Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

“No!” screamed Barry. “No cops! They’ll drive away shoppers.” He looked at me and swallowed. “Important saying in our business, Goldy. Nothing clears a mall like a security threat. We simply cannot afford to lose shoppers.”

“Look, Barry.” I raised my voice to match his. “More shoppers would avoid this place if somebody actually had been killed a few moments ago.”

Barry groaned as he watched the line of cars along Doughnut Drive grow. The honking and shouting intensified.

Julian tersely ordered us to stay put. He was going to the Rover for some supplies. When I asked if he’d been able to make out who was driving the truck—man, woman, race, build—he shook his head. The first thing he’d seen was the truck’s backside as it catapulted out of the muddy lake and careened toward us.

When Julian roared up in the Rover a few minutes later, he had already changed into a spare sweatshirt and pants. He leaped out and retrieved a battered first-aid kit, a roll of paper towels, and his own cell phone. I noted the smooth, peculiar-to-Julian ability to do two things at once with complete calm. He punched in 911, cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, and pumped disinfectant onto his hands. Then he instructed Barry—in the low, soothing voice Julian always assumed in a crisis—to lie down. He had to get off his injured leg, Julian explained.

Barry protested. He’d be just fine if he could get into some clean clothes and make a few calls. “And you, Goldy,” Barry said, his scraped face wracked with pain. “I’m hoping you can just go inside and get going. The mall really, really needs to have this event go off smoothly.”

“Mr. Dean, please.” Julian spoke in a low voice. “You’ll be much better off if you just let me help you. For a few minutes. Come on.”

Barry’s insistence that we all needed to get the hell out of here subsided. Groaning, the mall manager lay down as bidden.

Julian smoothed disinfectant onto Barry’s face and arms, wiped away blood and muck with clean towels, and gently touched Barry’s injured thigh. All the while, he murmured into his cell phone, telling the emergency operator what he’d seen happen. When Julian told the operator where in Westside Mall’s parking lot we were, Barry abruptly wrenched away from my assistant’s ministering hands. He struggled to a standing position, snarling that he didn’t want any help from the cops, he just needed to get back to his office.

What was it with Barry Dean? First he wanted to talk to me privately and urgently. Then, after we’d nearly been run down by a truck, he’d submitted reluctantly to Julian’s care, and told me to go inside and work on the event. Now he was back to yelping that he needed to get back to work.

While Julian walked after the hobbling Barry, trying to convince him not to leave, that he needed to be seen by a medic, I took stock of my own injuries. I’d had the misfortune to land on my kneecaps, which burned when I whisked off the tiny stones that had embedded themselves there. Blood spurted through a network of dirty scratches. My support hose, of course, were ripped and filthy. Other than my knees, I seemed to have emerged with some arm pain that would no doubt turn into a disgusting bruise. Still, no matter what the intentions of the truck driver, I had survived.

So now, I thought as I continued to massage my kneecaps, I only had to clean up, change outfits, figure out how much food we’d lost, and get on with the event. I knew the party would take place; Barry was determined. Thank God I had learned to keep an emergency pack of catering clothes in my van. I tentatively put one foot in front of the other, immediately registered acute pain in my back and hips, and sternly ordered myself to block it out. I had work to do.

Apparently Barry had again changed his mind about rushing to his office. He limped back to my side. Julian spoke earnestly into his cell phone. No, no ambulance after all, the injuries were slight. Police, yes. Yes, he went on, the attack had looked intentional, please send both state patrol and the sheriff’s department. Yes, he would wait for them to arrive.

Barry’s skin was ashen. He squinted, clearly miserable.

I asked, “You still want to talk? You want to tell me how you knew that was going to happen?”

Once again I got the beseeching brown eyes. “I do, Goldy.” His voice cracked. “Just not right now.” He rummaged in his pocket and held out a small keychain. “I left the lounge kitchen open for you, but you might want to lock it behind you, to protect the food while you’re setting up, the way you said you needed to.”

I frowned, but took the key.

“Could we… Goldy, you’re an old friend of mine.” His mouth twisted in a half-smile. Were those tears in his eyes? “Could we have our little chat later at the party? I have some things I absolutely have to do right now.”

“Not a good idea, Barry. Come on. At least tell me how you knew that truck was aiming for us.”

He blushed. “I didn’t say that.” I glared at him. Barry shook his head. “I really don’t know who the driver was. I thought I did, but… Look, I really need to go.” He started limping down to the mall.

“Barry!” I yelled sternly. “You can’t leave before the cops get here!”

Barry stopped moving. His eyes slid to the offending truck, now moving slowly back toward the construction site. The vehicle’s yellow auxiliary lights blinked as it lumbered downward. Back on Doughnut Drive, the crew waved traffic around the hills of dirt.

“Hey, old coffee buddy, I have a job to do.” His voice had become testy. “That mess and the traffic jam need to be cleaned up before the Elite Shoppers arrive. The only thing I have to do is to make sure the shoppers can enter freely. That’s how the mall makes money, remember?” I shook my head. He put his hands into his wet pockets and made his tone charming. “I’ll talk to the cops, don’t fret. I’ll see you up at the lounge. Say, half an hour? Forty-five minutes, at the latest.” He managed a wink before turning away. Good old Barry.

“But Barry—” I protested.

He moved forward, determined. After a moment he yelled over his shoulder, “Mall security will investigate this incident! They’ll be my first call.” He gave me a backhanded wave. “The shoppers’ lounge, Goldy. Thirty minutes.” He staggered away, step , hobble, step , hobble, step , hobble. Captain Ahab, managing a mall.

I shivered and clasped my arms around my ruined jacket. What was going on? It was clear I wasn’t going to find out standing in the parking lot. Would the cops need me, if they already had Julian? Trying to ignore the pain, I walked over to him. Julian was closing his cell phone and shaking his head.

“Look, Julian, thanks for your help. I… need to get back to work. Barry’s expecting the event to go off on time, I’m sorry to say.”

Julian grinned ruefully. “I’ll make your excuses to the cops, don’t worry. But I swore on my mother’s Bible that I’d stay here until state patrol and the sheriff’s department arrive. One handles traffic accidents, the other… Oh, hey, we got company.”

Victor Wilson was hustling toward us. He carried another first-aid box and a wrapped packet that I recognized as my emergency apparel kit. His wide, dirty face was crinkled with concern. Forty yards behind him was Liz Fury. Had she been setting up in the lounge all this time? I checked my watch. Incredibly, only twenty minutes or so had passed since the truck had begun its killer course toward us.

“Are you all right?” Victor demanded. “Your assistant down there gave me this to bring you.” He moved his load into one hand and offered me his free arm. It was sunburned, rippling with muscles, and streaked with mud. “Come on, lean on my arm. So you’re the caterer? Man, I am just so sorry that happened to you. Is everyone all right?”