Deb Baker - Murder Talks Turkey

“Where is it?” he said.

I knew better than to say, where’s what? His eyes were cold like those of a bottom-feeding fish. “I threw it over the edge,” I said.

I heard Shirley scream. A gun shot pierced the air below and I wondered if it had struck its target.

This whole country seems to think a handgun is more accurate than it really is. Unless you’re a sharpshooter, with hours of practice under your belt, you’ll discover that a moving target is hard to hit. A shooter’s experience and the gun’s accuracy have to be in perfect synch.

Common criminals like these dopes buy cheap guns to go with their small brains. My guy carried a Saturday night special that had less fire power and accuracy than Grandma Johnson’s pathetic pistol.

So I took a chance. When my captor went to the railing to scan for the money and the source of the last shot, I clocked him in the head with my largest stone. I have a decent arm considering all the years we’d had stone-skipping contests at this very river. I heard the thunk of it striking his head at the same time that he fired wildly in my direction.

At first, I didn’t feel a thing. Then my left arm gave a shout of pain. Blood drops plopped on the ground beside me, while I stared at them in disbelief. A random careless shot and it had struck me?

Bob’s brother dropped to his knees, holding his eye where the stone had made a direct connection with his eyeball. I ran around to the other side of the Caddy. The punk raised his gun, squinting in my direction.

I needed a giant rock. Or a passing car. Or something. The next shot from him hit the Caddy and blew out a window. A zillion bits of shattered glass rained down on my head. I spotted a few loose chunks of concrete where Tony had bashed out the railing when he’d gone over.

The Orange punk was wobbling on his feet. If I didn’t hurry, his tiny mind might clear. My second shot with the clump of hardened cement missed completely, partial due to the pain in my injured arm. The third one hit its mark but didn’t have enough velocity to do any harm. I didn’t have any more fight left in me. I thought I was doomed, as I watched the chunk of concrete graze his thick arm.

Then his gun discharged. He screamed.

I’ve never seen anyone really shoot himself in the foot before, but it was a wonderful sight to behold. He hopped around while I assessed the hole in my arm and the amount of blood hitting the road. In the end it might turn out to be a flesh wound, but the amount of blood I was losing scared me almost to death.

The Cadillac driver had messed up big time, thinking he and his boys were infallible. He’d left the keys in the ignition. So while the big bad guy whimpered and nursed his little footsy, I started the car and drove off.

Let them figure out how to escape this one on foot.

A mile down the road, I passed Dickey and George. Dickey was driving. I had to turn the big boat Caddy around and chase them. Then I had to almost run our acting sheriff off the road to get his attention.

Once I got it and we were pulled over to the side, George noticed my lifeblood draining out and talked Dickey into putting down the weapon he had trained on me.

“Follow me to the bridge,” I shouted from the driver’s seat, one arm in the air in surrender, the other sopping with blood. “Wait until you see what’s happening there.”

George tried to stop me, yelling that he’d drive, but I didn’t feel I had time to play musical chairs, so I took off. They followed.

The Orange Gang punk was waiting for his partners on the side of the road, right where I’d left him, still cradling his foot. For once, Dickey had the opportunity to draw on somebody other than me. He handcuffed the creep to the Caddy bumper.

George bandaged my arm while we waited for reinforcements and an ambulance. We didn’t see Shirley or the other gang members from where we stood. Several hours later, they pulled Shirley out of the Escanaba River, where she was shriveled up from the cold water, but still alive.

It turned out that the bad guys couldn’t swim, so she weathered it out in the cold water, while the Orange Gang ran up and down the shoreline, taking pot shots at her.

And last, but not least, I pulled the package containing the hundred thousand dollars out of the front of my pants and presented it to Dickey, who took all the credit for recovering it when the news trucks showed up that evening at the jail.

I don’t remember much about the ride into the Escanaba hospital. I recall the stretcher and strong arms securing me with straps. The loss of blood must have made me woozy, but I have a vivid image of George in the back of the ambulance with me, holding my hand and whispering comforting words.

Barney was there, too.

My husband had watched from the sidelines while the ambulance people worked, preparing me for the trip into Escanaba. He had a loving smile on my face and at first I thought he was happy because I was finally joining him wherever he was.

But he shook his head at that. “It’s not time yet,” he said. “It’s going to take more than a shot in the arm to do you in.”

“I’m real tired,” I whined.

Later George told me the three of us had quite a conversation on the way to the hospital.

I guess Barney gave George the okay. At least, that’s what George said. When I’m well, I’ll ask Barney about that. Having his approval would mean all the difference in the world.

After that, I slept.

Word For The Day

PERIPATETIC (per’ i puh TET ik) adj.

Walking or moving about; not staying in one place.

RIGHT BEFORE I WAS released from the hospital, I gave sweet Laura DeLand an exclusive, behind-the-scenes interview that was sure to win her a newspaper prize. The next morning, the doctors said I could go home. George had dropped off my truck ahead of time because he knew what I had to do the minute I got out.

I drove over to the Escanaba River, sat down on a rock, and made my peace with the river that had claimed my husband. Those rapids had been an important part of our lives, and it had given Barney years of happiness fighting trout on the end of his fishing line.

It was time to forgive it.

My arm was bandaged and cradled in a sling, making driving difficult. I’d been warned by the doctors to stay out from behind the wheel, but I’d never taken anyone’s advice before and it was too late in my life for me to start listening now.

Walter had understood about the demise of his truck “You’ve destroyed every vehicle you’ve ever driven,” he said. “What does this make? Three? I wasn’t expecting to get it back in one piece.”

I didn’t even have to apologize for the bullet-ridden condition of his trailer. George would replace a few windows and it would be just as good as anything else Walter owned.

Blaze was doing well, back at home with Mary, worrying about the mess Dickey must be making of the town’s law enforcement. So he’s recovering. The family expects some ups and downs. I don’t want to be the one to tell Blaze that he might not be up to sheriffing ever again, that retirement came earlier than he expected. All he used to talk about was retiring, now all he cares about is getting back to work.

If nothing else, he can join the Trouble Busters. We could use a former law officer on the team.

The river brought back some good memories. I closed my eyes and heard my kids laughing and running along the bank, skipping stones and dipping bamboo poles in between the rocks hoping for a hit. We had a wicker creel basket filled with rainbow trout that I liked to pan fry after rolling them in a flour and cornmeal mix.

I stood up and gave the river one last look before heading home.