The taller librarian’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you in here? You’re not allowed to use this room without a special certificate.”
“Ah,” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “That explains it, then.”
She sniffed in annoyance.
“Shirleen, the girl is injured,” the nice librarian said.
Shirleen pursed her lips in displeasure. “She shouldn’t be in here. Will you look at this horrible disarray? I’m going to have to report this upstairs.”
She stomped off. I couldn’t do anything about the mess, and my head was pounding in earnest now. “I’m sorry, but I need to leave.”
“Of course, dear. Let me help you out.” The nice woman took hold of my elbow and walked me to the door. As soon as she opened it, the cat flew out and down the hall.
She jumped back. “Good grief, was that a cat?”
“I didn’t see anything,” I said, not willing to get the cat in trouble, too. “Thank you for your help. You’re very kind.”
I limped down the hall to the street entrance, where the cat sat waiting patiently. I opened the door and walked outside and the cat followed. On the sidewalk, the cat looked up at me and meowed once, then took off running.
“Thanks, kitty,” I said, and smiled as the cat disappeared down an alley. “Adios, amigo.”
The wind had died down and the sun felt wonderful on my back. It was a beautiful day for a walk, or a slow shuffle, in my case. The fact that I could put pressure on my foot told me I hadn’t broken anything. It was just sore and bruised, along with the rest of me. Frankly, my butt ached more than my ankle. I couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and take a couple of aspirin and a long, hot bath.
As I limped across the George IV Bridge street at the High Road, a black taxi screeched to a stop. I jumped to the sidewalk to avoid being hit and landed on my bad foot.
“Gaaaahh!” I cried.
A man stepped out from the backseat and grabbed hold of me. “Ah, now that’s a shame, isn’t it? Let me help you, miss.”
He was really good-looking, with closely cropped dark reddish hair, and was nicely dressed in black wool trousers and a black turtleneck sweater. Normally I would’ve been more polite, but I was tired and in pain and just wanted to get back to the hotel.
“I’m fine,” I said. “The cab startled me.” I started to leave, but he held my arm.
“There, now, miss,” he crooned. “You must be more careful.”
I smiled. “Yes, I’ll be careful. Thanks.” If the cab hadn’t spooked me, I wouldn’t have to be so careful. I pulled my arm away, but he wouldn’t let me go.
I no longer cared how cute he was. I was getting mad. “I don’t have time for-”
“You’ll make time,” he said, and shoved something hard against my back.
A gun?
I froze. I couldn’t breathe.
“There, now, I think we understand each other. Let me help you to the cab.”
“No way,” I said, knowing that if I got in, I might never be seen again.
“Get in the cab or I’ll-”
“I’ll scream.”
“It’ll do you no good.”
I screamed anyway, as loud as I could.
“Jesus, that’s not necessary,” he said, wincing.
I kept screaming as the back door swung open and another man yanked me into the backseat next to him. The gunman jumped in after me, and the driver peeled off around the corner.
If I weren’t so scared to death I’d be totally pissed off. I was already in pain, and now I was being kidnapped? Who were these guys? I glanced at the two sitting on either side of me. They looked like nice guys who enjoyed a whisky at the pub once or twice a week, not hired gunmen.
“I don’t have any money,” I said. Not on me, anyway.
The good-looking guy next to me frowned. “We don’t want your money.”
“What do you want? Where are you taking me? I need to get back to my hotel. People are waiting for me. And there were witnesses. Somebody had to have seen me and they’ll-”
“Darlin’, please,” the driver said, meeting my gaze through his rearview mirror. “We’re just wanting your word that ye’ll not be making a mackedy of our Rabbie.”
“A mackedy?” I repeated. “What’s a mackedy?”
“It’s what we’re stopping you from doing,” the third guy said firmly.
The driver turned and glared at me. “Ye’ll not be mocking our beloved hero.”
“Oh.” Mockery, he’d said. Not mackedy. So much for a common language.
“I would never mock your hero,” I protested.
Frowning, the gunman eyed me. “The society looks askance at such disrespect.”
“You have a society?”
“Aye, the Robert Burns Society,” the third man said, beaming. “We’re Freemasons, sworn to uphold the dignity and good name of our own best man.”
“Aye, Rabbie Burns,” the gunman said, nodding.
“Miss, are ye familiar with the sights of our fair town?” the driver asked.
“I beg your pardon?”