n the small rear seat of the car a dark hared woman lay bound and gagged.
He broke into the car and untied her. She looked dazed and confused as she took inventory of her self. " Who are you?" Weed asked. Raymond Jones she answered starring off forlornly at a passing train.
Weed took a bite of his own mustache, grinding the tips of it between his teeth. "Ma'am," he asked with a worried look, "what is YOUR name?"
The small brunette looked herself over again then grabbed her stomach and turned on her side. Something between a sob and a frantic moan escaped her lips.
"Do you need a doctor?"
She pulled up her blouse to expose the smooth white skin around her navel.
"I was shot in the stomach," she gasped in a frightened whisper. "What the
Hell, what the Hell is, what is... "
When she fainted, Weed checked her stomach. There were no scars, no
bruises, no scratches of any kind. The delicate skin under his fingers had
hardly even been exposed to the sun's harsh rays on a beach.
The right thing to do was obvious. This confused and unconscious soul
should be taken immediately to a doctor. Calling an ambulance would be
best, but the answer to a lucrative mystery might ride off to the hospital with
her. John Weed opened the back door of his '87 Celebrity then picked the
woman up.
"Its okay honey; I'm taking you to the Hospital Do me a big favor and wake
up before we get there."
Halfway in his car, Weed's knees began to wobble. He breathed heavily,
feeling short of oxygen. Then the world began to turn fuzzy, his last
conscious act was to shove the young lady onto the Celebrity's rear seat.
