stares at the kid in disbelief. “I’ll grant you he’s young, but he’s huge. And anyway, I think he hit me with a baseball bat.”
“Of course he did.”
The door suddenly bursts open, knocking Jack off-balance. His heel catches the porch step, and he falls backward, onto the sidewalk. A little old lady comes flying out the door, jumps on Jack and starts beating him with a rolling pin. He covers up, tries to buck her off, but she’s got her knees dug into his sides, and she’s spry. After raining countless blows on his arms, Jill steps in and hits her over the head the same way she hit the kid a moment ago.
Jack scrambles to his feet, drags the kid and old lady into the house, and turns on the lights. They’re in a small parlor. To the left is the kitchen. Laundry room’s to the right, hallway’s in the center. Hallway leads to the bedrooms and bath.
“What did you hit them with?” Jack says.
She holds up a jack handle.
“From the truck?”
“Uh huh.”
Jack says, “See if you can find something to tie them up.”
She heads to the kitchen, hears Jack shout, “Fuck!” and comes back to find a shriveled old man hitting Jack over the head with a cane. She throws herself into the old man’s knees. He goes down and hits his head on the floor hard enough to knock him unconscious.
“Jesus, Jack!”
“What?”
“Is there anyone you can beat up?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Brutus?”
“I wanted to see what you were up to.”
“The little old man?”
“I didn’t want to hurt him.”
“The little old lady?”
“Same thing.”
“The grandson?”
“Lucky punch.”
She crosses the floor, picks up the jack handle and says, “ You find something to tie them up with. I’ll stand guard.”
Jack and Jill stand over the squirming bodies, surveying their work.
“What now?” she says.
“We take their car.”
“Whoa,” Jill says.
She motions Jack to follow her into the kitchen. When he does, she lowers her voice so the Fosters can’t hear. “We can’t just leave them here. Sooner or later they’ll get loose, call the cops, report their car stolen. Plus, they’ve seen us. They can identify us.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Unless you’re prepared to kill them, we’ll need to put them in the trunk and take them with us.”
“They could die in the trunk. Assuming they fit.”
“They’ll be fine till we get to the Baton Rouge airport.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll park in long-term. Then we walk away from the car, pop the trunk from a distance, and never look back. We’ll catch a cab to Memphis, catch another cab from there to Willow Lake.”
“Memphis is out of the way.”
“True. But that’ll make it harder for Bobby to track us down.”
“I like the way you think,” Jack says. “Let’s see if we can find the car keys.”
“And the car.”
“Right.”
The car turns out to be an eleventh-generation Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight. A classic.
“We’re in luck,” Jack says.
“Why?”
“Oldsmobile made eleven versions of the Ninety-eight. The final version was produced between 1991 and 1996. This model had nine more inches of trunk space.”
“Thanks, Mr. Wizard,” Jill says. “What I want to know is will it hold three coon asses?”
“I think so.”
“Then help me carry them.”
Jack gives her a mock salute.
When the bodies are loaded, he says, “If you need to use the bathroom, do it now.”
“I’m good. How about you?”
“Give me a sec.”
He goes to the kitchen, finds some paper and a pen, writes something on two pieces of paper, gives them to her.
“What’s this, a love letter?”
“Even better. The first page has my cell phone number, lake house address, and describes my cover story. I’m a builder, from Saint Louis, by the way. Oh, and we’re engaged. The second page is a letter I’ve written to Bill Cox, sheriff of Willow Lake. It gives you permission to use my home as long as you want, and to charge things on my
“Of course he did.”
The door suddenly bursts open, knocking Jack off-balance. His heel catches the porch step, and he falls backward, onto the sidewalk. A little old lady comes flying out the door, jumps on Jack and starts beating him with a rolling pin. He covers up, tries to buck her off, but she’s got her knees dug into his sides, and she’s spry. After raining countless blows on his arms, Jill steps in and hits her over the head the same way she hit the kid a moment ago.
Jack scrambles to his feet, drags the kid and old lady into the house, and turns on the lights. They’re in a small parlor. To the left is the kitchen. Laundry room’s to the right, hallway’s in the center. Hallway leads to the bedrooms and bath.
“What did you hit them with?” Jack says.
She holds up a jack handle.
“From the truck?”
“Uh huh.”
Jack says, “See if you can find something to tie them up.”
She heads to the kitchen, hears Jack shout, “Fuck!” and comes back to find a shriveled old man hitting Jack over the head with a cane. She throws herself into the old man’s knees. He goes down and hits his head on the floor hard enough to knock him unconscious.
“Jesus, Jack!”
“What?”
“Is there anyone you can beat up?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Brutus?”
“I wanted to see what you were up to.”
“The little old man?”
“I didn’t want to hurt him.”
“The little old lady?”
“Same thing.”
“The grandson?”
“Lucky punch.”
She crosses the floor, picks up the jack handle and says, “ You find something to tie them up with. I’ll stand guard.”
Jack and Jill stand over the squirming bodies, surveying their work.
“What now?” she says.
“We take their car.”
“Whoa,” Jill says.
She motions Jack to follow her into the kitchen. When he does, she lowers her voice so the Fosters can’t hear. “We can’t just leave them here. Sooner or later they’ll get loose, call the cops, report their car stolen. Plus, they’ve seen us. They can identify us.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Unless you’re prepared to kill them, we’ll need to put them in the trunk and take them with us.”
“They could die in the trunk. Assuming they fit.”
“They’ll be fine till we get to the Baton Rouge airport.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll park in long-term. Then we walk away from the car, pop the trunk from a distance, and never look back. We’ll catch a cab to Memphis, catch another cab from there to Willow Lake.”
“Memphis is out of the way.”
“True. But that’ll make it harder for Bobby to track us down.”
“I like the way you think,” Jack says. “Let’s see if we can find the car keys.”
“And the car.”
“Right.”
The car turns out to be an eleventh-generation Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight. A classic.
“We’re in luck,” Jack says.
“Why?”
“Oldsmobile made eleven versions of the Ninety-eight. The final version was produced between 1991 and 1996. This model had nine more inches of trunk space.”
“Thanks, Mr. Wizard,” Jill says. “What I want to know is will it hold three coon asses?”
“I think so.”
“Then help me carry them.”
Jack gives her a mock salute.
When the bodies are loaded, he says, “If you need to use the bathroom, do it now.”
“I’m good. How about you?”
“Give me a sec.”
He goes to the kitchen, finds some paper and a pen, writes something on two pieces of paper, gives them to her.
“What’s this, a love letter?”
“Even better. The first page has my cell phone number, lake house address, and describes my cover story. I’m a builder, from Saint Louis, by the way. Oh, and we’re engaged. The second page is a letter I’ve written to Bill Cox, sheriff of Willow Lake. It gives you permission to use my home as long as you want, and to charge things on my
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