“If you’re going to kill me, why should I tell you where the van is?”
“Because I can make you hurt an awful lot before you die. Because I can make the lady here hurt even more. Because we’ve got your daughter, and if you’re real nice and make this real easy, we might still be able to just let her go.”
“Yeah, and pigs might fly.”
Carmichael laughed. “Hey, you shouldn’t be so cynical. I’m really a nice guy at heart. I’ve got daughters of my own, four of ’em. I don’t want to hurt a little girl that don’t know nothin’ about nothin’. Not even your little girl, Calhoun.”
Summer got the chilling feeling that he enjoyed hurting people. Any kind of people. She thought of Corey Calhoun, of the two cops back there on the road, of James Todd and Linda Miller and Betty Kern, and felt sick. Her diagnosis was that, cop or not, Carmichael was primarily a sadist who enjoyed hurting people for its own sake.
Not an ideal criminal to be held hostage by.
“If I give you the van, what guarantee do I have that my daughter won’t be hurt?”
“Just my word as a gentleman.”
“That makes me feel a lot better.”
“Watch your mouth, Calhoun.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Carmichael said: “Look at it this way. You don’t tell me where that van is, you know your daughter’s gonna die.”
Summer could feel the sudden tension in Steve’s body all the way across the seat. The thought of anyone hurting his daughter drove him nuts. She’d already seen ample evidence of that.
“Why are you doing this, Carmichael?” Steve asked quietly. “Man, you’re a cop. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Not diddly-squat. I don’t get paid enough for it to mean anything.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Since you’re going to kill me anyway, mind telling me what’s in the van that you all want so much?”
Carmichael frowned, then shrugged. “Hell, I don’t suppose it makes any difference if you know: money. Fifteen million smackeroos, to be precise. Cash. Moola. Hidden in the lining of the coffins, stuffed in the satin pillows, even tucked right inside those nice little dead bodies so it would sail right through customs. You did find the bodies, didn’t you? Bet they gave you quite a turn.” He snickered.
“They did,” Steve said ruefully. Summer couldn’t believe the almost friendly tone he was taking with a maniac who meant to kill them. “I guess the shit hit the fan when I took off with your van full of money.”
“Everybody went apeshit.” Carmichael nodded in agreement. “We had a rendezvous with some bad dudes scheduled for that night, too. You heard of the Call cartel? Out of Colombia? We were supposed to give them the cash. They already gave us the dope. A play-or-pay deal. They weren’t real pleased when we had to tell ’em that you stole their money.”
Carmichael picked up his pistol suddenly and took bead on Summer’s forehead. Her eyes widened in horror as she stared into the tiny black mouth. She was going to be shot just like that cop was shot. There would be a tremendous blow shattering her forehead and a little black hole would appear and then—how long would it take her to die?
“They gave us seventy-two hours to get the money back. Which means we got till about two a.m. tomorrow morning. You can tell me where that van is now, or I can speed things up by blowing your lady friend away. I owe her one anyway, for Charlie. He’s in the hospital, by the way, his face cooked to a crisp. I know he wishes he could be here with us right now.” Carmichael smiled at Summer. She felt her blood turn to ice. His eyes flicked to Steve. “It’s up to you, Calhoun.”
There was an instant of silence. Steve and Carmichael locked gazes in a silent duel of wills. Summer stopped breathing.
Then, “Head for Cedar Lake,” Steve said. “The van is in a boat warehouse on the west side of Cedar Lake. I think the warehouse is called Watersports Sales, Service and Storage.”
“I wouldn’t’ve shot her yet,” Carmichael said, sounding both surprised and a tad put out as he lowered the gun. Summer’s impression that he was a man who enjoyed hurting people was reinforced. He sounded disappointed that Steve had given in so easily, as if he’d been robbed of a pleasure he’d been anticipating. “Not here in the car. Think of the mess.”
“I didn’t think you cared about mess, Carmichael,” Steve said tiredly, and rested his head back against the rolled edge of the luxuriously upholstered seat.
Summer glanced at him. He was staring out the window, his face bleak and set. She was both relieved not to be dead and horrified at what he had done. For her sake, he had revealed the location of the van. But now that the bad guys knew where it was, Steve no longer had his ace in the hole.
What had happened to his philosophy of always having a Plan B?
At the moment, she thought, any plan at all would do.
38
It must have been about eight p.m. when they reached Cedar Lake. They had stopped once, when Clark made a brief call from a pay phone at a service station and then went inside to use the men’s room.
Sitting in the back of the Lincoln, which was parked at the side of the white-painted concrete-block cube, Summer again waited for Steve to do something. Surely her he-man had a trick or two up his sleeve—but he just sat there. Carmichael, turned sideways in the front seat so that to a casual onlooker it would appear as though he was talking to the two passengers in the back, kept them under the gun the whole time. Then Clark got back in the car, nodded at Carmichael, and they were off again.
By the time they got to Cedar Lake, Summer’s hands were numb from the handcuffs. Her shoulders ached from being forced to stay in one position for so long. Her neck ached for the same reason. Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Summer discovered that physical suffering did not always distract one’s thoughts from fear, after all. She was miserable—and she was afraid.
It was rapidly approaching twilight when they made the turn that took them alongside the lake. The sun was still up despite the relative lateness of the hour because it was midsummer, but the town was luminous with the rosy glow of summer evenings in Tennessee. As the Lincoln drove past the all-night grocery where—was it only four days ago?—Summer had refused to stop, past the construction site that was once again idle as working hours were over, Summer felt her pulse begin to speed up.
In a very few minutes they would reach their destination—and Carmichael would no longer have a reason to keep them alive.
Looking out the window at the serene surface of the lake, its gentle ripples touched by fire from the setting sun, Summer thought she had never seen such an incongruously tranquil setting. The few boats that were still zipping across the water gave the scene the look of a happy vacation paradise. As she drank in the beauty of the waterscape, a quote popped out of nowhere into Summer’s head: This is a good day to die.
Her modern sensibilities immediately screamed: Not.
“Which way, Calhoun?”
Steve, roused from his silent contemplation of the world outside the windows, gave directions. Beside him, Summer could feel her skin turning clammy. How could he be so coolly detached when they were soon to be shot?
Summer started to say her prayers: Now I lay me down to sleep … No, not that one—Our Father, who art in Heaven … Not that one either. She was so frightened, she couldn’t even summon a cogent prayer. Instead she settled for Please, God, please.
There it was: the boat warehouse. It looked different in daylight, was Summer’s first impression. More prosperous, with the double rows of corrugated buildings gleaming silver-pink in the light of the setting sun; and more security conscious. She could see that the fence surrounding the huge complex was a good twelve feet tall, with a triple strand of barbed wire surrounding the top.
But it looked just as deserted in the shimmering golden light of a Wednesday twilight as it had in the inky predawn hours when she had seen it last.
“This it?” Carmichael’s question was aimed at Steve, who had barely said a
word for the last hour and a half.
“This is it.”
Summer glanced at him and felt her fear mushroom. He looked tired. Deathly tired. Like the game was played out, and he knew he had lost.
But wait, she told herself: maybe he was merely pretending to be defeated. Maybe he had somehow managed to slip his hands out of the metal cuffs and was waiting to launch into some Ninja Turtle-esque moves when the thugs stopped the car and opened the back door.
Maybe …
As the Lincoln pulled into the driveway that led up to the closed gate, another vehicle—a maroon and silver van—pulled in behind them. For a moment Summer felt a leap of hope.
Could this possibly be rescue? Please, God, please …
“They’re here,” said Clark to Carmichael, nodding with satisfaction. Carmichael glanced past Summer’s shoulder out the rear windshield.
“Now we’re gonna have a party,” Carmichael said to Steve, smirking.
“What do you mean?” Steve stiffened, staring at Carmichael with the first real interest he’d shown in a long time.
“Your little girl’s right behind us. For her sake, you better have been telling us the truth. That van better be here.”
“It is,” Steve said grimly. To Summer’s horror, she saw that beads of sweat had broken out along his brow.
Dear God, did he really not have any tricks up his sleeve? Maybe she’d better try to come up with some herself, quick.
“Hey, you need a code to get in,” Clark said as he stopped the car and rolled down the window. “Anybody know the code?”
“You better know the code,” Carmichael said to Steve. He lifted the gun and pointed it at Summer again.
“I know it—just let me think—uh, nine-oh … uh … four-seven.”
Clark punched the numbers in. Nothing happened.
“That’s the wrong code!”
“Wait! I know it—it’s in my mind—just let me think—try nine-two-eight-one …”
There was a moment’s silence as Clark’s stubby fingers attacked the keypad again. Then, “Nothing’s happening,” Clark said.
“I must have got the numbers in the wrong order. Jesus, let me think …” Steve chewed his lower lip.
“You better think fast, or we’ll blow your lady friend to hell. Then we’ll start on your little girl.”
“Nine-one-eight-two …”
Clark punched in the numbers. Again they waited.
“No!”
“Damn it, Calhoun …!” The pistol pointed at Summer suddenly aimed right smack at the center of her forehead. She froze, not even daring to glance at Steve. He had not had trouble remembering the code before … Squinching up her eyes, she clung to Carmichael’s previous reluctance to make a mess in the car, and prayed.
“Try nine-one-two-eight.”
“You better hope this one’s right,” Carmichael said ominously while Clark punched the numbers into the keypad. “If it isn’t …”
The gate started to move.
Carmichael lowered the pistol. Summer slumped in her seat.
The Lincoln slid past the opening gates, closely followed by the van.
“Which building?”
“The last. On the left.”
Steve was really going to give them the van. Summer had wondered if he might at least make them search the complex for it. Surely in the course of their search they would run into somebody—but, of course, if they ran into just an ordinary somebody, and not a squad of armed police, that somebody would be dead, and she and Steve would not be any better off.
The Lincoln pulled up in front of the warehouse and stopped. The aluminum building was closed up and deserted—just like all the rest.
Where is everybody? Summer wanted to scream.
“The van’s in there?”
“Yes.”
“How do we get in?”
“That panel there—in front—is a sliding door. The key’s to the left, hidden under a loose piece of siding.”
“Get out and show me.”
Carmichael got out of the car, came around and opened Steve’s door. Leaning in, he released the belt, and dragged Steve out.
Summer held her breath, waiting for Bruce Lee. What she got was a tired-looking man meekly leading his would-be murderer to the key.
Of course, he was protecting her and his daughter. How could he put up a fight without endangering them?
Summer tried not to panic over her hero’s lack of heroics. What was Steve Calhoun anyway but an ordinary man? He was not a superhero. What was called for in this instance was—
Arnold! Oh, where was the Terminator when she needed him?
The door to the warehouse slid sideways with a rusty creak. From the outside, the cavernous interior appeared as black as pitch.
In response to a jerk of Carmichael’s head, Clark got out, and opened the door for Summer. As he leaned across her to release her belt, she shrank back. He was ugly and mean and he smelled—briefly she entertained the notion of sinking her teeth into his neck.
But what would that get her but a fat lip, or worse? She wasn’t yet in any position to try to escape.
The seat belt came loose, and Summer was dragged from the car. Weak-kneed, she almost collapsed when she first tried to stand, only to find herself yanked upright. As Clark dragged her impatiently toward the yawning darkness, Summer heard the crunch of feet behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw two toughs gripping the arms of a brown-haired teenager who stumbled unhappily between them.
Corey Calhoun had bangs, a round, pale, tear-streaked face, and a just-budding body clad in a rose-pink T-shirt and purple flowered shorts. Her legs were tanned and bare. White sandals were on her feet. In that one quick glimpse before Summer was dragged into the warehouse, she saw that the child looked scared to death.
It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did, she saw that Steve was standing over by the small wooden runabout that had been in the warehouse at the time of their last visit. Carmichael was beside him, glancing around.
Corey, dragged into the warehouse in Summer’s wake, apparently saw her father at the same time.
“Daddy!” she cried. Pulling free of her captors, she ran to lock her arms around Steve’s waist and burrow her face into his chest.
Steve, with his hands cuffed behind his back and a pistol pointed at his head, could do nothing to comfort his daughter. But the expression on his face as he looked down at that bent brown head made Summer want to weep.
For Steve, for Corey, for herself.
“Are you all right?” Steve asked the girl softly as Clark herded Summer over to join the little group. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
Corey shook her head, though she didn’t lift her face from Steve’s chest. “They didn’t hurt me. But Daddy, I’m so scared!”
“It’s okay, baby,” Steve said. “Everything’s going to be okay. Don’t be afraid.”
Even if he was lying and she knew it, just hearing Steve say the words made Summer feel better too.
“Touching,” Carmichael said, watching father and daughter with a sneer. Then, looking around, he added, “Okay, now where’s the van?”
Something was hideously awry. Summer had just realized it, and from the grim set to Steve’s face he recognized it too.
They were standing in the very spot where, four nights before, they had left the van.
But the van was gone.
39
Summer had to look around a second time to make sure. Here was the half-football-field-size, rectangular-shaped space, here were the seen-better-days boats and the four corrugated metal walls and the sloping roof and the ground covered with gravel. The single lightbulb hanging by its cord from the ceiling dangled in the same place, though at the moment it was not switched on.
The van was not here.
Summer cast a sidelong glance at Steve, who now stood with Corey wrapped around his waist a mere two feet away. Steve glanced at her, and their
gazes met in a sort of mutual horrified inquiry.
As she absorbed the import of that look, Summer was forced to give up a notion that had taken quick, promising hold of her imagination: This was not part of Plan B.
The van was really missing, and Steve did not know where it was.
Yikes!
“Where’s the van, Calhoun?” Carmichael sounded impatient.
“It’s here—somewhere.”
“What do you mean, somewhere?”
“You didn’t think I was just going to give it to you, did you? You let my little girl go, and we’ll talk about where to find the van.”
Oh, brave bluff! Summer gritted her teeth and tried to school her facial expression not to give the game away. Steve knew as well as she did that this was the right building. There was no possibility of mistake. They were standing in the precise spot where the van had been!
“Why you …!” Carmichael reached for Corey, grabbing her arm. Corey screamed and clung to Steve like a burr. With a vicious curse Steve kicked out at Carmichael.
And then a pistol butt descended with a resounding thunk on the back of Steve’s head. Clark smiled viciously down at the man he had just hit as Carmichael yanked Corey toward him.
Horrified, Summer watched to the tune of Corey’s screams as Steve sank to his knees.
She was dreadfully afraid that what she was witnessing was the beginning of the end—her end. Steve’s end. Corey’s end. Their end.
Without warning, the light came on overhead.
“Everybody freeze!”
The shout, from somewhere above them, was accompanied by a flurry of movement. Head snapping up, Summer saw half a dozen men, some in police uniforms and some not, poised on the raised decks of a nearby cabin cruiser, with rifles and pistols and God knew what other kinds of guns pointing at their little group on the ground.
At the same time, a stampede of pounding feet caused Summer to glance around. Police officers, dozens of them, rushed them, surrounding them in a tight circle.
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