“Rascal, what are you doing in there? Come here, come to mommy,” a woman could be heard saying.
“Maybe she’ll go shopping or something before she notices what’s going on,” Lester thought. Then he realized that when she went from the kitchen to the car, it will be obvious that they’d been broken into. “Oh please, just go into your bedroom, close the door and have a nap.”
The dog continued to run about on the main floor, making some disturbing sounds but not going into full pursuit mode. “Rascal, for heaven’s sake, come to mommy. Wanna treat, wanna treat? Mommy's got a treat for you. Come on boy, come and get it,” she said, trying to convince the animal to join her on the upper level.
“What is she doing up there?”
He listened ever so closely for anything that would give him a clue. Nothing came, other than her footsteps directly above him and the sound of the dog finally joining her for his treat.
“Good boy, good boy,” she exclaimed, in a strange baby like voice.
Whatever she was doing, the noises he was hearing drifting down from the upper level led him to believe that she was going from room to room. But why, and finally he could hear her making her way down the upper stairs, stopping briefly on the main level. He readied the spray and the gun, his left foot flat on the floor and his right knee down, foot back, ready to push him forward in an attack posture. The sound of her steps could be heard coming down the stairs directly at him, the dog leading the way. He held his breath, suddenly realizing that he needed something to disguise his face. On the floor scattered among the few dirty clothing items was a pair of women’s underwear. He looked for something more suitable but there was no time, it would be a second before the dog was at the door. He moved the spray to the right hand, along with the gun, holding them awkwardly while he stretched the granny panties over his head, leaving one eye exposed so he could see where he was shooting or running. The spray was quickly returned to the left hand and he assumed the previous posture again.
“Rascal, what has gotten into you today? You little monster,” she teasingly said.
The dog stopped at the door behind which he knelt. He could see the mutt through the slats in the dim light of the basement. Rascal tilted his head and lifted his nose into the air, letting out a bark before moving to the door, and smelling along the small gap at the bottom.
“Rascal, I know what’s in there, and no, you can’t chew up another pair of mommy’s panties. You’ve already ruined two pair this week.”
He could now see the slender woman standing behind the dog, a laundry basket held with one hand, pressing the edge of the basket against her hip to hold it in place. “Come on, get out of the way so I can get this stuff in the wash,” she insisted.
Lester slowly moved his position as far to his left as possible without making a sound. He kept his eyes on the woman and could see her set the basket down to her right and reach for the bi-fold handle that would uncover the appliances. He tried to make himself invisible, lowering himself as close to the floor as possible, without losing his ability to strike. Suddenly the door slid open, exposing the washer and dryer, but leaving him somewhat in the dark. Rascal was protesting loudly now and the woman continued to explain why he couldn’t get at her panties.
“If only she knew.” He couldn’t help but find some humor in what this must look like from the dog’s perspective.
The panty covered thief held his breath, watching her load the washer inches away from the gun pointed at her, just behind the closed door. Suddenly, the woman reached through the narrow opening, to the side of the dryer, in an effort to pull the detergent from the shelf above Lester. Her elbow was mere inches from his shoulder but he remained stone still, she was unable to reach, and she retracted her arm, pushing the small dog out of the way with her foot in the same instant. He could see her body moving to his left, placing her directly in front of him, her hand reaching for the knob that would expose his hiding place. Never before had he felt so alive. Every muscle taut, nerves raw, his senses in overdrive and his fingers tight against the triggers. Rascal continued to whine and yap, snapping at her slipper covered feet. She momentarily withdrew her hand from the knob and scooped up the small dog in her right, cuddling him close to her breast, and pulled the door open with her left.
Lester burst from the closet, panty on his head, screaming like a madman and pulling the trigger at point blank range on both the woman and Rascal. The woman fell backwards, landing in a heap in the laundry basket, the dog firmly pulled to her chest, pepper spray burning their eyes, nasal passages and mouth, making it difficult to breath but not keeping her from screaming at the top of her lungs. The sprayer leaned in closer to make sure he gave them both a liberal application of the pepper mixture, covering his own face with a bent inner arm in an attempt to avoid himself being overcome. The woman remained in the basket, her legs kicking wildly, hoping to take the attackers feet out from underneath him but being ineffective. With her free left hand she swung at Lester, her eyes squeezed shut, and unable to connect with any of the pathetic blows.
Satisfied that they were out of commission for a few minutes, he issued a verbal warning, “Don’t leave the basement for 10 minutes or I’ll come back and finish the job!” He repeated it a second time, screaming above her hysteria, to get his point across.
He ran up the stairs, also feeling some of the effects of the spray that had drifted into his own eyes. Fighting to see his way out the back, he grabbed the pillowcase and backpack, stuffing the gun and pepper spray into the open mouth of the bag, and dashed for the fence and the motorcycle beyond. At first he ran in the wrong direction, the sounds of the woman still fresh in his ears and unsure if it was his memory or if she was still screaming that loudly. He stopped, knelt down and looked around to get his bearings, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Remembering where the Yamaha was hidden, he ran for it, jumping over the low brush and pulling the backpack around his shoulders as he went. Upon reaching the bike he undid a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt, stuffed the few items and the pillowcase inside, slammed the helmet down on his head and lifted the bike from the dirt. A quick kick of the starter and he was on his way back down the tracks and the path to a paved road.
“Faster, faster!” he told himself, “she’ll be on the phone by now, faster, faster!”
He rode like Steve McQueen, in a race for his life, until he got to the blacktop where he knew he would have to regain his cool and not draw attention to himself. In the distance he could hear sirens screaming toward him, but he fought the urge to accelerate and start going cross-country. Alternating red and blue lights were flashing dead ahead and coming at a breakneck speed.
“Keep it together! Damn it Lester, keep it together!” He commanded himself, his right hand itching to crank up the rpm’s.
The Sheriff’s vehicle raced past him, not giving him a second look, he spun his head around and watched the lights become smaller as the car hurled down the road. Lester saw before he heard it, the brake lights on the squad car suddenly lit up, the screeching of the tires barely audible over the sound of his own bike, but undeniable that he’d been made. The Sheriff’s unit desperately tried to stop and turn around, sending the vehicle into a broad slide and landing it in a ditch, dust and smoke covering the scene and for a moment blinding the driver. Breland cussed, rocking the transmission from reverse to drive, and back again, in an effort to work the car out of the predicament he’d put it in.