Title: Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series
Chapter 25: Hand-to-Hand Combat
Authors: Rabid Raccoons
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
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Lydia stood at the kitchen window; arms wrapped around her middle, and watched the procession toward the barn. She saw Gaby stir in the dark-haired captor's arms, and she leaned forward a little and put her hand on the glass. "Baby," she whispered, tears of relief coursing down her cheeks. She was waking up, she wasn't dead!
The doctor wished she could hear what the men were saying when they stopped walking about halfway to the barn and had some sort of yelling match in the driveway. After a few minutes, the one holding Gaby split off from the other two. Her patient continued to force the hostage toward the barn, and the other one took Gaby toward the Dodge Caravan she had parked in its shadow. She frowned, confused, and kept watching the one carrying her life in his hands. He opened the van and laid the little girl on one of the seats, then quickly locked all the doors and backed out, slamming the door and trapping Gaby inside. Lydia didn't know what to feel. She was at once almost boneless with relief that the girl was not going into the barn; whatever was planned for that destination would surely not be good. Yet she was also apprehensive that her baby was locked in a car in the heat of the Missouri afternoon, miles from civilization. Even if whatever he had given the girl was wearing off, she would die if left in the closed van for very long. She stepped back from the window quickly when the man glanced back at the house, but she still clearly saw him hurry into the barn after the other two. She counted to thirty, and then raced to the small room Maizey used as an office.
She sat at the desk and brought the desktop computer out of 'sleep' mode, moving the mouse over the AOL logo and right-clicking. She jiggled her knee impatiently, silently cursing the antiquated dial-up modem they were forced to use out here in the boonies. Maizey was always complaining that her internet connection was unreliable. It was unavailable half the time and slower than molasses when she did get a connection. Lydia swore as an unexpected window popped up: "Detect no dial tone." Either today was one of the days there was no dial-up, or, which was more likely given the circumstances, someone had cut the phone lines.
Giving up, she instead opened and saved a new Word document directly to the desktop, using the day's date for the file name. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, nervousness and speed combining to riddle the document with typing errors:
My name is Dr. Lydia Campbell. Today, July 14, my daughter and I were kidnaped by Marshall Penfeld, who used us to facilitatr an escape from Leavenworth Pen. He hass an accomplice; I have heard him use the name 'Hector'. Thiss man loaded somethin on this computer, I don't know what or why. He killed my husband, Bill Campbell, at his house in Leavenworth. They have another hostage. He is slight, with dark curly hair. I heard Marshall call him "Epsy". I am writing this to let you know what happened to my husband, my daughter and myself. As I write, my child is in a semi-conscious state but locked in the Dodge Caravan outside. Please if you r reading this, try to save her. If she lives, I hereby leave my entire estate to my daughter Gabrielle. I ak my sister Maizey Somers to be hr gardian.
Lydia Campbell
Quickly, she closed the document and jerked open drawers of the desk, finally finding what she was looking for. Maizey was hopelessly old-fashioned. For her, a computer at all was a concession; this one was so baseline, floppies were the main form of back-up. The machine accepted flash drives, as Macedo had demonstrated, but Maizey ignored that capability and stayed with her first love. Fingers shaking, Lydia jammed one in the drive and copied her document. Seconds later, she ejected the disk and dropped it back into the drawer. She left the original document on the desktop and jumped up, waiting for the machine to return to 'sleep'.
She wanted to pace frantically, but carefully shut all the desk drawers first. As she placed her hand on the bottom drawer, the one full of the 3 x 5 cards Maizey used to plot her novels, an idea seized her. Lydia grabbed a handful of cards and sat back down.
Breathing so shallowly and rapidly that she was beginning to become dizzy, she searched the surface of the desk until she found a pencil. Then she scribbled on the first card in the stack. Glancing over her shoulder often, listening for signs that the men were returning to the house, Lydia worked her way through several cards. When she was finished, she stood again and pushed the chair into position under the desk, noting with relief that the computer's fishbowl screen saver had activated and was obscuring everything on the desktop. Hurriedly, she gathered the cards and ran back into the kitchen, to look out the window at the Dodge Caravan.
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The only animals on the farm were several feral cats that lived in the barn and an old dog who was too tired to be bothered with them. Most of the time he just found a shady place on the property where he could sleep. This afternoon, after his unexpected mid-day kibble break, he had trotted into the corn and chased blackbirds for a while before, tummy full; he had dropped into an exhausted heap almost a mile from home.
The barn contained surprisingly little. The previous owner had kept cows, but Maizey used the barn mostly for storage, and the four stalls were empty. The writer tried to utilize humane traps several times a year to capture the cats and have them neutered before she released them again, and those were crowded in one corner. Without fail, though, one or two got by her, so she kept a few bales of straw around, both to provide warm shelter in the cold winters, and so she could pitchfork some straw onto the floor of one of the empty stalls, when it looked like a cat was about to pop a litter. A riding lawn mower was parked facing the door, and several garden tools hung on nails on the walls. A built-in wooden ladder led to a hay loft where most of her camping equipment was stacked. Near the front double-door entrance were several boxes; household items of Lydia's temporarily in storage until the doctor decided what she was going to do.
When Marshall first pushed Charlie into the barn, three half-grown kittens had shot out of a bale of straw and careened through the door in a blur, startling him so badly he almost dropped his gun. "Shit!" he exclaimed, and Charlie had the audacity to laugh.
"You always were afraid of pussy," he jibed. "Prison must have been such a relief."
Marshall hissed in rage and shoved Charlie hard in the back. The professor stumbled over his own feet and lurched to the floor. Marshall quickly took a step toward the stack of boxes and laid the .22 Derringer on the top; a simple shooting would be much too kind a way to dispatch his nemesis. Charlie was almost back on his feet when Marshall got close enough to land a solid kick to the ribs. Charlie cried out and flipped away from his attacker, landing on his back in a pile of straw from which a pitchfork protruded. Two tiny kittens that had been burrowed underneath the warm bedding staggered out on wobbly legs and mewed their way toward the open door. Groaning, Charlie used the pitchfork handle to pull himself up before Penfield could connect again.
By the time Macedo joined them in the barn, the two were circling each other like mismatched prizefighters. Charlie had one arm curled around his middle and was slightly hunched; Marshall had at least a foot on him. "You miserable little fool," he seethed. "I am going to kill you with my bare hands, in inches; you'll find out exactly what I've picked up in prison!" Marshall telegraphed his next lunge, and Charlie easily side-stepped. When Marshall roared and came at him again, Charlie met his jaw with a vicious right hook, badly bruising the third knuckle on his own hand. Both men howled in pain and dropped back.
Standing near the boxes and looking on, Macedo smiled. He was glad to see Marshall hadn't taken the easy road to killing Eppes. Frankly, at this point, he didn't care who won the hand-to-hand combat. He would finish the other one himself. This way was good. Eppes would have Marshall's DNA and other evidence all over him, and if he was somehow the one to survive, Macedo would finish the job with the 44 and plant the weapon on Marshall before he dropped him in the Missouri River. Of course, Penfield was an idiot, and he might actually get himself killed by the smaller man. That would entail a little awkward body removal, but Macedo was thoroughly back in the game by this time; he knew he could handle it. The extra work was a small price to pay for the entertainment. Idly, he picked up the Derringer Marshall had discarded. It was a smaller caliber than he usually preferred, but he liked the way it fit into the palm of his hand. It was a shame that it could be traced back to the dead guard; it would have been a nice weapon to add to his new arsenal.
Tiring of the battle and more winded than he cared to admit, Marshall used his height to his advantage and kicked out again. He connected with the side of Charlie's right knee, and he went down heavily, hitting his head on the riding lawn mower as he descended. For a moment, he saw stars. He might have blacked out, if Marshall hadn't made the mistake of stepping on his injured hand as he leaned, intending to grab Charlie's head with his own hands and shatter it like a watermelon on the mower.
The pain cleared Charlie's vision, however, and when Marshall momentarily looked away to see what he had tripped over, the smaller man thanked God and his therapist for the hours of leg exercises he had endured in recent months. He thrust his foot as hard as he could, aiming directly for Marshall's testicles.
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Don saw nothing but corn fields for so long he was worried that he had somehow passed the farm, regardless what the rental's GPS was telling him. He was about to give up and turn around when he rounded a slight curve and saw it, half a mile ahead. It was the only residence he had seen in miles; this had to be the sister's farm.
He pulled off onto the shoulder of the road and shut off the engine. Don didn't want his arrival announced, so he was walking in. He checked his service weapon to make sure it was loaded, and climbed out of the car. Corn fields pushed to the shoulder on both sides of the road, and he dashed into the one on the same side of the country highway as the farm. If anyone was there, watching the road, he didn't want to take the chance of being seen.
Don knew he could run a mile in 8 minutes; he had been timed just last month on the F.B.I. training course when he re-qualified. Field agents were expected to pass certain physical tests every year, as well as maintaining marksmanship skills with their weapons. He was only covering half the distance now, but he was fighting his way through a corn field in a slow jog; sometimes, he had to drop to a walk. By the time he paused for breath on the edge of the field next to the farm, it had been almost 20 minutes since he'd parked the car.
Crouching slightly, Don watched the farmhouse for any sign of activity. He saw a few cats milling around, but no people. Squinting at the barn behind the main house, he could see that the door stood slightly ajar. He experienced a moment of indecision. Should he approach the house first, or go to the open barn?
He traveled down the edge of the field until he was at the back yard. From here, he could see both an old Ford sedan and a newer Dodge Caravan parked beside the barn. His heart rate quickened as he remembered that the APB the Leavenworth police had put out on Dr. Campbell's vehicle was for a Caravan. If this was the one, he had a reason now to get some manpower out at the farm. He started to reach for his phone, but stopped. Every form of law enforcement in two states was rapidly approaching Atchison, and he couldn't wait for them to turn around. Besides, he thought wryly, with that piece of work Lieutenant from the Leavenworth PD in charge, he probably wouldn't be able to convince him to send anybody, anyway. Decision made, he stepped out of the corn and onto the green lawn, running in a crouch to stand behind a large willow. He looked again at the house, and this time clearly saw a woman standing at a window, looking toward the barn. He had seen a photo of Dr. Campbell that the local PD had found in the house, and he knew that it was her. He had decided to head for the barn, but now his indecision returned. If she was in the house, chances were someone was in there with her. She was watching the barn, so there was probably someone out there, too. Don was still fairly certain she was a hostage; it had been the missing child that had convinced him. What better way to secure a mother's cooperation than by threatening her child? Still, there was a chance she was part of the escape. Don bowed his head in contemplation for a moment before he took a deep breath and risked it all. He stepped away from the tree, in full view of the woman at the window. He held up his gun in one hand, his badge in the other.
Don held his breath, waiting for her to sound an alarm, waiting for bullets to start flying at him from either the house or the barn. When she saw him step out from behind the tree, her hand had flown to her mouth in surprise, and they both stood as statues for seven agonizing seconds. Just when Don was ready to fall back into the corn and regroup, she waved, tentatively; then motioned to the front of the house. He was off like a shot, not even attempting to stick to cover. He followed the lawn around the house until he came to the large, covered, front porch, two wooden rocking chairs sitting on either side of the front door. The door was open, and Lydia Campbell stood shaking behind the screen.
She glanced quickly behind her; then beckoned him with a hand full of paper. With her other hand she lifted one finger to her lips, in the universal sign language for silence. Don quietly ascended the three steps and crossed to the door, his gun at the ready. When he arrived, the screen creaked open a few inches, and she shoved a 3 x 5 card through the door.
He hesitated, eventually figuring he'd already be dead if this was a trap. He let go of the gun with one hand and took the card. "I am a hostage," he read. "I don't know when they will be back or what they can hear." He looked up and saw another card slip through the crack. "Escaped prisoner from Leavenworth, one accomplice." When he had finished reading that one, she had another ready. "In the barn, with another hostage." The fourth card dropped to the porch when both Agent and hostage heard a door at the rear of the house slam. Lydia backed away quickly, pushing the door most of the way shut, and Don pressed back against the side of the house. He stretched out his leg to drag the final card a little closer; then peered at it to read, "My baby is in the van. Save my baby."
"What are you doing?" Don heard clearly through the closed door, and he recognized the nasal whine instantly, even though it sounded a little pinched. Marshall Penfield. "I need some ice. Come and get me some ice!"
The sound had been growing louder as he approached the front of the house, but now Don heard the woman. "I thought…I thought I heard the dog," she stuttered. "I was going to let him in so he didn't go out to the barn, but it wasn't…one of the cats, I guess." Her voice was fading as its owner retreated toward the back of the house, and Don had to strain to hear her next words. "Come into the kitchen. I'll get you some ice."
Again Don hesitated. Macedo was probably doing something to Charlie in the barn, and every cell in his body ached to storm the wooden structure, gun blazing, and ask questions later. On the other hand, Marshall Penfield was just a few feet away, and he had to be neutralized as well. If he heard the sounds of a struggle coming from the barn, he could escape out the front and drag Dr. Campbell with him, disappearing into the corn.
Don suppressed a groan and pulled open the screen as silently as was possible.
He was going in.
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End, Chapter 25