Three to Get Deadly (Stephanie Plum 3)

I followed Ranger into the street. We stopped for a split second, listening for footfalls, and Ranger took off again, through the alley to the back of the bar. I was skidding on ice, kicking at garbage, and I was breathing hard. I caught my toe on a piece of board and went down to one knee. I pulled myself up and swore while I hopped for a few steps until the pain faded.

Ranger and I came out of the alley and hit the cross street. A dark figure ran for the front door of a row house halfway down the block, and we pounded after him. Ranger charged through the front door, and I took the alley two houses down to secure the rear exit. I was gasping for air and fumbling for my pepper spray as I came up to the back door. I had my hand in my pocket when the door flew open, and Melvin Morley III crashed into me.

Morley was as big as a grizzly. He was accused of armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. He was drunk as a skunk and didn't smell much better.

We hit the ground with a solid thud. Him on the bottom. Me on top. My fingers reflexively grabbed at his jacket.

“Hey, big boy,” I said. Maybe I could distract him with my female charms.

He gave a grunt and flicked me away like I was lint. I rolled back and grabbed hold of his pants leg.

“Help!” I yelled. “HELLLLLLP!”

Morley hauled me up by my armpits and held me at eye level, my feet at least nine inches off the ground. “Dumb white bitch,” he said, giving me a couple vicious shakes that snapped my head back.

“F-f-fugitive apprehension agent,” I said. “Y-y-you're under arrest.”

“Nobody's arresting Morley,” he said. “I'll kill anyone who tries.”

I flailed my arms and swung my legs, and my toe mysteriously connected with Morley's knee.

“Ouch,” Morley yelled.

His big ham hands released me, and he buckled over. I staggered back a couple feet when I hit the ground, knocking into Ranger.

“Hey, big boy?” Ranger said.

“I thought it might distract him.”

Morley was curled into a fetal position doing shallow breathing, holding his knee. “She broke my knee,” he said on a gasp. “She broke my fucking knee.”

“Think it was your boot that distracted him,” Ranger said.

A happy accident.

“So if you were standing there the whole time, why didn't you help me?”

“Didn't look like you needed any help, babe. Why don't you run around and get the car while I baby-sit Mr. Morley. He's going to be slow walking.”

It was almost ten when Ranger brought me back to my parents' house on High Street. Poochie, Mrs. Crandle's two-hundred-year-old toy poodle, was sitting on the porch across the street, conjuring up one last tinkle before he called it a night. The lights were off next door in Mrs. Ciak's house. Early to bed, early to rise, made old Mrs. Ciak wise. My mother and grandmother obviously didn't t feel like they needed any help from a few extra winks, because they were standing with their noses pressed to the glass pane in the storm door, squinting into the darkness at me.

“Probably been standing there since you left,” Ranger said.

“My sister is normal,” I said. “Always has been.”

Ranger nodded. “Makes it all the more confusing.”

I waved good-bye to Ranger and headed for the porch.

“There's still some butterscotch pudding left,” my mother said when I opened the door.

“Did you shoot anyone?” Grandma wanted to know. “Was there a big to-do?”

“There was a little to-do,” I told her. “And we didn't shoot anyone. We almost never shoot people.”

My father leaned forward in his chair in the living room. “What's this about shooting?”

“Stephanie didn't shoot anyone today,” my mother said.