by Jason Melby
Leslie put the Blackberry on speaker mode. She gripped the wheel and accelerated to ninety-five. Wind turbulence buffeted the hood. "Don't underestimate me."
"On the contrary, Ms. Dancroft, you underestimate yourself. You had such potential, yet you chose to squander it in public practice, defending indigent criminals on the taxpayers' dime. You sacrificed your personal life for years with little gain. You have no husband. No children. No promise of a better future to look forward to."
"I have your demise to look forward to," said Leslie. "That's all the promise I need in my life right now."
Blanchart cleared his throat. "How far do you think you can take this?"
"Far enough to watch you get the needle."
The connection went silent for several seconds.
"You're in no position to threaten me," said Blanchart.
"I'm five minutes from an FBI field office," said Leslie with resounding confidence in her voice.
"Unfortunately for you, you're not going to make it."
"How do you know?"
"Because you just missed your exit."
Leslie looked up to see a pair of blinding headlights hit her rearview mirror. She stabbed the accelerator, but the car behind her kept pace, gaining ground as the mile markers ticked by. She checked her speed and fumbled with her phone, rattled by the sudden shift in the balance of power.
A crushing impact to her rear bumper whipped her body forward and buried her shoulder belt in her chest.
She braked hard and then accelerated a split second later, maintaining control of the car with a mountain climber's grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel.
She hailed the FBI on speed dial and heard the call connect when a second impact forced the car sideways, causing her to swerve toward oncoming traffic.
She veered right, then overcorrected to the left, slamming a section of guard rail at high speed. The Lexus spun out of control like a Matchbox car on a broken track, its twisted wreckage tumbling at high velocity, hurling metal and glass debris in a thousand directions at once before the crumpled sedan lost momentum and skidded upside-down on the roof, grinding sparks along the pavement.
* * *
Leslie opened her eyes to see the panoramic whirl of distant traffic. Flashing strobe lights moved in slow motion, reflected in tiny pieces of shattered glass scattered on the ground in front of her.
Pinned in her seatbelt upside down, she inhaled the smell of gasoline fumes through her broken nose. A punctured lung made breathing difficult. A splintered femur brought unbearable pain.
"Who else have you talked to?" said Blanchart, aiming a flashlight at Leslie's upside-down face.
Leslie gurgled on a lung filled with blood. Her body shivered from the cold enveloping her. "No one."
"Who else?"
"Can't breathe..."
Blanchart reached inside the empty passenger window and gathered the accordion file folders. "You've been in an accident. You're in shock. You'll die without immediate medical attention." He opened the folders and inspected the contents. "I can't help you unless you tell me what I need to know." He tossed the papers back inside Leslie's car and holstered his flashlight on his duty belt.
Leslie reached toward her hip and unfastened her seat belt to relieve the pressure on her chest and free her to move about. The transfer of weight sent shockwaves of pain through her leg. Transmission fluid dripped in her eye. The smell of death lingered like the Grim Reaper himself.
She reached for the digital recorder that spilled out of her purse in the crash and slid it away from the car.
Blanchart lit a cigarette and stooped to face Leslie eye-to-eye. "Who else has seen these files?"
Leslie curled a fist and sprung her middle finger. "Go to hell."
Blanchart stood up and took a long drag on the filtered Marlboro. Red-hot tobacco burned and crackled at the tip before he flicked the ignition source at the trail of spilled gasoline and said, "Ladies first."
Chapter 62
Lloyd rode his damaged Triumph to the Winn-Dixie parking lot and found the tan Civic where Samantha had parked it with the key still under the wheel well. He searched the lot for Jamie's Volvo or Blanchart's unmarked cruiser but found neither in plain view.
Something went wrong, he reasoned before he sped away from the parking lot and raced across town to the self-storage unit. He replayed the steps in his mind, convincing himself Jamie must have gone through with the plan. Every detail was accounted for. Every aspect double-checked.
He circled the abandoned property and ventured toward the back. Confident no one followed him, he dropped the kickstand and dismounted. Thunder rumbled in the night sky, marred by heat lightning and the onset of a passing shower.
He opened the rolling door to his father's storage unit and emptied the backpack full of cash in an old freezer chest. With Varden in custody, he had some latitude with his schedule, but if Varden could track his moves, so could his replacement.
He piled boxes above the freezer as steady rain began to fall. Outside the storage facility, a Geo Metro with a broken antenna pulled up beside the Triumph.
"What are you doing here?" Lloyd asked his brother, who got out of the car in a hurry.
"Looking for you."
"I know what you did to Mom."
Josh rubbed his nose with a shaky hand. "I'm not here for family counseling." Sweat dripped from his brow into dilated eyes that looked as tired and worn as the clothes he'd slept in. "Where's the money?"
Lloyd adjusted the empty backpack on his shoulder. "What money?"
Josh pulled a small revolver from his waistband and pointed the gun at Lloyd. "Open the bag."
"What are you doing?"
"I know about the money Dad stole. I saw you take it from the cemetery." Josh scratched his arms, first one then the other. "Let me see the bag."
Lloyd dropped the empty bag on the floor.
Josh unzipped the main compartment. "Where's the money?"
"I don't have it."
"Then where is it?"
"I gave it away."
"Bullshit!"
Lloyd kept his eye on the gun. "The money won't solve your problems."
"You don't know shit about my problems."
"I know they're bigger than any one man can handle himself."
"Did Mom tell you that?"
"You need help," said Lloyd. "I can help you if you let me."
"What I need is for you to give me the fucking money."
"Nothing good will come of this."
Josh pressed his dentures with his tongue. He hit the side of his fist against the cinderblock wall. He'd seen it coming with Lloyd, but he couldn't bring himself to accept the inevitable. "Spoken like the bro I know. A real life Superman. Always trying to save the day. But you can't solve everything. Not this time."
"I'll give you what money I have." Lloyd slowly lowered his hand and took out his wallet. He tossed it at his brother's feet.
Josh opened the leather billfold and dug out a pair of twenties. He spun around and flailed his arms, stomping the ground in a tantrum. He put the gun to his own head then aimed it back at Lloyd. "I know you're banging Blanchart's wife. I've seen you with her."
"That's got nothing to do with us."
"It has everything to do with us. I just want the money. Just give me the damn money and you'll never see me again."
"I told you I don't have it."
Josh aimed the gun at Lloyd's face. "Then you better find it. Fast!"
"I need time."
"There is no time!" Josh shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I swear to God I'll pull this fucking trigger unless you cough up the money right now."
Lloyd stepped backwards. "Hurting me isn't the answer. Whatever happened in the past is behind us. We can't go back and change it. The decisions you make right now will affect you for the rest of your life. Christ, Josh! I've seen you come unraveled before, but not like this!"
Josh squinted along the top of the barrel. "Th
e rest of what life? I killed Sheila. I stuffed her body in her cello case and I hauled her to the curb like a bag of garbage. What kind of person does that?" The gun quivered in his hand. "She ruined everything for me. EVERYTHING! She hated both of us. She was going to throw me out. She never listened. She just kept yelling and screaming... I couldn't take it anymore."
Josh pressed the muzzle to Lloyd's nose. "Give me the money or I'll kill you where you stand."
"It's in here," said Lloyd. He pushed the stack of boxes aside and put his hand on the freezer chest. He opened the top and reached inside for the cash. Steady rain pinged the metal roof. Lightning sizzled in the super-heated air.
Josh stood over him with the gun. "Move!" he insisted, overcome by the prospect of so much cash.
Lloyd dropped the backpack in the freezer. "You'll need this."
Josh reached into the freezer for the bag with both hands.
Lloyd slammed the lid on his brother's hand, forcing him to drop the gun inside the freezer.
Josh jerked his arm free and tackled Lloyd against the wall in a drug-induced craze.
Lloyd fought back, his superior strength negated by his brother's meth-fueled rage as he exchanged random blows with Josh in an effort to subdue his taller sibling and force him into a submission hold.
But Josh kept coming like a man possessed. A man with nothing to lose and the will to kill if need be.
Josh slammed his knee into Lloyd's groin and snatched the gun from the freezer.
Both brothers wrestled for control of the weapon, grunting and straining in a macabre dance before the .38 revolver discharged at Lloyd's lower leg. The round tore a thin strip of pale meat along his calve through his pants and ripped the GPS monitor from his ankle.
Josh seized control of the gun and swiped a wobbly hand at his mouth, spitting and heaving from the violent confrontation with Lloyd. "Blanchart warned me about you." He held the gun on Lloyd. "I could kill you and walk away."
"Don't do it," said Lloyd. He pressed his hand on his shin.
Josh kept the gun on his brother while he gathered the rest of the cash.
"What would Dad think of this?" said Lloyd.
"I begged him to tell me where he hid the money. I didn't want to hurt him. But he wouldn't give it up."
"So you killed him?"
Josh wiped his nose. "I didn't mean to do it. I was in a bad way. He owed me! I saved his life from that scum-bag who tried to hurt us. Dad stole the money in the first place. All I wanted was a little something for me."
"I know you never meant to hurt him."
Josh shook his head. Lightning split the air so close he could smell it. "I can't do this anymore."
"You don't have to."
Josh shrugged. His swollen jaw hurt like hell. "You're right." He cocked the hammer and clutched a hand to his side. "I was never very good at much of anything, anyhow." He stared at the cash in the backpack. "Blanchart'll probably find me."
Lloyd put his hand out. "Give me the gun."
Josh pressed the hot muzzle to his temple. "Tell Mom I'm sorry."
"Tell her yourself."
Josh closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The loud pop reverberated inside the storage unit, where Lloyd dropped to his knees and cried.
Chapter 63
Petite and unassuming, Marsha Hollan moved with confidence through the crowded terminal inside the Orlando International Airport. A Judo black belt and senior advocate with an underground branch of the Haven Women's Shelter, Marsha empathized with her clients' plight. A runaway at age twelve, she'd fallen in love with the man of her dreams and married at age nineteen. Two black eyes and a broken eardrum later, she'd divorced her husband of three years and vowed never to marry again—until she'd reached her late twenties and the loneliness set in.
Her second husband was a doctor with a private practice in a small town where everyone knew everyone's business, including her marriage to a closet drunk. Divorce number two came and went, but the scars on her back and legs served a constant reminder of the past mistakes she refused to make again. For too many years, bad decisions became a way of life, eroding her self esteem to the point where she hated herself for what others had done to her. After years of counseling and ongoing support from a mentor at a women's shelter, she broke the chain of violence with a concealed weapon permit and a .357 Magnum fitted with a custom grip.
Instead of fighting against the abuse done to women, she helped women fight back. Every victim had a different story, but they all shared a common theme. And no matter how determined they were to leave their abuser, many clients could never bring themselves to cut the cord. Flogged by doomed relationships and overcrowded courts that often turned a blind eye toward domestic violence, her clients found themselves at the mercy of their bankrupt self-esteem with nowhere to go but down. Instead of learning to rise above their predicaments, they learned to fail, perpetuating the cycle of misery and self-loathing so integral to victims of spouse abuse.
Marsha checked the United flight number on the printed itinerary against the flight number displayed on the airport monitor. "Our flight leaves in half an hour," she reminded Samantha, who followed her through the busy terminal.
"She'll be here," Samantha said, hoping against hope she was right. She worked the crowds with Marsha, parsing the flock of weary travelers entering the security screening area, her nerves a jumbled wreck from sleepless nights and prescription meds that failed to ease her anxiety. Hyped from a double cappuccino and the hope that Jamie's relationship with her abusive husband had ended, she followed Marsha back and forth from the ticket counters to the common areas flooded with tourists and business travelers alike. "I still don't see her."
"Maybe she had second thoughts," said Marsha.
"Not this time."
Marsha compared Jamie's photo to the female passengers herded barefoot past the TSA screeners. "It wouldn't be the first time a client had a change of heart."
"She'll be here."
"I don't trust the boyfriend you described."
"He's the least of our problems," Samantha reassured the hired help.
Marsha stared at a woman who strongly resembled Jamie. "Maybe she found the wrong terminal?"
"Maybe she's already on the plane."
Marsha shook her head. "I checked the counter. Her boarding pass hasn't been scanned."
Samantha glanced at her watch for the tenth time in twenty minutes. "Maybe the car broke down."
"Not likely... Did you try the boyfriend again?"
"I left three messages."
Marsha checked her phone.
"She doesn't know your number," said Samantha. "She won't call—"
"Just keep looking. Right now we're the only hope Jamie has."
Samantha scanned the line at Starbuck's Coffee. She searched the concourse entrance for a woman who resembled Jamie in plain sight—or in a cheap disguise. "What happens if she doesn't show?"
"We leave without her."
"That's it?"
Marsha dialed her cell phone. "Your friend knew the schedule and the risks. We can't force her to be here if she doesn't want to."
"She'll be here."
"I can't miss this flight. I have other clients to support."
"I'm not leaving here without Jamie."
"That's your choice," said Marsha, "but at some point you have to realize there's only so much you can do. She hasn't showed. And she hasn't called. For all we know, she decided to run away with her boyfriend."
Samantha moved her head back and forth on a swivel, overwhelmed by the volume of passengers coming and going in all directions. "She wouldn't do that."
"How do you know?"
"I just know."
Marsha checked her watch. "I've been doing this a long time. I can tell you from experience—"
"She'll be here."
"And what if she's not?"
Samantha chewed on Marsha's words and arrived at her own conclusion. "Then we go to her."
Cha
pter 64
Lloyd rode the Triumph like a missile between his legs, snapping through the gears with a pit-bull grip on the handlebars and a laser-beam focus on the rain-soaked road ahead. Two hundred thousand dollars in cash sagged inside his backpack while a gamut of raw emotions weighed heavily on his mind.
He set his sights for the interstate, charging the two-lane highway at more than twice the legal limit to leave his dead brother, his dying mother, and any semblance of a normal life with Jamie behind. Despite the uncertainty about his future and the guilt he carried with him, he felt more compelled to face a life on the run than add a manslaughter charge to his parole violations and spend the next twenty years fighting wolves in his old alma mater.
The siren came distant and faint at first, a mild lamentation from the wind in his ears, until the glint of flashing lights caught his handlebar mirrors.
He cracked the throttle wide open, force-feeding the dual carburetors all the octane they could burn. But the state police cruiser swallowed pavement at a faster clip, gaining ground on the antique bike that had drawn attention to itself when it blew through a radar trap.
Lloyd leaned forward in the seat, punching holes through the atmosphere at a hundred miles an hour. He pressed his torso against the gas tank to shield himself from the pelting rain and teeth-jarring turbulence as the engine vibrated between his legs like an angry hornet's nest.
When an oncoming van flashed its high beams, Lloyd split the lane to overtake several cars and put some traffic between himself and the fast-approaching cop.
He followed a crest in the highway and hugged the center line to guide the bike around a sweeping turn. When the pavement straightened, he clamped the brakes to scrub speed and followed a route heading east across a wooded stretch of county road.
He passed the gravel entrance to an abandoned trailer park dotted by plastic flamingos and a neighborhood watch sign stapled to a utility pole. Despite the adrenaline rush, the pain from the gunshot wound to his leg swelled with a vengeance, distracting him from the cavernous pothole up ahead.