Title: Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series
Chapter 26: Stuck On You
Authors: Rabid Raccoons
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
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When Charlie's foot drove Marshall's testicles into his scrotum, the taller man was felled like a tree, and was soon on his back, curling up like a potato bug. Disgusted, Macedo let him lie there until it looked like Eppes might regain his feet first. Then he had shoved the Derringer into the waistband of his slacks and walked further into the barn, still gripping the .44, stopping to yank the moaning Penfield to his feet. He paused to plant a well-aimed heel on Eppes' bruised hand. The man had wilted again, knocking into the mower, and Macedo shoved Penfield toward the door. "Go inside and get some ice," he ordered. "Finish off the woman while you are there." He thrust the .44 at Marshall – he wanted the man's prints on it anyway. "We have wasted enough time on this. I will take care of Eppes."
Marshall, hunched over and cupping his genitals, could barely manage to reach out one hand and grip the weapon. He tried to protest but was having a hard time getting his breath. "I want," he gasped, and Macedo glared at him and took another threatening step closer.
"Do you think I have limitless patience? You have had your chance, you spineless little fool! Now, go! Go and do as I say, or I will kill you before I kill him!" Blanching, nearly sick already from the blow to his manhood, Penfield lurched through the door and stumbled toward the farmhouse.
When Macedo turned back to Charlie, he was stunned to see the professor not only on his feet, but bringing a hoe down toward Hector's head. Somehow he had dislodged the tool from its nail on the barn wall. Startled, Macedo was still able to grab the descending hoe with both hands, easily wrenching it away from Charlie. Livid, he threw it to the side and aimed a hard, roundhouse karate kick at Charlie's knee. He connected, and the shattering patella echoed in the dusty barn before Charlie screamed and flew backwards, landing in a heap in the straw. Macedo laughed and reached casually for the Derringer stuffed under his waistband. Charlie was rolling in the straw, clutching at his knee with both hands, and Macedo caressed the perfect pearl handle of the small pistol lovingly. Charlie's struggles and his cries were weakening, as if he were about to lose consciousness.
Macedo took careful aim. "So many choices," he began, pulling back the hammer. "How many times shall I kill you?"
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Douglas was driving, part of a convoy of Staties, prison guards and city police, so Rutherford took the call. He swallowed when he saw the caller display – he hated talking to his boss and usually left that sort of thing to his partner. He tried to sound competent. "Yes, Director."
Tompkins wasted no-one's time on pleasantries. "Got anything?"
Douglas glanced sideways at him and Rutherford grinned nervously. "Um, yes. Yes, sir. We're on our way to Atchison. The State Police have located the prison van, and it looks like there was a second vehicle. It's a - a relative certainty that someone is helping them. Smart money's on the missing shrink."
Tompkins mulled that over, and finally came back with, "What about Special Agent Eppes? You indicated earlier that he was onsite. "
Rutherford reached up to pull his shirt collar away from a sweaty neck. "That's affirmative, sir."
"I want to talk to him."
Rutherford had been pretty pleased with himself so far, but now he began to stutter again. "Th…that's not…I can't…that is…he's not in our vehicle, sir."
Tompkins sighed. "Well, who is he riding with? Surely he's not going up there alone in a rental?"
Rutherford wiped at his forehead with his handkerchief. "Well, no, sir. Agent Eppes elected not to join us."
Tompkins was momentarily relieved. Eppes shouldn't be working on this case; he was too close…. Given a moment to think, though, the relief soon dissipated. He knew Agent Don Eppes, and there was no way on God's green earth that he was just going to twiddle his thumbs while two madmen toured the Midwest with his brother. "Where the hell is he?" he growled.
Rutherford wished Douglas would turn up the air conditioner. His hands were sweating so much the cell phone was about to squirt onto the floorboard. "He…disagreed with the Officer in Charge, sir. Consensus here is that Dr. Campbell is a willing participant in the escape, but Eppes is of the opinion that she's a hostage. He heard from a neighbor that she's been living on a farm over on the Missouri side of the line. He wanted to check that out."
"Let me get this straight." Tompkins' voice was level, controlled – almost icy – and scared the absolute hell out of Rutherford. "You met up with one of the best federal agents I know of in any agency – I'd hire him in a minute if he'd leave the F.B.I. – and he shared his evaluation with you and Agent Douglas. The two agents, I might add, responsible for pulling the protection off Dr. Eppes in the first place. The two agents, I believe, who have fumbled this case from the beginning. And now I am to understand that you are also the two agents who not only ignored a federal officer, but sent him alone into God knows what?"
Rutherford's voice squeaked. "Douglas did it. He came down on the side of the locals."
Douglas turned to glare at him and Rutherford turned an agitated head in the other direction. Tompkins responded in a brief staccato burst. "Letmetalktohim."
Breathing heavily, Rutherford lowered the cell and stretched a shaking hand toward his partner. "The Director wishes to speak to you."
Douglas swore under his breath and grabbed the cell, bringing it to his ear. "Director Tompkins, sir, I….but…..you see…..but…..you want us to what?" He listened for a moment more and then nodded. "Yes, sir." Douglas shoved the phone back in Rutherford's direction and wrenched hard on the steering wheel. "Hold on!" he ordered unnecessarily as the sedan fishtailed in a high speed U-turn. "We're going to Kerrville."
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Don crept into the house like a burglar, quietly and stealthily. He paused between every step to track the voices. He heard the distinct sound of a chair scraping across a tile floor, and a petulant whine; a higher pitch than he remembered, but obviously Penfield. "Hurry up, bitch. I'm in pain, here."
Don edged up to a door jamb, and heard the rattling of ice trays. Light steps came a few feet in his direction and the woman spoke. "Here." Don figured this was as good a time as any, and he peeked around the frame of the doorway; then pulled back quickly. He didn't take a long look, but he was trained to observe details, and observe them he did.
He couldn't believe his luck. Penfield was in a straight-back chair that had been pulled several feet from a table – facing away from the door. The woman had been on the other side, between the escaped prisoner and a large stainless steel refrigerator, handing him a Ziploc® baggie full of ice. Marshall had grabbed it and plopped the bag directly in his own lap, bending over almost double in the chair. As he leaned forward, Don saw the butt of a gun sticking out of the back waistband of his jeans.
Don's heart pounded as he rested against the wall, but he still heard Marshall's muffled demand. "Get me another one for my face," he pouted. Don prayed that he could trust the woman to keep her head, and slowly looked around the door frame again. Marshall was in the same position; the woman was several feet away at a counter near the refrigerator, preparing another baggie. She was turned slightly away, but when Marshall moaned she spun back around. Don saw her eyes go wide when she focused on him at the doorway. She dropped the bag of ice and Marshall's head lifted a little, but only to look at her. She had dropped to the floor to chase ice cubes and he lowered his head again and began to rock a little in the chair. "Hurry up," he implored. "Clumsy wench."
The foreground of Don's mind was totally in the moment as he began to approach Marshall from behind, but a steady mantra played back-up. Please don't let the floor squeak. Step. Please be smart enough to stay down. Step. Please don't let the floor squeak. Another step and Don was as close as he intended to get, approximately three feet behind Marshall.
Penfield lifted his face to the woman again and stretched out a hand. "Just give it to me!"
Don extended his arms, leveling his service weapon at the back of Marshall's neck. He spoke in a low, menacing voice. "If I blow your head off, you sorry son of a bitch, will you promise not to sue me?"
Marshall froze. He'd know that voice anywhere. How the hell did Don Eppes end up in a farmhouse in Missouri? The woman was too far away to grab and use as a shield, and he knew the FBI agent well enough to know what would happen if he tried to reach around and retrieve the gun tucked in the back of the waistband.
He was still trying to figure a way out when Don spoke again, his voice eerily calm. "The only witness here is a woman you've terrorized all day, a woman whose child you've put in mortal danger. A woman who won't see a damn thing when I shoot you down like the rabid dog you are."
Marshall was careful to make no threatening moves, but straightened in the chair a little and dropped his hands to his sides, where Eppes could see them. "That little pea shooter of yours packs quite a wallop," he responded. "Macedo will hear the noise all the way out in the barn. What's going to happen to Charlie then?"
Don's grip tightened on the gun and his eyes narrowed. "What do you care? It's not like you'll be alive to find out." Marshall swallowed as Don continued. "Dr. Campbell. Skirt around the table, and come to me. Stay out of his reach. So much as take a deep breath, Penfield, and it will be your last."
Lydia, who had been crouched on the floor for the last several seconds, sprang up so fast the ice cubes scattered again. Looking quickly from one man to the other, she finally did what Don ordered, staying as far away from the seated man as she could. When she had safely reached Don, her sigh of relief was cut off by his next order.
"Walk up behind him. Take that gun out of his pants." She looked at him, terrified, and Don directed his next words to Penfield. "This is considered close range, asshole. Give me a reason, and the crime techs will study the blood spatter pattern on the walls for years." Lydia glanced toward the window, and thought of her baby baking in the Caravan; then she steeled herself and did as Don asked. She pulled the guard's service revolver out of Marshall's jeans and backed away so quickly she almost tripped. Don didn't even meet her eyes, but continued to stare at Marshall. "You're doing fine," he said to both of them. "Now. Penfield. Hands on the back of your head. Fingers interlaced." He hesitated for just a moment. He'd never in his life hated anyone as much as the man in front of him. When he thought of what Penfield had done to Charlie, was planning to do even up until a few moments ago, he could feel black rage inside him. It would be so easy to put an end to his miserable life. Send the woman outside, no witnesses – he could claim Penfield went for the gun…
With a huge effort, he tore himself away from the thought, and nudged the woman cowering beside him. "Cuffs are in my back pocket." She stood for a moment, eventually filling in the blanks, and then retrieved the handcuffs and started back toward Marshall. "Stay clear of the shot," Don ordered. "I still haven't decided not to take it."
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Lydia couldn't watch the F.B.I. agent approach the barn because Marshall Penfield was lying directly under her sink, his head in the cupboard jammed behind the trash can, hands held awkwardly over his head and securely fastened in the handcuffs, which were looped around the new copper plumbing Maizey had installed after she bought the property. After she had tossed the handcuffs into the escaped prisoner's lap from a safe distance, the agent had forced him to place himself in this position. Unfortunately, he had not taken the time to gag him before he left, and Penfield had been whining and wheedling non-stop ever since. He was unable to see Dr. Campbell, but he knew that she was there, somewhere in the kitchen, the prison guard's service weapon firmly in her hands and pointed in his direction.
When she couldn't take it any more, she began to sing Gaby's favorite song so that she wouldn't have to hear him. Before she got through the first verse, tears were gathering at the back of her throat and she was desperate to follow the agent and get to the van. "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," she sang, her voice thick with the unshed tears, and she let her eyes wander. "How...How I Won...Wonder What You Are." She could see the keys to the van on the counter where she had dropped them, when Macedo had ordered her to make them lunch, and she took a step toward them as if drawn by a magnet. "...Up Above..." Penfield wasn't going anywhere. Maizey had spent the royalties from her first book on the renovations of this farm, and the pipes were as expensive and solidly installed as everything else. "...The Wor...World, So High..." Keeping one eye on the prisoner, she shifted her hold on the gun to a one-handed grip, reaching with the other to touch the keys. "...Like A Diamond, In...In the Sky..."
Marshall's nasal whine just grew louder. "I'm in pain, here, doc! This is wrenching my shoulder right out of its socket! I'll be good. Just let me sit up!"
Lydia ignored him as her fingers curled around the key ring of their own volition, with no instruction from her. "Twinkle, Twinkle," she sang, and then the keys were in the pocket of the jeans Macedo had insisted she change into. "...Little Star..." she breathed, backing out of the kitchen. "Mommy's Coming To The Car."
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Gaby was wet.
She was hungry.
She was thirsty.
She was hot, she wanted her mommy, and she didn't feel good.
The toddler did not understand why she was in Mommy's car, but not in her special seat. She blinked up at the booster chair for a moment, and then used it to help herself climb up to a kneeling position on the sticky leather bench, so she could look out the window. She saw several of the barn cats out in the yard, and a man. He was walking funny, like he was trying to be short, and hiding behind trees. He was holding something. Did he have a toy?
She slid down the seat on her stomach until her chubby little legs stood on fat little feet solidly on the floor of the van. She was crying a little because she did not like to be wet, and it was uncomfortable to waddle between the two chairs in front, but she had to get to the big window.
He might have one of her toys.
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Macedo wanted Eppes dead, but he wanted him to see it coming. The weakling was practically in a fetal position in the straw; his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his hands grabbing at his knee as he moaned. Macedo backed toward the front of the barn, near the boxes, and chanced a quick look at the house, wondering if Penfield had finished the woman, yet. His eyes grew wide and he swore in Spanish when he saw Agent Eppes, in a low crouch, suddenly dash from behind an oak tree about halfway between the house and the barn, and sprint for the cover of a chokeberry bush that edged the lawn. Letting Charlie wallow in his misery for the moment, Macedo hurried the last few feet to the boxes. They had been stacked just inside the now-open barn door, and he could crouch behind them and stay out-of-sight to anyone on the lawn.
He cursed again, wishing that he had the larger gun and had let Penfield take the Derringer. Even the .38 he purchased on the streets of L.A. was tucked into his duffle, inside the house. All he had was the tiny .22 caliber gun, and that was unfortunate. Macedo knew that even a .22 could cause fatal damage, however; the shot just needed to be accurate. It wouldn't hurt to fire from a short distance, either. He shrugged. At least the discharge wouldn't make much noise. Smiling grimly, he ignored the groans and whimpers of the man behind him and used the top box to steady his aim at Don Eppes' head.
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The man ran out from behind a tree and veered toward the van, but then disappeared behind a bush. Gaby had climbed into the driver's seat and was leaning over the steering wheel trying to find him again when she was distracted by movement at the back of the house. The back door had opened, and soon her mommy appeared and hurried down the steps. The sight of her reminded Gaby how unhappy she was. "Mommy!" she cried, banging her little fists on the hard plastic of the steering wheel. Her mother did not answer her, and Gaby began to wail in earnest. Mommy should be able to hear her cry; mommy always heard it when Gaby cried for her. The little girl started to crawl to the other seat, to see if mommy could hear better there, when she had an idea. The van could make noise, just like her little pink Barbie car at Daddy's house. The big van was much louder, and Mommy always got mad when Gaby pushed on the hard plastic wheel and made the horn yell. But Gaby didn't care. Mommy was being mean.
So she pressed down on the steering wheel as hard as she could.
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Don was less than five feet away from the open door when he had to break away from the chokeberries and all form of cover. He stayed low, with his service weapon leading the way.
When the heavy and peaceful silence of the late Missouri afternoon was shattered by the sudden and almost obscene honking of the Caravan's horn, several things happened at once. Lydia broke into a full-out run; Don whirled toward the sound, looking for danger; and the round Macedo had just released, instead of burying itself in the agent's skull, whizzed harmlessly behind it instead. Don felt and heard the projectile and whirled again, dropping even further. The second bullet found a home, slamming into him before he completed his turn and traveling completely through the flesh of his right forearm and lodging in his left, nuzzling up to the ulna. Don made an involuntary sound of pain, and his service weapon flew out of his hands and landed on the grass a few feet away. Don dropped to his knees, ignoring the fire in his arms, and used his elbows, trying to crawl toward the Glock.
Macedo straightened to stand over the boxes, and took a step back even as he fired another round. This one burrowed into Don's hamstring as he crawled, and he screamed and collapsed the rest of the way into the grass. Macedo squinted and drew a bead. He would put the fourth bullet where the first one was supposed to go.
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Don's first grunts of pain were connected directly to Charlie's eyes, and the lids flew open. He began to infuse his movements with purpose; Don was in trouble, and he needed to get up. Charlie pushed himself into a sitting position, biting his lip to keep from yelling out himself, and grabbed the handle of the pitchfork stuck in the bale of straw at his side. The second shot, followed by Don's scream of agony, catapulted him off the floor. Charlie pulled himself up using the wooden handle as a crutch. He saw Macedo aiming the weapon, and even though he had not seen his brother, knew from the screams that Don was the target. He staggered half a step, determined to stop the crazed lunatic before he could do any more damage. When Charlie put weight on his right leg, he nearly went down again, and he knew he would never make it. His hand, covered in the sweat of fear, trembled on the pitchfork and slipped down the handle a few inches. Desperation made Charlie reckless, and he grunted as he shifted most of his weight to his left side and ripped the pitchfork out of the bale. He let loose his own scream as he threw the farm implement as hard as he could toward Macedo's back.
Unfortunately, with his bruised hand, and one-legged, that wasn't very hard. He wobbled on his feet as he watched the pitchfork bounce harmlessly off Macedo's back. It then pinballed off the wall and thudded to the floor at Macedo's feet. Macedo's next shot was wild, the flying pitchfork having served as a deterrent, but still the bullet lightly grazed Don's head as he writhed on the ground. His final scream cut off in the middle as unconsciousness claimed him.
Macedo whirled and glared at Charlie; without anything to hold onto, he was starting to go down again. Hector took a half-step, enraged, intending to finish the professor, but his foot hit the handle of the pitchfork and he bellowed. Glancing over his shoulder at Don, he saw that the agent still lived; he could see the labored rise and fall of his chest. He would kill Charlie after he had made him watch while he killed his brother, he decided. Turning his feet again, he tripped over the pitchfork once more; this time he swore and bent swiftly to pick it up. He tossed it in the general direction of the riding lawn mower. If he had watched its flight and subsequent landing, he would have been impressed when the long handle actually slipped through the steering wheel like a basketball through a hoop. When the handle hit the floor, in the small space between the front tire and the grass guard, the pitchfork wobbled for a moment and then settled, prong-up, at a 45-degree angle. He couldn't have planted it any more firmly if he had tried. Macedo did not see the phenomenon, though, because his attention was on Don. He still had time to put one more slug into his head before he retrieved the .44 and finished Charlie.
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Charlie saw Macedo take aim again and calculated the distance between then – nearly four feet – and how much pounds-per-square-inch pressure was required. He had time to take one step onto his bad leg and balance on it while he used the good one to spring across the distance.
"NO!!" he screamed, hoping the sound would again discombobulate Macedo, and then he allowed adrenalin and fear to catapult him into the Colombian.
Charlie was slight, but his adrenalin-inspired feat was completely unexpected and the impact that hit Macedo was tremendous. He stumbled backwards and the Derringer flew out of his hand. His arms windmilled once and then his hands buried himself in his assailant's hair and clothing, fisting there and dragging the professor with him. The added weight accentuated Macedo's loss of balance and he stumbled backward again. Even when his foot hit the tire of the riding lawn mower, he continued his downward trajectory. Macedo didn't stop until the pitchfork was halfway through his chest.
His eyes went wide with shock, and his lips parted in a perfect "O", but no sound came from his mouth. He maintained consciousness, and fought to use Charlie's weight as some sort of counterbalance.
He probably should have let go.
In the end, as the tines of the fork progressed through his evil heart and lungs, his arms tightened convulsively around the professor. Charlie, shorter and smaller than Macedo, was lifted slightly off the floor. As the tines continued their trek through Hector, his grip loosened enough for Charlie's feet to settle on the floor again, but not enough for him to pull away with only one good leg. His ear was at Macedo's mouth, and he felt the last expulsion of breath just before he felt the pitchfork enter his own chest.
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End, Chapter 26