Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [138]
“Gone? But I thought you came back to run it, and were fighting to keep it.” Monty put his hands on his hips and kept staring at her. The man didn’t look convinced.
Asha tried to keep her breathing steady despite her thundering heart. She was a lousy liar. The whole family knew that. Only her life and maybe Delbert’s depended upon her guile. Everything depended upon it. Where’s my knight in armor when I need him, riding to the rescue on his mighty steed, she thought.
Oh, Jago, I love you. Nothing else mattered.
“Well, I hope my performance fooled Trident. Maybe you’ll come around and a have drink at the Valentine’s Party to celebrate with me.” She casually dusted her way to the lobby door, only to have him step forward to block her. He was tall, close to 6-5”. Scary. Nonchalantly, she swished the feathers all around the frame.
Using the dust as an excuse, she summoned a sneezing fit—a ruse. “Excuse me.” Achoo-achoo . “Sorry, I’m allergic to—”Achoo achoo “—dust mites. Let me get a Kleenex.”
With each sneeze, she rocked back farther into the office where he lacked a clear view. Taking a deep breath, she didn’t hesitate. One foot landed in the middle of the chair on rollers, then she vaulted from it onto the desktop, sending the chair to slam into him as he leapt for her. With a hop, Asha planted her hip on the counter, swiveled and swung her legs over to the other side. All perfectly executed—except for the landing: she didn’t ‘stick it,’ but came down hard on her right leg. Grimacing from the pain and the cracking sound, Asha feared she might’ve broken a bone in her foot or ankle, but spared no time for concern.
“Pain means you’re alive,” she muttered to herself.
Asha had a feeling she wouldn’t be if she slowed down. Dragging herself up, she rushed through the little foyer between the motel and the restaurant, hearing Monty’s thundering steps close behind. The short distance down the aisles between the booths seemed miles; she cried with each step, struggling to keep going on the bad ankle. Hot agony lanced up her leg each time she planted her foot, nearly causing her leg to buckle.
Frantic, she swung around the counter and grabbed her purse. Relief flooded through her when her fingers closed around the cold metal of the gun. Holding it in both hands, she raised it and pointed the Colt straight at his chest and pulled the trigger. And kept pulling it.
Horror washed through her whole being as nothing happened but click . . . click . . . click.
Monty flashed a smug smile, then reached into the pocket of his jacket.“Works better with these.” Holding his hand up, he allowed the bullets to clatter onto the counter between them. Too late, she recalled him coming from the diner before. Now, she knew why. She watched them bounce and scatter across the oak top, ached to snatch at them. But that’s what he taunted her to do, as it’d bring her within his reach.
“Told you that you wouldn’t always have Fancy Pants at your back. Since he came, he’s never left you alone much, glommed onto you, didn’t he? I had to wait. I knew my time would come. I figured if you got a hold of that letter you’d send his British ass packing.”
The jukebox suddenly clicked as it changed records, and began playing “Tom Dooley.” Monty looked toward the Wurlitzer, just behind him and to his right.
“Hang down your head . . . poor boy you’re bound to die . . .”
He flinched; his head whipped around as his eyes narrowed on her. “You do that, don’t you? I heard about the women in your family—witches. You called him here to destroy me. I looked into his eyes. Knew them. Tommy’s eyes. After that, I read up on your family on the Internet at the library. Burned a few of them during the Burning Times, they did. Some historian wrote a book about them, said they were the real thing. I also did research on how they killed witches—by hayfork and billhook.”
Asha recoiled. Old pocket lore claimed pinning a witch