Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (reading books for 4 year olds txt) 📕

“Ready?” Spider asked.

No time to dither, I thought. “Let’s do it.”

Spider lifted his left shoulder and spoke into it. “Package is on the way, Bram.” Then he slid the rifle back into its sheath and said, “Up you go.”

My foot barely touched his cupped hands before I was hurtled over the stones and into the snow on the other side, where the sled idled.

A second later, Spider vaulted over, landed on his feet near me, and grabbed my hands to hoist me up and haul me to the snowmobile, using his body as cover. “Get on behind me and hold on tight,” he shouted, pushing the rifle into a leather scabbard attached to the sled.

He gunned the motor and we tore off behind the Stations, negotiating an uphill path around tree trunks and big rocks. It felt like a slalom course of speed bumps as my butt bounced up and down. I would be sore tomorrow—if there was a tomorrow.

“Heading down,” he called out.

We dropped and bounced along, going airborne and then settling on land again, until we reached the bottom of the ravine. Between two walls of rock, the engine sounds reverberated around us and made me wish I were wearing earmuffs. I peeked around Spider’s bulk. A tortuous path, riddled with large stones, lay before us, but Spider maneuvered with skill. Down here, the wind was negligible—a blessing, since my hands and feet were sending out pain signals.

I couldn’t judge how long it took until the sled glided to a stop with the engine still idling. Spider turned his head to me. “Let’s take a stretch while I assess the situation.”

As I slowly levered myself up, the same funny little grunting noise my papa makes when he gets up from a chair escaped from my mouth. The ground rocked a bit under my boots.

With a ripping sound, Spider opened a Velcroed saddlebag. “Hand warmers.” He pressed two small rectangles into my thermal-covered palms. “I didn’t want you clutching them instead of me on that ride. More packages in there”—he pointed—“if you need some for your feet.” The rifle came out of its scabbard and Spider moved to the end of the ravine’s shelter, peering out and covering with the weapon, as he had in the grotto. I hadn’t noticed the binoculars in their white case, until he put them to his eyes and surveyed the area.

From a pocket in his snowsuit, Spider extracted a cellphone. “Bram, we’re at the boundary. Assessment?” After listening, he said, “Yeah, Angie’s holding up fine. She’s a tough little cookie.” He grinned at me. “Okay, Cap, we’re on the way.”

The cellphone, binoculars and rifle went back into their various holding places. “Angie, the truck’s parked about a mile away. We have to travel through the woods again, but it won’t take long. Bram’s confident the shooter’s long gone, but he has the area under surveillance. Ready?”

This time, I wanted to say, No, I’m not ready. I’m tired and sore and scared. But I told myself to suck it up and get on the sled. Somewhere in the not-too-distant future, a bathroom and coffee awaited me.

***

Bram met us with the truck on Wisconsin Highway 67. I climbed up into the cab, with the help of Spider’s automated Nerf bar and granny handle—his words, not mine—and huddled over the heater vent, waiting for the men to load the snowmobile for towing. While Spider drove north, Bram called Tiny Tim and put him on speaker.

“How’re things on your side?” Bram asked.

“Ducky,” came a tenor voice. “We headed out in my vehicle. Your passenger’s car is still back there. Rendezvous as planned?”

“Affirmative.”

We continued west and then south, heading for I-94. After about forty minutes, Bram turned onto a gravel road that led to an old collapsed barn near Johnson Creek. The doors of a Dodge Ram opened, and Bobbie and a small man jumped out. Bobbie ran over and enveloped me in a hug. “Girlfriend, you have got to stop making my heart cry for mercy,” he said.

“Agreed,” I mumbled into his chest.

Spider made introductions. “Angie, this is Tim Gunther. Tim, Angie Bonaparte. More proof that small can be damn tough.”

Tiny Tim grinned and shook my hand. “Mighty glad to see you in one piece, ma’am.”

His Texas twang rescued him from my ire at being called ma’am. “I’m mighty glad to be in one piece, Tim.”

His arm around my shoulders, Bobbie steered me to Tim’s truck. “We stopped up the road for coffee,” he said, extracting two cardboard carriers, each holding four large McDonald’s cups. “It’s still too hot to drink.”

“No such thing,” I said, peeling back the plastic tab on the cover. Nevertheless, I used caution in taking the first sip.

Spider, Bram and Tim exchanged long glances. Bram spoke. “The body may not be discovered quickly, but we can’t count on that. Was it out in the open?”

It? My mind knew that the lifeless shell next to the grotto was no longer Hank, but my heart protested. Still, it hurt me to refer to Hank’s body that way. No time for sentiment now, though. We had to plan quickly. “He’s lying in the lee of the station at the opposite end of the path from the parking lot.”

Tim noted, “I didn’t see any commotion from the immediate area, so possibly no one heard anything. Is the path clear down below?”

“Clear?”

Bobbie interrupted gently. “Is there blood on the path, Angie?”

“Some, I think. Once I hauled him to the edge of the grotto, I didn’t look back. To be honest, he didn’t bleed much.”

“The continued snowfall could work in our favor then,” said Tim. “I called a guy I know to drive my car out.”

I drew in a sharp breath. “My CRX is still in the lower lot, with my purse locked in the trunk. Looks like I should expect a visit from the police.”

“I decided it was better to leave it there, Angie.” Bram’s voice held a degree of foreboding. “Somebody