"Git me outta here," came a muffled voice. "I got my face in the chicken salad and it's trying to get up my nose and kill me."
It was not easy, what with her being wedged so tightly, but Kevin managed to get her free and settled back on the seat. Her face was bright red, her cheeks puffing in and out at an alarming rate, and her hands fluttering with distress. "What happened?" she demanded when she got her breath back.
Kevin tried to explain, but he could tell she wasn't impressed. In fact, right when he was describing how he'd battled the steering wheel like their lives depended on it, she bent down to see if the sandwiches had been squashed beyond eating. Luckily, they had not, and that was the only reason Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon was allowed to live.
Once she finished a tuna salad on rye and a pimento cheese on white, Dahlia gazed at Kevin. "What d' you aim to do now? We're stuck plumb in the middle of the woods, and I reckon the jeep's busted. It's miles and miles to town, no matter which way we go. And I ain't gonna walk."
"I never said you had to walk," he protested.
"Ain't no bus service."
"I never said there was bus service, my lamb chop."
"Then what do you aim to do?"
Kevin studied the woods all around them. All tangled and snarly, and on the shadowy side. Getting darker by the minute. Estimating was not his forte, but he hazarded a guess they was more than ten miles from town. He eyed his beloved. She wasn't going to walk, and he doubted he could carry her more than a couple of inches.
She plopped a sandwich in her mouth, and through the chicken salad said, "It's getting cold, Kevin. I heard tell more than one time there was bears and wolves in these here woods. I'm supposed to be at work at nine o'clock. Call for help on the radio; tell them they got to come get us."
Gripped with ambivalence yet unwilling to disobey, Kevin fiddled with the knobs, but the radio remained silent. "It's broken, my angel. Lemme see if I can fix the jeep. There's a toolbox under the seat."
Dahlia worked her way through the remainder of the tuna sandwiches while Kevin crawled around under the jeep. She had just decided to tackle the pimento cheese when she heard a droning noise from somewhere up the ridge. She thought about telling Kevin, but chose not to interrupt him. She also thought about pimento cheese but ultimately chose chicken salad, and was on her third as the noise grew so loud it started to alarm her. "Kevin! Something's coming."
He wiggled out from under the front of the jeep and got to his feet. "You're right, my darling. I hear it, too. But what do you reckon it is?"
"I was thinking that it sounds like that crazy lunatic in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre when he commenced to cutting off everybody's head. Now what do you aim to do?"
He came around to the passenger's side, a wrench held in his decidedly sweaty hand. "I ain't going to let some crazy lunatic attack you. If he so much as makes a move in any of your directions, I'll bash him on the head until he sees stars and begs for mercy." He could see she was impressed, although he had a few doubts himself. However, there wasn't anything to do but stand there, prepared to defend his woman from a chain-saw lunatic.
A light cut across the tops of the firs. The drone, now a heartchilling buzz that implied decapitation and worse, grew louder and louder. Kevin sucked in his gut and raised the wrench. The light bounced in the branches. Dahlia solemnly ate the last of the chicken salad, wondering if she'd ever see pepperoni pizza or cherry cobbler again. The buzzing became a million angry hornets. Kevin stepped forward. Dahlia let out a belch of sheer terror.
A motorcycle crashed through the underbrush. The driver, disguised by a bubble helmet, wore a black leather jacket and boots. Kevin stumbled backward, lost his balance, and sprawled across Dahlia's lap. The driver leaned over to cut off the engine. Dahlia goggled, just knowing in her heart this madman from hell was reaching for the chain saw. He came up emptyhanded. Taking off the helmet, he said, "Kevin Buchanon and Dahlia O'Neill? What in blazes are you two a-doin' up here?"
"Merle?" Dahlia said as she tried to remove Kevin's shoe from her rib cage. "Merle Hardcock? What are you a-doin' up here?"
"I was practicing my cross-country technique," Merle said. He smoothed down his wispy white hair and gave Dahlia a conspiratorial wink. "Got to get ready for the big one, you know."
Dahlia didn't know anything, including why Merle was winking at her like he had a gnat in his eye. "For goodness' sakes, Merle; you liked to give me a heart attack. Kevin and I came up here for a picnic, but we had a small variety of problem with the jeep."
"Like running into a tree?" Merle cackled. "You two can get on with your picnic, but it's getting dark. I got to hustle ass back to town and find Arly."
Kevin freed his head from under the steering wheel to peer across Dahlia's broad thighs. "Why do you have to find Arly? Is it police business?"
"You might say that." Merle let out another round of cackles. "It's a dead body, so I'd say it was likely to be police business."
"I am on assignment for the chief," Kevin said in his best official voice. He pulled himself up and ordered his Adam's apple to stop bobbling like a yo-yo. "You better tell me what you found, Merle Hardcock. You just tell me whose body you found and where you found it-and for your sake, I'd like to hope you didn't tamper with the scene. I'll report to Arly."
"From your tree phone?" Merle put on the helmet, muffling the cackles. The motorcycle came to life with a thunderous roar, then edged past the jeep and plummeted down the trail.
"Well, holy shit," Kevin said in disgust.
Dahlia unwrapped a pimento cheese sandwich.
Celeste lay in her bed, surrounded by plump feather pillows in lacy cases. A satin cover was pulled to her chin, but she was awake and staring at the ceiling. Mason eyed her from the doorway, then came a few feet into the room. "Would you like a glass of sherry or a cup of tea, Sis? You're looking a bit pale."
"Can you do nothing but play waiter? Do you realize that you spend a great deal of time in doorways asking me if I should like something to eat or drink? Do you aspire to be a waiter in a ritzy New York restaurant?"
"I don't mean to offend you," he said soothingly. "I just feel responsible for you at times. Besides, you're always occupied with important things like giving readings and-"
"Shut up, Mason."
He hung his head, trying to look properly chastised while he decided how to escape her room. "I was just trying to help," he mumbled.
"Yes, you will help. Tomorrow morning, as the sun first rises, you must go to this Arly Hanks and bring her back here. Although she is skeptical, she will listen to what I have to say to her. The miasma of violence grows like a cancer in this putrid village. She is the chief of police, and she must do something before it is too late."
"Now, Celeste, we don't want to get involved with the police, not after what happened back in Vegas. You were six inches from jail, and damn lucky the judge's wife turned out to be one of your clients."
"I will not discuss that incident, Mason. You and I both know that I took money from the child's mother only because she insisted. I provided the information. I had no knowledge of the location until I saw it in a trance." Celeste gave him a cold look. "Do you understand what you are to do, my little brother? Knock on this woman's door before dawn and bring her to me."
"I don't even know her. I can't go banging on her door at dawn, demanding that she come with me. That's crazy, Celeste. She's liable to pull out a gun and shoot me in the stomach."
"I want her here," Madam Celeste said, her eyes narrowed to slits. "One of my clients came this morning to tell me how some local woman has disappeared. It seems this policewoman is too proud to ask for my help, but I shall give it to her despite her petty jealousy. And I must see her immediately. Death is very near. We cannot waste one minute."