Pucker Factor

  Pucker Factor

  Nick Russell

  Copyright 2022 © By Nick Russell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing by the publisher.

  Nick Russell

  E-mail Editor@gypsyjournal.net

  Also By Nick Russell

  Fiction

  Big Lake Mystery Series

  Big Lake

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  Crazy Days In Big Lake

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  Big Lake Honeymoon

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  Return To Dog's Run

  John Lee Quarrels Series

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  The Gecko In The Corner

  Badge Bunny

  Mullets And Man Buns

  Strawberry Slugbug

  Sweet Tea And Jesus

  Dead Romeos

  The Road To Wrinkle Ranch

  Fresh Out Of Mojo

  Ka-Bar Karma

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  The Good Years

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  Standalone Mystery Novels

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  Nonfiction

  Highway History and Back Road Mystery

  Highway History and Back Road Mystery II

  Meandering Down The Highway; A Year On The Road With Fulltime RVers

  The Frugal RVer

  Work Your Way Across The USA; You Can Travel And Earn A Living Too!

  Overlooked Florida

  Overlooked Arizona

  The Gun Shop Manual

  Author’s Note

  All characters and locations in this book exist only in the author’s imagination. Any resemblance in this story to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  The first shot shattered the rear window of the Dodge Charger, showering the interior with pieces of tempered glass and startling Somerton County Deputy John Lee Quarrels, who had been looking for an address on Ledbetter Road in response to a call for suspicious activity.

  Seconds later, the shape of a pickup truck was beside him and a second blast went into the driver’s door of the police car. Jerking the steering wheel hard to the right, John Lee felt the car’s tires leave the pavement as he floored the gas pedal, hoping to get away from the murderous attack. The car lurched and bumped violently over the ground as he fought the steering wheel to control it. The police cruiser slammed into a tree stump in the recently cleared land and heaved upward sharply, then came down with a hard jolt as the airbags inflated, smashing him in the face.

  He may have blacked out for a moment, he wasn’t sure. It was a dark night, and there were no lights from houses or other vehicles to be seen. The Charger’s lights had gone off somewhere along the way, and John Lee pushed the deflated airbag out of the way and got out of the car, pushing the trunk release button as he went. Making his way to the rear of the car, he needed to get to the Remington tactical shotgun in the trunk but the lid had not opened. Suddenly he heard the roar of an engine coming closer and realized there was no time for that. He heard and felt more than saw the truck as it left the road and made its way toward him in the darkness, its lights off. Feeling his heart thumping in his chest, he drew his .40 Glock semi-automatic pistol from its holster and moved to keep the car between himself and the truck.

  “Do ya see him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Think ya got him?”

  “Pretty hard to miss, close as we were.”

  “Well, get out and check.”

  “I ain’t gonna check. You go check.”

  “Just do it.”

  He saw a dim light and heard the truck’s door open and leveled his pistol across the hood of the Charger, firing three quick shots, the muzzle flashes briefly illuminating the phantom truck but destroying his night vision.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  The attacker’s shotgun roared, and John Lee, who had moved several feet to the right, fired two more shots in return.

  He heard a door slam and someone shouting, “What are you waitin’ for, ya dumb sumbitch? Get the hell outta here!”

  There was the sound of grinding gears and then the truck’s engine revving, and John Lee was relieved when the sound began moving away. He was tempted to fire a couple more shots, but he couldn’t see enough to know what his target was. Ledbetter Road was sparsely populated, with just a few new homes going up, but he didn’t want to take a chance on what he might hit, firing wildly into the darkness.

  He could feel and taste dirt in the air as the truck sped away across the rough ground and then heard the tires chirp as they hit the pavement, heading south. Even though the night was cool, he could feel sweat dripping off the left side of his face, and when he reached his hand up to wipe it away, he felt something stinging. He reached for the microphone clipped to his tactical vest and realized it was gone. John Lee was afraid to turn on any lights until he was sure the would-be assassins were gone, but he opened the passenger side door and pulled the radio’s mic from the dashboard, calling the dispatcher.

  “Somerton County, this is 16. Someone just tried to shoot me on Ledbetter Road. Repeat, shots fired. I think it’s a pickup truck. It left the scene headed south toward Turpentine Highway.”

  There was no response, and he tried again, “Somerton County, do you copy?”

  Still no response. Deciding that whoever had been shooting at him was long gone, John Lee made his way around the car and got in on the driver’s side, pushing the remnants of the airbag down and out of his way. Only then did he realize that the engine had quit at some point. He put his foot on the brake pedal and fumbled to find the push to start button and pressed it. There was nothing, not even the dash lights.

  He felt dizzy and the side of his face was burning. He fumbled in his pocket, wondering why his fingers felt slick and weren’t working properly, and pulled out his cell phone, then dropped it. Cursing, he felt around for the phone, then froze when he heard the sound of a vehicle’s engine coming back. Not wanting to be trapped in the car, he got out, momentarily confused, then decided it was best to get away from the vehicle. Stumbling through the darkness, he tripped and fell twice, got back up, and then grunted when he smashed face-first into a tree. What the hell was wrong with him?

  He made his way behind the tree, which felt fairly large, keeping his back against it, then took a deep breath and started assessing himself. He was upright and could feel the stinging on the side of his face and neck, so he knew he was alive, but that he was injured. Just how badly injured, he wasn’t sure. He tried to raise his left hand to his face, but his arm felt heavy and didn’t want to move, so he reached across his body and used his right hand instead. He could feel blood on his neck and face. It seemed like a lot of blood, but he could not feel anything spurting, so he didn’t think an artery had been hit. But whatever his injuries were, he knew he needed medical attention. And he knew he couldn’t stay where he was because if the vehicle he heard coming was the same one that had attacked him, it meant they were returning to finish the job.

  Where was that vehicle? He remembered hearing an engine approaching but then didn’t remember what had happened. Was it just somebody passing by? If so, why hadn’t he seen their headlights? Was it them? Were they back and sitting quietly in the dark, waiting for him to move and show his presence?

  Think, John Lee, he told himself. You can’t stand here all night leaning against this tree. Sooner or later, either they’re going to find you or you’re going to bleed to death. Make up your mind and do something! But for some reason, he couldn’t focus.

  Some time passed, he wasn’t sure how long, but he decided that what he was doing wasn’t accomplishing anything. He knew that even if his radio call had not been heard and not acknowledged, sooner or later the dispatcher would check on him. When there was no response, they would send somebody out looking for him. But how long would that take?

  Somerton County was rural, and there were only three deputies working that night. The last he had heard, Barry Portman was backing up the lone city officer on duty at night on a domestic disturbance call, and Herb Glickman was way over on the other side of the county on a barking dog complaint. How long ago was that? Were either of those deputies heading his way right now, looking for him? And if they were, would they be driving into an ambush if the shooters were still around?

  John Lee decided that if he was going to die, it wouldn’t be from bleeding to death hiding behind a tree in the dark Florida pine forest. If help wasn’t coming to him, he would go find it, and if those sonsabitches who had shot him were still out there, he would deal with them along the way. Now, if he could just figure out which direction to go.

  He was disoriented, and the night was so damn b
lack. Then he remembered the small LED flashlight on the left side of his belt. He couldn’t get his left arm to work, and when he tried to reach it with his right hand, it couldn’t quite get there. To hell with it, he would just pick a direction and start walking!

  He stumbled through the darkness, feeling branches pulling against him now and then, some digging into his face and arms. Even though he was normally very cautious of snakes and alligators, he didn’t give either one of them a thought. At some point he fell and got back up, then fell again, and he thought about just lying there until the sun came up. No, he couldn’t do that. He needed to get moving again before he bled out. He got to his feet and stumbled onward, at some point realizing that he was on blacktop again.

  He walked for what seemed an hour but could have been only minutes, and then he heard a dog barking up ahead to his right. The sound got louder as he walked, and then he saw a light. Moving closer, he recognized it as a dawn to dusk light mounted on a pole in someone’s yard. He approached, hoping they didn’t have a big dog that would tear into him, but he had no choice.

  Now he could see the house, one of the recently built places. He tripped over some paving stones and landed facedown, groaning with pain. A moment later, he felt something wet on the right side of his face. What the hell was that? A dog. A dog was licking his face. Was it Magic, his German shepherd? Was it time to wake up? Had he slept through the alarm clock? No, he wasn’t in bed, and Magic was at home. Where was he? What was happening?

  Then he remembered and struggled to his feet, almost tripping over the dog before he finally made it to the door of the house. John Lee felt around for a doorbell but couldn’t find it and started pounding on the door with the heel of his hand. He was tired. So damn tired! If they weren’t going to answer the door, maybe he could just sit here until daylight.

  “Who’s out there?”

  “I need help,” John Lee said, not realizing how faint his voice was.

  “Whoever’s out there, I got a gun! You better get your ass off my property!”

  John Lee hit the door twice more with his hand. “Help me. Please help me.”

  A porch light came on, and he heard a door open just a crack.

  “I’m a cop and I’ve been shot,” John Lee said. “I need help.”

  He didn’t hear the door open the rest of the way, and he couldn’t see the light anymore. From what seemed like far away he heard the man’s voice shouting, “Joyce, call 911. Tell them there’s a policeman here and he’s hurt bad. Tell them I don’t know if he’s gonna make it or not!”

  Then he felt hands on him, two people pulling him to his feet and getting him inside. Again a voice from far away, this time a woman, saying. “Oh, my God. What happened to him? Is he dead?”

  “If he’s not dead now, he will be soon if they don’t get some help out here,” the man said. Then John Lee felt someone touching his face, feeling for a pulse, and saying, “Officer, we’ve got help coming. You hang on, okay? Don’t you die on me, buddy!”

  That was the last thing John Lee heard before the world went dark and silent.

  Chapter 2

  Maddy Westfall was wrung out from a long hard day of dealing with her mother, and all she wanted to do was soak in a hot bath for a while and go to bed. She thought about lighting a couple of candles for the bathroom, and how nice a glass of wine would be while she relaxed in the bubbles. But Maddy had never been a girly girl who went in for that sort of thing. She wasn’t even sure there were any candles in the house. Maybe a couple in the junk drawer in the kitchen in case the power went out, but probably not. And as far as the glass of wine, there was none of that in the house either because that wasn’t a good idea. Alcohol was not her friend and it never had been. Especially after a day like today with her mother.

  Maddy had avoided her mother as much as possible for as long as she could because she couldn’t handle the way she drank. It had been out of control for as long as Maddy could remember, and it was never going to get any better. She had done everything she could to cut off her mother’s alcohol supply, literally begging the clerks in the stores in town not to sell her anything and asking everybody she knew not to give in to her mother’s requests that they pick up a bottle or two for her, but she always found a way, no matter what.

  And now she was dying of cirrhosis of the liver. It was easy to see that even, without the medical diagnosis. Maddy had seen enough drunks in her time to spot the signs. The yellow discoloration of her skin, the spiderlike blood vessels, and the distended abdomen. Not to mention the fact that the woman literally reeked of alcohol, as if it was seeping out of every pore in her body.

  “No, that can’t be right,” her mother had protested when the doctor gave them the diagnosis. “That’s something that drunks die of. I’m not a drunk!”

  Maddy had to bite her tongue to keep from saying anything, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good anyhow.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Westfall. I wish I had better news for you,” Doctor Chopra had told her. “We’ve run all the tests three times now, and the results are the same. You are in stage 4 of liver cirrhosis.”

  “Well, run the damn tests again! Somebody made a mistake!”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Running the tests a thousand times is not going to change the diagnosis.”

  “You damn foreigners are all the same. You come over here to this country and the taxpayers pay for you to go to school, then you come up with bullshit like this! I want an American doctor.”

  “Mother, please.”

  “Hush, Maddy,” her mother shouted. “This quack don’t know what he’s talkin’ about. I’m not some drunk dyin’ from my liver.”

  “Ma’am, there are other possibilities for why a person has cirrhosis,” the doctor said, obviously trying to be diplomatic.

  “What the hell is cirrhosis anyhow? Explain it to me.”

  “Simply put, cirrhosis is scarring of the liver tissue caused by damage. When your liver is injured, it attempts to repair itself, and in doing so, scar tissue forms, which ultimately makes it difficult for the liver to function.”

  “So fix it.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Westfall. I wish I could, but it’s medically impossible.”

  “Don’t give me that shit! If I was a foreigner or one of those illegal aliens, I bet you could fix it then, couldn’t you?”

  “Mother, please.”

  But her mother ignored her, ranting at the doctor that he could make her better if he wanted to, but it was obvious he didn’t care if she lived or died.

  “Mrs. Westfall, I wish you would believe me. Every one of my patients is very important to me, no matter who they are. But your liver has suffered so much damage that…”

  “How can my liver be so bad if I’m not an alcoholic?”

  “While it’s true that other medical conditions can cause damage to the liver, such as some forms of hepatitis….”

  “There! That right there, that proves I’m not an alcoholic! It’s probably that hepatitis stuff you talked about.”

  Maddy rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything. What would be the point? Her mother had been in denial forever and nothing was going to change that.

  “Mrs. Westfall, at this point it doesn’t matter how the damage occurred,” Doctor Chopra replied. “Nothing changes the fact that the diagnosis is what it is.”

  “Then fix it!”

  “As I said, ma’am, there is no treatment when the liver reaches this stage.”

  “You’re telling me they can send a man to the moon, but you can’t fix a liver?”

  “I’m afraid not, ma’am.”

  “Well, if you can’t fix it, take it out.”

  “Your body needs a liver to function, Mrs. Westfall.”

  “Then how about one of those transplants? You can do that, can’t you? If you can transplant hearts and lungs and kidneys, why couldn’t you transplant a liver, too?”

  The doctor folded his hands on top of his desk and said, “Yes, ma’am, livers can be transplanted. Actually, a living donor can give part of their liver to be transplanted. But we have to face the facts, Mrs. Westfall.”

  “Then that’s what I want! Maddy will give me part of her liver, won’t you, honey?”