Bitch Factor – Chapter 9

In the rearview mirror, which had jolted sideways, Dixie’s eyes were dark pinpoints of strain, her complexion ash-gray, A tiny muscle twitched beside her mouth. Her hands were shaking. She tightened her grip on the wheel.

What a damn dumbass predicament. She knew better than to stomp the brake.

“Must’ve been a deer,” Dann commented. “Lot of whitetail around these parts.”

The engine had died, and the sudden quiet stretched like a vast cotton blanket, broken only by the relentless wind whistling at the window. With the fog lights off, Dixie realized how much the sky had darkened in only an hour.

“Natural reaction, you know. Stomping the brake like that. Been a real mess if you’d hit that deer.”

Dann’s words triggered a rerun in Dixie’s mind of the sudden streak of movement across the highway. This time she felt the impact, heard the crunch of glass, saw the Mustang smashed, herself unconscious… snow, blowing through the broken window, burying her still form, while her prisoner froze to death in the backseat… the Mustang slowly disappearing into an endless white terrain.

She wiped a hand across her face to dispel the image.

“You ever hit a deer?” she asked quietly, suddenly needing to hear a voice. Dann’s voice, she’d noticed, was resonant and oddly pleasing. Most of all, it was warm and human. The only thing she could think of worse than being stuck in the middle of God knows where in a blizzard was being stuck and alone.

“Nope, not a deer. Knew hit a guy hit a horse, though. Bashed up the front of his rig, put himself in the hospital.”

“What about the horse?”

“Dead.”

Dixie grimaced. True, they could be in worse trouble. But the thought offered little comfort.

She turned the key to start the engine. When it cranked right up, she heaved a sigh of relief, shifted into reverse, and stepped lightly on the gas. The Mustang kicked up a spurt of snow, started to pull out— then the tires whirled in place.

“Damn it all!” She killed the engine.

“Lady—”

Dixie opened the car door, had to shove it hard to clear the drift. The wind’s fury pushed her back, but her own fury won out. She slammed the door, sank knee-deep in snow, felt it trickle over the tops of her boots.

Sucking in a breath of frigid air, she kicked her way through the snow to the edge of the highway, almost relishing the dull ache in her lungs. Any feeling, even the worst pain, was better than the helpless reeling as the Mustang spun across the ice. Dixie closed her eyes. Instantly she was a child hugging the rail at a roller rink, small, nauseated with fear, yet determined not to let panic get the best of her. A common phobia, a doctor had assured her once, akin to one of only two fears humans are born with—fear of loud noise and fear of falling. Dixie wasn’t fond of loud noises, but she got white-knuckled terrified at losing control.

All right. So she had momentarily lost control of her car. All she had to do was put it back on the road and start driving. She was in South Dakota after all not the frozen tundra.

As if mocking her, the wind gusted fiercely, knocking her off balance. Dixie braced so hard against it—teeth clenched, hands fisted as if to punch the wind back in its corner—that when the gust abruptly let up, she fell forward on one knee.

“Hah! At least I didn’t fall on my Texas ass this time!” she yelled at the sky.

The wind lapped up her words and spit them into the distance.

Catching a glimpse of Dann’s face at the car window, Dixie flushed. Well, if he believes he’s traveling with a crazy woman, maybe he’ll think twice before trying anything stupid. Nevertheless, it was time to stop railing and find a way out of this mess.

A four-pronged diagonal rut marked the Mustang’s path where the tires had skidded treacherously into the drift. Snow had leveled the ditches and turned the fence rows to hills. If she was right, the car had landed on the opposite side of the road, headed in the wrong direction from where they started. The car, buried to its bumper, canted downhill.

Teeth chattering hard enough to bite off her tongue, Dixie scanned the distance for signs of life. A tow truck would sure as hell be welcome. But nothing stirred, except for the wind and snow.

Then out of the wind came a low moaning, like the bleat of a foghorn. Shielding her eyes against the flurry of snowflakes, she peered toward the sound. At first all she saw was a frenzied blur of twisting, whirling whiteness; then a brown patch shifted into view.

When the moaning sounded again, instinctive dread pulsed at the back of her neck. Behind her, Dann rapped on the window. Dixie ignored him, trying to discern the source of the moaning. When it came again, recognition struck like a wet snowball. A cow, you ignorant city fool.

But one cow wouldn’t present such a wide mass of brown. A number of cows,then. Hadn’t she heard that sheep and cattle would bunch against a fence on the downwind side of a storm – especially a sudden and violent storm? Each animal pushed mindlessly ahead until they sometimes smothered one another in panic.

Dixie’s teeth, chattering like castanets, began to ache. The biting cold stung her face. She tugged open the car and sank onto the seat.

“Two things,” Dann said. “ Here’s what’s happening under the car right now…” He paused a beat. When she didn’t respond he continued. “Residual exhaust heat is melting the snow. As fast as it melts, the wind freezes it again while the car’s weight compresses it. Soon we’ll be stuck in ice. I’ll give you one guess which is easier to get out of.”

Maybe trying to get out wasn’t the best idea. She’d played a game once called “Lost in the Arctic.” Survival hinged on whether to stay put and wait for rescue or to start walking. Players who elected to walk died.

Watertown was a hundred miles ahead of them, hours ahead, considering driving conditions that worsened by the minute. Even if she succeeded in getting the Mustang back on the road, what made her think she could keep it there?

Parker Dann had grown up with this sort of weather in Montana. He would know a hell of a lot more than she did about surviving it.

“You said two things,” she reminded him.

“If you’re considering waiting out the storm, you may as well shoot us both and save us a lot of misery.” She turned to look at him through the steel mesh.

“You think it’s cold now,” he said. “Wait till the sun goes down. That Levi jacket you’re wearing is better than my shirt, but not by much.”

She eyed his brown flannel shirt and the thick down-filled parka that lay beside him on the seat.

“If we sit here,” he continued, “we’ll have to run the heater to keep from freezing. We’ll be out of gas before daylight. Or dead from carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“What about rescue trucks?”

“Sure, there’ll be a few snowmobiles out. But unless you have a CB radio hidden in the glove box, Flannigan, we’ve no way to signal for help.”

She had a CB, all right, a portable. It’d been useful during the drive up, for maintaining contact with her patrol buddies through Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska. But here in South Dakota, where she had no friends on a police force, and no contract to legitimize her picking up Dann, a potential kidnapping charge was a very real possibility.

“Stay here,” Dann said, “and by morning we’ll be just another snowdrift.”

The thought of being buried alive turned her bowels to water. Was Dann counting on that? She had noticed his subtle shift from you to we. Was he baiting her, betting on her inexperience for a chance to escape?

“Okay, snowbird, do you have a suggestion for getting out of this ditch?”

“Got anything in the trunk to dig with?”

“Wrenches, screwdrivers. A claw hammer, maybe. No shovel.”

“We can cut the top off this plastic water bottle. Use it as a scoop.”

Better yet, she had a gallon jug of laundry detergent in the trunk that she forgot to carry in after yesterday’s shopping trip. Since they were likely to freeze before needing clean underwear, she supposed the detergent was expendable. “Okay, so we have something to dig with. Now what?”

“Scoop the fresh snow away from the tires, then straighten the front wheels. We’ll try to take it out on the same ruts it made going in, but first we’ll have to find some gravel – or dirt or whatever – to throw under the tires for traction. Chances are they’re sitting on weeks of packed snow and ice from earlier storms.”

A light blinked on in Dixie’s mind. This was the same drill she’d use to get unstuck from Texas mud, except there she’d look for scraps of wood to wedge under the tires. She’d lived that scene often enough to know exactly what to do. If she could get out of a Texas mud hole, she could sure as hell get out of a snowdrift. Turning up her collar, she reached for the door handle.

Dann slammed his palm against the steel mesh.

“Hey! Aren’t you going to let me out of here?”

And have him knock her in the head first chance he got? She might know zip about blizzards, but she knew plenty about skips. In Houston, Dann was ninety-nine percent convicted, and his running would clinch the jury’s decision. Only a fool would return willingly; Parker Dann was nobody’s fool. Either he’d leave her here to freeze, or he’d lock her in the trunk and dump her at the first town on his way to Canada.

“Dann, your part in this project is to continue offering sage advice. You might also pray a little.”

“Aw, lady…”

She pushed the door handle and felt the blast of cold

“Hey!” Dann held up his parka. “At least take this. If you freeze, neither one of us gets out of here.”

Dixie nodded and lowered the back driver-side window for him to push the coat through. It was too big, only the elastic cuffs preventing the sleeves from hanging to her knees, but once she zipped into it, she felt a damn sight better about digging in the snow. Turning back, she opened the door again to flip the trunk latch.

“Find some big rocks,” Dann instructed. “Pile them in the trunk for weight.”

“Right.” Dixie squinted into the wind, wondering how to tell a rock from a clump of old cow dung when everything was buried under a swirling white coat.

Twenty-two minutes later, she yanked the door open and slid across the seat, pain needling her nose and fingers, feet numb inside her boots. Dann had been right about ice forming under the car. The top layer of snow had already started to crust over. She’d dug through it, though, scraping away fresh powder until she hit the packed snow that formed solid ground. She still needed some gravel to throw under the tires, but her hands had stiffened until she could scarcely bend her fingers. They had to warm up some before she could dig again.

She skinned off her frozen gloves and jammed her fists into the pockets of Dann’s parka. Better. But she couldn’t afford the luxury of sitting still for long. She glanced in the mirror; Dann was watching her through the mesh barrier, a cynical amusement in his eyes.

“Got a pair of dry gloves back there?” She’d noticed a pair stuffed in a pocket of his coat before pushing it through the mesh opening earlier.

“Wouldn’t need the gloves if you’d let me help. Be back on the highway by now.”

“Just hand me the gloves, Dann.” She fumbled the keys from the ignition switch and opened the mesh panel.

Dann handed the gloves through, then hooked his fingers over the bottom edge of the opening. “It’s getting cold back here. How about a cup of that coffee?”

Eyeing the thermos, Dixie decided a few sips would be welcome before braving the cold again, and she supposed she owed Dann something for the use of his coat. She observed a rigid set of rules, however, when transporting skips.

“Move your hand away from the screen,” she said.

“What the hell, one cup of coffee -”

She slammed the panel down on his fingers. The sharp steel edge cut into his knuckles.

“Goddamn!” He jerked his hand back. A narrow line of blood oozed across his middle finger. “Are you nuts?”

Dixie snapped the lock shut and pocketed the keys. She opened the thermos, poured a single cup of coffee.

“Hellfire, woman. You’re a real piece of work.”

The first sip burned her tongue, but the second felt good going down. She finished a third of the coffee before opening the panel and passing the cup to Dann. When he took it, she relocked the pass-through.

“Parker Dann, don’t have to be civil to you,” she said. “I’m not a cop.”

“No, you’re a goddamn bounty hunter!”

“- and you’re no longer a man. You’re chattel. The bondsman owned your ass the minute you skipped bail.” She opened the glove box and removed a first-aid kit. The single-wrapped alcohol swabs and Band-Aids slipped easily through the mesh.

“I could have waited out this storm in a nice warm bed back in Grandin,” Dixie said, pulling on the heavy gloves. They were too big for her hands. “You’d have spent the night in the trunk. Maybe you should be thanking your lucky stars that l’m reasonably humane.”

Outside, Dixie swallowed a surge of shame for being such a badass bitch. She hated doing it. But with a burly male prisoner, a 120-pound female couldn’t afford to relinquish control, even a little. She was already showing weakness in her ability to handle the storm. If she and Dann were stuck with each other overnight, he could become a threat, not only to her, but to others. Dann had to believe she’d shoot him rather than let him escape.

She kicked at the snowbank, wondering how far she’d have to dig to find gravel. The air felt colder than before. The driving snow felt wetter, clinging to her hair, clotting her lashes. Visibility had closed to a few feet. Using the lug wrench, she chipped through packed snow and ice until she hit a road sign that had been knocked down. Underneath it, she found a gravel shoulder. Hunching against the cold, she laboriously filled the makeshift scoop with dirt and rocks. Although the clumsy gloves impeded her, they kept her hands from stiffening up. Her ears felt cold enough to snap off.

She carried the scoop of gravel to the car and spread it out, barely covering the ice behind one tire. As she watched with sinking spirits, the wind picked up the smaller pieces and scattered them.

Another numbing gust knocked her sideways. Rocking on her heels, she braced her fall with one hand. She’d weathered a hurricane once, and the winds hadn’t felt much stronger than the one blowing now. Despair curled in a corner of her mind and nested. How the hell was she supposed to keep the car on the road once she got it out of the ditch?

Shielding her eyes, she scanned the highway in both directions, hoping for a search beacon, or at least a break in the clouds. As she watched the lashing snow, it occurred to her that no vehicle had passed during the half hour they’d been stranded.

She turned back to the patch of gravel at the roadside and refilled her scoop.

Check by right here next week for Chapter 10 of Bitch Factor.

Meanwhile, check out Slice of Life, another Dixie Flannigan thriller.

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