Drop Dead Sexy

Ronald sneered at him. “What does it matter if I confess to you two? You’re going to be dead in ten minutes.”

His words sent an icy chill down my spine, and I shuddered. Glancing over my shoulder at Catcher, I desperately hoped he had some kind of plan to get us out of this mess. But the ashen expression on his face caused my hope to shrivel.

The Redneck Twins appeared in the doorway. “You ready, boss?” John Deere asked.

“Yeah. I am. Go ahead and untie them.” Ronald tossed his cigar onto the floor and stomped out the embers. Then he glanced at Catcher and me. “You two are going to take a little walk into the woods with my associates.” He flashed us a maniacal smile. “It’s nothing personal. I just can’t have you on my ass anymore, Agent Mains.” He took a step toward me. “And as for you, well, I’m sorry, but you know too much to keep you around.” After motioning for the twins, he started for the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to the shithole that witch calls a house to wait on her to come home.”

With a flick of his wrist in farewell, he headed out the door. John Deere got busy untying my ankles. He then yanked me up off the floor before he untied my hands. After having my legs tied, they were wobbly, and I stumbled several times on the way to the door.

As I started out of Olive’s shack, I fought the tears threatening to overrun my eyes. I couldn’t believe it had really come to this—being murdered in the backwoods by a member of the Dixie Mafia who had once had his penis blown off. My worst fear of dying unmarried had come to fruition. After years of judging people’s lives as I wrote their obituaries, I couldn’t help judging my own.

Olivia Sullivan, 30, Beloved daughter and sister. Co-owner and proprietor of Sullivan’s Funeral Home. Coroner for Taylorsville County. Spinster.

Because I was the county coroner, I would get a decent write-up in the local newspaper. I hoped Allen would remember where I had left the instructions for my funeral. Being dead would suck, but it would suck even worse with my mother making all the decisions. Or worse, if Pease was doing it.

Peering over my shoulder, I threw a final glance at Catcher. Although I might be dying unmarried, I had at least found love in the eleventh hour. It would have been nice to have a future with him. To fill the house he had built with our children. To grow old and gray together. I couldn’t hold in my emotions any longer, and I began to quietly weep.

When we started into the woods, a low growl echoed around us. I whirled around just as a white ball of fur came hurtling at us. At first, I thought it might be a mountain lion or a coyote. But then my heart surged when I realized it was Motown.

He lunged at John Deere, knocking him to the ground. As Motown started using John Deere as a chew toy, Catcher swung into action. He started throwing punches at Creepy Voice.

John Deere writhed on the ground as Motown snarled and snapped like a mad dog. I’d never seen him act like that. When Catcher got Creepy Voice down on the ground, I yelled his name. As soon as he glanced up, I tossed the shotgun that John Deere had abandoned over to him.

Catcher picked it up just as Creepy Voice lunged at him. The shotgun’s blast took me off guard. It also caused Motown to momentarily quit mauling John Deere. It was then that Catcher sank to the ground, blood pouring down his leg. My mouth gaped open wide to scream, but nothing came out.

At that moment, the woods became alive with a flurry of activity. Men came running out of nowhere outfitted in black jackets with the words GBI emblazoned on the back. There were a few Gilmer County Sheriff deputies as well. The agents I’d met at Randy’s, Solano and Capshaw, knelt down beside Catcher.

A GBI Agent jogged up to me. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

I started to brush past him. “Ma’am?” he asked again.

“I’m fine. I swear.” I didn’t have time for this bullshit. I needed to get to Catcher to make sure he was all right. From what I could see over the agent’s shoulder, Catcher’s eyes were closed, and he wasn’t moving.

Once the agent let me go, I raced over to him. “Catcher?” I cried as I sank to the ground beside him.

His eyes popped open. “Hey, Liv-Bug.”

“Oh, my God, are you okay?”

“Just peachy.”

Fearing he was going into shock, I countered, “You were shot.”

“Tis but a scratch,” he teased with the line from Monty Python and The Holy Grail.

I glanced over to where Solano had ripped open Catcher’s pants leg to examine the bullet wound. Over the years, I’d seen enough shotgun wounds. I feared at close range it might be a pretty extensive wound. But at first glance, it didn’t look that bad.

Agent Solano snorted. “He’s right about the scratch thing. The bullet grazed him more than anything. He’s practically a miracle. A couple more inches, and it would have nicked his femoral artery.”