Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set Nanci Rathbun (i love reading books txt) 📖

of the pipe, as the semi exited the truck stop and pulled onto the I-94 ramp, heading north for Wisconsin.

Bobbie and I lay there for several minutes, just breathing and holding each other. Then I squirmed and told him to move off me. The pipe was gigantic. I crawled forward, past Bobbie, and turned myself around so I could see out the back end of the pipe and the truck. There was no sign of a Park Avenue on our tail. “I think we lost him.”

Bobbie’s laugh was quiet at first, then built to a full belly laugh, bordering on hysteria. “Lost him, huh?” he said, as he finally settled into a chuckle. “You think he doesn’t know where we are?”

I was laughing along with him, the release of tension so sharp that it was either laugh or cry. “Not in this inconspicuous vehicle.”

Our merriment ended when the semi picked up highway speed. The cold air whooshed through the pipe and, with every slight adjustment in steering, the load of pipes shifted in their chains and we bounced from one concrete side to the other. Bobbie grabbed me and lay back, spread-eagled, with me on top of him, as he tried to shelter me from the worst of it. Even so, our shoulders, elbows and lower bodies took a beating. I shoved my scarf under Bobbie’s head to protect his skull.

“I lost my cell phone back at the truck stop,” I told him. “Do you have yours?”

He released me long enough to feel inside his overcoat. “Thank God, I do.” He dialed 9-1-1 and tried to convince the dispatcher that we really were rolling along I-94 in a load of concrete pipes being hauled by a semi, with a madman on our trail. As the dispatcher questioned him further and Bobbie’s exasperation grew, I said, “Tell them to call the state patrol and ask for Wukowski.”

It seemed like an hour, but it was probably only ten minutes before flashing lights and sirens approached. The truck pulled over and the trooper exited the squad car and headed for the cab. Wukowski and Iggy were right behind in their unmarked police-issue vehicle. Wukowski ran for the pipes, yelling, “Angie? Bobbie?”

We crept up to the end of the pipe and I waved the scarf. “We’re in here.”

Wukowski found a step of some sort and pulled himself up, face to face with me and Bobbie. “You okay?”

“Battered as all get-out, but we’re okay,” Bobbie said. “Angie took the worst of it, being so small. I think we need a hospital.”

“No!” I insisted. “Nothing’s broken, no bleeding, I’m breathing fine.” I looked at Bobbie. “You?”

“Same here. But there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t hurt.”

“Did you get Petrovitch?” I asked Wukowski.

“We did.” His voice was solemn and his expression was stern.

“Alive?”

He nodded.

“Then, please, take me home.”

I won’t describe the process of emerging from the pipe. It took the driver—who kept repeating, “Honest, officer, I had no idea they were in there,”—the trooper, Wukowski and Iggy to ease me out and lower me down. Bobbie only needed two sets of strong arms.

The trooper went back into the pipe, once Bobbie and I were out, and emerged with his Smokey Bear hat in hand, shaking his head. “Darnedest thing I ever saw,” he said. “Ma’am, I think you both need to be checked. You could have internal injuries or concussion. It’s ninety minutes to Milwaukee. Anything can happen in that amount of time.”

Wukowski agreed and Iggy refused to listen to my pleas, so we got into their car and headed for the nearest ER. Diagnosis: severe bruising. An hour and some pain pills later, we were released.

Wukowski was very solicitous, helping me into the back seat and sitting with me, feeding me sips of highly sugared hot tea. Bobbie and Iggy sat up front. I saw Bobbie pop a pill and lean back. Wukowski handed me one and I swallowed it with my tea. Then I twisted around, despite the seat belt, and put my head in his lap. I was grateful that he didn’t harangue me about the danger I put myself in. That would probably come later. “Home?” I asked.

“Not yet. Next stop is Illinois State Police Headquarters.”

The troopers were considerate. They took a short verbal statement from Bobbie and me and told us they would fax it to Wukowski after it was typed up. We could sign at MPD headquarters. Petrovitch’s story was that we fired the first shots, but the truck stop surveillance cameras proved him a liar. Although there was no warrant for his arrest in Wisconsin, they agreed to have him transported back to Milwaukee, as a person of interest in the murders of Dragana Zupan and the Johnsons. Probable homicide trumped discharge of weapons.

By the time we left the station, the pain pill kicked in and I was barely awake. Wukowski tucked me up in the rear seat again and the car started to move. He stroked my hair, leaned down, and whispered, “You okay, moja miłość?”

I nodded, vaguely registering the words. Moja meant ‘my.’ But I had no idea about ‘me-washed.’ I decided to ask him later. Much later.

Chapter 25

Hey, Cochise, circle up. The wagons are gonna attack.

—Cheech and Chong’s Next Movie

I awoke when we reached my condo building. Wukowski had an access card for the garage, so we pulled into my parking space and he helped me upstairs, while Iggy kept a hand on Bobbie’s elbow. Aunt Terry waited at the door. I glared at Iggy, who shrugged.

Aunt Terry gently extracted me from Wukowski’s hold, guided me to the couch, lowered me down and covered me with a cozy pashmina throw. Bobbie hobbled in and she assisted him to the other side of my sectional. Once we each had a cup of hot chocolate—I was out of herbal tea and Aunt Terry declared anything with caffeine off limits for the time being—she gave Wukowski her fiercest glare, the one that used to make little Angie