Wake up and help me.”
She never could have lifted him into the car by herself. He was well over six feet and powerfully built. But Loudon possessed just enough remaining strength to work with her when she tugged him up into a sitting position, then wrestled his bulk into the back seat of the car.
Exhaustion and loss of blood, aggravated by the colder air up here, had left him giddy, even silly.
“Bad girl,” he chastized her as she struggled to stuff his long legs into the car. “Naughty lady withamber eyes. Helps criminal Quinn…there goes her spot in heaven…”
“If I were you,” she warned the semiconscious man, “I’d choose a different theme for my babbling. You’re pushing your luck.”
“Push my luck,” he repeated. “Quinn, Quinn, he’s our man….”
She got in behind the wheel and turned the heater on. Ignoring the deliriously rambling man in the back-seat, she wheeled onto Old Mill Road and headed back down the mountain. With each bend in the road, she expected to spot the gray sedan.
She fought to control her inner turmoil. No matter what her instincts told her about this stranger, she was still a criminal in the eyes of everyone else if she got caught helping him. Which naturally made her wonder how she could be doing something like this after the shame and humiliation Doug Huntington put her through.
True, most folks in Mystery had been too kind to openly pity her. But she’d felt it behind their greetings and small talk: Poor girl, practically jilted at the altar. Even though she was the one who called off the wedding, not Doug. Such events never got recorded accurately in township lore. Rather, they became what Hazel sneered at as “saloon gossip.”
But even saloon gossip, Constance realized, couldn’t exaggerate the mess she was in now.
The car shimmied hard as it rolled over a stretch of washboard road. Loudon muttered behind her, “His ma ’n’ pa are in the slam.”
Against all her expectations, Constance made it home without incident. Now she faced the problemof where to put her abductor-turned-patient.
As the car nosed into the long driveway, she pressed her garage-door opener. Despite the clutter of bicycles, lawn mower, storm windows, and extra FOR SALE signs stored inside the attached garage, she was able to shoehorn the Taurus inside and just barely close the door behind her.
“Mr. Loudon? Can you hear me?” she asked as she opened the back door of the car. A single, unshaded, 25-watt bulb hanging from a long string was the only illumination.
“Hear you, Mr. Loudon,” he repeated. “Thirsty…Mr. Loudon thirsty, hear you?”
Once again he helped her just enough that she was able to get him out of the car. But he immediately slumped in her arms, his knees simply unhinging.
She knew she could never get him into the house while he was like this.
With his head and shoulders propped against her legs, she cast a quick glance around the cluttered garage. There was her old futon rolled up against the big box of Christmas-tree ornaments. She could leave him right there, she decided. At least for now, with plenty of blankets. Nobody ever came into the garage, anyway. It was the safest place in the house. But there was no heat, so if the temperature took a nose dive, he’d have to come inside.
She let him slide gently down to the floor, then moved her mountain bike and some other things, quickly clearing a little area to unroll the futon. When she had him resting comfortably on it, she opened the garage door and backed the rental car out onto the concrete parking apron. She came back inside andshut the overhead door again with the automatic opener.
The only other door in the garage led into the kitchen, so she was able to quickly assemble some necessary items without opening the garage door again. Loudon was conscious the next time she bent over him. His variable eyes were almost teal in the dim light of the single overhead bulb.
“These should help with the
She never could have lifted him into the car by herself. He was well over six feet and powerfully built. But Loudon possessed just enough remaining strength to work with her when she tugged him up into a sitting position, then wrestled his bulk into the back seat of the car.
Exhaustion and loss of blood, aggravated by the colder air up here, had left him giddy, even silly.
“Bad girl,” he chastized her as she struggled to stuff his long legs into the car. “Naughty lady withamber eyes. Helps criminal Quinn…there goes her spot in heaven…”
“If I were you,” she warned the semiconscious man, “I’d choose a different theme for my babbling. You’re pushing your luck.”
“Push my luck,” he repeated. “Quinn, Quinn, he’s our man….”
She got in behind the wheel and turned the heater on. Ignoring the deliriously rambling man in the back-seat, she wheeled onto Old Mill Road and headed back down the mountain. With each bend in the road, she expected to spot the gray sedan.
She fought to control her inner turmoil. No matter what her instincts told her about this stranger, she was still a criminal in the eyes of everyone else if she got caught helping him. Which naturally made her wonder how she could be doing something like this after the shame and humiliation Doug Huntington put her through.
True, most folks in Mystery had been too kind to openly pity her. But she’d felt it behind their greetings and small talk: Poor girl, practically jilted at the altar. Even though she was the one who called off the wedding, not Doug. Such events never got recorded accurately in township lore. Rather, they became what Hazel sneered at as “saloon gossip.”
But even saloon gossip, Constance realized, couldn’t exaggerate the mess she was in now.
The car shimmied hard as it rolled over a stretch of washboard road. Loudon muttered behind her, “His ma ’n’ pa are in the slam.”
Against all her expectations, Constance made it home without incident. Now she faced the problemof where to put her abductor-turned-patient.
As the car nosed into the long driveway, she pressed her garage-door opener. Despite the clutter of bicycles, lawn mower, storm windows, and extra FOR SALE signs stored inside the attached garage, she was able to shoehorn the Taurus inside and just barely close the door behind her.
“Mr. Loudon? Can you hear me?” she asked as she opened the back door of the car. A single, unshaded, 25-watt bulb hanging from a long string was the only illumination.
“Hear you, Mr. Loudon,” he repeated. “Thirsty…Mr. Loudon thirsty, hear you?”
Once again he helped her just enough that she was able to get him out of the car. But he immediately slumped in her arms, his knees simply unhinging.
She knew she could never get him into the house while he was like this.
With his head and shoulders propped against her legs, she cast a quick glance around the cluttered garage. There was her old futon rolled up against the big box of Christmas-tree ornaments. She could leave him right there, she decided. At least for now, with plenty of blankets. Nobody ever came into the garage, anyway. It was the safest place in the house. But there was no heat, so if the temperature took a nose dive, he’d have to come inside.
She let him slide gently down to the floor, then moved her mountain bike and some other things, quickly clearing a little area to unroll the futon. When she had him resting comfortably on it, she opened the garage door and backed the rental car out onto the concrete parking apron. She came back inside andshut the overhead door again with the automatic opener.
The only other door in the garage led into the kitchen, so she was able to quickly assemble some necessary items without opening the garage door again. Loudon was conscious the next time she bent over him. His variable eyes were almost teal in the dim light of the single overhead bulb.
“These should help with the
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