Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [89]
“Whatcha looking for?” a familiar voice said behind me. I jumped, causing Sam to laugh at my skittishness.
“Nothing,” I said. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“I’m on dinner break.” He held up a foil-wrapped tri-tip steak sandwich and a caramel apple.
“Looks like the perfect dinner to me. How long do you have?”
“An hour.” He unwrapped the sandwich and bit into it. Salsa dripped down his chin. I pulled a napkin from the candy cart’s holder and handed it to him.
“Thanks. What’re you doing?” he asked.
“To be truthful, I’m beat and want to go home.”
He gave me a curious look. “So, what’s stopping you?”
I sighed. “Your dad made me promise I wouldn’t be alone, and the truck is parked four blocks away. He’s all tied up with a city-council member, and I was standing here contemplating whether I should keep my promise or just not tell him I walked to my car unassisted.”
“Hey, no problem. I’ll walk you there.”
“I don’t want to take up your whole dinner hour,” I protested.
“Not a big deal. We don’t want to upset mi padre, now, do we?”
I laughed. “No, we certainly don’t.”
As we walked toward the car I told him about the newspaper column that would be officially hitting the streets tomorrow.
“Man, that’s tweaked,” he said sympathetically, finishing up his sandwich as we slipped around the barricades at the end of Lopez Street and walked through the shadowy streets toward the truck. “Bet Dad’s pissed.”
“Actually, he’s handling it pretty well. But I have no idea what he’s going to be like once that city-council member gets through with him.” I reached up and batted a low-hanging maple branch. Leaves, bright red and gold from last week’s early frost, fluttered down around us.
We crossed the Morro Street bridge, cooled briefly by the damp air rising from San Celina Creek. The tangy smell of rotting vegetation and damp earth surrounded us. Down on the dark banks of the creek that twisted through the city like a wine-drunk snake, we could hear the sounds of teenage laughter and the splashing of water. The streets were more deserted than I expected, and I was grateful for Sam’s large, very noticeable presence.
We were about a block away from the truck when Sam said, “Look at that.” He pointed to the streetlight I’d cautiously parked under. It was burned out, and a small pool of darkness shadowed the truck. Out of the darkness a figure emerged. We watched, stunned for a moment, as the figure turned and raised a baseball bat, bringing it crashing down on the truck’s windshield.
“Cut it out!” Sam yelled, and sprinted toward the figure. “That’s my dad’s truck!”
In a split second, from behind the truck another figure appeared. In the short time it took for Sam to reach the truck, the second figure had done his work. The back of the truck sank from two punctured tires. The first figure swung the bat and shattered the driver’s window. Sam grabbed the man’s arm.
The other figure started toward Sam, an arm raised. The knife in his hand flashed in the pale moonlight.
“Sam,” I screamed, running toward them. “Watch out!” I reached the man holding the knife and threw my arms around his waist.
“Lemme go,” the man said, twisting and turning to release my pit-bull grip. “Shit, leggo, lady.”
All I could think was I can’t let Sam get stabbed.
“Run,” I screamed at Sam. He tried to wrestle the bat away from the man. Their grunts and cursing were muted in the dense air. My stomach lurched in relief when I heard the bat hit the street with a hollow clatter. Loosening my grip slightly, I twisted around and used my only weapon. I clamped my teeth down on the man’s arm, biting down on the thin cotton covering his forearm. He yelped and jerked away. The knife hit the ground.
With an angry roar, the man threw me off him. I hit the sidewalk backward. Pain shot up my tailbone. Ignoring it, I jumped up and ran toward Sam. The baseball-bat man swung a huge fist at Sam’s face, connecting with a sickening thud. Sam collapsed in front of the truck, blood spewing from