Ahead, Billy had moved into the far right lane, was signaling to turn. She put her blinker on, followed. The Toyota pulled into the left lane, sped up. As it passed, she caught a glimpse of a black man at the wheel. Then just the glow of the Toyota’s taillights, down the road and gone.
SEVENTEEN
They ended up in a bar on the far edge of the county, one she’d never been to before. Mostly Indians in here, up from the Seminole Reservation in Immokalee, all men. Sara felt self-conscious as their eyes lingered on her. The jukebox was playing Tammy Wynette, and the ceiling fans were doing nothing to reduce the hanging haze of cigarette smoke.
When she came in, Billy was already at a booth in the back, a cypress table marked with cigarette burns. He looked at her, at the waistpack she wore.
“I won’t ask what’s in there,” he said.
She slipped into the booth. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
He got up. “No waitresses here.”
He went to the bar. Sara looked around. A middle-aged Indian in a western shirt, hair slicked back, turned on his stool to look at her, smiling drunkenly. Christ, she thought. What am I doing here?
Billy came back to the table with a pitcher and two mugs.
“PBR,” he said. “All they had on tap.”
He sat down, poured.
“I would have asked for Guinness,” he said, “but I don’t think they have much call for it out here.”
“I’m not here to drink.”
“I know.” He slid a filled mug in front of her, looked at his own. “Like I said, I feel bad about the way we left things.”
She looked away, her patience fading. The Indian was still watching her. She stared at him, didn’t look away, and he shrugged finally, turned back to the bar.
“You feel differently about me now,” Billy said. “I know that. It can’t ever be what it used to be.”
“We don’t need to go into all this, Billy. There’s no reason.”
“When you’re a kid, sometimes you let things get away from you, you know? You’re twenty-five, thirty, it’s easy to say, ‘Yeah, it didn’t work out.’ Like there’s always another opportunity, someone else coming down the line. Get to be my age and you realize you’re running out of options. And sometimes the things you let get away from you are the things you should have held on to with both hands.”
She met his eyes.
“My age, you let something go and you end up wondering if that was the one,” he said. “That you let it go and you’re never going to get it back.”
“I wasn’t the one, Billy. Get that out of your head. If I was, we wouldn’t be in this situation. You made your own decisions. You can’t blame them on anyone else.”
“I know that. It’s just that with you . . .” He looked away. “I just got scared, I guess. You, Danny. The way he is. I tried to be there, you know? Be strong. But sometimes I just couldn’t handle it.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Roy left, right after Danny got sick. That’s one of the things he told me. He loved Danny so much, he couldn’t stay around and watch him die. You know what that meant? That meant he was a fucking coward. And Danny’s still here. He’s not dying, and he’s going to get better, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to make that happen. Roy couldn’t handle Danny? That was his excuse. He couldn’t handle anything.”
He looked at his beer.
“You were his friend, Billy. You knew him. You know what I’m talking about.”
He nodded without looking up.
“Go ahead and drink that if you want,” she said. “I don’t care.”
“You’ve got a right to be mad, I understand that.”
“Do you?”
“And you’re right, some of the choices I made weren’t the best.”
“I’m not your therapist, Billy.”
“I know. But sometimes I think you were the only real chance I had to be happy, to have a normal life. And I let it slip away.”
“You’ve had lots of opportunities to be happy,” she said, “and they’ve got nothing to do with me. That’s your own responsibility. You can’t put it on other people.”
“You’re right. But lately things have gotten . . . complicated. Sometimes it seems like everything’s so fucked I’ll never get out from under.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head. She sensed him pulling back. Give him space, let him talk.
She sat back, lifted the mug, and sipped beer. It was thin, harsh. She frowned, put it down. Johnny Paycheck on the jukebox now, “Take This Job and Shove It.”
“They’re telling me I’m clear,” he said. “That it was all in policy.”
“That’s right.”
“They look at me differently now, though. You do, too.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Elwood came out to the house the other day.” He looked at her. “To talk to Lee-Anne, when I wasn’t there. She had nothing to tell him, but still . . . I mean, if it’s open and shut, it’s open and shut, right?”
“Maybe they want to make sure all the Ts are crossed. For your sake.”
“Or maybe it’s just that nigger woman stirring up trouble.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that word before.”
“Dammit, Sara, I just—”
“I have to go, Billy. Thanks for the beer.” She started to get up.
“I know you still care about me, Sara.” He looked at her. “Everything we’ve had between us. The other night, too. I know you get angry with me sometimes, but you’re still on my side, even though things didn’t work out. I know that. I can feel it.”
She squeezed out of the booth. “I have to go home. You should, too.”
“I think I’m going to stay here a little bit. Drink some of this beer. Enjoy the change of scenery. At least out here I don’t have to worry about anyone spying on me, do I?”
“Good night, Billy.”
“Good night, Sara. I don’t blame you. I really don’t.”
She turned her back on him, headed toward the door.
Midnight, the house dark except for the kitchen light. She sat in the living room in sweats and sneakers, running it all through her head. The conversation with Billy. The missing Taurus. The gray Toyota that had followed her. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just you.
Headlights came through the blinds, crawled across the walls, and were gone. She went to the window, pushed the blinds aside, looked out. It had rained earlier, and now there was mist in the air, a hazy halo around the streetlamps. She saw taillights at the end of the street, turning right and then disappearing.
She went down the hall, checked on Danny. He lay still under the covers. She stood in the doorway for a moment, until she could hear his soft snores.
Another set of headlights swept across the living room, this time from the opposite direction. They seemed to slow for a moment, hang motionless on one wall, and then move on. By the time she got to the window, they were gone.
She got her hooded sweatshirt from the hall closet, pulled it on. The only sound in the house was the ticking of the kitchen clock. In the bedroom, she took the Glock from the lockbox and slipped it into the front pocket of the hoodie, the weight of it hanging heavy.
She went out the back door, down the two short steps, and into the sideyard. The air was thick and damp. She started toward the front of the house, stopped to listen. Nothing except the sound of a TV from the upper window of the house next door.
Headlights again, to her right, slower this time. They pulled up a block away on the opposite side of the street, then winked out. She could hear the low thrum of an idling engine.
She slipped the Glock out, staying close to the wall. At the corner of the house, she stopped. Through the mist she could see only a dim bulk across the street, yards from the nearest streetlight. She wished she’d brought her shield. She’d walk over, gun up, badge whoever it w
as, be done with it.
Moisture dripped from the gutter above her. She waited, watching. She thought of Danny inside.
Fuck it. Badge or no.
She left the cover of the house and started down the lawn, the Glock in a two-handed grip, pointed at the ground. She heard the crunching of gears, the sound of wet tires.
“Police! Don’t move!” she yelled, the Glock coming up even before she reached the sidewalk. “Turn that vehicle off.”
It pulled hard away from the curb before she reached the street, lights still off, tires squealing. She saw only a blur in the mist as it went past. It reached the end of the street, turned right at the stop sign without slowing. As it did, it passed through the lightwash of a streetlamp. Black pickup, mud flaps. Billy’s truck.
She lowered the Glock and walked back to the house through the mist.
EIGHTEEN
When the man with the dreadlocks came into the garage, Morgan put the muzzle of the Beretta to the back of his head.
“One in the chamber,” he said. “You know what that means, right?”
The man froze. Morgan pushed him toward the Navigator.
“Hands on the hood.”
He did as he was told. He was bare chested in jeans, his dreads loose, a blue bandana tied around his neck. He smelled of reefer.
Morgan used his left hand to pat the man’s pockets, took out a wallet. He put it in the windbreaker.
“Anyone else in the house?” Morgan said.
He shook his head.
“Answer me.”
“No, no one.” A faint accent.
“If there is,” Morgan said, “I’ll shoot you first.” He took the gun away. “Turn around. Go back in.”
The man took his hands off the hood, turned to look at Morgan, the gun. His face was slack with fear. “I don’t know what you want, brah, but there’s nothing here.”
“Go on,” Morgan said.
He went up the steps into an empty kitchen. Morgan followed, pulled the connecting door shut. On the counter were a cell phone and a big automatic, a Desert Eagle .44. The back door was locked and chained. Morgan opened another door, saw steps that led into a basement, listened, heard nothing. The man watched him.
“Living room,” Morgan said.
They went in. The sliding glass door was closed, the vertical blinds drawn. A tall straight-backed chair was against one wall.
“What is this place?” Morgan said.
“How you mean?”
“Who lives here?”
“No one yet. A friend of mine, he sells these places. He’s letting me stay here.”
“Face the couch.”
When he did, Morgan hit him hard on the side of the head with the Beretta. He cried out, fell to his knees. The floor lamp threw his shadow large on the wall.
“Stay there,” Morgan said and backed away. He put the Beretta in his belt, took out the wallet. Inside was a hundred dollars in cash, credit cards in three different names. A Florida driver’s license with a picture, in the name of Jean-Pierre Delva, a Riviera Beach address. He tossed the wallet on the couch.
Delva had a hand to his head, blood coming through his fingers. “There’s nothing here for you, man. That’s all the money I got.”
In the kitchen, the cell began to play music, a tune Morgan didn’t know. Delva looked up.
“Who is that?” Morgan said.
“I don’t know.”
Morgan could sense his nervousness.
“Your girlfriend?”
“Who?”
“The white girl. The one that was here last night.”
The tune played for a few seconds, stopped.
“Her boyfriend know about you two?”
“What boyfriend?”
“Flynn. The deputy.”
“I’ve got lots of women, man. Maybe he know, maybe he don’t. Why you ask me?”
“Get up,” Morgan said. “Sit down over there.”
He rose unsteadily, settled into the wooden chair, looked at his bloody hand, all the fight gone from him.
“Where’s the money?” Morgan said.
“What money, brah?”
The cell phone rang again. They both looked toward the kitchen. The tune stopped.
Morgan took the Beretta back out.
“I’ve come a long way,” he said. “You think I’m just going to walk out of here?”
Delva looked at him. “You from up north, right? You work for that fat man.”
“I don’t work for anybody.”
“I can’t help you, man. I don’t have it.”
“But you know who does.”
“Talk to the woman. She knows. They told me nothing.”
“But you helped set it up, right? So you’ve got a share coming.”
“I passed along some things I’d heard. That’s all.”
“And now they’re holding out on you? Making you wait?”
Delva looked at the floor.
“Who put it together? You, the girl, Flynn. Who else?”
“What do you mean?”
“The other deputy, the woman. Was she part of it?”
“I don’t know who that is, who you’re talking about.”
From outside, the sound of a car engine, low. Morgan looked into the front room. Big windows there, with blinds. No headlights outside. The engine sound faded.
“We have to get out of here,” Delva said.
“Why?”
“They’ve been looking for me. These boys down here don’t play. They coming to talk.”
“About the money? Why they never got it?”
Delva didn’t answer.
Morgan went into the front room, looked out the window. There was a single streetlight down the block, mist hanging around it. The street was empty.
“They’ll come back,” Delva said.
Morgan looked at his watch. Ten minutes after midnight.
“Get up,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”
The phone chimed again. Morgan backed into the kitchen and picked it up, still watching Delva. He opened the phone, lifted it to his ear.
“Yo, papi why you not answering?” A thick island accent. “We outside, boy. Let us up in there. We need to talk, konprann?”
Morgan looked at the sliding glass door, at the dining room window. A shadow passed by it. He’d waited too long. He wondered how many of them were outside.
“You there, gason? Don’t fuck around.”
He closed the phone, dropped it on the counter.
“What are you doing?” Delva said.
Two bangs at the back door, someone rattling the knob.
“Louvri la pot!”
Footsteps on the deck.
Morgan started toward the front door. It would be his best chance. If he ran, he could lose them in the night, make it back to where he’d parked the Toyota. They’d be too busy with Delva to chase him.
The sliding door exploded. Glass showered inward, a cinder block skidding across the wood floor. A figure pushed the blinds aside to come through, and Morgan fired twice, sent it reeling back onto the deck. He put another shot into the darkness beyond, then swiveled and aimed at the dining room window, the shadow that had reappeared there. He fired, blew glass out.
There was silence then. Delva was on the floor, using the couch for cover. Shards of glass fell from the frame of the sliding door, broke on the floor. He could hear them out there, getting ready to try again. Time to move.
He went to the front door, fired through it in case someone was on the other side. He worked the locks, kicked the screen door open, went out fast and low. He heard shouting to his left, fired in the direction of it, and then his foot hit wet grass and slid out from under him and he went down onto his side.
He grunted with the impact, heard shots popping behind him, gunfire from inside the house. He got to his feet, half sprinted, half slid down the slope of lawn to the street. Shouts behind him, more shots. He twisted, saw two men in the doorway, blue bandana
s around their necks, guns pointing at him. One of them called out, “Andre! Andre! Get him! Vit!”
Morgan fired at them, blew off a piece of door frame. They ducked back inside.
He started to run, away from the streetlight, then saw the dark shape of the car parked ahead. A man was coming around it fast, an automatic in his hand. Ten feet between them, no cover. They raised their guns at the same time, and Morgan saw the blocky shape of the Russian pistol, heard the click. Then another.
The man lowered the gun, pulled on the slide. Jammed. Morgan shot him twice in the chest.
More shouts from the house. Morgan ran past the car, across the street. A shot whined off the pavement to his left. He kept running, saw the empty lot a block away, the construction equipment.
When he reached the bulldozer, he swung behind it and sat down in the dirt, his back against the treads. He was breathing hard, tightness spreading across his chest, a solid ball of pain in his right side.
Muffled shouts. A car starting. He pressed back against cold metal, the damp ground soaking through his pants.
Headlights, engine noise. Beams lit up the empty ground to his left. They’d have the windows down, weapons out, looking for movement.
The car passed, the ground going dark again. His breathing was starting to slow, the pressure in his stomach and sides easing.
After a few minutes, the car came back from the other direction. Headlights played across the bulldozer blade. He gripped the Beretta, wondering if they had the courage to get out of the car, look for him on foot.
The car rolled by. The shadows around him turned back into darkness.
How long he sat there, he didn’t know. After a while, he heard the car again, coming from the direction of the house. It went past the bulldozer without slowing, engine noise fading in the night.
He looked at his watch. One forty. He tried to stand, his legs stiff, had to sit again. It was easier the second time, one hand braced against the muddy tread. He heard his knees pop.
He set the Beretta on the bulldozer seat, looked back toward the house. Light in the windows still. No car out front.
He rubbed his legs until feeling returned. The next time he checked his watch, it was two.
Gone ’Til November Page 13