shadow of a vehicle pull away from the curb and fall in behind us. Headlights reflected yellow light into my mirror, effectively blinding my left eye. I attempted to move as far right as possible to allow the vehicle to overtake and pass. But the headlights behind me did neither, and, as I coasted under a streetlight, I dared a quick look in my mirror.
There was no mistaking the Beetle shape behind the glaring lights. The top was down, and I could see one narrow head. Chesley Belcourt was on a breakaway from Mum.
Enough was enough. Did the Belcourts want to buy the Barrister house so badly they were prepared to follow me after dark to close the deal? Not likely, but only one way to find out.
I turned the Savage around, planning to confront Chesley. I have short legs and, with Dougal squirming and twisting my jacket in a clenched fist, it took a few seconds to make the one-eighty. By the time I re-balanced and pointed in his direction, Chesley had shot past me and was speeding off into the night, probably making for the highway and the Super 8 Motel. This time, I didn’t try to turn the bike on the road, but drove over a lawn and double driveway. I was just a few hundred yards behind Chesley when he turned right onto the highway that bisected the town.
Ignoring Dougal’s bleating and the death grip he had on my stomach, I flipped my face shield down, leaned over the handlebars, and turned the accelerator toward me.
A surge of wanton recklessness suddenly washed over me and I forgot Dougal and Simon were on the seat behind, forgot even my own safety.
For a few enchanted moments, I wasn’t anything-for-a-buck Bliss Moonbeam Cornwall, rejected wife and trailer park dweller. I became Indiana Bliss, saviour of the world, hurtling through the night with 350 pounds of steel between my thighs.
Chapter
TEN
The metal foot rest scraped the pavement as we took the corner onto Highway 21, but I managed to pull the bike upright coming out of the curve. I had never driven the Savage at this speed, and wasn’t sure I could maintain control. The cemetery whizzed by on my left. The streets of Lockport were as silent as the tombs within.
Dougal’s grip had loosened and his helmet was bopping the top of mine, as though he had given up all hope of survival. I hoped this ride wouldn’t set back his recovery. Something was pushing frantically on my back, probably Simon trying to free himself, but at least he and Dougal had ceased their screams of indignation. Or maybe both of them were still shrieking their guts out, but the wind rushing by overpowered the sound.
The blood lust was abating and I geared down to seventy, still too fast entering the town centre. The Beetle also slowed, and I was about fifty yards behind as we neared the police station. Rotting skunk odour filled my nostrils.
The Beetle tried to veer, but its left tires hit the skunk dead on. Black and white and red chunks of gore shot from under the tires, flying into the interior of the convertible, smashing onto my windshield, and skidding across the roadway. Luckily, I was barely moving when my front tire hit a lump of slimy black and white fur.
The wheel slid sideways, but just before the bike went down, Dougal swung his long leg over my head and jumped free. The crash bar saved my own leg, and I clambered out and crawled to the curb.
The Beetle kept on going.
Dougal fell on his hands and knees and barfed in the gutter. I felt like doing the same, even more so, when I recognized the uniformed man standing over us. He must have seen the whole thing.
Taking the offensive, I said to Redfern with as much indignation as I could muster, while trying not to regurgitate the popcorn, “Did you see that! If you want to put out an APB, I can tell you exactly who he is and where he’s staying.”
“Cornwall. Why am I not surprised? I think you’ve been watching too many American cop shows. We just call them plain old Alerts in these parts, and that driver who hit the skunk will be punished enough when he realizes he has a car full of decomposed animal parts.”
Was Redfern kidding me?
“You mean you aren’t going to arrest him? He was stalking me.”
We were standing under a streetlight, and I saw his blond eyebrows rise. “Looks to me like you were stalking him.”
“Get real! He followed us from my ex-cousin-in-law’s house, so I turned around and followed him. And why was the skunk still in the middle of the street?”
“As I told you earlier today, it’s an internal municipal dispute. The carcass was going to be removed in the morning.”
“Well, now I guess Public Works doesn’t have to bother.”
“There’s skunk parts everywhere,” Dougal mumbled from the gutter, before going off into another paroxysm of vomiting. I gagged involuntarily at the sight of a long strip of red gristle swathing the top of Dougal’s helmet. I unbuckled my own helmet and tossed it onto the grassy boulevard.
“Are you going to puke on me again?” Chief Redfern asked, stepping back.
“I’m not sure yet.”
He took another step away. I remembered the glass of wine I had consumed at Glory’s and tried to suck in a lungful of air to stave off the urge to heave it up.
“And who would this gentleman be?”
“He’s so not a gentleman. That’s my cousin, Dougal Seabrook.” Just then, Simon stuck his black beak out the top of Dougal’s jacket and cried, “Help me! Help me!” The voice was cracked and barely comprehensible, probably his own birdy voice.
If Redfern was surprised at the sight of a parrot bobbing out of a jacket and asking the police for assistance, he showed no sign. He said, “Looks like we better get your bike off the street, Cornwall.”
“I can do it myself,” I replied, which was a bald-faced lie. After buying the Savage, I had dropped it a few times before learning not to put the kick stand down on soft gravel or sloping ground. And I was never able to pick it up by myself. A couple of men were always around to help out a little lady in distress.
Maybe adrenaline would see me through. I braced my legs close to the undercarriage and heaved. Something ripped in my shoulder, but the bike didn’t move one iota.
“Dougal, get over here. Take this other end and help me lift.”
Dougal edged closer to Redfern. “She’s crazy,” he told the silent cop, whose eyes were undoubtedly rolling wildly in his head. “She almost killed me and poor Simon. Can you take me home, please, or call me a taxi? I have agoraphobia and need to take some medication.”
The pathetic excuse for a moron was actually plucking at Redfern’s trousers. His “medication” was probably in his pocket, and he better hope one didn’t roll out at Redfern’s feet.
Shaking his leg, Redfern detached himself from Dougal’s fingers and said, “The Lockport Police Department is not a taxi service.”
He sauntered over to me and, with one swift tug, set the Savage upright. I grabbed the handlebars and pushed the bike to the curb and kicked the stand down. Picking up a twig from the curb, I flicked the piece of skunk pelt off Dougal’s helmet and checked mine before donning it. I spent a few minutes prying out putrid bits from the front end
