by Linda Ladd
“My God, Kate, what's going on? What have you gotten yourself into?"
“All I'm asking you for is a ride to Branson. That's all. Please, Henry."
Henry wasn't finished with the questions. After all, he was a lawyer. “Who're you traveling with?"
“I told you, an old friend of mine,” she lied with not a lot of finesse. “You don't know him, I'm sure. He's not from Van Buren."
“I might. What's his name?"
Booker chose that moment to show up at the hostess station, and Kate nearly wilted with relief. He was scanning the tables for her and didn't look thrilled when he saw her talking to Henry with a couple of police officers sitting right beside them. In fact, he looked as if he might turn around and walk back out. He hesitated there until Kate beckoned to him. Reluctantly, it seemed, he strode across the busy restaurant toward them, looking too big and strong and vital to be a noonday patron of Hillbilly Junction. His eyes were locked with hers, asking a ton of questions.
“Here he is now, Judge. This is my friend."
“Does he have a first name, or do you just call him friend?"
“Of course,” she said, laughing falsely at the judge's sarcasm as if he were just so silly. Then she lied to him some more. “Smith. His name's Jack Smith."
The judge looked Booker up and down, then got to his feet and offered his hand. Henry was a little man, only five foot five. Booker veritably dwarfed him. “Jack Smith, is it?"
“That's right."
“I'm Henry Hinkley. Old friend of Katie and her grandpa."
Booker didn't comment on that, or anything else, just sat down, turned where he could keep an eye on the door and the cops. His guarded body language was telling enough. He did not like having Henry at the table with them, not a bit. He wanted Kate to get rid of him.
“Henry knows about Michael. He heard about it on the news,” she said, very low. “He's here with a tour bus. Headed to Branson."
Booker looked more wary now, if that were possible, all tensed up, she could tell that, too, though his facial expression didn't change. But there was something else that moved inside those pale blue eyes of his, a warning. Believe it or not, could it be she was actually learning to read him a little?
“I told him I can't explain anything right now and asked him to give us a lift. Have you decided if you can do that, Henry? You'll never know how much it'd mean to me."
Judge Hinkley was looking at Booker through slitted, openly suspicious eyes. “How'd you get this far, Smith? You wouldn't want to be leaving a vehicle behind, would you?"
“Car broke down a few miles back."
The two men stared distrustfully at each other.
“Katie's like a daughter to me, especially since Pop died. She's in an awful lot of trouble all of a sudden. Wouldn't want to see her get hurt."
If Henry only knew, Kate thought, but she said, “Henry, please. I've asked you to trust me on this. To help me out. If you don't want to, fine. Jack's been trying to help me get out of this mess, so quit looking at him like he's going to pull a gun on you."
Booker threw her a startled look, not amused. Henry wasn't laughing either. It had been a bad choice of words. The two men looked as though they were going to grab each other by the throat and take to grappling at any minute. Joey spit out his pacifier and let out a shrill wail. Nearly everyone in the restaurant turned in unison to look at them. They had to get out of there.
“Well, I'd be a lot more comfortable with all this if you'd just explain the part about Joey being kidnapped,” Henry demanded very low, distracted momentarily when two women with whom he'd been dining gathered up their purses ready to leave. “I just might be able to intervene with the authorities, you know. Especially if Slick's the one who got you involved in all this."
Kate simply shook her head. Booker said his usual nothing.
“Well, you've always been a good girl with a damn good head on your shoulders, and I'm not surprised in the least that Mike got you involved in some of his St. Louis shit, through no fault of your own."
Kate nodded, encouraged. Booker didn't comment. Joey slacked off, thank God.
The waitress finally showed up with their food. As she set down the plates, she eyed Booker with undue interest, then moved on. Henry pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “Well, I'll ask the others and make sure nobody minds you two tagging along. Got a few seats empty. Go ahead and eat, then come on out to the bus. I reckon we can find room for the both of you."
Booker watched the starchy old man wend his way through the tables and join two old ladies at the cash register. He looked at Kate. “Are you crazy?"
“We need to get to Branson, don't we? I got us a ride."
“Are you crazy?” Booker repeated. “The man knows we're running from the law."
“Do you have a better idea?” Obviously Booker didn't, because he didn't offer one. “I tell you we can trust him,” she whispered, putting Joey back in the baby seat. He didn't like that either. He'd never cried so much before. “I've known the judge since I was a little girl. He's not going to do anything to hurt me. I didn't tell him anything anyway. He already knew I was in trouble."
“You sure he's not out there calling the cops right now?"
“He'd never do that. He's like a grandfather to me. I trust him completely.” She looked for Gail, didn't see her. “Did you ditch the car?"
“Yeah, in a patch of woods about a mile up the road behind Gramma's Kitchen. I hid it as well as I could but they'll find it eventually.” Booker glanced at the patrolmen at the next table but they were enjoying T-bone steaks, their suspicions obviously blunted by Judge Hinkley's friendship with Kate. His eyes darted from table to table. “Let's hurry up and get out of here before somebody shows up we don't wanna see."
Kate nodded. “There's a waitress here, one who's showing a lot of interest in us."
“She could be trouble. Which one is she?"
“That's her, standing by the door."
Both of them watched her pick up the phone at the hostess station. She fished a small piece of paper out of her apron pocket and punched in a number.
“She's calling them,” Booker said, turning his head as the waitress glanced in their direction. “Come on, let's get out of here, now."
Kate nodded, sneaking a surreptitious glance toward the woman again. The hostess was coming down on Gail for being on the phone, frowning and gesturing her toward the kitchen. Gail headed back to work. As soon as she entered the swinging kitchen doors, Kate said, “Okay, let's go while she's in the back."
Booker threw a twenty on the table, and Kate picked up Joey and followed Booker out of the restaurant. Joey was sniffling again but not yelling, so they didn't attract much attention as they moved outside into a warm sunshiny day and air that smelled like diesel exhaust. Judge Hinkley was waiting beside his bright blue bus with dark-tinted windows as elderly passengers pulled themselves up the steps at the door beside the driver's seat.
“Everybody agreed it was okay for you to board since I could vouch for you,” he said with a pointed look in Booker's direction. “Hope you won't make me regret this, Smith."
“Appreciate the ride,” Booker said, every bit as uneasy as Henry.
Kate was just glad to step aboard Henry's bus where she felt a little safer, at least for the two hours it'd take them to reach Branson.
Twenty-Three
BOOKER FOLLOWED KATE into the tour bus. They were getting plenty of attention from the senior citizens already aboard, all of whom seemed collectively thrilled to the gills to have a baby to make a fuss over. Nothing like forty or more grandparents to help Kate dote on the kid. The windows were heavily tinted, dark gray, which was very good. The people inside were pretty much invisible from outside; Booker had checked that first off. The seats were upholstered in soft crimson plush. Recliners. With two bathrooms in the back. A luxurious coach in which to escape. Kate probably felt like Cinderella. Still, he was increasingly uneasy. By getting on board they
were endangering the life of every single person smiling and welcoming them so eagerly.
“Try to get a seat by the emergency exit,” he said close to Kate, who seemed to be enjoying showing off Joey to every admiring gramma along the aisle. There were a couple of husbands along for the ride, but not many. The judge obviously catered to the ladies. Henry Hinkley was watching Booker like a hawk beaded in on a field mouse. The old man wasn't stupid. He knew there was a lot they weren't telling him but he had no idea how bad it really was. Booker hoped to God Hinkley didn't act on his suspicions. There was a CB radio up front at the driver's seat. Booker had seen it. It wouldn't take two seconds for Hinkley to bring the police down on them. Thanks to the waitress, Dmitri and the gang were probably already on the way.
Two women, with tightly curled white hair frozen into place with enough hairspray to wax a car, generously offered to move so that he and Kate could sit near the bathrooms. Kate smiled warmly; man, she did have one hell of a nice smile, and thanked them, and introductions fluttered around like happy canaries. As Kate included Booker, he tried to remember that he was Jack, supposed to be Joey's proud papa. He put on a stiff, skeleton's grin that probably frightened the elderly women more than disarmed them. They gazed curiously at him as they transferred their large straw purses and busting-out-full souvenir bags to the next empty seat. Joey started crying again, and Kate tried to comfort him while the busload of grammas and grampas gave a sympathetic oooh, aghast by his discomfort.
“Oooh, you poor little thing, don't you cry now. You're just pretty as a picture, yes, you are,” crooned a woman who'd christened herself Louise. She wore black slacks and a black-and-white-striped silky-looking top with a sailor's collar. She smelled good, like red roses, and was really getting into the cooing, mewling mode now, saying things like ah goo, ah goo, peeky pie, pooky poo. To Booker's surprise, Joey immediately responded big time, pausing his building little tantrum and gazing up at her with utmost interest. When he let out a chortling little laugh, Louise absolutely glowed.
“I just love babies, all children, really,” she informed them merrily. “They just take to me. My daughter says babies know instinctively who loves them. I think that's true, don't you, Frances?"
Her seat partner nodded, beaming about it, too. She wore a charcoal gray jogging suit with lots of silver ornaments and tiny mirrors around the neck and down the sleeves.
“Could I hold him a minute for you while you get settled?” Louise offered, brown eyes glowing behind her glasses. She couldn't wait to get her hands on the baby. “My grandchildren are all grown up. Julie has her own baby now. Trey's his name. He's my very first great-grandchild. He's a little doll but all babies are, now aren't they?"
At first Kate seemed reluctant to hand Joey over. She'd hardly had him out of her arms since Booker first laid eyes on her. But it didn't take her long to decide she could trust Louise. So would Booker. Louise loved children, there could be no doubt. When Kate acquiesced, Louise lifted Joey out of his yellow seat, very gently and cautiously, as if he were made of crystal, then quickly proved herself adept at cuddling infants. She stood in the aisle, tenderly gazing down at Joey while Frances hung over her shoulder, remarking what a sweet little face Joey had, what dark eyes he had, so bright and intelligent as if he understood everything they were saying.
“I bet he's got a tummyache,” offered a lady seated across the aisle from Louise and Frances.
“Novella's got a new little great-grandbaby,” Louise informed them, but all her attention was zeroed in on the child she was adoring. “If you like, I'll hold him for awhile. Sometimes if you put them down on their tummies on your knees, it helps relieve colic."
Kate told the ladies she wasn't sure what was making him cry, and Booker stood waiting impatiently until Kate moved into the seat beside the window. He examined the parking lot for signs of trouble. He didn't see the waitress who'd used the phone, or any hoods with guns or highway patrolmen with arrest warrants approaching the bus, so he considered himself lucky. The exit door was just across from him, which made him feel more secure about trapping himself and Kate inside a bus with lots of innocent people in their sixties and seventies. On the other hand, who in their right mind would expect Kate and him to board a tour bus?
Kate leaned over the seat and checked on Joey but the baby had quieted considerably. Louise knew what she was doing. Booker peered out the back window for any cars pulling off the highway. He had no doubt they'd come after them, especially if the waitress had snitched. If they could just get out of Hillbilly Junction and on their way without any trouble, they might luck out and lose Dmitri and his Russian cronies for good. Hell, what was Hinkley doing up there? Why didn't he fire up the bus and get the damn thing rolling? The last thing he wanted was a shoot-out on a senior citizen bus full of sweet, affectionate little grammas.
For about ten minutes Hinkley stood outside the front door shooting the breeze with another driver and waiting for his last, wayward passenger to wander back to the bus. Apparently a lady named Margaret decided she had a yen for some vanilla walnut fudge, simply had to have a piece to munch on until they arrived at the motel. Hinkley had agreed indulgently, obviously a tour guide who aimed to please.
Come on, come on, Booker muttered under his breath, then decided Kate might be better off in the restroom where nobody could recognize her. If Henry Hinkley had heard about the kidnapping, so had a lot of his passengers. Kate nodded and excused herself, and Booker sat watching the parking lot, nervous as an expectant father outside a delivery room. Louise cooed like a pigeon and rubbed Joey's back, charming the kid out of his little baby mind. Joey was actually trying to answer her, making happy little grunts that sounded a little like ah goo. Louise was indeed a natural-born granny, but Booker was more interested in natural-born killers as a white Isuzu Scout pulled into a parking place beside the bus. Misha of the dangling earring opened the door and got out of the backseat.
Booker slid down in his seat and put a hand alongside his face to hide his profile, no longer comforted by dark-tinted windows. He propped his left foot on his knee and put his hand on the .45 he'd strapped to his ankle before entering the restaurant. He unsnapped the holster. Come on, Margaret, forget the fudge and get on the damn bus. Two other men got out of the Scout while Misha ran inside, nearly knocking down poor Margaret who was exiting the place with several boxes of goodies.
Out the corner of his eye, Booker watched the men only feet away, his heart thumping against his breastbone as Margaret stopped at the door to chat with the judge. Shit, shit, get on, just get on, he wanted to stand up and scream at her. Dmitri had wasted no time hijacking a new vehicle, and Booker watched Kate's nemesis, wondering why the man was so hell-bent on killing her. She was right; Dmitri didn't come off as your everyday bloodthirsty assassin. He looked to be in his early forties, slim, muscular, standing about five ten or eleven. He had on sunglasses and was talking intently into a cell phone. His eyes never stopped searching his surroundings. Booker pressed back into the seat and averted his head as the Russian killer scanned the dark windows of Hinkley's bus. Booker hoped the waitress hadn't seen them board the bus.
Finally, finally, Margaret hopped aboard and came rushing down the aisle, handing out pieces of fudge to anyone who admitted having a sweet tooth, which was nearly everybody she passed. It turned out she was great friends with Louise, Frances, and Novella and plopped down in the seat beside Novella. They all chose different kinds and went on about the deliciousness of each flavor as Hinkley moseyed aboard and took what seemed an hour getting himself settled satisfactorily in the driver's seat before he finally whooshed the doors shut with a hydraulic hiss. He spent the next few minutes telling everybody to sit down, it was time to be off. Booker muttered an ugly oath to himself and slid the .45 out of the holster and onto his lap underneath Joey's blue baby blanket.
“Here, try a piece,” Margaret offered Booker, looking over the back of her seat. “It's rich but almost as scrumptious as my own recipe.�
� She winked, every bit as friendly as the rest. These women were the stuff Super Grammas were made of, and remarkably well preserved for their ages if they were great-grandmothers.
Booker nodded stiffly, keeping his eyes on the men outside, compelled to take a piece for fear she wouldn't stop offering until he did. He chose a piece of plain milk chocolate from a little white box replete with a plastic knife with which to cut it.
“Thank you, ma'am."
Novella peered around the seat. “My, aren't you a polite one? Not many youngsters have manners any more.” Youngsters, Booker thought, then wondered how polite Novella would think him if she knew he had his finger on the trigger of a gun hidden in his lap.
Booker realized he had to come up with something to say. Problem was he hadn't had much practice with inane pleasantries. “This is good fudge."
The ladies agreed enthusiastically while Booker watched the killers. They were having a heated discussion at the front of the car, then one was dispatched to search the cars in the parking lot. Another hurried inside the café, and Dmitri bent over a road map spread over the hood, still talking on the telephone. Start the motor, Hinkley, turn the goddamn key. Booker's jaw clenched hard, and he shifted the gun to a better position. The men were looking at the tour buses now, gesturing toward the one in which he now sat eating fudge like a sitting duck.
The ladies in front of him chatted innocently, and Booker went rigid as Joey let out a loud cry about the time the judge fired the engine and revved it to near B-52 roar. The Russians didn't hear the baby's wail, and never in his life had Booker felt better when a set of wheels began to turn and his window slowly slid past the white Isuzu full of hired killers.