“Shove it, jerk…” June muttered, panting quickly.
She looked down at the unconscious man sprawled on her bed. A shiver flew through her, and she felt the replay of his coarse hands on her body, pulling at her pants, stroking her panties. Her hand still balled into a rock-hard fist, she raised it to her shoulder, hesitated for only a moment, and sent it into Clinton’s Adam’s apple in a crushing blow.
June squirmed off him. She dug into her pocket for the plastic ties she got from Georgie and zip tied Clinton’s wrists and ankles, using two at each place. She ripped the rubber mask from his head, and didn’t recognize him either.
From being punched in the face so hard, blood was welling up from both his nostrils and overflowed his cheeks. She knew if she left him on his back, he could easily choke to death on his own blood. Gagging him would risk suffocation. She would have to turn him on his side to allow the welling blood to flow away from his airway. It was emergency medicine at its most basic, to keep his airway open. But that would require compassion.
Instead, June dug through his pockets. All she found was a cell phone and a pocketknife. She gave the knife a stare, and looked at Clinton.
“Not worth it…” she mumbled.
She cut her own thick plastic ties with the knife, releasing her left arm and both legs from their prisons, working her joints loose again and some blood into her limbs.
Clinton’s breathing sputtered through his blood.
“Looks like I’m still the one making the decisions around here, huh?” she muttered.
She turned him onto his side, allowing the blood to flow away from his nose and mouth onto her bedding. It was her bed he was on, and one of her favorite spreads. That could be easily replaced; her freedom couldn’t. His breathing improved to a soft snore as blood soaked into the bedspread.
June was down to only one intruder, an ex-con with a loaded gun and a bad case of frayed nerves. She knew it would take more than détente to deal with Ronald Reagan.
CHAPTER SIX
She listened at the door and heard only the TV playing. Reagan should still be on the couch watching TV, facing away from the bedroom door. It would be easy enough to walk out the door, aim Clinton’s gun at the man’s back, and pull the trigger. She wouldn’t have to be an expert shot to accomplish that, and the girls wouldn’t be in the way. As soon as that was done, she could call the police and be done with the ordeal. Surely, no one could blame her for defending herself and the girls with a gun one of the intruders had brought.
Did she have more courage than to shoot a man in the back?
The pistol was still on the floor where it landed during the fight. Giving its use one last consideration, June picked up the pistol, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She turned it from side to side, inspecting it closely. She watched her finger pull the trigger, heard the loud crack, a splat of pink mist as the bullet hit its mark at the base of his neck, Reagan’s instantly limp body slumping forward. She made her decision.
As serious as the situation was, she couldn’t bring herself to shoot a man in the back. She removed the clip and looked. It too was empty, just like George’s, and she could only assume they were unloaded to prevent a major crime from being committed in the heat of the moment. She dropped the gun to the floor and gave it a kick it under the bed.
She took several calming breaths while rubbing the raw spots on her wrists. Not that those breaths were particularly calming. Two men were down and out, hopefully remaining out and thoroughly tied. But there was still one more to go.
And two hungry, scared nieces only steps away.
There was no phone in the bedroom, and her smart phone was in Reagan’s hand the last she saw. With Clinton’s phone, she could call 9-1-1 for the police, but risked being overheard by Ronald in the other room. She had no door to the outside, only a window to shinny out. But she wouldn’t abandon the kids in the other bedroom.
If she went out and crept to their window, they would make too much fuss when they saw her peek in the window. There was no way she could get them out of the house without being heard.
She had to hurry with some sort of plan. With no better idea of what to do, June took Clinton’s phone to the bathroom. She opened it, and dialed those three numbers that have been so troublesome for her in the past. Ignoring the emergency operator when she came on, she wrapped the phone in a towel and set it in the tub, closing the door behind her as she left.
She figured the operator would stay on the phone for at least a couple minutes, talking louder and louder. The towel and closed door would have to be enough to drown out whatever noise the 9-1-1 operator would make, or a ringing call back. Maybe, just maybe, there was a GPS chip in the phone to locate its where-abouts, and police would eventually be sent to her home to check on the call.