Plum Spooky (Stephanie Plum 14.50)

“Let’s get this over with,” he said. “It’s ruining my appetite.”

Stephanie Plum 14.5 - Plum Spooky

TWENTY-ONE

I HAD THE twelve rockets rammed into the Buick’s trunk. Problem was, they didn’t entirely fit.

“Should I tie a red flag on one of them?” I asked Diesel. “I don’t want to get stopped by the police.”

“You need more than a red flag. You’ve got stolen rockets hanging out of the back of a Buick. We need to wrap them.”

Ten minutes later, I had the rockets wrapped in my only quilt.

“I’ve got an open line to Rangeman control room,” Diesel said. “And I’ve got another line open for you. I’ll be on the road, following you from a safe distance.”

Lula’s Firebird swung into my lot and parked next to the Buick.

“Is that the rockets all wrapped up in the quilt?” Lula asked. “That’s real pretty. No one would guess they’re rockets.”

That was true. Most people would guess dead body. Lula and I got into the Buick, and I drove out of my lot to Hamilton.

“I’m supposed to go to the corner of Broad and Third to get directions,” I told Lula.

“I know that block. The corner of Broad and Third is a 7-Eleven.”

I turned onto Broad, and two blocks later, I was at the 7-Eleven on Third. A man in a khaki uniform was waiting in the lot. I pulled up to him and identified myself. He looked in the Buick, then he gave me another envelope.

“I need one of them big pretzels and a drink,” Lula said. “You want anything?”

“No.”

“Just park over there by the post,” Lula said. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“I don’t think I fit in that spot.”

“Sure you do. Back up real slow.”

A ’53 Buick is a whale. There’s no real beginning and no end. It’s like parking a giant sub sandwich. I inched back and crunch.

“Uh-?oh,” Lula said, turning in her seat, looking out the rear window. “I think you dented one of Mr. Wulf’s rockets. Maybe you need to pull forward a little. Do you want me to go around and take a look?”

“No! I want you to get your pretzel so we can get on with it.”

I called Diesel and told him the next address. It was a motel on the outskirts of Bordentown.

“He’s taking you south,” Diesel said. “He’s going to bring you to the Barrens.”

“Okay” Lula said, back in the Buick with her drink and her pretzel. “I’m ready to go. You always need food like this on a road trip.”

“This isn’t a road trip,” I told her. “We’re ransoming Gail Scanlon from a scary maniac.”

“Yeah, but I need to keep my strength up in case we need to kick ass.”

Another uniformed man was waiting for me at the motel. He got into the back of the Buick and directed me to a light industrial park just off Interstate 295. I couldn’t call Diesel, but I knew I was a blip on Ranger’s screen, and I suspected Diesel was close. I wound through the industrial park to a ware house. A bay door rolled up, and I was told to drive in.

“I don’t think so,” Lula said to the guy in the backseat. “We don’t do none of this drive into a ware house shit. Someone wants to see us, they gonna have to come out.”

The uniform got on his phone and relayed the message. There was an entire conversation in Spanish. A man peeked out from the ware house, looked us over, and retreated. More Spanish. Finally, a shiny black van pulled out of the ware house and drove up next to us.