Authors: G. A. McKevett
“Okay, okay. I’m on my way. Now hide and hang tight until I get there.”
No sooner had Savannah turned the phone off than it rang again. Gran. She’d forgotten all about Granny.
She punched the button again. “Gotta go, Gran,” she said as she ran out the door. “Emergency.”
“I understand. I’ll pray for you.”
“Thanks, love you.”
“You, too, darlin.’”
As Savannah sprinted down the driveway to her car, she said a couple of quick prayers herself. One of gratitude for a grandmother who was astute enough to know, from three thousand miles away, when her granddaughter needed a prayer. And one for Margie—that the good Lord above would keep that rotten bastard away from the kid until Savannah could get to her.
CHAPTER TEN
8:02 p.m.
On the way to the gas station on Turner Canyon Road, Savannah called Dirk on her cell phone. When he didn’t answer at work, she gave him a ring at home. His sleepy “hello” told her he had hit the sack early, trying to make up for the sleep deprivation of the past forty-eight hours.
Too bad
, she thought
. If I can’t enjoy a simple bubble bath, he sure as hell doesn’t get snooze time.
“You’ll never guess where I am,” she told him as she sped toward the edge of town and the agricultural area of the county.
“I don’t care where you are,” he grumped.
“He nabbed another one.”
Mentally, she could see Dirk perk up like a bloodhound catching a whiff of raccoon scent. “Where? When?”
He certainly didn’t sound sleepy now.
“Just now, out on Turner Canyon Road. But forget about where and when. Ask me who?"
“Ask you who?"
“That’s right. Ask.”
“Who?”
“Captain Bloss’s teenage daughter, Margie.”
“No shit!”
“Absolutely not a smidgen. But she got away from him before he could rape her, or worse. She called me at home, and I’m on my way right now to pick her up.”
“Where? Where are you going? Where is she?”
She could hear him rushing around, throwing on clothes, just as she had done a few minutes before.
“I’ll tell you, but you can’t question her until I get her to a hospital or back to my house. She’s shook up, and she said she didn’t want me to call the cops until we’ve had a chance to talk.”
“Yeah, right. Where is she? Where’re you picking her up?”
“I’m not telling you unless you promise not to butt in.”
“Butt in, my ass. I—”
“Or your ass either. I don’t want to see any part of you, Coulter—heads or tails—until I give you the thumbs-up. Promise.”
“All right,” he mumbled.
“She’s hiding at the Mobil station on Turner Canyon Road. She says she wrecked her car nearby with him in it. Hit some sort of water tank. That’s how she got away from him.”
“So, there’s nothing to stop me from lookin’ for the car and him in that area, while you check her out.”
“Absolutely nothing.”
The phone clicked and the line went dead.
Dirk never had been one for sentimental good-byes.
* * *
8:05 p.m.
Savannah pulled her Mustang into the dark, empty lot of the service station a couple of minutes later, her eyes scanning the area for signs of life. Or, more specifically, lowlife. Besides a scared Margie Bloss, Savannah was looking for one rapist/woman beater whom she would love to plug between the eyes with a 9mm bullet.
Savannah knew that some people might have considered her cold-blooded attitudes toward criminals less than compassionate or humanitarian. But she didn’t give a damn. When they had scraped up the shattered remains of innocent victims’ lives from bedroom floors, city streets, and back alleys, then they could talk to her about understanding and pitying the underprivileged, poor, abused perpetrator.
She reserved her compassion for their victims. And right now, she was hoping this latest crime victim would be basically intact, emotionally as well as physically.
When she thought of Charlene Yardley, bruised and broken, on that hospital bed, she shuddered to think what could have happened to young Margie.
Having pulled the Mustang close to the pile of tires and the truck that Margie had described, Savannah put the car in “Park” but left the engine running, her headlights trained on the dark area beside the broken-down, rusted truck.
So far, she saw neither hide nor orange and green hair of the girl.
With her Beretta in her right hand, she opened the car door and got out. “Margie!” she called. “Margie, it’s Savannah. Come out, honey.”
At first, she heard nothing. Then there was a rustling off to her left, a shuffling sound, and a soft curse as someone banged into something metal.
She readied her weapon, pointing it upward, but prepared to lower it if she saw anything resembling a Santa beard and hat.
“Margie, if that’s you, say something,” she said, every nerve torquing tighter as she waited for a response.
Finally, just as she was about to lower the Beretta, she saw a white, frightened face appear in the car’s bright lights.
“Hi, kiddo,” she said, infinitely relieved to see the girl alive and relatively whole. “I hear your date turned out to be a first-rate creep, and you need a ride home.”
The next minute Savannah’s arms were full of a sobbing and sniffling, cut and scraped, dirty and exhausted—but infinitely grateful—teenage girl.
“Come on, darlin’,” Savannah told her, helping her into the car. “It’s all over now, and I’m gonna take care of you. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll take it from here.”
* * *
“I told you I didn’t want to go to a stupid hospital!” Margie yelled in her loudest, most completely outraged, adolescent voice as she sat on the edge of an emergency room gurney, wearing a shapeless, pale blue, tie-in-the-back and show-your-bare-butt gown.
The kid was definitely not a satisfied customer of the Community General Hospital of San Carmelita. And Savannah couldn’t really blame her.
First, they had ignored her, keeping her waiting while they tended to more immediate, life-threatening situations. Then they had scrubbed the grit out of her deeply scraped knees and elbows—a highly painful process, judging from the bloodcurdling yowls she had produced.
Next, they stitched one particularly deep cut on her upper shoulder, the only wound directly inflicted by her attacker. The other damage had been done during the automobile wreck or while she was running through the orange grove to safety.
Finally, the hospital staff had added insult to injury.
“Do you know what they want to do to me?” Margie demanded, bristling with indignation.
“Yes, I have an idea,” Savannah replied as she sat on the gurney beside the girl and placed her hand on her arm. “Do they want to do a rape test examination?”
“Yeah! That’s what he said—that smartass young doctor with the major attitude. He said I don’t have a choice, that I have to let them do it.”
“No, you don’t have to. But I do want to talk to you about it.”
“There’s nothing to talk about!” She shrugged Savannah’s hand off her shoulder. “I told them, the guy didn’t rape me. What’s the matter with that stupid doctor? He acts like he thinks I’m lying!”
Savannah paused, choosing her words carefully. “Don’t take it personally, Margie. The doctor doesn’t even know you, so he doesn’t know if you would lie or not. A lot of women do lie about rape, because they’re embarrassed, or they feel guilty, like it’s their fault they were attacked. That’s completely false, but it’s a common feeling.”
Savannah watched Margie’s face for any telltale signs of those commonly held emotions of guilt or embarrassment. All she saw was plain old anger. The kid wasn’t ashamed; she was just extremely pissed.
“That young doctor strikes me as a bit arrogant, too,” Savannah continued, “and if you say he’s a jerk, I’ll take your word for it. But I really think he has your best interests at heart about the rape exam.”
“I’m not going to let them do it. I didn’t get raped, but I’ve been through enough already tonight. I saw that kit thing they had there on the tray. I’m not going to let somebody comb through my pubic hair and stick giant cotton swabs up my—you know.”
“Yes. I know.” Savannah stood and faced Margie straight on. “If you swear to me that he absolutely, positively, didn’t sexually assault you, I’ll tell Dr. Wise Guy to take a hike.”
“The creep absolutely, positively didn’t do me. I promise.”
Savannah nodded. “Okay, Margie. I believe you. I’ll go talk to the doc.”
“Make sure he knows where the city pier is,” Margie said as Savannah walked away. “Tell him I said to take a long walk on it and don’t mention that the end of it fell off during the last big storm.”
The kid’ll be all right
, Savannah thought as she went to find her young friend’s least favorite physician. Minus the green and orange hair and the disrespect for her elders, Margie Bloss reminded Savannah of another girl who had been the same age and temperament, years ago down in peach and pecan country.
The kid had spunk. And kids with spunk almost always landed on their feet.
Unless, of course, they landed on their heads.
* * *
9:41 P.M.
As Savannah watched Margie sitting at her kitchen table, stuffing her face with ice cream, hot fudge sauce and whipped cream, Savannah decided she and the kid had even more in common than she had originally thought.
Savannah had heard of people who simply couldn’t eat when they were upset. But she filed them away in the same category as “morning people” and those who claimed that running five miles a day gave them energy—Certifiably Bonkers.
At least she and Margie Bloss weren’t afflicted with such silliness, she concluded as they moaned and groaned with gluttonous ecstasy over their frozen confections.
“I guess I should try to call my dad and tell him what happened,” Margie said between spoonfuls. “I feel kinda bad for not calling him earlier. I just didn’t want him to make a big deal about it.”
After having taken a long, hot shower with rose-scented gel in Savannah’s romantic bathroom and slipping into Savannah’s thickest, softest terry robe, Margie looked like a normal teenager, almost. With the harsh makeup washed away and her hair brushed straight to her shoulders and the multi-piercings removed—except for three in each ear—she could have passed for any other kid with orange and green hair.
“Don’t feel too bad,” Savannah told her. “I’ve been calling your house, the station, and his cell phone since we first arrived at the hospital. The staff there was calling him too, trying to get permission to treat you, but he was nowhere to be found. Which reminds me—as far as Community General is concerned, I’m your loving aunt.”
Margie’s mouth popped open, revealing an unattractive mixture of ice cream and hot fudge. She jumped up from her chair. “You called my dad?” she shouted, her pale face flushing red with fury. “I don’t believe you did that when I distinctly told you not to!”
“Well, Missy, I don’t always do what I’m told,” Savannah replied calmly, studying a spoonful of her dessert, “especially when the one giving the orders is young enough to be my daughter.” She took the bite, savored it with closed eyes, then pointed her spoon at Margie’s bowl. “Sit down and eat your ice cream. It’s melting.”
Margie stuttered and sputtered, then did as Savannah had directed. “But you promised not to call the cops,” she protested in a whining voice that irritated Savannah more than the kid’s temper.
“I did not,” Savannah said as she rose and walked to the microwave. Opening the door, she took out the jar of recently zapped fudge. “I told you that I wouldn’t call a unit to pick you up from the service station, that I’d do it myself. Once you were with me, all bets were off. Do you want some more hot fudge?”
Margie hesitated, obviously weighing the advantages of additional hot fudge over the desire to continue the argument. “Yeah, I’ll take some more fudge, and ice cream, too.”
Savannah rewarded her with the chocolate and a smile. “Now that’s my kind of girl–eats like a stevedore.”
Margie returned the grin and for a moment the bristly adolescent disappeared and a delightful little girl shone through. “I like Chunky Monkey,” she said. “It’s my favorite.”
“Mine, too.”
Margie watched with acute female interest as Savannah replenished her own bowl. “Do you ever have, like, a weight problem?”
“Nope. I decided a long time ago, there’s a lot more to me—and to being a woman—than some numbers on a scale.” Savannah replaced the fudge in the microwave and walked across the kitchen to the refrigerator. “More whipped cream?”
“Sure.” Margie stole a quick, sideways glance at Savannah’s ample figure. “My dad says you were fired from the police force because you were overweight.”
Dumping the remainder of the cream into her own bowl, Savannah said, “Yeah, and your dad’s full of…well…let’s just say your father and I have different versions of that story.”