Read Online Cooked Goose by G. A. McKevett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: G. A. McKevett
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over at Titus, who was also watching the bizarre exchange with amazement. Neither of them dared to breathe.
Having been raised Southern style, at the end of a hickory switch, Savannah couldn’t comprehend such blatant defiance.
Bloss glowered at his daughter for what seemed like an eternity as his face turned as dark as hers. He was huffing and puffing like a disgruntled bulldog, his meaty fists clenched at his sides.
But the girl didn’t budge.
Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “There!” He tossed a handful of bills at her. “Now get out of here, and stay with your friends. Don’t go anywhere alone.”
Margie gave him a sarcastic, self-satisfied smirk and walked away, clutching her cash to her chest.
“When are you coming home?” he called after her.
“When I get damned good and ready,” she yelled back as she climbed into the driver’s seat of a new, ice-blue, BMW convertible nearby.
The Roadster took off, spinning its wheels in the roadside gravel.
Savannah cleared her throat and shook her head thoughtfully as they watched the car disappear around a curve. “Well, well.” she said, giving Bloss her best, fake, look of compassion. “Darned kids these days. Sometimes, they just won’t do ya proud.”
CHAPTER SIX
December 11, 12:30 a.m.
If Savannah and Dirk had been concerned about the latest rape victim’s security, all their worries evaporated when they saw Officer Morton O’Leary stationed outside her hospital room. King Kong himself couldn’t have charged through that door, even with Godzilla as a backup.
When Savannah and Dirk passed through, Savannah flashed O’Leary a friendly, open smile and received only a perfunctory grunt in return.
Six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound Officer O’Leary’s steel trap mind might have been a tad rusty in the hinges, but he took his job as first line defense very seriously. And if his sheer bulk weren’t deterrent enough, he carried a .357 Magnum as a side arm and a billy club the size of a California redwood.
No one got past Morton O’Leary.
No one even tried.
Once inside the private room, Savannah and Dirk saw a sweet-faced nurse who was standing beside the bed, looking over her charge with obvious concern.
“How is she?” Dirk asked as he looked down at the woman who was lying still, eyes closed, her head swathed in bandages, her right arm in a cast. Both of her wrists bore the dark, telltale lines, indicative of having been bound. The lower half of her face, that showed below the wrappings, was grotesquely swollen and splotched with patches of red, black, and purple bruising.
Savannah winced, unable to even imagine how much that beating would have hurt. The victim looked like someone who had been involved in a violent traffic accident. But her situation was all the more horrific because it had been some sick individual’s intention, not Fate that had put her here.
“She’s asleep,” the nurse said. “She has been for the past hour.”
“Has she said anything?” Savannah asked, thinking that the woman’s face was so badly contorted that she would surely be unrecognizable to her loved ones. It would require plastic surgery to put her right again. And those were just the physical injuries. The emotional scars would be permanent.
“She just told us that her name is Charlene Yardley,” the nurse replied. “And she asked us to call her ex-husband.”
“Did you?” Dirk asked.
“Yeah.” The nurse lowered her voice and added, “He wouldn’t come, the jerk. But he gave me her sister’s number. I called her, and she’s on her way.”
“I wanted to ask her some questions,” Dirk said, “but if she’s sleeping, I—”
“She needs the rest, poor baby.” Savannah patted Charlene’s hand, noting the torn nails and skinned knuckles. Apparently, she had put up some sort of defense. “That bastard really put her through the mill.”
Charlene’s eyelids flickered.
Having been raised Southern style, at the end of a hickory switch, Savannah couldn’t comprehend such blatant defiance.
Bloss glowered at his daughter for what seemed like an eternity as his face turned as dark as hers. He was huffing and puffing like a disgruntled bulldog, his meaty fists clenched at his sides.
But the girl didn’t budge.
Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “There!” He tossed a handful of bills at her. “Now get out of here, and stay with your friends. Don’t go anywhere alone.”
Margie gave him a sarcastic, self-satisfied smirk and walked away, clutching her cash to her chest.
“When are you coming home?” he called after her.
“When I get damned good and ready,” she yelled back as she climbed into the driver’s seat of a new, ice-blue, BMW convertible nearby.
The Roadster took off, spinning its wheels in the roadside gravel.
Savannah cleared her throat and shook her head thoughtfully as they watched the car disappear around a curve. “Well, well.” she said, giving Bloss her best, fake, look of compassion. “Darned kids these days. Sometimes, they just won’t do ya proud.”
CHAPTER SIX
December 11, 12:30 a.m.
If Savannah and Dirk had been concerned about the latest rape victim’s security, all their worries evaporated when they saw Officer Morton O’Leary stationed outside her hospital room. King Kong himself couldn’t have charged through that door, even with Godzilla as a backup.
When Savannah and Dirk passed through, Savannah flashed O’Leary a friendly, open smile and received only a perfunctory grunt in return.
Six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound Officer O’Leary’s steel trap mind might have been a tad rusty in the hinges, but he took his job as first line defense very seriously. And if his sheer bulk weren’t deterrent enough, he carried a .357 Magnum as a side arm and a billy club the size of a California redwood.
No one got past Morton O’Leary.
No one even tried.
Once inside the private room, Savannah and Dirk saw a sweet-faced nurse who was standing beside the bed, looking over her charge with obvious concern.
“How is she?” Dirk asked as he looked down at the woman who was lying still, eyes closed, her head swathed in bandages, her right arm in a cast. Both of her wrists bore the dark, telltale lines, indicative of having been bound. The lower half of her face, that showed below the wrappings, was grotesquely swollen and splotched with patches of red, black, and purple bruising.
Savannah winced, unable to even imagine how much that beating would have hurt. The victim looked like someone who had been involved in a violent traffic accident. But her situation was all the more horrific because it had been some sick individual’s intention, not Fate that had put her here.
“She’s asleep,” the nurse said. “She has been for the past hour.”
“Has she said anything?” Savannah asked, thinking that the woman’s face was so badly contorted that she would surely be unrecognizable to her loved ones. It would require plastic surgery to put her right again. And those were just the physical injuries. The emotional scars would be permanent.
“She just told us that her name is Charlene Yardley,” the nurse replied. “And she asked us to call her ex-husband.”
“Did you?” Dirk asked.
“Yeah.” The nurse lowered her voice and added, “He wouldn’t come, the jerk. But he gave me her sister’s number. I called her, and she’s on her way.”
“I wanted to ask her some questions,” Dirk said, “but if she’s sleeping, I—”
“She needs the rest, poor baby.” Savannah patted Charlene’s hand, noting the torn nails and skinned knuckles. Apparently, she had put up some sort of defense. “That bastard really put her through the mill.”
Charlene’s eyelids flickered.
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