Full Scoop

  Maggie looked at Zack, and their gazes met and held. “Absolutely not.”

  “Wow!” Mike pulled a small notepad from his pocket. “You know he’s dangerous, right? And everybody says he has a score to settle with you. I’ll bet you regret ever laying eyes on the guy, huh?”

  Maggie opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. How could she regret having known Carl Lee Stanton when the result had been a daughter she adored? She could feel everyone’s eyes on her. “I’m finished answering your questions.”

  “Could I get a quick picture?”

  Queenie pushed past Maggie. “Take a picture of this door,” she said, and slammed it in his face so hard the house shook.

  “Holy shit!” Cook shrieked the words.

  Carl Lee Stanton jumped, and the car swerved to the center lane, almost sideswiping the pickup truck that barreled past them. He yanked the steering wheel to the right, and they rode the shoulder for a few seconds before he managed to get control. In the passenger seat, Cook twisted around, covered his eyes and gave an enormous shudder.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Carl Lee yelled. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

  “It’s Loopy,” Cook said. “He’s deader’n hell.”

  “Are you sure?” Carl Lee glanced around, trying to get a look. “Did you check his pulse?”

  “I don’t have to, man. He’s stiff as a board.” Cook’s voice was muffled behind his hands. “His eyes are open, Carl Lee. He’s staring right at me.”

  “Just what I need,” Carl Lee muttered. “A dead clown in the backseat.”

  “I can’t ride in a car with a body. No way can I—”

  “Shut up!” Carl Lee shouted. “I don’t need you freaking out on me on top of everything else.”

  “You don’t understand. I have a serious phobia! Some people fear heights, elevators, and snakes, but I fear dead people.”

  “So don’t look at him.”

  Cook babbled on. “I was raised way up in the mountains,” he said. “When somebody in my family died the undertaker put them in a casket and delivered it to the house. It would sit there for three whole days! Somebody had to sit up with the dead person all night; I was five years old my first time.”

  “We’ll just have to make an appointment for you to see a shrink once we get to Beaumont.” Carl Lee turned on the radio. He searched for a country-western station and paused when he found a news station. He turned up the volume. “Be quiet, I want to see if they mention us.”

  “And when my grandma died the ground was frozen so she couldn’t be buried until it thawed. My old man put her in a junk car at the back of our property and covered her with a blanket. I still have nightmares.” He wiped his hands down his face. “You gotta let me out of this car, man.”

  Without warning, Carl Lee backhanded him.

  Cook reared back. “Why’d you do that!” he demanded. “Look, my nose is bleeding! I’ve got blood all over my good western shirt.” He reached for a dirty handkerchief on the floor, shook it out and pressed it to his nose. “I don’t want to be part of this anymore if I have to ride with a dead man in the backseat staring at me. Stop the car and let me out.”

  Carl Lee reached beneath his seat, pulled out a pistol, and, darting a quick look at Cook, put it to his head. The man froze. Carl Lee listened to the newsman who was in the process of recounting Carl Lee’s crimes and giving a description of him. In the distance ahead, a police car sat on the side of the road. Carl Lee checked his speed and lowered his gun, pressing it below Cook’s rib cage. He passed the patrol car and glanced in the rearview mirror several times until they were well past it.

  “Now, you listen to me carefully,” he told Cook. “I’m not going to dump a body in clear daylight, you got that? It’ll be good and dark by the time we get to the other side of Shreveport; then we’ll get rid of it.”

  Cook swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed several times. “Whatever you say, Carl Lee,” he said, eyes fastened on the barrel of the gun. “I can wait until it gets dark.”

  “And just so you know—” Carl Lee looked at him. “I can dump two bodies as easily as one.”

  They found Butterbean eating a cardboard cereal box from the recycling bin. “Uh-oh,” Maggie said. “I didn’t think to move the bin, but I feel better knowing she’s had a snack.” The animal didn’t let their sudden presence interfere with her dinner. She chewed right on.

  “She’s so small,” Mel said.

  “I don’t think pygmies get much larger than that,” Zack said. “I read an article about them in National Geographic.”

  “I don’t know why Joe Higgins names all of his animals after food,” Mel said, and looked at Zack. “He gave us a cat named Okra.”

  “Joe’s little girl is a patient of mine,” Maggie told Zack. “He pays her medical bills with animals.”

  “Ah, the old barter system,” he said.

  Mel was keeping a respectful distance. “Does she bite?”

  “Nope.” To prove it Maggie stroked Butterbean’s forehead. Mel did the same.

  “She’s kinda cute,” the girl said. “I was expecting some ugly, disgusting-looking goat.”

  “I’d better have a look at the garage.” Maggie turned, and they followed. The wooden structure was as old as the house but she hadn’t had the time or inclination to scrape, repaint, and repair, after she, her parents, and a handyman named Yap had spent so much time working on the house. Her grandfather had let things go after her grandmother’s death. Decades-old wallpaper had been stripped, carpeting pulled up, the wood floors beneath sanded and varnished, and the list went on and on.

  The garage doors swung out on hinges that squawked like a nettled blue jay. Inside it was dark and cool and musty. Maggie caught only a hint of the paint thinner she’d used restoring several of her grandparents’ antiques in the garage. Still, it was orderly, Maggie noted thankfully, having devoted an entire Saturday to cleaning it back in the spring. She had hauled off years of forgotten junk, organized and stowed items in the built-in cabinets along the back. Yap had cleaned decades of dirt and mildew, inside and out, with a power washer.

  “It’s gloomy in here,” Mel said.

  “I think we should open those two windows and take off the screens so Butterbean can stick her head out,” Maggie said. “She’ll be able to get fresh air and won’t feel so closed in.” She shrugged. “It’ll just have to do for tonight until I figure out another solution. I’ve put an ad in the newspaper. Hopefully somebody will call.”

  “I’ll take care of the windows,” Zack said, “if you and Mel have something else you need to do.”

  “We can start carrying all these yard tools to the back storage shed,” Maggie told her daughter, “then I’ll sweep up some of this dust.”

  Zack walked to a window, unlocked it, and tried to raise it. “It’s stuck,” he said. “Is there a screwdriver nearby?”

  Maggie already had her arms full. She pointed to the built-in cabinet. “First drawer on the left,” she said. She and Mel began carrying rakes, shovels, garden hoses, and ladders from the garage to the shed where a rusted tiller sat, reminding Maggie how much her grandfather had enjoyed keeping a garden at one time. Mel pushed her bicycle from the garage and leaned it against a wall in the shed.

  Zack had managed to pry one of the windows loose and pull the screen off by the time they returned. He had moved on to the next window. He was already sweating, and dust and grime covered his face and hair. He blinked several times when some of the dust landed in his eyes. “How long since these windows were opened?” he asked with a grin. He pulled off his shirt and mopped his eyes and face.

  The first thing Maggie noticed was the gun, tucked into the back of his jeans. She and Mel exchanged looks. The girl shrugged, lifted a five-gallon gas can by its handle and carried it out as Maggie grabbed the broom and began sweeping. She had no choice but to leave her riding lawn mower parked in the corner, but Butterbean would still have plenty of room to mo
ve around.

  Her gaze drifted back to Zack. The muscles in his upper arms and back rippled beneath dark olive skin as he struggled with the window.

  Maggie swallowed. As a physician who’d served time in the ER, she was well acquainted with the male anatomy, both young and old, in all shapes and sizes. But there was little time to appreciate a fit male body when it was in dire need of medical attention; and sterile exam rooms with glaring lights and beeping machines pretty much stole the ambience.

  There was little time to appreciate a man’s wide shoulders or the way his backside looked in jeans that rode low on his hips and—

  “Something wrong?” Zack asked.

  “Huh?” Maggie met his gaze. Hell’s bells, he’d caught her looking! “I just, um, didn’t mean to stick you with all this work. Especially with your injured arm,” she added. “Let me help you.” She stepped beside him and together they pushed. She could smell the sweat on his body, feel his heat along her arms and down her thighs. She wished the FBI had sent an ugly agent. Finally, the window gave, and Zack shoved it all the way up.

  Everest pulled the van into the driveway and parked near the garage. He immediately began unloading the hay. Zack cut the twine, and he and Maggie spread the hay, forming a soft mound beside one of the windows where a light breeze sifted through. By the time Mel led Butterbean into the garage, Zack had tucked the screens inside the outbuilding and Maggie had put out food and water.

  Butterbean stood there for a moment as if uncertain what to do. Finally, she walked over to the hay and nudged it about with her nose, then turned to her bowl of oats and ate with gusto.

  “She should be comfortable here,” Zack said, putting on his shirt without bothering to button it.

  Mel didn’t look convinced. “What if she gets lonely?”

  Maggie wondered if her daughter’s heart was beginning to soften toward the little pygmy. “She’ll probably go to sleep after she eats.”

  “I’m going to bring my portable radio out here,” Mel said, already hurrying from the garage.

  Everest looked surprised. “I thought she didn’t like goats.”

  Maggie shrugged. “I’ve yet to figure out how a thirteen-year-old thinks, but I’m working on it.”

  Mel returned with her radio. “I put new batteries in it a couple of days ago so it should last a while.” She placed it on the lawn mower seat and selected a station with soft music. “That should keep her calm, don’t you think?” She looked at Maggie who nodded.

  Queenie was packing her satchel when they entered the house. Her black eyes immediately took in Zack’s gaping shirt before turning to Maggie.

  “Mind if I grab a quick shower?” Zack asked.

  Queenie made a sound in her throat and began fanning herself with a notepad.

  Maggie tried not to think of Zack naked in the shower. “I’ll show you to the guest room,” she said. He grabbed his duffel bag, and the odd-shaped suitcase, and Maggie reached for his shoulder bag. She led him up a flight of stairs just off the hall. A step creaked beneath her feet. Maggie knew and loved every creak, crack, and cranny in the old house. She took comfort in the sharp pings of raindrops hitting the tin roof, the window at the end of the hall that shuddered in its casing during a strong wind, and the feel of the pine floors beneath her bare feet. Some nights, as she lay in bed reading, she could hear the house settling on its foundation before growing quiet, as if it were telling her good night and giving a final sigh before calling it a day.

  “I like your place,” Zack said, as though reading her mind.

  “Thanks. It belonged to my grandparents. The house was built in the 1930s, but my grandmother had it updated a couple of times and put new furniture in it. Said she was sick of being around old stuff. She passed it on to my parents who didn’t care for antiques either. You wouldn’t believe how much of this furniture was stored in my parents’ barn. It was piled as high as the ceiling in one of the stables and covered in plastic.” She shook her head sadly. “There should be a law against that sort of thing.”

  They entered the guest room, where a magnolia comforter covered an iron bed. “Just so you know,” Zack said, “I’ll be hanging out on the couch at night. I want us all on the same floor.”

  “Thanks. I’ll rest easier having you down there,” Maggie said. Zack set down his bag and looked around, nodding at what he saw. He looked at her and smiled, and Maggie wondered how he could possibly appear so at ease. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said. “It feels so—” She shook her head. “Unreal and weird,” she added. It felt kind of weird standing in a bedroom with a stranger too, she thought.

  Zack took the small suitcase and shoulder bag from her. “It’s going to be okay, Maggie.”

  He seemed to project some sort of energy and confidence that Maggie wished she had. “How can you not be afraid, Zack?” she asked. “I mean, I know you’ve had all this training, but aren’t you worried? Or is this just ‘another day at the office’ sort of thing?” She hated that her voice shook.

  “I would probably be afraid if I didn’t know what I was doing, but Stanton isn’t the first badass I’ve had to deal with.” He reached up and touched her shoulder. “I’ve been at this a while, Maggie. As long as Stanton doesn’t break my other arm we’ll be fine.”

  Maggie didn’t know which surprised her more; the fact he was touching her or that he was making jokes. She was glad when he moved his hand. “What’s in this odd-looking suitcase?” she asked, nodding at the oblong case on the bed.

  Zack glanced over at it. “That? Oh, it’s my makeup case.” He smiled.

  “Gee, why don’t I believe that?”

  “If you really want to know I’ll tell you.”

  “I really want to know. I think,” she added under her breath.

  “There’s a sniper rifle inside.”

  Maggie covered her eyes with one hand. “I wish I hadn’t asked. I wish you hadn’t told me. I wish none of this was happening. I don’t like guns. I hate guns. I hate having guns in my house.” She knew she was babbling. She paused and sucked in air.

  He shrugged. “I’m fresh out of straws and spitballs.”

  “I hate exposing my daughter to this sort of thing,” she said. She closed her eyes and pressed the ball of her hand against her forehead. “Queenie is right. I’m overprotective. I should have let Mel watch more violence on TV so she would be better prepared for this sort of thing.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but this isn’t just about you and your daughter. Other people are in danger as well.”

  Chapter Five

  “I’m going to be sick, Carl Lee,” Cook said.

  Carl Lee glared at him through the lenses of the fake glasses. “Sick, hell,” he said. “You throw up in this car you’re going to be dead.”

  Cook removed his cowboy hat and fanned himself. “I sometimes have a problem with motion sickness, and—” He paused and swallowed. “I think Loopy is beginning to smell.”

  “Go back to sleep,” Carl Lee said.

  “It’s after midnight, man, and you promised to dump Loopy as soon as it got dark.”

  “Well, there was a change of plan on account of half the eighteen-wheelers in the country decided to drive the back roads tonight.”

  “They aren’t supposed to do that,” Cook said.

  “You’re absolutely right, Cook, but not everybody is a stickler for following rules like we are.”

  There was a noise from the backseat. Cook jumped so high he hit his head on the roof of the car. “Holy shit, what was that?” He reached for the door handle.

  “Take your damn hands off of that door right now,” Carl Lee all but shouted, reaching for his gun.

  “Is it Loopy?” Cook managed to ask, as he tried to gulp in air. “What’s he doing?”

  Carl Lee sighed. “He’s not doing a damn thing. He’s dead. Dead bodies sometimes make sounds.”

  “I can’t take it!” Cook cried. He wiped his hand down his face. He had already b
egun to sweat. “I can’t breathe! I’m hyperventilating. Stop the car, I’m really getting sick!”

  Carl Lee muttered a string of four-letter words as he braked and pulled off the road. Not a moment too soon either. Cook barely made it out of the car before he lost the stale sandwich he’d eaten earlier.

  Carl Lee watched the rearview mirror for oncoming headlights. “I ought to leave your cowardly ass right here in the middle of nowhere,” he told Cook as the man continued to heave. “What I want to know is how you had the guts to shoot those prison guards today.”

  “I didn’t shoot anybody.” Cook choked the words out. “That was all Loopy’s doing. I fired over their heads. I’m a thief, Carl Lee, not a killer.”

  Carl Lee just looked at him. “You’re pathetic. Get in the car and close the door.”

  “You’re on your own,” Cook shouted. “I’m out of here.”

  Carl Lee slammed the gear into park, opened his door and climbed out. He walked around the car and yanked open the back door. “Get over here and help me pull him out,” he ordered.

  “I can’t touch a dead person,” Cook said, sweat pouring from his brow. “Honest to God, man.”

  Carl Lee pointed the gun at Cook’s head. “You’ve got two seconds.”

  Cook took a deep breath and stepped up to the door. Carl Lee tucked the gun in the waistband of his slacks and together they pulled Loopy from the backseat and lowered him to the ground. Cook began heaving again as Carl Lee flung four-letter words at him and wrestled to get the clown suit off Loopy.

  “What are you doing?” Cook asked, barely able to lift his head.

  “I thought it would be nice if the police didn’t recognize him immediately.” He cussed and tugged until he pulled the suit free. Finally, he grabbed Loopy’s wallet, looked inside, and pulled out what cash was in it. He checked his other pockets.

  “You just robbed a dead man,” Cook said.

  Carl Lee ignored him and tossed the wallet into the backseat. “We have to drag him across that ditch to those pine trees,” he said. He straightened and wiped his brow; saw the headlights in the distance. “Hold it.”