Two hours and three hitched rides later, the five weary travelers found themselves at a lone truck stop—a small filling station with a diner attached to it. Several rusted, broken-down vehicles, like the ancient husks of long-dead animals, littered the weeds behind the two faded red pumps. An eighteen wheeler was parked nearby.
As the pickup bearing the Monkees pulled into the station, a mechanic wearing coveralls that might—at some point in the distant past—have been blue squinted up at them, a long wrench dangling from his filthy hand.
“Ey, Manuel! Whatcha got there? New tomata pickers?” he greeted the driver, who brought the aging pickup to a slightly squeaking halt.
“Not this time,” Manuel replied, rolling his window all the way down. “I finded these kids out on the highway. They said their car it was stolen . . . by Randy McGraw and his friends.”
The mechanic nodded knowingly. “Man, I knew them kids was bad news. Didja hear his daddy had a heart attack last night?”
“No. I did not know that,” Manuel replied, glancing in the side view mirror as the Monkees hopped out and approached him.
The mechanic—whose embroidered nametag identified him only as Bob—watched as a battered yet beautiful young girl with long black hair touched Manuel gently on the elbow. “Thank you for the ride, sir. We really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, chiqueta. It sounds like you and your friends had a pretty rough time out there.”
Andi looked up at the dark-haired man who was standing right behind her. “You have no idea,” she said, winking at him. The other three started to giggle, earning an annoyed glance from the tall one.
As the five turned towards the diner, Manuel asked, “So what will happen now?”
“Don’t know. Assistant Chief Hutchinson’s takin’ over, and Randy and his pals had better watch out if they know what’s good for ‘em.”
Andi stopped dead in her tracks. Because she was in the lead, the others slammed into her, nearly knocking her down. After several moments spent trying to regain their composure, Andi approached the mechanic, resisting the violent urge to grab him. “What did you say?”
Bob was suddenly nervous. “Um . . . just tellin’ Manuel about Chief McGraw.”
“No,” she said patiently. “You mentioned Randy.”
“Yeah. Randy’s Chief McGraw’s son, and now that his daddy’s in the hospital he’s gotta watch his tail. See, when his daddy was police chief Randy could do anythin’ he liked. But now Jim Hutchinson’s in charge, and he never did like Randy, so Randy’s in a load of trouble.”
“Why is that?” Peter asked.
“‘Cause word is Randy done stole a car.”
Andi’s face creased into a grim, nasty smile. “Yeah, ours.”
Bob absently wiped one of his hands on his coveralls. “Well, Jim Hutch is real tenacious, so I’m bettin’ that you’ll be gettin’ your car back real soon.”
Micky and Peter exchanged excited grins, and even Mike looked relieved, as if a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
“Listen,” Bob said. “Why don’t you go over to the diner and get yourself somethin’ to eat, and Grace—she’s the waitress—she’ll give you Hutch’s phone number, and you can call him and see what’s up.”
“We will. Thank you both for your help.”
Bob watched them head for the diner. “Real nice and polite, they are,” he said to Manuel.
“Yes, but their hair is a little too long, I think,” Manuel replied as he started up his truck and headed back out onto the road.
~*~
Mike pushed open the battered wooden door of the diner and held it for his friends. There were few patrons in the establishment; several older men sat clustered around their mugs of coffee in a nearby booth, and a man wearing a patched blue-gray flannel shirt, jeans, boots, and a cowboy hat sat hunched over a plate of bacon and eggs at the pale blue formica counter.
The occupants all focused their attention on the weatherbeaten, dusty young people who straggled nervously through the door, the words “long-haired weirdos” only too clear on their faces.
Andi, who as a girl was immune to such looks, noticed her friends’ discomfort. “Come on, guys, let’s sit down and get something to eat. My treat.”
“It had better be your treat,” Micky whispered. “You’re the only one with money.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, smiling. “Heck, I’m used to that.”
They made their way over to a windowside booth and sat—Micky, Davy, and Peter on one side, Mike and Andi on the other. Andi tucked her bag under the table, keeping the strap within easy reach.
“What’ll it be, folks?” A waitress suddenly appeared at their side, sliding a pencil out from behind her ear. She had a stern yet polite expression, and she gave them a look that made it clear she would tolerate no trouble.
“Are you Grace?” Mike asked as politely as he could. “The mechanic out there said you could give us the police chief’s phone number—”
“Yes, but first we’re gonna need food, lots of food!” Micky interrupted. “Why don’t you just bring out everything you have in the kitchen and we’ll let you know when we’re ready for the second course!”
Ignoring him, Grace favored Mike with a questioning eyebrow. “What you want the chief’s number for?”
“Our car was stolen yesterday by Randy McGraw.”
Grace’s eyebrows fled into her hairline, and she nearly dropped her pencil. “Oh, you’re the ones!” She looked at Mike and Andi as if seeing them for the first time, and gazed for several long seconds at their various scrapes and bruises. “You poor things,” she muttered. “Why don’t you eat first, then I’ll call the chief for ya. How does that sound?”
“That sounds right nice, ma’am,” Mike drawled exaggeratedly, watching, bemused, as his friends tried desperately to contain their laughter. After taking their orders of bacon, eggs, toast, pancakes, coffee, tea, and milk, Grace retreated to the kitchen and Andi jabbed Mike playfully in the side.
“What are you trying to do, make me choke on my own spit?”
“Yes,” he replied. Andi promptly swatted him over the head with the menu.
“Wow, you two really have kissed and made up!” Micky giggled.
Andi and Mike looked at each other; they remained impassive for only a few seconds, then burst out laughing.
“Was it something I said?” Micky asked, looking to Peter and Davy.
“Well, they were out in the wilderness for a day. I think the heat might have gotten to ‘em,” Davy replied.
Andi finally contained her giggles. “I’ll explain later.”
Mike gave her an indignant nudge. “You will not!” That set Andi into fits of giggles once more, and she was still snickering when Grace returned bearing a massive platter of food. As soon as the plates were on the table Micky lunged forward, but Andi reached out with a staying hand.
“No, wait.” She inhaled deeply, smiling. “Please; a moment to reflect.” She hesitated for a split second. “Okay. Moment’s over.”
They attacked the plates ravenously. Andi—whose table manners were normally nothing short of impeccable—dispensed with the niceties, snatching pieces of bacon with her fingers and dipping rolled-up pancakes in syrup before wolfing them down whole. Mike echoed her performance, devouring entire pieces of toast in between bites of egg. The two had been eating for nearly five minutes nonstop when they looked up and noticed the shocked yet bemused expressions on their friends’ faces.
“What?” they said in unison. As Micky dissolved into uncontrollable giggles Davy shook his head and replied, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
They were scraping up the last of the food when Andi happened to glance out the window. Her hand shot out and seized Mike’s forearm.
“Ow! Andi, what the hell—” He stopped as his gaze followed Andi’s outstretched arm.
A familiar red GTO had just pulled up outside the diner, followed closely by a faded, aging yellow pickup; a figure wearing a sleeveless shirt and motorcycle boots was stumbling out from behind the wheel of the car.
~*~
“Holy shit, it’s them!” Mike swore. The others’ heads snapped around, their eyes widening when they saw what had so agitated the pair.
“What do we do, Mike?” Peter asked.
Mike was about to reply when Andi’s hand appeared on his shoulder, gently pushing him. “Get out, Mike.”
“What?”
“Get out of the booth.” He could see her hand slowly trailing down to her bag where her sword lay in wait.
He reached out and seized her arm. “Wait, And. Don’t. You could get in trouble if you slice ‘em into pieces.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” A mirthless grin spread across her face. “I guess my fists will have to do.” Mike slid aside quickly as she crawled out, moving with a catlike grace that they hadn’t seen since they’d met her.
She walked to the door slowly, almost as if she were in a trance, her eyes focused on the red behemoth and its three illegal possessors. Her hand trailed down to the spot on her side where her scar lay buried under cotton and denim.
Mike stood and began to approach the counter, but Grace was already backing away, her hand reaching for the phone. “I’ve got you covered, son,” she said.
Mike turned his attention to Andi, who was already reaching for the door. “Wait, Andi. You sure about this?”
She looked over her shoulder at him as Micky, Peter, and Davy joined him. The world-weary expression on her face made her look ten years older. “I’m tired of running, Mike. These guys have gotten away with murder for too long, and I’m not going to let them make me a victim . . . again.” She seized the knob and swung the door open violently; the blind rattled noisily as she exited.
“You’re just gonna let her go out there, Mike?” Micky asked.
Mike’s jaw tightened. “Yeah . . . but she ain’t goin’ out alone.”
~*~
A blast of hot air hit Andi as she emerged, stealing her breath. Randy and his buddies were huddled together next to the Monkeemobile, sharing some secret bit of confidence. When Randy turned and his eyes alighted upon her, he broke into a wide, leering smirk.
“Wouldja lookit that? The little firebrand is back! How’d you get here, honey, ‘cause I sure am glad to see you!”
After a few moments the grin faltered, then disappeared. She looked to her right and saw Mike standing next to her, a cold, steely glare on his face. A glance to her left revealed Micky, whose unruly curls and arching, glaring brows gave him a wholly wild look. They both looked exhausted and extremely angry. She did not have to turn around to know that Peter and Davy were behind her.
Her heart leaped for joy; with her friends grouped around her she felt invincible.
“The long-haired weirdos return!” Randy crowed with more confidence than he felt. “Come to get your car back?”
“Yes,” she replied stoically. “And if you turn over the keys and leave quietly, you may just escape unscathed.”
Randy held up his hands. “Oh, lookit me, I’m scared!”
“You know,” Andi said softly, “Normally I have this little rule where I never throw the first punch, but in this case I’m willing to make an exception. Do any of you mind?”
“Nope,” Mike muttered.
“Go for it,” Micky said. “Make it a good one.”
Andi moved forward, closing the gap in a few strides.
“What d’you think you’re gonna do, sweetheart?” he sneered.
Her eye muscles twitched. “They,” she said in a low, furious voice, “are the only ones who are allowed to call me sweetheart.” She indicated the Monkees with a slight nod of her head.
Randy opened his mouth, but his snappy retort died on his lips as her foot snapped out, smashing into his stomach. She watched him stagger around for a few moments. “Not so much fun when you’re on the receiving end, huh?”
He snarled and lurched forward, plowing into her and knocking her to the ground. In an instant Mike and Micky charged, leaping on Randy and pulling him off of her.
Jim and Charlie, Randy’s partners in crime, watched with varying degrees of doubt. Charlie—the thin, rabbitty hand-wringer—backed away, showing absolutely no interest in the fight. Jim just stared, torn between his tenuous alliance with Randy and his distaste for violence. His confederation with Randy won out, but as he moved to join the scuffle, something large crashed into him, knocking him to the ground and pinning him there.
“Don’t move,” Peter warned from his seated position on Jim’s back.
“Yeah, just relax and watch the show,” Davy said, moving to kneel on Jim’s legs.
The struggle that Andi found herself in was not what she had envisioned; her preferred method of fighting was balanced and elegant—this was just a fourfold wrestling match. Micky, Mike, and Andi were built tall and slender—none of them possessed Randy’s breadth or brawn. However, the anger that drove them made them quicker and stronger than they would normally be, and they fought with such ferocity that Randy quickly began to wonder if taking their car had been such a good idea.
He hurled Micky into the dirt; the drummer rolled onto his feet and dove back into the fray. Andi twisted Randy’s arm up behind his back and planted her knee in his back in an attempt to pin him down. With a furious roar he bucked, tossing her away; Micky and Mike immediately took her place, wrestling him to the ground once more.
Andi sat up, trying to catch her breath. A distant sound caught her attention—she looked up and saw a sight so wonderful she nearly shouted for joy; the police were coming.
“Guys! The cavalry’s here!” she shouted. Mike and Micky released Randy, who scrambled forward, grabbing for the keys that had slipped from his grasp. Mike lunged, sliding onto his stomach, and snatched them away. Randy turned and reached for him, but stopped when he spotted the police cars pulling in behind the Monkeemobile.
He was caught, and he knew it; he could already see the glowering face of Jim Hutchinson behind the wheel of the lead car. Instinctively he knew that this time there would be no slap on the wrist, no empty promises to his father that ‘he’d try to do better.’ He turned his terrifying glower on Andi, who sported a relieved, triumphant smile. She was the cause of this. He might be nabbed, but she wasn’t going to get out of this unharmed—he’d make sure of that.
Andi never saw him clench his fists and rise slowly to his feet; her attention was focused on the emerging cops. He lurched over to her and cocked his arm, his tattoo rippling as he brought it down . . .
Mike saw all this as if in slow motion—he lunged for all he was worth, wrapping his arms protectively around her and hunching his chest and shoulders to shield her head. Randy’s rocklike fist smashed off-center into Mike’s back with such force that he collapsed onto Andi, sending them crashing once more into the dirt.
“Randy McGraw!” a harsh voice barked. “Put your hands in the air, right now!”
Randy froze, thrusting his hands into the air. Micky, Peter, Davy and Andi paid little attention as Randy and his friends were handcuffed and led away—their attention was focused on Mike, who was on his hands and knees next to the car, gasping for breath.
“Mike? You okay?” Micky asked.
“Of course he’s not okay, Mick!” Davy snapped. “He wouldn’t be wheezing like that if he was!”
Andi touched Mike’s ribs gently, feeling for any that might be broken. She sighed with relief when she found none. “No broken bones, but he’s going to have one hell of a bruise.”
“You’re . . . telling . . . me,” Mike gasped. “Are they . . . gone?”
“Yes, Mike, they’re gone,” Peter replied, helping Mike as he straightened.
“Well, they’re going, that’s for sure,” Andi said dryly, watching as Randy was shoved rather roughly into the back of Hutchinson’s car.
Hutchinson approached them hesitantly, waiting until Mike was standing on shaky legs, leaning heavily on the Monkeemobile for support.
“How are you kids doing?” he asked.
Peter, Micky, and Davy looked to Mike, who looked to Andi. “We’re fine . . . now,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “It’s been a rough two days. At the moment we need hot showers and a nice long sleep.”
The sheriff hooked his thumbs into his belt. “You’ll get them—on me. I just need you to come with me and give your statements, then I’ll personally ensure you get to a hotel safely.”
Andi nodded graciously. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“It’s no problem, ma’am. I have been wanting to bust Chief—or should I say, ‘former chief’—McGraw’s son for a long time now. I’m just sorry it took the theft of your car and your stranding to do it.”
“Um . . . ” Micky said haltingly as Hutchinson turned away, “Do we have time to finish breakfast?”
On to Chapter Nine
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