Laura Childs: Photo Finished

“Damn,” said Shamus, scrambling out after her. He hesitated, turned to stare at Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo, who were still wedged in, yet making motions like they were going to extricate themselves. “Are you coming?” he groused at them.

“We’re trying, ” said Chef Ricardo as he flailed about, trying to get a little leverage.

Carmela, meanwhile, had disappeared around the building. Tiptoeing through sucking mud in high heels wasn’t easy, and she was thankful for the rain as it slapped down upon the metal roof of the building and shook the trees around her. Covered any noise.

Way in back, close to where she’d gone in through the broken window two nights earlier, she found a dark-colored BMW hunkered down. Its nose was pointed into a grove of scrub brush, almost as though the owner had been trying to hide it.

Does this car belong to Monroe Payne?

Carmela ventured over and put a hand on the hood of the car. The metal was still warm to the touch.

Damn straight it’s his car. Has to be.

Carmela crept over to the broken window and peered in. Somewhere, toward the front, she thought, a dim light had been turned on.

Is Monroe Payne in there with Sweetmomma Pam? Only one way to find out.

Grasping the broken window, Carmela pulled at it. The sheer weight and bulk stunned her for a moment, then she was able to ease it down onto the ground. Hiking her skirt up above her knees, Carmela eased herself in through the window.

The interior of the shrimp-processing plant was just as dark and dank and dusty as Carmela remembered it. But this time, with her memory to guide her, Carmela was better able to navigate her way through the jumble of machinery and conveyer belts. And, as she edged closer to the giant cooker pot, she knew her hunch had been right. Someone was moving about inside one of the old blast freezers. One of the heavy metal doors was standing partially open, and she could see the gleam of a flashlight as light bounced off the freezer’s interior walls.

Darn. I saw those blast freezers before, but didn’t bother to look inside. Whatever’s in there must be pretty darn valuable if Monroe Payne saw fit to chase all the way over here.

Carmela crouched down behind the old cooker as murmurs from inside one of the blast freezers grew louder. She tried to still her breathing and, at the same time, cock her head at an optimal angle to catch what was being said.

At first she heard just fragments of words, but then she was able to make out a high-pitched, pleading voice.

Sweetmomma Pam!

Sweetmomma’s Pam’s voice was followed by a deep, angry voice.

Monroe Payne.

But what’s he up to? wondered Carmela.

She didn’t have to wait long. Monroe backed out of the blast freezer, a clutch of oil paintings in his arms, precariously balancing his flashlight. With his right shoulder, he began to muscle the heavy metal door closed on Sweetmomma Pam, obviously intending to trap her inside.

All the while, Sweetmomma Pam clawed frantically at the door. “Please!” she moaned. “Don’t leave me in here!”

That was enough for Carmela. She stood up from behind the cooker and shouted loudly at Monroe, “Back off, buster! Leave her alone!”

Startled, Monroe whirled toward her, dropping his arm-load of paintings. “What the…?” he called out, then his hand snaked inside his clothing.

Carmela sank down behind the cooker just as he fired and a bullet plinked off the rim of the giant metal cauldron.

At that exact moment, the front door crashed open and Lt. Edgar Babcock hurled himself in, landing in a very credible combat stance. He leveled his pistol directly at Monroe. “Drop it!” he shouted.

“Shoot him!” yelled Shamus, who stumbled in directly behind Lieutenant Babcock, wielding an enormous flashlight. There was a scuffle of feet on the wooden landing outside and then Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo also appeared.

“Watch out, everybody!” screamed Carmela. “He’s got a gun!”

“Back off!” yelled Monroe. In one swift move he reached through the door and grabbed Sweetmomma Pam by the arm, pulling her toward him. Now his gun was pointed directly at her heart, even as his eyes flashed nervously toward Lieutenant Babcock.

Carmela grimaced. When Monroe had hauled Sweetmomma Pam out roughly, the poor dear’s mask had slipped down over her face. She’s probably scared clean out of her mind, worried Carmela. And please, dear Lord, don’t let Lieutenant Babcock surrender his weapon. Under any circumstances.

“Just everybody back off or the old lady gets it!” With Sweetmomma Pam in his grasp, Monroe Payne was suddenly a lot more confident.

Trying to gauge the situation, Lieutenant Babcock lowered his gun slightly. “Okay now,” he said in a cool, reasonable voice, “let’s nobody panic. We can work things out.”

“You can get out!” snarled Monroe, angered by the glut of people who had suddenly appeared at the deserted storage building. He stared coldly at Lieutenant Babcock. “Put the gun down.” Spitting out each word hard, Monroe meant his order to be obeyed.

Lieutenant Babcock lowered his gun to his side.

Damn, thought Carmela.

“Ten o’clock!” boomed a tinny, mechanical voice.

Startled, not knowing where yet another strange voice was coming from, Monroe jerked his head wildly just as Sweetmomma Pam turned toward him. The sharp beak of her mask caught him squarely in his right eye.

“My eye!” he screamed.

Howling with pain, Monroe clutched at his face and fumbled his gun. Seconds later, it clattered noisily on the wood-planked floor.

“Rush him!” yelled Shamus.

“No!” screamed Lieutenant Babcock. “Stay back!” Chef Ricardo, never at a loss for action, grabbed one of the rusty knives from the old guillotine table and tossed it. It whooshed through the air, then hit with a loud thwack, remarkably pinning the fold of red fabric that contained Monroe Payne’s upraised arm to the wall.

Everyone gasped. It was a stunt worthy of an Indiana Jones movie.

“Jeez,” marveled Quigg, “you hit him.”

“I meant to,” said Chef Ricardo, pleased with what had to be a lucky, once-in-a-lifetime throw.

Lieutenant Babcock scrambled for the dropped gun as Monroe let loose with a second fearsome shriek that would’ve done a wounded animal proud.

“Yeoow!” he screamed. “I’ve been stabbed!”

Men, thought Carmela as she rushed forward and swept Sweetmomma Pam into her arms. Always with the theatrics.

“Get a doctor!” Monroe ’s outraged screams had turned to shouts and angry whimpers now. He stared fiercely at Carmela as she led Sweetmomma Pam a safe distance away, even as he held a trembling hand to his injured eye. “She attacked me with her beak!” he snarled. “Pecked me like a nasty bird from an Alfred Hitchcock movie!”

“Shut up,” barked Lieutenant Babcock as he wrested the knife from the fabric that pinned Monroe Payne to the wall, then tossed it to the floor out of reach. Then, with little wasted effort, the lieutenant snapped a pair of handcuffs on Monroe.

Monroe stared sullenly at Chef Ricardo. “That idiot threw a knife at me!”

Chef Ricardo stepped forward and peered at the ripped fabric and creased flesh with a proprietary glance. “Ees nothing,” he said scornfully. “Barely a flesh wound.”

“Sweetmomma Pam?” Ava Grieux, hair unpinned and swirling about her shoulders, teetered in the front doorway, a look of pure terror on her lovely face.

“Ava!” said Carmela, startled by her friend’s sudden appearance. “Sweetmomma Pam’s just fine. But how did you get here?”

“She came with me,” said Lieutenant Babcock. He pulled a radio from his belt and spoke rapidly into it, requesting a backup squad as well as an ambulance.