Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum 24)

“He could be deaf,” Lula said.

“I think you should get out of the car, and poke it with a stick, and take a real close look at it,” I said.

“I’ll get out, if you’ll get out.”

“Great. Fine. I’ll get out. Yeesh.”

I wrenched the door open, lurched out, and went to stand over the slightly bloated groundhog. Lula came up beside me.

“Looks dead to me,” I said.

“We should say some words,” Lula said. “It’s only right that when you come on the deceased you say some words.”

“You’re going to pray over the groundhog?”

“He’s God’s creature.”

“Okay. I get that.”

We bowed our heads.

“Dear Lord,” Lula said. “Bless this disgusting swelled-up groundhog and take him into the kingdom of heaven or wherever it is that dead groundhogs are supposed to go. Amen.”

We both made the sign of the cross.

“I would have said more, but I didn’t really know the deceased,” Lula said.

I gave up a sigh. “You said enough. Let’s go.”

“Wait a minute,” Lula said. “You can’t leave him here. He could deface Ranger’s car when you drive over him. He could explode and spray guts all over. And anyways it would be a waste. You should pick it up. You could feed it to Ethel.”

“Are you crazy? I’m not picking it up!”

“Did you bring something else for Ethel to eat?”

“No.”

“Well, then, you should bring her this groundhog. Otherwise you gotta go to the store and get Ethel some more rotisserie chicken.”

I hated to admit it, but feeding the groundhog to Ethel wasn’t an entirely bad idea. I was running out of rotisserie chicken money.

All Rangeman cars are equipped with emergency medical kits. I found disposable gloves for Lula and me, and a Mylar survival blanket we could use to protect the back of the Lexus. Lula and I pulled on gloves and returned to the groundhog. I spread the blanket out on the road and looked at Lula.

“I’ll take the front legs, and you take the rear legs, and we’ll put him on the blanket. Then we can carry him to the car.”

“Ethel better appreciate this,” Lula said. “I wouldn’t do this for just any snake.”

We grabbed the groundhog by his legs and dropped him onto the blanket.

“I think he’s leaking something,” Lula said. “It looks like gravy.”

I gave a shudder and dragged the blanket to the SUV. We trundled the groundhog in, wrapped the blanket around him so no gravy would get on Ranger’s car, and I closed the hatch. I drove about ten feet, and I got a call from Judy Chucci.

“He’s here,” she said. “The idiot is standing on my sidewalk holding a sign that says he loves me.”

“I’m on my way,” I told her. “Try to keep him there.”

I made a U-turn and sped out of Diggery’s neighborhood.