Chapter Twenty-One #2
“Now, we’re going to have to make this look a little bit more…believable.” She cocked her head to one side, studying Franny. “The glass is clearly from the accident, so we need a struggle. Don’t we?”
Then, without any kind of warning, she lifted her foot and kicked hard into Franny’s side so Franny fell over. The shock of the blow elicited another howl of pain, but as the woman was gripping her shirt and tearing it, Franny fought back.
She kicked out herself, she wriggled, she pushed. It was instinct beyond avoiding pain. Not letting this woman hurt her any more than she was already hurt. The screaming agony in her head was a distraction, but it didn’t make her stop fighting back. But there was so little she could do.
She managed to get on her butt and scoot back, but the woman was getting to her feet, brushing the dirt off her clothes.
“There we go. Now we’ve got a struggle.”
Franny looked down at herself. Her shirt was bloody and torn. There were scrapes on her hands. Dirt all over her pants.
“What are you doing? Why?” Franny demanded, because everything just hurt, and she couldn’t tell if the liquid on her cheeks was blood or tears or both. She was so baffled and just hurting.
“Look, you learn a lesson real quick in the real world. You can’t trust a man as far as you can throw him. If there’s any complaint I have about your books, it’s that one.”
“You… My books?”
“Sure, had to do some research on the witness, didn’t I? They’re not half bad. I have some critiques, but they pass an evening all right. Except for the idea that there are heroes in this world, F.M. But I guess that’s why it’s classified fiction.”
Franny could only gape at this woman. Discussing the believability of her books while Royal was unconscious, and she was bleeding at an alarming rate. This woman had crashed into them and she had critiques.
“In the real world, there are the users and the used. You gotta be smart enough to be a user. I used Tony for what he was good for, and when he couldn’t do that right?
” She shrugged. “Well, collateral damage is a term for a reason. You see, I’m a pretty good writer too.
I’ve got all sorts of ideas. So, we’re working this story out. Brainstorm with me.”
Franny stared up at her. Did any of those words make sense? If they did, maybe she had a worse head injury than she thought.
“So, the police will come upon the scene I left for them. The second scene. They’ll blame your cop boyfriend for Tony, the first scene, since the body was in his place.
But you saw the cop off Tony. Oh no! He’s got to get rid of you too.
He drives you out to the middle of nowhere.
He’s dragging you out of the car. Here because he thinks the bears will get you and he won’t have to explain your body.
In his head, he’ll get back to take care of Tony before the cops know the difference. ”
Franny looked around. Sure there were bears in Bent County, but she didn’t think one happening upon her dead body was much of a plan for body removal.
And why was she actually considering this like a book, when this was her life?
“But I happen to drive by,” Holand continued, really getting into it.
“I see him. Hero that I am, because it’s fiction, right?
But even in real life stupid people want to believe in heroes.
I run into his car to stop him. But it’s too late.
I call the police, then disappear. Neat and tidy like.
We all win. How’s that for a happy ending?
If I didn’t have to kill you, I’d let you write that one.
Your books aren’t bad. Could use an editor. ”
Franny was almost positive this had to be a very lucid dream. But she didn’t wake up. No reality came calling. She sat there on the ground, bleeding, and stared at this woman. “No one would ever believe any of that. In real life or in one of my books. There’s a million plot holes.”
The satisfied look on the woman’s face turned into a scowl. “Says you.”
“Says…reason and rationality. Royal is still in the car. He hasn’t moved. How did he kill me then crawl back into the crashed-out car? He’s unconscious.” She forced herself to add the next bit even though she didn’t want to say it out loud. “He might be dead.”
The woman lifted her chin. “I’ve got that figured out. Don’t you worry about it.” She flashed a smug smile again.
“I won’t. But you should worry about this. The police know who you are. They all know who you are, Holand. So you can run, but you can’t disappear. They’re already looking for you. Thanks to Royal.”
Franny had a glimmer of satisfaction as the smile slid off the woman’s face. The woman stood very still. Enough of a moment that Franny felt a bubble of hope.
But then the woman shrugged. “That’s a shame. Because if I can’t frame him, I don’t have time to mess around with you.” And as she raised the gun, Franny realized she’d made a fatal mistake.
ROYAL CAME TO on a stab of pain and a wave of nausea. He coughed, pain wracking his system. Something came out of his mouth when he coughed.
Blood.
Hell.
“Franny?” he croaked. He managed to lift his head, even though it hurt worse than he’d ever been hurt—and he’d been beaten and shot and all manner of things.
Her seat was empty, her door open. She must have gone to get help. That was good. He could just…rest until help came.
He managed to sit up, sort of, lean his head back. Sunlight gleamed off the car and it hurt his head. He closed his eyes, and closing his eyes seemed to help steady his jumbled thoughts.
He swore.
That hadn’t just been some car accident. Someone had hit them on purpose. He’d tried to swerve out of the way, but he hadn’t been willing to risk Franny, so he’d swerved in the only way he could to keep his side of the car the target.
The airbags hadn’t gone off. That was…wrong. Someone had to have messed with his car.
Everything was wrong.
Which meant Franny likely hadn’t gone for help. She’d likely been taken by whoever had crashed into them.
He heard a sound. Turned his head toward it. The passenger door was open. Someone was out there. The car that had rammed into him was there in the road, and someone was out beyond the road. In the trees.
He had to get out. Find Franny. He had to… He looked down at his uniform. His walkie wasn’t turned on, but he was wearing it.
Gritting his teeth together, he lifted his hand to turn it on.
He was greeted by the steady sounds of radio traffic and the occasional burst of static.
With what little strength he seemed to have, he managed to depress the talk button.
He croaked out his department serial number, and his location, best as he could remember it. “Car accident.”
He needed them to know it was dangerous though. No accident. Who had been the driver of the car if the kidnapper was dead in his apartment?
The only other person he’d been looking into. Holand Meyer. He managed to give a description. Or thought he did.
“Units have already been dispatched, Deputy Campbell,” the dispatcher said. “ETA is a few minutes.”
Already been dispatched? How? Had someone seen something?
It didn’t matter. A few minutes was still too long if Franny wasn’t here. Ignoring the rest of the radio noise, he put all his focus on getting his door open. It didn’t go at first. Most of the damage had been done to the back end of the car, but enough that it made his door stuck.
He had to fight it, and the pain, and every other damn thing, but he finally wrenched it open. He was having a hard time breathing. Probably a cracked rib. Maybe worse. Couldn’t think about it. Had to stay conscious and find Franny.
He managed to get out, get to his feet, and then he had to lean against the car, close his eyes, breathe. Just breathe. It wasn’t just the hurting. He was dizzy, nauseated. Rough shape. Maybe he should just wait for backup.
Then he heard that sound again. Someone in pain.
Franny.
He pushed himself off the car and started walking for the trees. His vision was blurry, but he just kept moving by sheer force of will.
He fumbled with the latch on his holster but finally got it free and got the gun out. His left arm screamed in pain no matter how he moved it, but he gripped the gun in his right and kept moving.
He just had to stay conscious long enough to stop the threat. Hell, he could die after that, which felt like a real possibility at the moment.
Gun in one hand, he tried to use the other hand to lean against a tree, get his bearings, but his arm screamed in pain at any pressure put on it.
Not good. None of this was good.
He thought he’d spared Franny the worst of the accident, but what if he hadn’t? He had to find her.
He blew out a breath, concentrated on getting his eyes to focus while he ignored his body. He’d had to learn, hadn’t he? Pain didn’t matter. Pain was weakness. You had to ignore the pain. To survive. Survive. Survive.
He was so damn sick of surviving. So tired of everything hurting. Pain and suffering and the whims of horrible people ruining everything. He’d been fighting it for so long, why did he keep doing it?
Because there’d always been a voice in the back of his head. Brooke’s voice, urging him to be better, do some good.
But Brooke was well and taken care of and what did he matter anymore?
Franny.
She was out there. All because she’d seen someone do something bad and tried to stop it. He couldn’t let her be another horrible person’s victim. She deserved more than survival.
Hell, they all did.
She thought he was brave and good, no matter what he’d told her. She’d held on to that belief, so he had to hold on to it now.
Something was going to change after this. He didn’t have the presence of mind to know what just yet, but once he could think, once he could breathe without this searing pain, he was going to figure it out.
He kept moving forward, trying to be quiet, but with the agony radiating through his body and the odd drumming in his ears, he didn’t know for sure if he was being stealthy or as subtle as a Mack truck.
There were tracks in the dirt. Not clear ones, but indentations in the dry ground, the sweep of dried pine needles moved by someone’s footsteps.
The occasional drop of blood. He followed them, focusing only on finding Franny and nothing going on in his own body.
He thought he heard voices, so he stopped, tried to focus his vision. In the distance, between trees, he saw a flash of something. He didn’t know what, so he just kept moving for it.
After a few more yards, he could make out the scene clearly.
The woman he’d seen skulking around Hope Town stood, gun in hand, back to him. She wasn’t a brunette now, but a blonde. Franny sat, bloody and dirty. Royal couldn’t quite make out what they were saying—not because they were far away or quiet, but because his ears were just kind of a low buzz.
But Holand Meyer didn’t turn around to face him, so she must not know he was there, but he saw what was coming the moment Franny did. Her eyes went wide. And that was enough to have Holand turning, gun in hand, raised to aim at him.
Royal didn’t wait, didn’t think. He just lifted his own gun and shot.
Of course, so did she.
The force of the bullet hit him dead center. And he fell back, which hurt more than the bullet to his vest.
His vest. He wanted to laugh, might have if he wasn’t in so much damn pain.
Being a cop had saved him after all.