Engagement Rings and Hot-Tub Flings
(July 11, 2016)
11: Standoff
Dipper saw the fourth guy, off to the left, just as Wendy, all her attention focused on her car, took a step forward.
The man whipped his sidearm come up level, and then Dipper barreled into Wendy, hitting her behind her knees and knocking her down, just as the gun boomed and splinters exploded from the door frame. They had the Dart between them and the guy—he had fired over the top—and before he could come around the hood and see them to aim again, they scuttled behind a chest-high pile of car parts—engine blocks, quarter panels, transmissions, piled higgledy-piggledy off to one side. Everything smelled like used motor oil.
They could hear the guy cursing and yelling for the others, who did not answer, probably because one was handcuffed to a water pipe inside the tumble-down farm house and the other two were crammed into the locked Impala trunk—Dipper had found the Chevy keys on the second guy they had put down.
In a panicky, high voice, the thief bellowed, "Bitch! Come out where I can see you or I shoot the cop!"
They heard another deeper, older male voice say, "Negative! Don't—"
A sickening wet smack cut the voice short, as if the guy had slammed the cop in the mouth with the gun. Again the thief yelled, "You, girl! You come out now where I can freakin' see you! Now, dammit!"
Dipper grabbed Wendy's hand and sent her a thought: —He didn't notice me! He thinks it's just you!
She squeezed and replied telepathically: Maybe we can surprise the dude. I gotta stand up.
—No! They shot the other policeman! Can't take the chance!
The guy yelled once more: "The cop's gonna get it, girl! I got nothin' to lose!" His voice sounded high-pitched and edgy, and it had a flat echoy quality, the way voices do in empty rooms.
"Don't shoot him!" Wendy called back. "You and your guys are in too much trouble already! Just take your Chevy and go! All I want's my car back!" She sent Dipper another thought: Gotta do it, Dip. Can't let him kill the guy.
Dipper balled his free hand into a tight fist. Where was the ambulance? Where were the cops? They should be there. They'd had time!
Now they guy's shouting took on a crazy, hysterical edge: "You just shut up! Shut up that freakin' mouth! Get out here where I can see you!"
Wendy pretended to be terrified herself, her voice ragged as she screamed, "I'm not armed, man! Don't shoot me!"
The car thief cursed again, repetitively. "Last chance, or I shoot the cop!"
Wendy squeezed Dipper's hand. I'm layin' the other gun right here. Wish me luck, Dip! Anything bad happens, I love you!
Wendy had shed her trapper's hat. She stood up, her hands clasped on top of her head. The tomahawk axe hung suspended from the belt at her back, a little crooked—the guy might be able to spot the end of the handle if he looked closely.
"Who the hell are you?" the guy asked. Dipper, cautiously peeking out, could see him now over across the hood of the Dart, at least from the mid-chest up, a guy about Robbie Valentino's height, not young, not old, maybe early thirties. He had a high forehead—badly receding black hair, messy and spiky, what there was of it—and an ugly brawler's face, broken nose, scars on cheek and forehead, stark and pale in the cold light of six LED lanterns.
He gestured with the gun, held in hands that Dipper at first thought were black-gloved, but then he realized they wore ingrained layers of grease. "Get over here. Walk slow! I asked you who you were, bitch!"
"Name's LaMark! That's my car!" Wendy said without taking her hands off her head, but nodding toward the Green Machine.
The guy took a couple of steps. Now Dipper could see him from desert-boot-shod feet to the top of his head, a wiry figure wearing ripped, faded jeans and a badly oil-stained white tee-shirt. He held the gun steady, but asked in a surprised tone, "The classic Dart? You rich, bitch? Who restored it for you?"
"Me," she said, taking slow steps forward. "I did it all myself. Nobody helped me."
"Don't bullshit me!" the guy roared, a treble, scared sound, like the screech of a cornered hyena. "Anybody could do that, they'd sell the car for thirty or forty thousand to a collector! Ain't no girl could do that!"
"I did it, though. This slow enough?" Wendy's progress was like a deadly dance, one baby step, pause, another, pause again.
"Keep comin'. How'd they find us?"
"I got a tracker in the car," Wendy lied.
"Bullshit! Ain't one on the damn car! We scanned it! Where are Clete and Roy and Jesse?"
"Knocked 'em all out," Wendy said. "You guys killed a cop. Found his body outside!"
Dipper heard, but couldn't see, the second policeman moaning somewhere in the barn. He must be lying on the floor back toward the rear of the Dart. And now he thinks his partner's dead!
The guy came right up to Wendy, who pivoted just enough to hide the axe hanging on her back. He gestured with a sideways twitch of his gun toward the Dart. "You had a LoJack on the car, where is it?"
"Not a LoJack," Wendy said. "A StealthTrace."
The man spat at her. "Don't feed me no lies! Ain't no such thing!"
"Yeah, dude, there is! Uses special high-burst frequencies, you can't even trace it if the engine's not runnin'. It showed us exactly which route you guys drove and where the car engine was last switched off. Hey, how'd you think I led the cops here? They just made me get outa their cruiser back a ways before they drove ahead to the barn. I heard the shots and ran up to check it out."
"And you knocked out my brother and the two other guys!" the thief snarled. His hands shook with fury or fear, and it looked as though he was about to pistol-whip Wendy. Dipper tensed.
"Snuck up and cold-cocked 'em, knocked 'em out one at a time," Wendy said.
"Like hell!"
"For real. I had combat training, man. I served in Afghanistan for a year," Wendy lied—convincingly. "Sixth Marines, corporal Mandy LaMark, LVS Mechanic."
"Shit, you were in the service? A freakin' Marine? Damn it! You and me are leavin' in your car, girl. First though, show me where the damn tracker is so I can disable the freakin' thing!"
"Gotta pop the hood."
"Do it!"
Wendy opened the driver's door, leaned in, grabbed the T-shaped hood release handle and tugged. The good clunked as it popped open three inches, then stopped, caught by the front hood latch. "OK," she said. "Raise it up."
The guy bent to reach in and move the latch release—and as soon as his hands were occupied, Wendy dashed to the front, drawing her axe, rushing him.
Dipper jumped up, running forward. He saw Wendy struggling face to face with the guy—heard an explosion, and Wendy fell backward—Dipper had the other thief's gun up now—he yelled, "Drop it or you're dead!"
He fired a shot without intending to, scaring the hell out of him. The slug missed the guy's right ear by maybe an inch, punched a fist-sized hole in the barn wall behind him, and the thief flinched, hesitating..
Dipper stopped not ten feet away. Amateur or not, there was no way he could miss at that distance. Wendy lay face-down and terribly still on the floor between them. "Warning shot!" Dipper roared, feeling his face hot with flooding rage. "Next one goes through you! Drop it now!"
The trembling thief dropped his automatic and put his hands on top of his head.
"Wendy?" Dipper called. "Are you OK?"
She didn't answer, and it took everything he had not to fire the pistol again. The guy was unarmed now. And he couldn't miss. He couldn't.
Something inside him said, Hang on, kid! Not as bad as you think!
And then the sirens wailed.
Just outside.
And just too late.