“You’re under arrest,” she said and slipped a small Lady Colt .38 from her ankle holster. She gave him a big grin. “Don’t move or I guarantee you’ll regret it. After I climbed that rope, I know I’m capable of just about anything.”
His laughter died. He looked at the gun, then at her, up on her elbows in the petunia bed. There were a half dozen men
and women standing there watching, holding their breath. She yelled out, “Stay back, all of you. This man’s dangerous. He just robbed the bank. I didn’t do it, he did. I’m FBI. Stay back!”
“That Colt isn’t Bureau issue.”
“Shut up. No, you so much as twitch and I’ll shoot you.”
He’d made a very small movement toward her, but she wasn’t going to let him get her this time. He was into martial arts, was he? She knew she was smashing the petunias, but she didn’t see any way around it. Mrs. Shaw would come after her because the flower beds were her pride and joy, but she was only doing her job. She couldn’t let him get the better of her again.
She kept inching away from him, that Colt steady on his chest. She came up slowly, keeping her distance. “Turn around and put your hands behind you.”
“I don’t think so,” he said again. She didn’t even see his leg, but she did hear the rip of his pants. The Colt went flying onto the sidewalk.
She was caught off guard. Surely an escaping crook would turn tail and run, not stand there looking at her. He wasn’t behaving the way he should. “How’d you do that?”
Where were her partners?
Where was Mrs. Shaw, the postmistress? She’d once caught the designated bank robber by threatening him with a frying pan.
Then he was on her. This time, she moved as quickly as he did. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her, just disable her, jerk her onto her face and humiliate her in front of everyone, which would be infinitely worse than being actually hurt. She rolled to the side, came up, saw Porter Forge from the corner of her eye, caught the SIG from him, turned and fired. She got him in midleap.
The red paint spread all over the front of his white shirt, his conservative tie, and his dark blue suit.
He flailed about, managing to keep his balance. He straightened, stared down at her, stared down at his shirt, grunted, and fell onto his back into the flower bed, his arms flung out.
“Sherlock, you idiot, you just shot the new coach of Hogan’s Alley High School’s football team!” It was the mayor of Hogan’s Alley and he wasn’t happy. He stood over her, yelling. “Didn’t you read the paper? Didn’t you see his picture? You live here and you don’t know what’s going on? Coach Savich was hired just last week. You just killed an innocent man.”
“She also made me rip my pants,” Savich said, coming up in a graceful motion. He shook himself, wiping dirt off his hands onto his filthy pants.
“He tried to kill me,” she said, rising slowly, still pointing the SIG at him. “Also, he shouldn’t be talking. He should be acting dead.”
“She’s right.” Savich sprawled onto his back again, his arms flung out, his eyes closed.
“He was only defending himself,” said the woman who’d yelled her head off. “He’s the new coach and you killed him.”
She knew she wasn’t wrong.
“I don’t know about that,” Porter Forge said, that drawl of his so slow she could have said the same thing at least three times before he’d gotten it out. “Suh,” he continued to the mayor who was standing at his elbow, “I believe I saw a wanted poster on this big fella. He’s gone and robbed banks all over the South. Yep, that’s where I saw his picture, on one of the Atlanta PD posters, suh. Sherlock here did well. She brought down a really bad guy.”
It was an excellent lie, one to give her time to do something, anything, to save her hide.
Then she realized what had bothered her about him. His clothes didn’t fit him right. She leaned over, reached her hands into Savich’s pockets, and pulled out wads of fake one-hundred-dollar bills.