Читать книгу Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Gloria Ferris - Страница 14

The metal foot rest scraped the pavement as we took the corner onto Highway 21, but I managed to pull the bike upright coming out of the curve. I had never driven the Savage at this speed, and wasn’t sure I could maintain control. The cemetery whizzed by on my left. The streets of Lockport were as silent as the tombs within.

Dougal’s grip had loosened and his helmet was bopping the top of mine, as though he had given up all hope of survival. I hoped this ride wouldn’t set back his recovery. Something was pushing frantically on my back, probably Simon trying to free himself, but at least he and Dougal had ceased their screams of indignation. Or maybe both of them were still shrieking their guts out, but the wind rushing by overpowered the sound.

The blood lust was abating and I geared down to seventy, still too fast entering the town centre. The Beetle also slowed, and I was about fifty yards behind as we neared the police station. Rotting skunk odour filled my nostrils.

The Beetle tried to veer, but its left tires hit the skunk dead on. Black and white and red chunks of gore shot from under the tires, flying into the interior of the convertible, smashing onto my windshield, and skidding across the roadway. Luckily, I was barely moving when my front tire hit a lump of slimy black and white fur.

The wheel slid sideways, but just before the bike went down, Dougal swung his long leg over my head and jumped free. The crash bar saved my own leg, and I clambered out and crawled to the curb.

The Beetle kept on going.

Dougal fell on his hands and knees and barfed in the gutter. I felt like doing the same, even more so, when I recognized the uniformed man standing over us. He must have seen the whole thing.

Taking the offensive, I said to Redfern with as much indignation as I could muster, while trying not to regurgitate the popcorn, “Did you see that! If you want to put out an APB, I can tell you exactly who he is and where he’s staying.”

“Cornwall. Why am I not surprised? I think you’ve been watching too many American cop shows. We just call them plain old Alerts in these parts, and that driver who hit the skunk will be punished enough when he realizes he has a car full of decomposed animal parts.”

Was Redfern kidding me?

“You mean you aren’t going to arrest him? He was stalking me.”

We were standing under a streetlight, and I saw his blond eyebrows rise. “Looks to me like you were stalking him.”

“Get real! He followed us from my ex-cousin-in-law’s house, so I turned around and followed him. And why was the skunk still in the middle of the street?”

“As I told you earlier today, it’s an internal municipal dispute. The carcass was going to be removed in the morning.”

“Well, now I guess Public Works doesn’t have to bother.”

“There’s skunk parts everywhere,” Dougal mumbled from the gutter, before going off into another paroxysm of vomiting. I gagged involuntarily at the sight of a long strip of red gristle swathing the top of Dougal’s helmet. I unbuckled my own helmet and tossed it onto the grassy boulevard.

“Are you going to puke on me again?” Chief Redfern asked, stepping back.

“I’m not sure yet.”

He took another step away. I remembered the glass of wine I had consumed at Glory’s and tried to suck in a lungful of air to stave off the urge to heave it up.

“And who would this gentleman be?”

“He’s so not a gentleman. That’s my cousin, Dougal Seabrook.” Just then, Simon stuck his black beak out the top of Dougal’s jacket and cried, “Help me! Help me!” The voice was cracked and barely comprehensible, probably his own birdy voice.

If Redfern was surprised at the sight of a parrot bobbing out of a jacket and asking the police for assistance, he showed no sign. He said, “Looks like we better get your bike off the street, Cornwall.”

“I can do it myself,” I replied, which was a bald-faced lie. After buying the Savage, I had dropped it a few times before learning not to put the kick stand down on soft gravel or sloping ground. And I was never able to pick it up by myself. A couple of men were always around to help out a little lady in distress.

Maybe adrenaline would see me through. I braced my legs close to the undercarriage and heaved. Something ripped in my shoulder, but the bike didn’t move one iota.

“Dougal, get over here. Take this other end and help me lift.”

Dougal edged closer to Redfern. “She’s crazy,” he told the silent cop, whose eyes were undoubtedly rolling wildly in his head. “She almost killed me and poor Simon. Can you take me home, please, or call me a taxi? I have agoraphobia and need to take some medication.”

The pathetic excuse for a moron was actually plucking at Redfern’s trousers. His “medication” was probably in his pocket, and he better hope one didn’t roll out at Redfern’s feet.

Shaking his leg, Redfern detached himself from Dougal’s fingers and said, “The Lockport Police Department is not a taxi service.”

He sauntered over to me and, with one swift tug, set the Savage upright. I grabbed the handlebars and pushed the bike to the curb and kicked the stand down. Picking up a twig from the curb, I flicked the piece of skunk pelt off Dougal’s helmet and checked mine before donning it. I spent a few minutes prying out putrid bits from the front end of the bike, trying to keep my stomach contents down by thinking up ways to kill Dougal and not get caught. The bike would have to be hosed down and cleaned thoroughly, but at least the visible pieces were out. Finally, I clasped Dougal by the arm and pulled him to his feet.

“Come on, Braveheart, it’s past your bedtime. One more little ride and you’ll never have to get on a motorcycle again. At least not on mine.”

I was halted by Redfern’s voice.

“One more thing, Cornwall. Where will I find you in the morning? I have a few more questions about Julian Barnfeather’s death.” A narrow smile budded on his lips but died on the vine.

“I can be found every weekday morning, except Wednesday, right across the road at the Public Library.”

Simon chose that moment to stick his head out from Dougal’s jacket again and cry, “Par-tay! Reefer time!”

This time, I recognized my own voice. If the subject matter hadn’t been such a threat to my freedom, I would have enjoyed the sight of Redfern’s face. It was probably one of the few times in his life he was struck speechless.

I followed Dougal into his house, where I retrieved my extra helmet and cautioned him that Simon’s imprudent words regarding marijuana were apt to land us in a whole heap of trouble with Redfern who, unless he was lower on the food chain than a puffball, was going to start regarding us with suspicion. A former big-city cop likely had radar where drugs were concerned.

Since Simon’s ill-advised words were not uttered in his voice, Dougal remained unconcerned now that he was back in his own house with the door closed on the scary universe. Actually, I thought he had done well on his first excursion in almost a year and told him so. He gave me a dirty look and told me to please let the door hit me on the butt on the way out. He pulled a joint out of, yep, his jacket pocket, and went to lie down on the couch and watch the Discovery channel on his sixty-inch TV. I started to tell him to change his clothes and take a shower first, but decided I didn’t give a rat’s ass about his furniture. Simon was still entombed in his jacket, and I cared even less about that.

I took a pasta salad and two pears from his fridge before heading out.

Dougal lived south of the cemetery, while my humble home was due north. Therefore, I had to ride through the town centre again after I left Dougal, keeping my speed to the posted fifty. No cops lurked and the warm air still held a strong whiff of eau de skunk, but that might have been me.

My right shoulder had grazed the pavement and was further strained trying to lift the bike back up. It throbbed with every vibration of the motor, and I was glad to dismount behind the trailer. I was pretty sure I had some road rash on my thigh, as well, since my bottom half was protected only by thin silk, a serious no-no when riding a motorcycle. The fabric had split and seemed to be sticking to my skin in spots, signalling the ruin of my only realtor outfit. I was trying to remember if I had any antibiotic ointment among my meagre medical supplies when I heard loud noises coming from Rae’s trailer.

Rae kept pretty regular hours, but once in a while she would entertain a client later in the evening, though always before midnight in deference to her neighbours. I couldn’t see my watch but figured it had to be at least nine-thirty.

I started to hurry past her trailer, not wanting to hear the sounds of whatever the hell was going on in there, but my steps slowed as a woman’s voice cried out in agony. Then, she screamed, “Stop! Please stop. You’re hurting me.” I heard fists on flesh and something heavy hit the wall. More screams followed the sound of furniture overturning.

Dropping the bag of food, I ran around the front of Rae’s trailer and tried the door. It was locked. I hammered on it, shouting, “Stop that. I’ve called the police and they’ll be here any minute. Leave her alone.” The cries of pain and distress continued.

I was reaching for my BlackBerry when I was seized roughly from behind and tossed aside. As I lay on the ground, stunned, I saw two men forcing Rae’s door open. One had long, stringy grey hair and, in profile, I saw a hawk-like nose jutting from the lined face. I recognized Ewan Quigley from Hemp Hollow’s third trailer, but the other man was a stranger — tall, dressed head to toe in black leather and a silver-studded belt with a snake’s head buckle as big as a saucer. The snake’s ruby eyes glittered in the light streaming from Rae’s windows.

With the door torn away, Ewan rushed in immediately, but the second man turned and looked at me. He growled, with a voice sandpapered down from years of smoke or drink, “Get out of here.”

I finally found a smidgeon of courage. “But Rae is hurt. I’m calling the police and an ambulance.”

He pointed a grease-grimed finger at me. “We’ll look after Rae. And don’t call the police or you’ll be one very sorry little girl.” The upper part of his face was shaded by a leather biker’s cap, the lower covered in black stubble.

I believed him. I lingered at the doorway until I heard Rae say she was all right. When I heard a man pleading for mercy and dragging sounds coming back toward the door, I scuttled over to my own trailer. With trembling fingers, I managed to unlock the door and barricade myself in by shoving a chair under the handle. Leaving the lights off, I parted the curtains an inch and saw a naked man with a bundle of clothes in his arms being hauled away by the biker. I hoped his body wouldn’t be found in the river with rocks tied to his feet. Being a witness to a crime was not a long-term vocation.

A few seconds later, Ewan led Rae out and across to his trailer. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and seemed to be walking steadily enough. When the two reached the Quigley’s trailer, the door opened and a woman was silhouetted against the lighted interior before the door closed again.

For another hour, I peered through the curtain into the dark night, but didn’t see the leather-clad man or Rae’s attacker again. Finally, shaky with exhaustion, I replaced the torn silk trousers with old sweat pants and fell into bed. Throughout the night, I jumped at every owl hoot and rustle in the grass.

If I had to sleep in a tent on my swamp land, I was not going to spend another month living amongst that nest of criminals. Quigley and his pals were up to no good, and Rae, for all her lofty dreams, attracted the worst scum walking upright. It was only a matter of time before her lifestyle either earned her a prostitution charge or landed her in the cemetery. Maybe my life sucked, but I didn’t want to die, at least not until I completed my mission of retribution.

With arms wrapped around a scarred wooden baseball bat, and my eyes wide open, I waited for the night to end.