by James Swain
Wayne stared into the trunk. “You’re not going to let me shoot her?”
“No.”
“In the movie he shot her.”
“This is not a movie. Pick one.”
“Okay. I’ll use the tire iron.”
Renaldo removed the tire iron and slammed the trunk. Wayne pushed Vick ahead of him without having to be told. Renaldo liked his enthusiasm. The teenager stopped at a spot near the fence which had a large slit.
“One of my friends cut through the fence so we can slip through during the day,” he explained. He pushed Vick to the ground and held out his hand.
“Give it to me,” the teenager said.
Renaldo slapped the tire iron onto Wayne’s palm. He realized that he was trembling in anticipation. He hadn’t been this nervous since he’d killed his own sister.
Wayne tossed the tire iron from hand to hand. The teen said something under his breath that sounded like a prayer. God doesn’t listen to our prayers, Renaldo nearly told him. We are his bastard children.
“Why can’t I use a gun?” Wayne asked.
“No gun. Hit her in the head. Do it now.”
“Whatever you say.”
Wayne raised the tire iron over his head. He started to bring it down, then froze, his eyes darting through the fence at the adjacent football field.
Renaldo followed his gaze. A group of heavily armed men were on the fifty yard line, sprinting toward them. Above them hovered a helicopter, its bright spotlight sweeping the ground. Police. Renaldo instinctively aimed the Taurus at them.
Something hard hit his hands, breaking several of his fingers. He dropped his gun to the ground and cupped his hands together, the pain shooting up his arms. Wayne stood in front of him, wielding the tire iron for another strike.
“Why did you do that?” Renaldo said.
“I’m not who you think I am.” Wayne raised his voice. “Over here!”
“You little bastard. I will kill you.”
Renaldo rushed Wayne, and sent him tumbling to the ground. Retreating to his car, he managed to open the driver’s door with his broken fingers, and start the engine. His headlights automatically came on. Policemen poured through the fence, their weapons aimed at him. He saw Wayne lying on top of Vick, hugging her.
Bullets hit his windshield, the glass imploding around him. His back tires found the two-lane road. Driving in reverse, he rammed a police cruiser trying to stop him.
He got on the street in front of the highschool. Police cruisers were parked in the road in a giant V, preventing his escape. Uniformed cops huddled behind the cruisers, pointing guns at him. He drove onto the sidewalk, staying low to avoid their bullets. He heard the satisfying thud of a body going under his car.
He headed toward I-595. In his mirror, the cruisers gave chase. He couldn’t outrun the police, but he could lose them.
He could not stop thinking about Wayne, and how he’d misjudged him. Everything the teenager had said to him was a lie. Not his son, but a stranger.
For the first time since childhood, Renaldo cried.
Chapter 55
“He’s gone. You’re safe,” Wayne said.
The teenager untied the ropes holding Vick hostage. She got to her feet, not entirely sure what had just happened, or how the police had materialized out of thin air.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” the teenager said.
“You hurt me,” Vick said.
“I didn’t know what else to do. He was going to kill us.”
Vick looked into Wayne’s face and sensed he was telling the truth.
“How did the police find us?” she asked.
“I tipped them off. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Only inside, Vick nearly said.
Linderman stood on the other side of the fence, waving to her. The police chopper had landed in the end zone of the football field. She followed her boss into the chopper, and buckled herself into the seat next to the pilot, while Linderman sat in back.
“You okay?” Linderman shouted over the whirring blades.
“I’ll live,” Vick shouted back.
“The kid saved your life.”
“I know.”
The chopper floated into the air. Vick put on a pair of headphones which would allow her to speak to both the pilot and Linderman. Down below, Wayne stood with a group of police officers. He gave a little wave.
“Mr. Clean’s car has been spotted on 595, heading east,” Linderman said through the headphones. “The police are setting up roadblocks and blocking off the entrance and exit ramps. You ready to take him down?”
Vick hesitated. Then it hit her. This was still her case.
“Yes, sir,” Vick said.
Linderman reached through the seats and patted her shoulder. It was as much affection as she’d ever seen out of him, and she found the strength to smile.
“Thanks for the save,” she said.
“I don’t want to lose you Vick. You’re too good an agent.”
Spoken like a true boss, she thought.
The chopper hurtled across the night sky. 595 was directly ahead, its eight lanes of traffic lighting up the sky. The eastbound cars had already stopped moving.
Something was wrong. Vick saw smoke coming out of a parked vehicle. It was where 595 met Interstate 95, the winding overpass several hundred yards long. She made the pilot hover over the spot. A car in one of the middle lanes was on fire.
“That’s Mr. Clean’s car,” Vick said. “Can you drop us down?”
“Let me check,” the pilot said.
The pilot turned on his spotlight and used it to scour the ground. He found an empty field on the same side of 595 as the burning vehicle.
“That looks pretty flat,” the pilot said. “Hold on.”
Vick shut her eyes and grabbed the handle in the door. Looking down while riding in a chopper was a mistake, and caused instant nausea. She felt the craft bump down, and unfastened her seatbelt.
“I need a gun,” she said.
The pilot opened a compartment between the seats, and handed her a standard .45.
“It’s got a hair trigger,” the pilot said.
“Good to know,” Vick replied.
They climbed out of the chopper and ran across the field to the edge of 595. Four lanes of cars headed east on the interstate, all of them stopped. Traffic jams were the norm in South Florida, and dozens of curious motorists had gotten out of their vehicles to check out the burning car.
“Stay in your cars,” Vick shouted to them.
Vick pushed her way through the mob. She entered the two left lanes, and began to hunt for Mr. Clean. Linderman took the two right lanes, and did the same.
They checked out every car, their weapons held in front of them. It was scaring the hell out of people, but there was nothing they could do.
Vick reached the burning car first. The gas tank was open, and had a flaming rag hanging from it. Mr. Clean had turned his car into a giant Molotov cocktail.
It was like a bomb. If the gas tank exploded, other cars would surely follow. Vick had visions of every car in line catching fire, and the interstate being transformed into a giant inferno.
A motorist with a fire extinguisher appeared. Linderman grabbed the fire extinguisher out of his hands, and began to douse the flames.
“Find him, Rachel,” her boss said.
Vick ran around the vehicle, the flames tickling her skin. There were times when she cursed her height. She jumped onto the bumper of a car and looked in every direction. Five cars ahead, Mr. Clean had dragged a female driver from a mini-van, and put the poor woman in a choke hold. He was squeezing her to death, her feet dangling off the ground.
Vick jumped down and sprinted toward him. It was a scenario she’d trained for many times at the FBI academy. Just her and a madman.
Mr. Clean saw her coming. He didn’t look so frightening out in the open. In fact, he looked downright scared.
“Stop!” Mr. Clean shouted.
&n
bsp; Vick halted when she was ten feet away. She aimed her weapon at him.
“Let her go,” Vick said.
“I’ll break mommy’s neck,” Mr. Clean said.
Vick glanced at the woman’s mini-van. It was filled with tykes in brightly-colored uniforms. The woman was a soccer mom, and this was her brood. Soccer moms were supposed to be tough, and Vick decided to give it a shot.
“Twist his fingers,” Vick told the woman.
The soccer mom looked at Vick in confusion.
“His fingers are broken. Grab his hand, and twist them!”
“Right,” the soccer mom gasped.
She grabbed Mr. Clean’s forefinger and pulled it straight back. Mr. Clean screamed in pain, and released her. The soccer mom started to beat and kick him. Her kids yelled their approval.
“Get in your vehicle, and lock your door,” Vick said.
The soccer mom backed off. Mr. Clean staggered to the guard rail, clutching his hand. Down below, southbound traffic on Interstate 95 was backed up, the vehicles’ noxious fumes polluting the air.
“Don’t you dare move,” Vick shouted.
Mr. Clean glanced at her. In his face she saw a decision being made. He flipped over the railing and disappeared.
“God damn it,” Vick swore.
She ran to the guard rail and looked straight down. Mr. Clean had landed atop a flat-roofed, eighteen-wheel truck. His legs were moving and his eyes looked clear. The chopper appeared overhead and bathed him in harsh yellow light.
“Stand up and put your arms in the air,” Vick shouted.
Mr. Clean rose uncertainly to his feet. His clothes were torn and the side of his head was bleeding. He’d twisted his ankle, forcing him to hop on one foot. He placed his hands behind his head and squinted at her.
“I surrender,” Mr. Clean called back.
“Don’t move,” Vick shouted back.
“I will not move. You have my word.”
The ground beneath Vic.’s feet rumbled gently. Down below on Interstate 95, the vehicles inched forward in unison. Traffic was starting to move. A slight smile spread across Mr. Clean’s lips. The breath caught in Vick’s throat.
“Jump down from there!” Vick shouted .
“But I will be run over,” Mr. Clean shouted back.
“Do it!” Vick said.
“No!”
“I’m ordering you.”
“I am hurt. I can’t jump,” he shouted back.
The eighteen-wheeler had shifted into drive, and was moving forward with the flow of traffic. Mr. Clean was getting a free ride to Miami, where he’d slip into the vast Cuban community, and resume his killing ways.
“I’m ordering you to jump down!” Vick repeated.
Mr. Clean mocked her with his eyes.
“I won’t tell you again,” she said.
“Goodbye, little girl,” he called back.
She emptied the .45 into her suspect. Mr. Clean dropped to his knees, then fell onto his back, his hands clutching at the bullet holes in his chest. He seemed surprised but not shocked, as if he’d known this was his fate. He died staring at the sky.
She watched the eighteen-wheeler rumble away. The driver was going to be in for a real surprise when he reached his destination.
Linderman appeared, covered in black soot. Her boss looked like he’d been to hell and back.
“Nice shooting,” he said.
Chapter 56
Wayne saw the Audi pull into the parking area in a cloud of dust, and park beside a pick-up truck loaded with hay. Behind the wheel sat Rachel Vick. Vick appraised herself in the mirror before getting out.
Wayne brushed the mare tied in the cross-ties. The stable had eight horses, and this mare was his favorite. She was a quarter horse, which was the fastest horse in the world over a short distance. He’d gotten on her several times and gone galloping across the pasture. It had been like riding a rocket.
Vick came up the path. She still hadn’t spotted him. Or maybe she had, and assumed he was a hired hand. Wayne wore blue jeans and a stiff denim shirt, and could have easily been an employee.
Vick had been on his mind a lot. They’re never really had a chance to talk. He’d considered calling the FBI’s office in North Miami and asking for her, just to see how she was doing. Seeing her now constricted his heart with a strange, purposeless urgency he didn’t quite understand.
“Hey,” he called out.
Vick stopped with a start, and brought her hand up to her heart.
“I didn’t recognize you,” she said.
He started to brush the horse’s tail. “I’ve got a new career.”
“She’s a beauty.”
“You like horses?”
Wayne already knew the answer to his own question. All women liked horses.
“I’ve only ridden once,” she admitted.
“Bet you got thrown.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Most people who’ve only ridden once get thrown and never get back on. I learned that from my riding instructor.”
“You’re taking lessons. That’s great.”
“It’s part of the deal. I work with the horses and also get to ride them. It’s called equine therapy. My doctor says that if I can relate to horses, I won’t go shoot up my highschool after they let me out.”
“Your doctor didn’t say that,” Vick said, growing serious.
“No, but that’s what he’s thinking.”
“That’s not funny, Wayne.”
“Crap. I pulled out a hair.” He pulled a long hair from his brush, and displayed it to Vick. “I’m not supposed to pull out any hairs when I brush their tails. It takes a horse several years to grow their tails. About an inch a month.”
“The same as a human,” Vick said. “Is there someplace we can speak in private?”
“We can use the office. It’s air-conditioned.”
Wayne led the mare into its stall where a flake of hay was waiting in the corner, then closed the sliding door and latched it. “She’s a smart one,” he said. “If I don’t latch the door, she’ll let herself out.”
“Do you like the horses?” Vick asked.
“Yeah. They’re cool.”
The office was a small room across with framed photos of horses and ribbons from shows adorning the walls, the cold air a welcome relief. Wayne sat in a chair while Vick leaned against the desk. From her purse, she removed a handful of papers.
“Do you know what these are?” she asked.
Wayne flipped through the papers. It was a copy of the statement that he’d given to the detective who’d interviewed him.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“Why did you lie?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You left out the fact that you and I had sex. Why did you do that?”
“Why should I tell the police about that?”
“It’s the truth Wayne, it’s part of what happened. By leaving it out, you’re contradicting what I told them.”
“You told them we had sex?”
“Yes.”
“You should have lied. It’s nobody’s business but ours.”
“Are you trying to protect me?”
“Yes. Didn’t that guy hurt you enough?”
Vick took the confession back and tossed it on the desk. She looked disgusted with him. Like she’d expected more out of Wayne, and he’d come up short.
“There’s something else that I told them,” Vick said.
“What’s that?”
“That I’m ninety-nine percent certain that your brother Adam stabbed your mother’s boyfriend to death.”
The teenager abruptly stood up, the chair making a harsh scraping sound. Vick stiffened and pointed at his chair.
“Sit down, Wayne. Right now.”
He came forward instead. His hands shot out, and grabbed her arms.
“Why did you tell the police that?” he asked angrily.
“Sit down, Wayne.”
“You had no right doing that.”