Bitch Factor – Chapter 14
Thursday, December 24, Interstate 29, South Dakota
“I don’t want to shoot you,” Dixie said, aiming the .45 at Parker Dann’s chest. He sat next to her now, in the driver’s seat, wearing a cocky grin that had spread across this face the moment she unshackled him. “I especially don’t want to shoot you in my car, where I’d have to mop up the blood.”
His grin drooped at the corners. “So you want me to start this thing or what?”
She handed him the key. When he put it in the ignition, she leaned across the car and snapped a handcuff on his wrist.
“Dammit, woman, how am I supposed to drive all chained up like a rabid dog?”
“You have eighteen inches of chain between those cuffs, enough to shift gears and drive.” But not enough length to reach her with his big fist. When scoping out a control situation, Dixie always imagined herself in the skip’s place. Parker Dann could watch for the moment her attention wavered, grab the back of her head, slam her face into the dash until she was senseless, then kick her out of the car and be as free as a southbound goose. Now that they’d spent half a day together, she found herself thinking of him more as a beg teddy bear than a crazed killer. But that sort of thinking could get her in trouble. The cautious part of her mind said “cuff him,” so she had.
She rested the gun on her lap. “Do your stuff, snowbird. Get us out of here.”
Miraculously, the car had not run into another snowbank coming out of its spin, and Dann seemed to know what he was doing. He handled the Mustang with such skill that Dixie felt doubly embarrassed at her own incompetence. Why didn’t the damn car slide with him driving it?
Then, as her tension began to ease, the passenger-side wheels hit a bump.
“Watch out! You’re going off the road.”
“Gee, gosh darn. You’re downright perceptive.” Dann’s cocky grin was back in place, along with his irritating air of assurance. “Hanging two wheels on the shoulder gives us traction. That telltale bump warns us if we start to drift left or right.”
“So why didn’t you share that pearl of wisdom earlier?”
He tossed her a look of amused insolence. “Actually, fresh snow isn’t all that bad to drive on. You were overcompensating, is all. Natural, when you’re not used to the weather and road conditions. It’s ice under the snow that’s tricky, but this blizzard came so fast there hasn’t been much ice buildup since the roads were cleared.
Dixie nodded, and they rode in silence for a while. For the first time all day, she felt her shoulders and neck relax.
“Guess you know what a legend you are around the jailhouse,” Dann said.
“Legend?”
“You know, someone prisoners swap stories about.”
She knew what he was getting at, having fabricated a good number of the stories herself. Her reputation as a badass bitch made skips thing twice about resisting.
“Did you really follow a guy into the men’s room, cuff him at the urinal before he could zip his pecker back in his pants?”
More than once. “Catch a man with his pants down, he’s too surprised to fight back.” But she’d never transported a skip in the trunk of her car; those nasty rumors were useful but false.
“Another guy said you started a bonfire outside his bedroom window while he and his girl were getting it on. When they smelled smoke and came crashing out, you were waiting for him.”
“Wouldn’t call it a bonfire. A few sticks, some newspapers.”
Dann laughed. “Hell, you’ve got a cold heart.”
“Only kind to have in my business.”
His smile faded. “That’s a hint, right? Guess it’s not smart to listen to a prisoner’s story.”
When she didn’t answer, he turned his attention to the road. After a few minutes, he cleared his throat, and Dixie knew he was about to lay it on her.
“Truth is, I’d give anything to know for sure I didn’t kill that little girl. I honestly don’t know.”
“It’s hard to know anything when you’re falling-down drunk.”
“I was feeling no pain, for sure. Celebrating my first three-million-dollar sale – to a demolition company out of New Orleans.”
Three million? “What the hell did you sell, explosives?”
“Heavy equipment. Dozers, tractors, backhoes.”
Tuning him out as he droned on about making the sale, Dixie considered how to handle it if they managed to find a motel room. She’d have to leave him hitched to the steering wheel while she booked a room, then cuff him to the bed.
Her eyes felt sandblasted. She closed them against the strain of the swirling landscape, gray now more than white, with the sun setting. When she snapped her eyes open, twenty minutes had passed.
“Good timing,” Dann said. “Looks like a roadblock ahead.”
The faint glow of yellow lights dotted the road, one of them blinking.
“Keep that cuff out of sight, or I’ll have to turn you over to the sheriff.” She knew he’d rather take his chances with her than end up in a small-town jail.
As Dann coasted to a stop, she slid the .45 under her seat. A man in a heavy parka jogged up to the driver’s side. Dann lowered the window. When the man hunched over to look in, Dixie saw a highway department emblem on his coat and wondered if he might know McGrue. Doubtful, this far north. The parka’s hood was drawn close around the man’s face. Snow coated his mustache and brows, turning them white.
“You folks took a big chance coming through without chains.”
“Didn’t realize we were in for such a storm,” Dann said cheerfully. “Found out the hard way.”
“Not nearly as hard as it could’ve been. There’s sixty miles more of this and it’s still coming. Afraid we’ll have to stop you here.” He pointed. “turn right and go about four miles to Sisseton. You’ll see the Sparks Motel. Emma Sparks has a room waiting for you.”
“Waiting for us? Like she knew were coming?”
The officer knocked snow off his lashes with a padded-gloved hand. “Margie, from the Grandin Diner, said to watch for you guys. Otherwise, I’d be home now, with a warm fire and a hot meal.”
“Appreciate your waiting,” Dann said.
“You can follow me into Sisseton, get a good night’s sleep.” The trooper slapped a farewell on the car’s roof and jogged back to the pickup. Ten minutes later, Dann turned in and stopped at a red neon motel sign. The pickup blinked its lights and drove on.
Dixie eyed the office. Across the drive, four cabins angled toward the road, roofs laden with snow.
“Keys,” Dixie said, holding out her hand.
“You don’t really think I’d try to drive out of here?”
“I don’t think you’re that big a fool, but why risk it?”
With a shrug and a yawn, Dann slipped the keys from the ignition, dropped them into her hand. Dixie zipped herself into his parka, shoving the .45 deep in a pocket, then trudged through gusting snow to the rental office. A bell jangled above the door. The rich aroma of roast pork filled her nostrils. A thin elderly woman in a green calico dress and round eyeglasses smiled across a counter sign that identified her as Emma Sparks, Proprietor. She wore a corsage of holly springs and gold Christmas balls. No computer-chip designs stamped into the gold finish, Dixie noticed, and felt absurdly uplifted by that fact.
Emma Sparks handed her a steaming mug of a liquid that smelled like hot apple pie.
“Spiced cider,” she said. “It’ll warm you right up.” The woman had an infectious smile.
“It’s wonderful.” Dixie hadn’t realized how ravenous she was. “Thanks.”
“Lord, I was worried sick you folks’d got yourselves stuck someplace. Told Arnie, that’s my son, if you didn’t turn up in another half hour he’d best go fetch you.”
Dixie tugged off her gloves and dug out her wallet.
“We appreciate your staying open for us, being Christmas Eve and all.”
“Honey, out on that highway you’d be a snowball come morning.” Emma plucked a brass key off a wall peg. “The cabin’s not a bit fancy, but it’s warm and the bed’s good.”
“Don’t suppose you have two beds in there, do you?” Dixie counted out some bills. Glancing up to see the woman’s smile had faded, she forced a grin. “That man kicks like a mule, but I’d hate to put him on the floor on such a night.”
“Ha! I’ve been there before.” Emma Sparks laughed and rang up the sale. “Got a dilapidated old cot, won’t be too comfortable. I’d let you have an extra room, but the others are all filled.” She opened a closet door behind her and lifted out an aluminum camp cot, the army green canvas worn thin in places.
Dixie rounded the counter to take it from her.
“There’s extra bedding in your cabin,” the woman said. “On the closet shelf.”
“Thank you. This will beat getting kicked blue.” Dixie hefted the cot, hating the deception but aware that no good could come from telling Emma Sparks that a child killer would be sleeping under her roof. Turning to go, Dixie remembered the acute emptiness of her stomach.
“Suppose there’s any place open in town to get a hamburger?”
The old woman’s smile brightened like a Christmas candle.
“Cafe’s closed, but I knew you folks’d be hungry, so I put a tray in your room. Nothing fancy, mind. Buck, that’s my husband, cooked up a big ham this morning, way more than we’ll ever eat. I made some sandwiches. Put some fresh fruit on the tray, too, and a thermos of that hot cider. The room has a little refrigerator stocked with juice and sodas, just pay for what you use, and there’s instant coffee packets, tea, cocoa – not the Hilton, honey, but we won’t let you starve.”
Sounded a damn sight better than the Hilton at the moment. Homemade ham sandwiches? Dixie’s mouth was already watering. Emma bustled around to open the door for her.
“Last cabin on the right. You can park on the side there, out of the wind.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Sparks. Sure was good of you to be open.”
“It’s Emma, honey, and listen, there’s a phone in your room, if you need anything. Just dial eight. We won’t have the office open, so no sense in your trudging over here in the storm.”
“How long does a storm like this usually last?”
“This’n’s worse than most, but I expect it’ll blow over by morning. Clearing the roads might take a day or two.”
Dixie couldn’t keep the misery from showing in her face. Even if the roads were miraculously clear by morning, no way she could be home by Christmas night. Seeing her feelings reflected in Emma Sparks’ inquisitive eyes, Dixie forced a smile before pushing back out into the blizzard.
The wind tried to wrestle the cot from her hands as she carried it to the Mustang and shoved it on the backseat.
“Let’s go.” She cocked a thumb toward their cabin, handed Dann the car keys, and wished like hell she hadn’t let Belle Richards talk her into taking this sorry job.
Join me next week, same day same place, for the next Bitch Factor chapter, because there are more tricky bends in this story you’ll want to read.
Meanwhile, Click Here to check out Slice of Life, another wild-and-wooly Dixie Flannigan ride.
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