A Beeline to Murder

Sugar yelped, darted a few feet away, and cowered as Philippe took cover inside the kitchen.

With her weapon trained on the man, Abby said in a steely voice, “Move, and I shoot to kill.” She walked backward and, without taking her eyes off the man, reached inside the kitchen to flick the outside light switch to the up position. The patio light went on. She could see her attacker now.

Heavyset, and wearing a T-shirt, a leather vest, jeans, scuffed combat boots, and a blue bandanna, he appeared to be a skinhead in his midtwenties. His clean-shaven face bore a long scar: it ran from under his left eye to his chin. Blood seeped from bite marks on his cheek and hand. He hawked up a mouthful of blood.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Abby ordered. To Philippe, she said, “Call the cops. Phone’s on the kitchen counter. Police are on speed dial.”

While Philippe worked the phone, Abby stood rooted in a shoot-to-kill position, one leg in front of the other, both hands on her weapon. “Who are you?” she asked.

The man stared at her in silence.

“Fine . . . Save it for the cops.”

From inside, Philippe asked her for the address; dispatch was on the phone.

After a few minutes, the skinhead spoke. His tone was still arrogant. “I’ll answer your questions if you let me go.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Abby kept her gun trained on him, not even moving when the raccoons began to scurry across the yard. The mama coon paused near the man, rose up on her hind legs, then dropped back down and retreated with her cubs to the abandoned property behind the fence. Philippe, visibly shaken, stepped out onto the patio and leaned against the wall. Sugar panted hard and then ran inside. Abby guessed it was to quench her thirst at the water bowl.

Minutes passed. The sky grew lighter. The stars dimmed. Houdini began his crowing routine. The next eight minutes seemed to Abby like an eternity. Then she heard wheels screeching on her gravel driveway. A car door slammed. Can’t be the police. They can’t get here that fast.

A man called out her name several times. Abby recognized Lucas Crawford’s earthy baritone voice.

“I’m back here, Lucas.”

“I heard a shot,” Lucas said, stepping around the corner and onto the patio. “What’s going on here?” His eyes were trained on Abby, but then they shifted to the man on the ground, before finally resting on Philippe. “Couldn’t tell where it came from. Worried me,” Lucas said. He seemed to be sizing up the situation. “You got blood all over you, woman. You need medical attention.”

Abby nodded. “It’s on the way.”

“You friend or foe?” Lucas asked Philippe.

“Friend, naturellement!” Philippe replied.

“Right answer,” said Lucas. He turned to glare at the stranger sitting on the ground. “So what’s the story here?”

The man on the ground scowled in silence.

Abby doubted the man would talk, but she took comfort in the take-charge attitude that Lucas was showing . . . and also in the sound of approaching sirens. When the man refused to answer her when again she asked his name, she decided to fill Lucas in. “He attacked me. Fearing for my life and limb, I got my gun and fired off a round.”

“You want me to beat the daylights out of this piece of crap?” Lucas asked. “I could do it before the cops get here.” Abby couldn’t see it, but she guessed that Lucas had locked eyes with her attacker and was engaged in a stare down. Finally, Lucas said to Philippe, “I would have thought you would have already done that.”

“Let the police handle it, Lucas. From the sound of the sirens, I’d say they’re almost here,” Abby said.

Philippe was still holding Abby’s phone and jumped slightly when a text ringtone sounded and the screen lit up.

“That’s Kat’s ringtone,” Abby said.

“What does s-w-y-p mean?” Philippe asked, reading the phone screen.