Лори Касс - Borrowed Crime

“I’m out of here.” Denise flung off her seat belt and scrambled for the rear door.

“Easy, pal,” I told Eddie. He was cowering in the back corner of his carrier. “Sorry about the noise. I’ll make sure it never happens again, okay?”

He hunched back ever farther, clearly not believ- ing me.

“Yeah, can’t say I blame you.” I released his carrier and lifted him free. “You were even closer to her than I was, and your ears are a lot more sensitive than mine.”

“Mrr.”

“You are such an Eddie,” I said, lugging him the length of the bookmobile and down the steps. “You really couldn’t be anything else, could you?”

“Now what are you talking about?” Denise demanded. “Are you talking to that cat again? That’s so weird. I like cats and all, but you—”

Eddie said, “Mrr!” at the same time I heard an odd metallic thunk! kind of noise, and before my brain could register what the noise was, the report of a rifle reverberated back and forth across the hills.

Someone had shot at us. At the bookmobile. At my cat.

Denise screamed and ran around to the other side of the bookmobile. Even in the murky dark, I could see her arms waving in the air as she scuttled to safety. Eddie’s carrier was firmly in my hand and I walked hurriedly to where Denise was crouching behind a tire. I thought fast and hard, trying to push down the red-hot fury that was rising in me.

Someone had shot at Eddie, dammit, and whoever it had been was going to pay and pay hard.

I took a deep breath and tried to assess our situation in a calm and rational manner. This was difficult, because I was so angry that I wanted to charge up that hill, shouting angrily at the top of my lungs, but I knew that would be stupid in the extreme.

Calm. I needed to stay calm and figure out how safe we were behind the bookmobile. But I had no idea. All I knew for certain was someone up the hill was shooting at us. Then again, maybe the shooter was already gone, but from here there was no way to know.

“Wh-what are we going to do?” Denise asked.

Her teeth were chattering, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t from cold. I felt a surge of sympathy for her. Three weeks ago today, her husband had been killed, and here she was, afraid for her own life, her children one parent away from being orphans. Sure, the children were adults, but they still needed their mom.

I looked at her. “Do you have your phone?”

“My what? Oh. My phone.” There was a rustling as she searched her pockets. “No, I must have left it . . .” She gasped out a giggle. “It’s in my hand. How stupid—here I am looking for it and it’s in my hand.”

Now was not the time to give Denise a hug and tell her it was okay to be stupid once in a while. “Do you have any reception?” I asked. “Call nine-one-one. Tell them we’re disabled and that a shot—”

Ping!

We ducked, because we couldn’t help it, and as the rifle’s report echoed, Eddie thudded up against the back of his carrier, hissing.

“That shots have been fired.”

“I know how to call nine-one-one,” Denise snapped, thumbing the phone, which lit her face with a faint blue glow. “And the reception’s crappy. I can’t believe you got us stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. Of all the places to run into a washout, you— Oh, hi,” she said into the phone. “What’s my emergency? Well, I have a couple of them going on.”

Ping!

This time, the bullet slammed into the ground at the back of the bookmobile.

Denise shrieked, and I felt sorry for the person at the other end of the phone.

I laid a hand on Eddie’s carrier and knew what I had to do. “Here you go, bud.” I unlatched the door and swung it open wide. “Can’t have you trapped in there.” In the short time we’d been outside, my eyes had started adjusting to the dim light. Objects were beginning to have defined edges, and Eddie’s carrier was one of them, making it a clear target for anyone inclined to turn it into it one.

“Half an hour?” Denise asked loudly, even as I tried to shush her. “What do you mean it’ll take someone half an hour to get here?”

Outstanding. Denise’s voice carried like no other. If the shooter was listening to us—and there was every reason to assume so—the shooter now knew we were sitting ducks for thirty minutes. Even if someone showed up in half that time, there was still plenty of time to . . . to . . .

I soft-footed it to the rear bumper. Unless the shooter had a night scope, there was no way my small and dark shape could be seen. And if the shooter were good, Denise would have been picked off the second she’d fled the bookmobile.

My breaths were short and quick as I stood there, convincing myself of my safety. I studied the hillside, looking for signs of life, looking for anything, really, and there, not a hundred feet away, was a slight widening in the treetops. A narrow trail. Perfect.

As noiselessly as I could, with my hair pulled forward to cover my pale face, I slipped out from behind the bookmobile.

Behind me, Denise was still talking to the 911 dispatcher. For the first time, I was glad her voice was so loud. Her talking would focus the shooter’s attention. I could quietly make my way along the trail and carefully sneak up to see who was doing the shooting. All I needed was an identification. All I needed was to see if it was Allison or Shannon or someone I’d never considered.

Because maybe I didn’t know who was shooting at us. Maybe I’d never met this person. Maybe I’d never once checked out his books or answered his questions about how to set up an e-mail account. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as I’d thought.

Slightly cheered, I walked slowly across the road and started up the hill. Eyes detected movement like nothing else, so I made no sudden moves and tried not to think about how stupid I was being. On a scale of one to ten, this was probably way on the high end. Eddie would have an opinion on that, but he’d skittered under the bookmobile when I’d opened the carrier door, and I hoped he’d stay there until this was all over, one way or another.

The leaves under my feet were saturated with water, and I was suddenly grateful for all the rain we’d had. Wet leaves were quiet; dry leaves were noisy. Then again, if we hadn’t had so much rain, the road would never have washed out and we wouldn’t be in this mess, so I stopped the efforts of appreciation.

Every few steps I took, I stopped and listened. Denise was still talking, rain was still dripping down, and, unless spontaneous combustion was a dark and soundless reality, whoever had shot at my cat was still on this hillside.

I pressed on, moving ever closer to the shooter, treading quietly up the path, feeling my silent way in the gloom through trees and brush and rocks.

She had to be up here somewhere. Had to be—

Bang!

The rifle fired, and I saw a flash of light. From the end of the gun’s barrel, I realized. By shooting, the shooter had revealed her—or maybe his—location: off to my left and slightly down the hill.

Excellent.

I edged closer. But not too close. All I wanted was a positive identification. I wasn’t hero material. All I wanted was to see who this person was.

I was practically tiptoeing through the forest, which was silly, but I couldn’t stop myself. With my gaze fastened on the spot where I’d seen the flash, I took slow steps closer and closer. I heard the rustle of fabric—the shooter was moving!

Not breathing, I froze solid until there was another rustle and some metallic noises that I couldn’t identify. Something gun oriented, no doubt, and I suddenly wished my self-defense classes from last summer had included working with rifles in the dark.