Colt talked into the medal on my chest.

“Right,” she answered in my ear. I nodded affirmative.

“Just follow their instructions,” said Colt, “and he’ll go down with rest of them. He’ll never know.”

Elvis shook his head. “You don’t understand. He’s not wit us. He’s against us.”

Colt didn’t look happy when he heard that. “What?”

“We ain’t a hundred percent certain, but we’re pretty sure he’s here for blood.”

“He’s the guy that botched the job in the vacant house and let the monkeys out into my yard. They put the word out that he’s a fanook and that wasn’t good,” I explained.

I heard a few choice profanities in my ear and Colt wasn't looking too happy himself with that news.

“Excuse me!” Peggy was yelling from the bathtub where she and Roz had taken up residence. “If there’s an FBI van out there, is there any way they can come and at least get Roz out of here? She’s looking pretty bad.”

We all looked at Roz, who was curled up in a ball and shivering. She was white as snow and her hand was swollen as big as a melon. I made my way around Colt and bent over to feel her forehead. She was running a nasty fever. During my many years tending sick children, I had developed a very keen sense of guessing a temperature just by feel. I was calling hers a 103 degree doozy.

“Boy, she’s sick,” I said. “Roz?”

Roz looked up. She shook her head, but didn’t say a thing, then closed her eyes and put her head back down.

“Can we get her out of here?” Peggy asked again.

“Negative,” came Agent Smith’s voice. “Too risky. Especially given these new circumstances. This idiot might have cohorts on the property that we don’t know about. Better for your friend if we keep her where she is.” Agent Smith was quiet in my ear for a beat, and then, with a hint of compassion in her voice, said, “Hey, Marr.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re sending a man for Howard now. If he’s hurt, we’ll fix him. If he’s not, he’s in that house already coming to save your ass.” That Agent Smith was a tough cookie, but I got the feeling she was actually giving her best shot at comforting me.

“Thank you, Agent Smith.” I turned to Frankie and Elvis. “Do you think No Toes brought guys with him?”

They shrugged their shoulders.

Colt had been rubbing his hands through his hair and generally looking worried. By the change in his mood since learning that Howard’s shooter was a disgruntled employee, I could tell he was having second thoughts about going through with this operation.

“No,” he finally said, shaking his head. “This is a different game.”

“Mr. Baron is right,” I heard Agent Smith say in my ear. “This operation was meant to have no risk to civilians.”

Suddenly, the lights went out again. Colt pulled a flashlight out of his back pocket, lighting up the bathroom. His face looked like stone in the shadow filled room. “Give me that thing.” He was pointing at my ear.

“My earbud?”

“Yes! Give it to me!” I pulled the device out of my ear and wasn’t even allowed the pleasure of handing it to him, since he grabbed it so fast. He plugged it into his ear and grabbed the jacket I was wearing, talking right into the bug.

“You need to abort this mission and send in a rescue team ASAP!” he yelled. I was angry that he was having this conversation without me involved. I couldn’t hear her answers. Part of me agreed with him, but part of me wanted to move on.

Meanwhile, Elvis was talking about the power problem. “That shouldn’t be,” he said, shaking his head. “That generator’s full of fuel. We got enough to keep this house runnin’ for two days easy.”

“Do we still get our amnesty if they abort?” asked Frankie.

“Amnesty ain’t gonna be any help to us if No Toes puts holes in our heads,” Elvis said, stating the obvious.

Before anyone could comment, the sound of shouting distracted us all. It was coming from somewhere in the house, although it was hard for me to tell from where exactly. I was pretty sure it was Viv and she sounded mad-dog mad—probably pissed that she was missing the last five minutes of
Survivor
. The shouts were getting louder and closer. I held my breath, praying that she wouldn’t fly through the door, cigarette and eyes ablaze, only to subvert our sorry sting.

“Frankie!” Her gruff scream was followed by a nasty round of hacking and coughing.

“Where is she?” Colt whispered to Elvis.

“Sounds like she’s on this level—she must’a just come down from her room. She’s got her own stairway up. Probably she’s near da pantry or dining room.” Puddles started yapping at such a fervent rate and high pitch, he nearly quelled the sound of pelting rain on the windows. He was worked up about something. I imagined him bouncing up and down like one of those hyper, yippy dogs on a
Looney Tunes
cartoon. Suddenly, Puddles gave out a desperate, heart-wrenching squeal and went silent.

We heard Maxine cry out frantically, “Puddles!” Her second screaming plea for Puddles was drowned out by the deafening sound of automatic gunfire.

Chapter Twenty-One

“WE’VE GOT GUNFIRE HERE!” COLT was still yelling into my chest. “You need to send in support now!” he yelled over the din. He had fingers to both ears, listening for a response. He shook his head as if he didn’t like their answer. “What do you mean, they’re not here yet? What about you?” With the chaos around me, several things became very clear. A mad man was roaming the house with a very large and obviously functional gun; my husband was somewhere, possibly still alive; and none of us was going to get out of this thing alive if someone didn’t start kicking some butt. As my mind raced and images of Howard and my girls flashed before me, I looked over at Roz, huddled in the tub. She had a family too. And Peggy—what would her boys do without her?

I dug way down inside myself and found that inner Lieutenant Ripley—Sigourney Weaver—extinguisher of killer aliens. I found that steel-strong woman who wouldn’t back down or run off screaming. I found that woman hiding like a scared rabbit way down deep, and I pulled her up by her quaking little bunny ears.

Okay, Barbara Marr
, I said to her.
You are going to do this. You’re no wimp. No wimp—do you hear? You can do this thing. Think of Howard. Do it for Howard. Do it for Callie and Bethany and Amber. Do it for Roz and Peggy. Do it for Puddles, even though you don’t like the yappy mutt. Heck, do it for poor, misguided Elvis and Frankie. Maybe you can give them a second lease on life. Do it! Do it!

Infused with courage and determination, I pushed Colt away, felt around his ear until I located the plastic thread, yanked out the earbud, reclaimed it as my own, and shoved it back into my own ear. Colt was mad, but I didn’t care—I was a woman on a mission. A woman to be reckoned with, dammit.

“Smith? You there?” I said into the bug.

“I’m here.”

“I’m goin’ in.” I shot a determined and confident look at Elvis and Frankie. “You ready?” They nodded hesitantly, their eyes wide in disbelief. “Good. Elvis, Viv thinks you’re taking care of Howard, right?” He nodded, stunned. “Good. Then you stay here. Frankie, put that gun to my back and make this look real. Let’s see what's going on out there. I’ll act scared. Actually, I won't be acting.” I took a deep breath.

Frankie, evidently agreeing to participate, stuck the gun in my back and flashed his miniscule flashlight to guide the way as we moved toward the bedroom door. Dizziness tried to overwhelm me, but I wouldn’t succumb. I reached for the doorknob and opened the door, walking out into the hallway. The hallway lead in two directions—we could move straight ahead or to our left.

“Put that thing down, you gimpy nitwit!” It was Viviana. We could hear her, but couldn’t see her. She was seething.

“Don’t talk to me like that. I’m in control now and I’m here to make things right.”

I guessed that must have been No Toes. His voice was agonizingly high-pitched. Like Barry Gibb with a stuck falsetto.

“Max!” shouted Viviana. “Where's your gun?”

“Viv—I was chasing Puddles. Where’s Puddles? What did you do to my Puddles?”

“You mean that rat I stepped on?” squeaked No Toes.

"My baby!" Maxine wailed. Their voices were loud and clear and obviously coming from the front of the house. Frankie pointed to our left, indicating we should proceed in that direction moving through a vast kitchen/great room combination. As we passed a granite-topped kitchen island, Frankie motioned to me to turn right and move toward the front of the house leading us in the exact direction of the heated discussion. After six to seven steps, we arrived at what I guessed, from its proximity to the kitchen, must be the dining room. I could only surmise as much, however, because the room was void of any furniture that would speak to its purpose. We stood in one of three arched entrances to the room. Directly in front of us were four towering, curtained windows. To our right, standing in another archway, were Viviana and Maxine. Maxine was holding a bright battery-powered lantern, which flooded the room nicely. I was happy for that, since I had nearly stubbed my toe two or three times while relying on the dim ray of Frankie’s penlight. To our left was an extremely tall, nearly anorexic man with horn-rimmed glasses and a sad excuse for a goatee on his pointy chin. With dirty blond hair, he didn’t look very Italian. Despite his gangly stature, No Toes managed to hold that big gun with amazing ease. I gasped inwardly when I saw it.

Agent Smith’s voice rang in my ear. “Marr—where are you? Let me know somehow if you can.”

I looked around, wondering how I could let them know which room we were in.
Okay
, I thought,
here I go. This is going to sound stupid.

“Nice dining room you got here, Viv,” I said.

She whirled around, but didn't say anything. Her face was contorted in an expression that conveyed both anger and confusion.

“Nice dining room. I mean, I’m assuming it’s the dining room, since it’s right off of your kitchen. Will you be putting furniture in here?”

“Who are you, Martha Stewart?”

Well, maybe it sounded stupid, but it seemed to work, because I got a compliment from Smith. “Nice job,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said too quickly to take back.
Ooops! Well, now, that wasn’t very smart.

“What?” Viv shouted. Holy cow. I needed to remember not to answer back to the voice in my ear, or else this operation was going to be the shortest in FBI history.

“Thanks!” I said again, back pedaling. “I was saying thank you—that’s a compliment—I love Martha Stewart.”

“Shut up! All of you!” shouted No Toes from his archway. “Who are you anyway?” His screechy voice was hurting my ears.

Frankie took control. “Listen, Toes . . .”

“Don’t call me that! I hate that name. I have five toes. Besides, that’s the name of that guy in that movie.”

“Huh?” Frankie didn’t know what he was talking about, but after a moment, a light bulb went off in my maniacal movie mind.

“That’s it!” I shouted snapping my fingers. “
Eraser
, right?”

“Yeah, that’s the one!” He looked pleased.

“Two Toes—Tony Two Toes in
Eraser
. But it was Two Toes, not No Toes.”

“Well, I still don’t like the name. I have a new one now.”

“Yeah, fanook, what would that new name be now?” Viviana teased.

Poor Toes started shaking with rage. He appeared to gain control over his upset long enough to bring his gun down from where it rested on his shoulder, aiming it directly at her forehead. From the angle, I was pretty sure that if he chose to pull the trigger, she’d have quite a nice hole between those heavy fake-lash-topped eyes. The same thought must have occurred to her, because she shut up quick and I thought I saw her lip twitch.

Viviana Buttaro sure wasn’t my favorite person, but I needed her alive to get the information that my FBI friends wanted. I decided to try a little peace, love, and understanding.

“Um, Mr. Toes—I’m sorry, but I understand where you’re coming from. What’s your real name?”

“Huh?”

“What did your mother call you?”

“Bonehead.”

Well, that didn’t work.

“How about your dad . . . or an aunt. Did you have a supportive aunt? Maybe an uncle who took you fishing? Someone who called you something nice.”

“My name is Frankie—but that guy there already has that name. Like there can’t be two guys named Frankie—what’s that all about?”

Agent Smith’s voice rang up in my ear again. “Marr—head’s up. A car just passed our location—its turn indicators are on. Looks like it might be turning into your driveway.” I wondered what the heck I was supposed to do with that information. Couldn’t she just let me do my job in ignorant bliss? While saying a little prayer, begging for just one thing to go right on this God-forsaken night, the lights popped back on. Well, hallelujah!

Viviana, her sour mood not sweetened by the resurgence of electrical flow, snapped at Frankie. “What’s wrong with that damn generator, Frankie? You told me that thing was gonna last two or three days on the propane we got.”