W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)
When I reached the fence, I dumped the duffel temporarily and shoved the backpack through the hole, irritated when the frame got caught in the chain link. I jerked to free it and shoved again, all the while talking to myself, murmuring, “Come on, come on.” This time the canvas got snagged on a sharp hook of raw wire. I tried again, pushing the flap of fence with the pack itself until the gap was wide enough for the frame to pass through. I dragged the duffel bag to the hole, sat down, and kicked it through to the other side.
Behind me I heard a rustling on the hill, dead leaves and twigs responding in a series of pops and whispers. I’d hoped to slide through the fence myself so I could throw both items in the trunk, but there was no time for that. I turned as Pearl staggered into view, her face a livid pink with exertion. Behind her Felix charged out of the woods and loped up the hill. Neither had managed to snag the second duffel from the camp. Felix lost his footing every third or fourth step, which made progress agonizingly slow. Pearl seemed to run without forward motion. Felix was clearly moving faster, but the distance between them appeared the same because of the angle of my view.
Behind Pearl I saw the bum. Blood trickled down the side of his cheek, already darkened by a bruise. Felix flew at the fence like a chimp. His feet created toeholds, one above the other, as he propelled himself upward, climbing with surprising agility. He would have reached the top and tumbled down on the other side if Pearl hadn’t cried out. Her exclamation was rendered in the ancient language of panic. Felix released his hold on the fence and dropped back to the ground.
The Boggart had gained on Pearl, and it was clear she couldn’t move fast enough to outrun him. He was a good ten years younger and perhaps not physically fit, but in better shape than she was. In a canny way, she knew her weight was an advantage, the sheer mass of her being a force to contend with. Breathing hard, she turned to face the bum and planted her feet. As he reached for her, she pulled her fist back and punched him without ceremony. His head barely moved as he absorbed the blow. He shook himself like a wet dog while Pearl started up the hill again. The bum lunged forward and grabbed her by the foot. She kicked at him repeatedly, forcing him to release her. Before she could scramble out of his reach, he grabbed her again and pulled her feet out from under her. I saw her sprawl forward and then he was on her.
Felix moved toward the two. He was operating on autopilot, converting raw adrenaline to action. He approached with deliberation, his arm out straight, his hand extended in front of him. Pearl was still down. The burly man swung an arm up, a knife gripped in his fist. Pearl managed to turn to one side as the blade came down, slashing the tough faux leather sleeve of her jacket. Felix stretched forward and the bum recoiled, uttering a harsh cry. Belatedly, I realized Felix had hit him with a shot of pepper spray. The panhandler rolled away from Pearl, blinded and howling. Unfortunately, Pearl had inhaled the same irritant. Her cough was sudden and relentless, as debilitating as the spray that caught the bum in the face.
Pearl got herself up on all fours, coughing uncontrollably. Felix pulled her to her feet. Behind them, the bum bent helplessly from the waist. The pepper spray had created a fiery distraction, excruciating pain that might have stopped a lesser mortal but wouldn’t delay him for long. Felix grabbed Pearl under one arm and the two of them lumbered toward the fence. I slid under the fence in one continuous motion, knowing I didn’t dare pause for fear of getting myself snagged. I came up on the far side, rose to my feet, and hauled up the curl of fencing far enough to allow Pearl to hunch herself under. Her jacket caught in a stretch of raw tines that tore into the dense fabric like fishing hooks. Felix was, by then, on my side of the fence, having scaled it and rolled over the top before he thudded to the ground. Pearl’s jacket was impaled and she was stuck halfway under the fence with little room to maneuver. She backed up abruptly, shed the jacket, and rolled over onto her back, this time head first. She dug her heels into the soft ground as I had, kicking her way through while Felix and I raised the raw chain link as far up as we could. We hauled her by the arms and pulled her to safety. She was breathing heavily and she moaned, more from fear, I suspect, than from pain. Her eyes were pink and swollen from the cloud of pepper spray, and her cough picked up again. Her nose ran as steadily as the trickle from a hose. We urged her toward the car, but she stopped where she was, hands on her knees. “I gotta get my jacket!”
“No, you don’t!”
She ignored me, dropped to her hands and knees again to rescue the garment, which she managed with one quick jerk. Felix and I each grabbed one of Pearl’s arms, supporting her on either side while she stumbled between us. Once we reached the car, we left her sitting sideways in the passenger seat with the door ajar. I opened the trunk. Felix snatched the backpack and the duffel and tossed them in. I banged the trunk shut.