Ruff Trouble Read online

  If his reason wasn’t money, what did he want? Sam feared to ask.

  “S-S-S-Sam?” A small sob escaped Kathleen as she forced out his name.

  “I’ll take care of it. Keep calm.” Wrong to make a promise he might not keep, but he had to say something to stop her panicking. Easier said than done when his heart raced.

  “Good advice. Look to your right.”

  Hesitant to take his gaze off the stranger, Sam peered sideways, straining to keep both Kathleen and the man in view. There, on the counter, lay a syringe. Fighting the urge to swallow and show his fear, Sam did his best to ignore the flood of saliva carrying an acid bite to his mouth. “W-what do you expect me to do with that?”

  “Do you know how to inject yourself?”

  Sam did. He’d had to after the op on his leg, but he wasn’t about to tell the stranger.

  “No matter. You can inject yourself in the muscle. The thigh will do.”

  “Are you crazy?” Did this man truly expect him to inject himself with God alone knew what?

  “You refuse, she dies.”

  Ah, fuck! Sam tried to run about ten thousand scenarios through his mind. Apart from the one where the Special Air Service came crashing through the windows, he didn’t see a good way out of this. “What will it do?” At least he managed not to stutter this time.

  “Knock you out.”

  “Not kill me?”

  “No.”

  “But if you’re not here to rob the place why—”

  “Stop asking questions!” The man pressed the point of the knife into the side of Kathleen’s neck until a spot of blood welled, and she cried.

  Where was the artery? If he cut her there, how fast would she bleed out? By then, Sam would be in a fight he most likely couldn’t win. Even if he made it to her side, she’d be beyond help. If this wasn’t a robbery, did this guy intend to take her? Rape her? Sam had to risk another question.

  “What are you going to do with her?”

  A look of surprise flashed in the stranger’s eyes. “Her? Nothing. I’m here for you.”

  “Me?” What the fuck was going on?

  “Stop stalling.”

  “I’m not.” He was, but he was also trying to figure out the motive.

  “I don’t fucking care! Inject yourself or she dies.” The knife went deeper, Kathleen squealed, and Sam moved toward the syringe.

  “Okay! Okay! Just…don’t hurt her.”

  Despite her predicament, Kathleen’s eyes went wide. Her expression spoke for her: Don’t do it! Sam didn’t blame her. For all he knew everything the man said was a lie. Whatever was in the needle might kill him, and, even if it didn’t, he didn’t want to leave himself or Kathleen helpless. Sam stared into her eyes, hoping she read his intention. He edged over.

  “Get a move on!”

  “If you haven’t noticed, I can’t move well or fast.”

  “That’s why I picked you, you fucking moron.”

  Sam didn’t even bother trying to work out what the lunatic meant. He’d almost reached the counter. His hand hovered over the syringe. “What have I ever done to you?”

  “Not you. The fucking bitch you’re shacked up with.”

  Sam might have expected Kathleen to look puzzled, but she didn’t. Maybe they weren’t as discreet as they believed. Maybe Kathleen was too worried about the outcome to care.

  “What did Chantelle ever do to you?” Sam moved as if he intended to pick up the needle. Instead, his hand curled round the handle of a measuring jug, and he hurled it across the room. Kathleen ducked. Not out of the knife-man’s reach, not enough to make him let go, but enough to gain distance from the obstacle. Seeing the cream porcelain jug coming toward him and trying to avoid it and hang on to the girl meant the stranger did neither well. Sam dived as the jug collided with the knife-man’s head. He jerked Kathleen to her feet and shoved her toward the doors. “Run! Don’t wait for me. Don’t look back. Get help!”

  Kathleen needed no second bidding. She was out the doors and gone, Sam on her heels. He was halfway through the swing doors when a burning sensation flooded his neck. Stabbed? Had the stranger stabbed him? The knife or the needle?

  As his strength seeped away and his legs buckled, Sam accepted he’d been drugged. The floor rose to meet him although Sam didn’t feel the impact. All he knew was a second later he stared at little green and white pieces of plastic mistletoe. He had time to consider Kathleen must have knocked the box off the bar before the world went black in a whoosh.

  Chapter 6

  “Call for you, Pooch.”

  At least the constable spoke with a mild grin. Bobby had heard more mutt jokes than he could count; such jokes quips would ‘dog’ him throughout his life. There was the option of changing his name, but his animal couldn’t help being amused.

  “Yes?” He spoke into the receiver.

  “Sergeant Pooch?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Thought so. Bobby, it’s Gordon.”

  “Gordon Atkins?”

  “The same.” The pleasure in his old sarge’s voice drifted down the line. “So, no longer a constable?”

  “No. It’s three stripes now.” Bobby almost reached up to finger the three down-pointed chevrons on his epaulettes.

  “Well, it’s no surprise you’ve moved up a rank.” At once, Gordon’s tone changed, becoming formal. “I’d shoot the breeze, but I’ve a spot of bad news for you.”

  Bobby listened without saying a word. When Atkins had finished, he said, “Daft pricks.”

  “Hmm…” The noncommittal sound was understandable being as they were police officers and not meant to express such opinions. “Well, they couldn’t keep him in forever. I thought nothing of it, believed he’d likely try to keep out of trouble, until…” Atkins went silent.

  “He didn’t show up to see his parole officer.” Bobby took a wild guess.

  Atkins grunted his affirmation. “Might be nothing.”

  Yeah, right. Atkins didn’t know, guessed, and hoped for the best, but expected the worse. Bobby had enough information to go on, and to thank his ex-sarge. “We’ll talk some other time.” He was on duty and now preoccupied.

  “Sure.”

  One of the other officers looked his way as Bobby hung up but asked no questions, gaze dropping back to his paperwork. Bobby stared at the officer without really seeing him, tapping his fingertips together for a few seconds. Reaching again for the phone, Bobby dialled home. When he got no answer, he dithered between trying the main number for the restaurant or Chantelle’s mobile. He decided on her mobile. If there was a problem, greater the chance Chantelle was the one in danger and the best equipped to take care of herself and Sam. Bile rose to sting Bobby’s throat. How was he to tell her Charles Manning was out on parole, far sooner than they’d expected? Why had it taken a month for anyone to bother to tell them?

  * * * *

  “What the…” Chantelle applied pressure to the brakes even as she cursed and twisted the wheel. The car slid despite her best efforts before coming to a halt, rocking. She knew of three things: her mobile ringing, a girl she recognised dashing onto the road, and the sound of a thump. Although her phone had rung, it hadn’t distracted her. The phone had slid off the seat beside her along with her handbag, and both items were on the floor, the phone now silent. Chantelle fought her way through the shock and the events clarified.

  Kathleen had run onto the road. Chantelle had done her best to bring the car to a controlled stop, stupefied by the petrified expression on Kathleen’s face. Despite the risk of being run over by the car, Kathleen had spun toward her instead of away. Chantelle had hit Kathleen with the car.

  “Oh my God!” Chantelle opened the door taking care in case she whacked the girl a second time. As soon as she pushed the door open, she heard crying. “Kathleen?” Sliding out, she found Kathleen sitting on the ground leaning against the side of the car. The woman was a mess. Covered in scratches and bruises, her hair wild and tangled, tears and
dirt streaked her face. “Are you hurt?” Chantelle searched for broken bones. “I hit you. You ran out.” Though she was trying to apologise she sounded accusing. Kathleen had hurtled out from the surrounding bushes. What was that all about and why were her hands tied?

  Eyes wide, Chantelle broke the plastic with ease, uncaring if Kathleen thought it odd. “What’s going on?” She scanned the nearby woods. “Who did this to you? Kathleen?” Though she didn’t want to, if Kathleen didn’t reply soon, she’d shake her.

  “I’m okay. I mean, I think I am.” With Chantelle’s help, Kathleen stood. Maybe owing to shock she didn’t appear to notice Chantelle as good as lifted her. “You knocked me. I’m…not…h-hurt.” The last word broke apart into sobs. Kathleen threw herself into Chantelle’s arms, wailing. As much as Chantelle wanted to comfort her, and stroked her hair hoping to calm her, she needed answers more.

  “Who did this? Did you come from the pub? Where’s Sam?”

  The sobs faded into little hitches of noise. “I d-don’t k-know. He was right behind me, but told me to run, so I did.”

  “What happened?”

  “Some man. I thought he was robbing the place.” Kathleen touched her neck. “He cut me.”

  Sure enough, there was a gash. “You’ll be okay. It’s clotting. Hang on.” Moving round the side of the car, Chantelle reached in and fished out her bag and phone from the floor space. She handed clean tissues to Kathleen to blow her nose and to press over the cut before she checked her phone. Bobby was the last caller, so she rang his mobile. He picked up at once.

  “Chantelle, where are you?”

  The sound of a car engine purring came through so he was driving while talking on the phone, something Bobby never did. Also, his tone…Bobby already knew something was wrong. “A couple of miles out from the pub. I…something’s happened. I was on the way back when I almost ran over Kathleen. She’s a mess. Someone—”

  “Where’s Sam?”

  “I guess back at the pub where whatever this was went down.” Did Bobby hear or sense her racing heart?

  “It’s Charles Manning.”

  Chantelle opened her mouth in shock but spoke not a word. Questions must wait. If Bobby said Charles Manning was responsible, she accepted his word.

  “I don’t want you to—”

  “Don’t even bother.” She interrupted him, to which he cursed. Another sound was probably him slapping the wheel.

  “Fine. Be careful. I’m on my way.”

  He disconnected and Chantelle pocketed her phone, took her keys from her bag. She needed Kathleen out of the way. “Do you think you can drive?” Chantelle wasn’t sure she should but chose the best option, separating her car keys from the ring even while she waited for a response. After a few moments, in which Kathleen gathered herself, she nodded. “I want you to go home, wait there to hear from one of us.”

  “But what about you?”

  “Bobby’s on the way. I’m sure he’ll be bringing reinforcements.”

  “I d-don’t understand.” The poor girl sounded bewildered.

  “There’s someone we put away. He’s come after me.”

  Kathleen’s eyes bugged out. “Then where are you going?”

  “To save Sam.”

  “But you can’t! You’re just…”

  “What? A woman? I’m also ex-police. I can take care of myself.”

  “Don’t you need the car?”

  “I’m a fast runner. If I get there before him, Bobby won’t be far behind, and I’ll stay hidden until he shows.” That wasn’t the plan, but she needed Kathleen to believe her. Chantelle extracted one other thing from her handbag—a plastic carrier. Either Kathleen didn’t notice or was too shocked to mention it. Tucking it into a pocket, Chantelle put her handbag in the boot. She waited long enough to watch Kathleen drive off before taking to the woods.

  As soon as she was far enough in not to be seen from the road, she stripped. She put her phone and the house and restaurant keys with her clothes into the bag. Then she shifted.

  Seconds later, a reddish-brown and white husky picked up the bag in its mouth and ran.

  Within a short time but not soon enough, the pub loomed through the woods. Chantelle moved around the back, keeping low, scanning with all her senses. Changing again, she spared a couple of precious minutes recovering. She dropped the bag by the back door which she found locked. To try the front would take time.

  She and Bobby could shift at will but it used energy, too much depending what time of the month (the moon had an effect on shape-shifters) and how often. Fortunately, aside from an occasional run, she’d not changed too often this month. Taking her keys and her phone, she left her clothes in the bag. No one should be able to see her, but staff would arrive soon. What they would think if they found her naked, she didn’t know, and, unlike a few days ago, didn’t care.

  The key made a harsh sound in the lock making her wince. Easing the door open, she prepared for someone to come barrelling out. Nothing happened.

  Moving inside, she checked she was alone, and scanned the area to her back before closing the door. Easing through the vestibule where they took deliveries, she hesitated by the storage area. She detected no unusual smells, so best to ignore it. Besides, something sour led her straight to the kitchen.

  Signs of a struggle were strewn all over the floor. The potent smell made her eyes water, the odour one she recognised. Cursing her foolishness, Chantelle reached for a knife. The other day she sensed danger in the woods and the same unwashed scent flooded her nostrils now. The homeless person was none other than Charles Manning. She hadn’t picked out his individual scent because, well, it had more than a year since she’d arrested him, and he hadn’t smelled so bad then. Bad enough, but nothing like this. The smell was so intense she detected nothing else.

  She moved into the bar. The air was better here although Manning had passed through and gone. The place felt abandoned. Where was Sam?

  She took a step, something hard crunching underfoot. A couple dozen pieces of plastic mistletoe lay scattered on the floor. The sight brought an onset of pain to her eyes. Sam had been waiting for the mistletoe to arrive, claimed he wanted to kiss Chantelle and Bobby under each piece.

  The sound of a car drew her to the front. Without hesitating, Chantelle went to the door and opened it. Bobby was already stepping from the vehicle, and his gaze flicked over her, although he might check her for injuries as much as admiring the view. Before he even took a step, Chantelle said, “Sam isn’t here. I don’t know how but Manning’s taken Sam.” Same as she’d taken Bobby’s word Manning was responsible, Bobby took hers Sam and Manning were gone.

  * * * *

  “What do we do?”

  “I will track him.”

  “Shouldn’t we call…?”

  “Who?” Bobby didn’t mean to sound frustrated with her. “Sorry, but by the time we organise anything, it’ll be too late.” He needed to think. “Throw on some clothes. Call Kathleen; make sure she got home. Tell her she’s safe, and an officer will take a statement from her later.”

  “Meaning you?”

  “Maybe. Why not? I don’t know.” He glanced at his watch. The rest of the staff would arrive in a half hour. “Ring one of the employees, whoever’s on next, tell them there’s a problem, and to take care of lunch without us.”

  “And tell them to ignore the signs of a brawl in the kitchen?”

  “That too.”

  She nodded. No arguments from Chantelle despite how mad all this was. “Do all that, then follow.” He didn’t clarify; didn’t need to. He’d track Manning’s trail, and Chantelle would pick up his and then bring the car.

  Her gaze spoke for her, telling him to be careful. Then she was gone; no parting kisses—no time.

  Bobby went into search mode. A vehicle could have travelled in only three directions. Bobby had driven along the one from the main road without Manning running into him, so he checked the others, even a fourth—a narrow horse track, unsu
itable for cars—but found no signs Manning had gone that way. At each section, Bobby jogged a few hundred yards, at last finding tire marks and a trolley—one used to bring heavy loads in for storage—dumped at the side in a ditch. At least he now knew how Manning had moved Sam so fast, but dead or alive?

  Bobby stripped, hid his clothes, and shifted. He sniffed the trolley. Sam’s lingering smell was warm and alive. Bobby moved back to the road, located the vehicle’s scent, and went in pursuit.

  * * * *

  “Where are we?” Not as Sam imagined it did him much good to know, but neither would it hurt. This place…Broken windows. Rusting metalwork. Mostly empty shelves. Some abandoned warehouse. Sam struggled but the chains binding him tightened. He hung in mid-air, or at least high enough he had no chance of putting a foot on the ground. The weight on his shoulders already made his muscles burn. The human body wasn’t designed to hang like this. If forced to do so for extended periods it might cause real harm—cut off circulation, tear ligaments.

  “Not as far from your home as I’d like, but far enough. It’ll take them time to find you.”

  Not far. Maybe knowing did something after all: gave him hope. The single abandoned building anywhere in the area resembling a warehouse was an old dairy. If the police organised a search, they’d find him…eventually. Maybe even fast, if they searched all empty places and Bobby would think of that. Problem was any search took time, and the local force wasn’t big on manpower. None were, but staff shortages became more of a problem with rural communities. Unless someone reported a lunatic shooting everyone on sight, it would still take time to call in reinforcements, if they convinced the authorities extra services were needed.

  Bobby won’t wait.

  No, he wouldn’t, but did Bobby and Chantelle even know he was missing yet? Had Kathleen got away? Chantelle should have been on her way home. She would smell something was wrong. Hell, Sam could smell this man. He smelled like a dustbin stewed in the sun too long.

  “‘Course, means I don’t have the time I’d like. Means I must hurt you faster than I want. Not sure whether that’s good or bad—for you.”