Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

“O ut of the frying pan, into the broiler.” James came alive.

I recognized the quote from the movie Moonglow. I was surprised he’d recovered so quickly.

“Jesus Christ, Em, where did you come from?” James was his old animated self.

I reached out and she backed away. “I was by the truck. Skip’s frying pan was handy so I grabbed it. Are you aware of what just happened?”

“Em. Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.” I wanted to hug her.

“You might say ‘I hope you didn’t kill him.’ ”

“He was going to kill us.” I was still in shock.

“I don’t know that. And I’ve never done that much damage to anyone in my life.”

“Thank you for doing it.” James seemed stone-cold sober.

I kneeled down and took Crayer’s wrist in my hand. I wasn’t sure how to do it, but I knew if you pressed your finger on his vein you could feel a pulse. There seemed to be one.

“I think he’s alive.”

James walked over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Dude, what was that all about?”

“I don’t know.”

Em dropped her weapon on the ground, staring at the victim as she spoke to me.

“Well, give us your best educated guess. I’d really like to know what caused his reaction. Can you tell me?”

“Crayer is a full-timer. He’s concerned that we’re investigating who killed the senator.”

James nodded. “Investigating who killed the senator, Michael Bland, the Washington girl, and whoever took a shot at Barry Romans.”

“They figured we broke into the office. They don’t know how much we learned, but they decided it was enough that it was time to kill us.” Kill us? It just didn’t sound right. “Anyway, that’s my guess.” I didn’t have much of an imagination.

“I think you’re right.” James stared at the prone figure. “Crayer’s in charge of this full-timer group. He is fed up with Skip’s questions — ”

“My questions?” James was quick to blame everyone else. “Come on. You asked Stan all kinds of questions tonight.”

James held up his hand. “No need to argue. They think we’re after them, and there must be a reason to be after them. There’s some guilt. And my guess is that it involves murder.”

Em was watching us with that disgusted look on her face. “My God, I almost killed someone tonight.”

For the first time, I could tell she was shaking. I reached out and she pulled away again. “Please, don’t touch me. I just need some time to adjust.”

James looked away, staring at Crayer’s reclining form. “Let’s move the body. It’s almost daylight and people are going to wonder why a guy with a bloodied face is lying ten feet from our truck. My guess is, it won’t be good for the business.”

“If we put him inside his truck and cover him with a blanket, he should be okay for a while.” I didn’t have any other ideas.

“If he wakes up, he’s going to sound the alarm. And, my guess is, he’s going to really be pissed.”

“So what do we do?”

Em had stopped shaking and was watching the two of us, her eyes going back and forth. I could hear the wheels turning in her head. “If you were smart, you’d drive out of here right now.”

I nodded. “She’s right.”

“You don’t think they can find us? Thomas LeRoy has our addresses.”

“Then you’ve got to call the cops. Because without protection, these guys are going to come for you.” Em was right.

“And, I hate to say this,” James hesitated, “you, too.”

I could see her biting her bottom lip. “Yeah. I’m in this too, aren’t I?”

“You are.”

“You know, not too long ago I could just call Daddy.”

I nodded.

“But sooner or later you have to grow up.” She pointed to Crayer’s body, his chest rising and falling with regular breathing now. “Let’s get him into his donut truck, find something to tie his hands and feet, and go confront the reverend in his office.”

James stared at her with a look of respect and a little bit of fear. “Just like that? We’re going to confront these guys? With what?”

Em reached down to the ground and picked up the handgun. “With this.”

Now this was a side of my girlfriend I’d never seen before.

We worked together, not an easy thing to do, pulling and tugging the body of Bruce Crayer. There was no blanket so we covered him with some old rags from the truck.

Fifteen minutes had passed. “I still think we need to see what Cashdollar is up to.” James was focused on the reverend.

“I still think you’re an idiot.” Em had earned the right.

“Em, thank you. I don’t know if Crayer would have pulled the trigger, but if you hadn’t come along, we could be dead now.”

She listened to James and gazed at him with an impassioned look.

“But, we just keep getting in deeper and deeper. Think about it. Styles almost killed Dusty. You almost killed Crayer. It’s going to be hard to just walk away from this place. Know what I mean?”

“Your point is?” I’d never seen this cold side of Em before.

“My point is, I want to know what else is going on. I’m going back to the office and see if I can hear or see anything at all.”

She was silent. This girl who had surprised me with her courage and strength. She nodded. “You’re right. We’re too deep in this thing. We need something that can get us out.”

“You want to walk back with us?” I was surprised.

“I don’t want to. I need to.”

W e walked back along the tent. Em had the gun. My fantasy of wearing a shoulder holster and working for the FBI was thwarted by my girlfriend. Go figure.

“Exactly what are we going to say to Cashdollar?” James, who wanted all the answers, had no idea what to ask.

“Damn it, we’re going to ask him why we’re being targeted.” Em was riding high on adrenaline.

“With a gun in our hand?”

“Jesus Christ, Skip, somebody almost killed you. I think we ought to have some protection.”

I couldn’t argue with her. But I was getting dangerously close to suggesting the cops get involved.

We kept close to the yellow canvas, walking slowly. I don’t think any of us knew exactly how to handle things.

“Technically,” James said, “we beat the snot out of two of the full-timers. I suppose they have a right to be somewhat upset with us.”

“Technically,” Em replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “ we didn’t.”

“No. Styles put Dusty in the hospital. That wasn’t our idea.” I agreed with her. “And if it hadn’t been for Em and the skillet, we might not be here right now.”

We turned the corner and I could see the trailer. The Cadillac limo was parked on the side and the door was wide open, a soft light emanating from within. Em stopped about thirty feet from the trailer, apparently losing some of her courage. James and I stopped too. Without the gun, or even with the gun, we didn’t feel like bursting in on the scene. As we huddled by the tent, the first shot rang out.

The explosion, like an M-80 firecracker, scared all three of us, and the bullet hit the metal Cadillac body, ricocheting off the car.

“Jesus.” James dove to the ground, and I stood there, frozen in place, not totally understanding what was going on.

“Skip.” Em grabbed my hand and together we fell to the ground.

Then a second shot was fired, and a third. I heard the crunch of glass and a loud bang.

His head buried under his arms, James whispered loudly. “Was that the Caddy?”

I raised up and looked. The big car listed to the right, the windshield a spider web of cracks. “Somebody shot a tire.” Trying to keep my voice as soft as possible.