Twenty-Eight and a Half Wishes
Page 68

Muffy gave me a dirty look. I had a mind-reading dog.
There were two doors out of my house, the front and the side. Both were in plain sight of the guy in the car. If I left, it had to be out the back window. I found the flashlight and went to one of Momma’s bedroom windows. It would be tricky getting in and out with the window almost four feet off the ground. It only proved the intruder had long legs to be able to get his leg in the window in the first place. Like Joe’s.
I’d show Joe McAllister what I was really capable of with a rolling pin.
As an afterthought, I unlocked my front door, so if I got caught I could say I went out the front. I opened the bedroom window and pushed out the screen, unsure of the best way to go about climbing out. I’d never done that before, climbed out a window. Maybe I could fill that in spot twenty-nine.
Maybe I wasn’t ready to give up my list yet.
I threw the flashlight out the window. I decided to stick my left leg out first, and there I hung, my head still inside, hanging onto the ledge. I was gonna have to fall. So I just pushed myself out and landed on the side of my left leg with a thud. That would hurt tomorrow.
I’m gonna make Joe McAllister pay for this. After I’m finished beating him with my rolling pin, I’m gonna stick it up—
Muffy whimpered in the window.
“No, Muffy, stay there. I’ll be back in a minute.” I whispered.
Muffy rested her chin on the ledge.
In my haste, I hadn’t thought about the fact Joe was probably still up, evidenced by the lights on in windows on the back of his house. I sprinted for the tree line at the far corner of my yard, hoping he wouldn’t look outside. I stayed in their shadows until I reached the back corner of the shed. When I reached the edge, I realized I hadn’t grabbed the key to the padlock, and was about to beat my head against the metal wall when I saw the padlock wasn’t even on the door. Joe must not have put it back on the other night.
I slid the door open, pushing gently to minimize the screeching sounds, only it didn't make its usual creaks and groans. Had Joe oiled it? I slipped inside, turned on the flashlight, and began to look around. Nothing appeared out of place. The beam of light searched the corners, illuminated the shelves, nothing. I shuffled my way around the lawn mower, my foot hitting something hard and I swung the light down. A yellow shop towel lay on the ground, partially shoved under the lawn mower. I squatted to pick it up, surprised to find the towel wrapped around a heavy object. I put the flashlight between my legs and unrolled the cloth, nearly dropping it when I saw what it contained.
A gun. A handgun.
The combination of finding a gun and being in the shed, caused panic to slip in and take hold. I had to get out of the dark, confined space, but what did I do with the gun? I had to get rid of it. I laid the gun, still in the towel, on top of the mower. A plastic bag on the shelf caught my eye. I grabbed it and picked up the gun, wrapping it up in a wad, smart enough to keep my fingerprints off of it. Next I pulled a wrench out of the tool box, wrapped it up in the towel, and put it back underneath the mower.
But what should I do with the gun?
I saw a garden trowel hanging on a hook. I would bury it.
I planted the gun next to my roses, somewhat ironic considering my name and the fact a gun would probably kill me. As I dug the hole, I couldn’t shake the fingertips of eerie dread inching its way up my back and nestling in the base of my neck. This was so much like my vision: trees, night, a gun. The only thing missing was the bullet hole.
I gasped. Is that what happened in my vision? Did Joe shoot me with this gun? Not if I can help it. I dug even deeper, then placed the gun, still in the bag, in the bottom and covered it with the dirt, smoothing it out so it didn’t look so obvious. To finish it off, I spread the remaining mulch around.
I put the trowel back in shed and closed the door. I’d turned back to the house when Muffy jumped out the window, running over to me. She gave me a defiant look.
“Muffy, I told you to stay inside.”
My dog, who believed life was better lived in the slow lane, took off running for the front of the house.
“Muffy!” I whisper-shouted. “Muffy! Come back here!”
Once Muffy started running, she didn’t stop. I took off after her, worried who would see us, but more worried she would get away and I’d never find her. She came to an abrupt halt, waiting at the sidewalk, her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. Thank goodness. Surprised how upset I was at the thought of losing her, I knelt down to pet her. But Muffy had other ideas. She took off sprinting down the sidewalk, in the direction of the car down the street. I stood there, torn between catching her and self-preservation.
But really, there was no question. I ran after Muffy. I only hoped I didn’t get shot.
I didn’t. Instead, I ran into Joe. Literally. I had looked over my shoulder, toward the house to make sure he hadn’t seen me, when I ran smack dab into his chest. He grabbed my arms to keep me from falling.
“Rose, why are you running? What’s wrong?” His voice rose in alarm.
“Muffy!” I said, looking around him for signs of her. I heard her snort and looked down to see her sitting next to him.
I shot a glare at her. Traitor!
“What are you doin’ out here?” He sounded nervous and grabbed my hand. He began pulling me toward the house.
Muffy trotted along and then stopped and pooped in the neighbor’s yard. “Ewww, Muffy! I didn’t bring a bag!” But Muffy was a genius. “Muffy had to go out and I barely had time to get her out the door.” I’d have to remember to come back in the morning to pick up her mess.