by P J Parrish
The calls on the mobile phone had been coming in at varying intervals. Sometimes the voice would direct him to make a turn at a certain landmark. Other times, the order would be to just pull off the road and wait until the next contact.
That was what was going on now. Louis had pulled off the road and the Mustang was idling. They were somewhere southeast of a town called Belle Meade. Tamiami Trail was rain-slick and deserted, not a headlight or landmark.
The drone of the wipers was interrupted by the phone.
“Keep going till you hit 29. Go north till you see a sign for the James Memorial Scenic Drive. Take it to the end and turn left. Go five-tenths of a mile and go left. Go to the dead end and wait.”
The phone went dead.
Louis felt Jewell stirring in the backseat and heard the rustle of his map.
“Where we going, Jewell?” he asked.
“We’re heading into something called the Fakahatchee Strand State Preserve, sir. The scenic drive looks like the only road in and no other out.” There was a pause. “No wait. I’m wrong, sir. It looks like there’s one other road coming out -- Miller Boulevard. Tell the chief to wait where Miller Boulevard comes back out onto Tamiami.”
Louis called Wainwright to tell him the directions.
“We’re gonna have to back off, Louis, or they’ll know you have a dozen cops on your ass,” Wainwright said. He clicked off.
A couple miles later, Louis saw the turn for 29 and headed north. It was still raining, light but constant, and the Mustang’s headlights were two flat beams penetrating the misty darkness of the two-lane road. The only sound was the beating of the rain and the drone-scrape of the wipers.
Louis spotted a sign for James Memorial Scenic Drive and turned. He could make out a scattering of small houses and trailers but they soon fell away. After they passed a gravel quarry, the road turned narrow and rough and then there was nothing.
He picked up the phone and hit a button to dial. No signal.
The Mustang hit a teeth-jarring pothole, then another that almost jolted the wheel out of his hands. Louis jerked the wheel back and slowed.
“Shit. You okay, Jewell?”
“Yes, sir.”
Darkness. No lights behind or above. Louis flicked on the high beams. A grotesque tunnel of arching trees came to life in the light. Louis had to struggle to keep the Mustang in the middle of the narrowing road.
Miles more. Then, something ahead. A wall of trees. They were at the end of the scenic drive. Louis slowed and turned left. The road got worse. He couldn’t chance taking the Mustang over twenty miles per hour.
“Jewell, you better get down,” Louis said.
Jewell wedged his body down behind the seats. Louis watched the odometer. At exactly five-tenths of a mile, there was another road. No signs, just another narrower gravel path leading into the darkness.
He turned and crept forward. The high beams picked up a yellow metal sign. CAUTION. ROAD DEAD ENDS AT CANAL. NO WAY OUT.
The Mustang crawled along. The road ended. Louis shoved the gearshift into park. He sat back, letting loose his grip on the wheel. The rain beat a tattoo on the Mustang’s cloth top. Steam rose off the engine, curling into the weak beams of the headlights, floating on the light until it was washed away by the rain.
Louis rolled down his window, but he saw nothing. He started to roll it back up and stopped.
Two small white lights moving in the distance. They seemed high off the ground. Truck lights, maybe. But he didn’t see any road. Hell, there could be five roads out there right now and he wouldn’t see them.
“They’re here, Jewell.”
There was no sound from the back. But Louis could feel the press of Jewell’s body through the seat.
Louis reached down to make sure Joe’s ankle holster was secure. He patted his side for Susan’s revolver. The Glock was on the passenger seat.
The headlights were coming right at the driver’s side door, growing larger and bouncing like the vehicle was coming over rough ground. The lights grew brighter with each second. Louis put a hand to his eyes as the sound of an engine pricked his ears. He was sure now it was a truck, maybe one of those souped-up monster trucks.
The grind of a four-wheel drive and then the lights stopped about thirty feet from Louis’s door.
Louis jerked the Mustang in reverse and tried to back up, intending to bring the Mustang headlight-to-headlight with the truck to even out the visibility, but he was stuck. The rear tires spun, kicking up mud.
The truck’s engine roared loudly as a warning, lurching forward and stopping. Louis shoved the Mustang back into park.
He was a sitting duck, lit up like a Christmas tree.
He heard a door slam above the truck’s engine, and a man’s voice that was lost in the wind.
Louis drew a thin breath, and glanced down at the Glock lying on the passenger seat.
He picked up the night vision glasses and looked out the window, hoping to hell they couldn’t see exactly what he was doing. There was a glare, but he could see a man who looked like Byron Ellis standing by the driver’s side.
“Get out!” the man shouted.
Louis set the glasses down and picked up his Glock. He moved across the front seats and out the passenger side, holding the Glock down at his side behind the folds of the coat. He knew the shift in weight would alert Jewell to where he would be.
He reached beneath the coat and flipped the switch on the tape recorder. Then he crouched, the Mustang between him and the idling truck. The headlights of the truck were so high that its beams shot over the top of the Mustang, stretching deep into the darkness behind him. The man outside the truck turned on a flashlight and moved it over the Mustang windows.
“Where’s the boy?” Louis shouted.
“Take off the hat. Let me see your face.”
“Where’s Benjamin?”
“Take off the fucking hat and stand up.”
Louis tossed the hat and rose slowly over the roof of the car. He squinted into the glaring misty rain but could see nothing. He heard a different voice, but it was hard to make out. The other man answered, but it was inaudible to Louis.
“Come around the car, Outlaw.”
“No. Show me the boy,” Louis said.
“We’ll take you to him.”
“No.”
Again, the second voice. Louder this time, but still muted. Agitated. Angry. But still Louis could not tell what he was saying. Were they arguing?
Footsteps. Sucking sounds in the mud. The flashlight beam was moving.
Louis raised his Glock, bracing his arms on the roof. “Stop. Stay where you are,” Louis said.
“You shoot me, the boy dies.”
Metallic sounds. More sloshing through the mud. Louis felt the Mustang jiggle, Jewell moving inside.
“I got the money. Just give me the boy!” Louis yelled.
The beam of the flashlight was still. The second voice: “What the fuck are we waiting for?”
“Shut up. Get the money, Outlaw.”
Louis reached into the front seat and grabbed Austin’s purse. He held it up for them to see.
“Show me Benjamin.”
“Put the money in front of your car, in the headlights. And don’t throw it. You throw it, we kill the kid.”
Damn it. They were trying to draw him out. This had nothing to do with the money.
“I see the boy first,” Louis said.
Louis felt the Mustang move and saw Jewell in the backseat. He made a discreet motion for him to stay down.
It was quiet for a few moments and all Louis could hear was the soft sprinkle of raindrops across the fabric roof of the Mustang. And he heard the next few words clearly.
“Get the kid,” the man said.
Footsteps going back toward the truck. A creak of something opening that didn’t sound like a truck door but something smaller, followed by the bang of a lid slamming on a box or a metal chest. Dear God, what had they been keeping him in?
Footsteps coming back.
The flashlight swung left.
Ben was crouched in the mud, his small body washed with white light. He was dirty, his jacket and jeans mud-caked, and his glasses crooked on his nose. He had duct tape across his mouth. The man was clutching the shoulder of Ben’s open jacket.
Ben was alive. As much as he had hoped for this, Louis hadn’t expected it.
“Take the money to the front of your car and set it down.”
Louis knew he couldn’t shoot blind. And he couldn’t depend on Jewell getting a clean shot if he missed.
“Put the fucking money in front of the car!”
If he stepped out there now, he was dead. Everyone was dead. Unless he could get them to release Ben first. Then, even if they did take a shot at him, maybe Jewell could somehow get Ben out of here.
“Maybe this will make him part with his money,” the second man said. A glint of silver appeared at Ben’s throat.
Benjamin tried to struggle but the man clamped him against his hip, the knife under his chin.
“All right!” Louis shouted.
He moved toward the front of the car, the bag in one hand, his gun in the other, his body tense, braced for a shot he prayed would hit the vest.
The one man had the flashlight, and the other held Benjamin. Louis was playing the odds that there wasn’t a gun trained on him at the moment. He moved into the Mustang’s headlights and dropped the bag on the ground.
An explosion shattered the air, and he felt a sledgehammer to his chest, spinning him to his right. His Glock went off in reaction, jarring loose from his hand. A second bullet hit him high in the back, sending him reeling against the car. He fell against the Mustang’s headlights, unable to get his breath, his legs crumbling under him. He dropped to the mud, fighting to get out of the light, back around the tire, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t even draw a breath.
“Go see if he’s dead!”
Glass shattered and more shots rang out, this time coming from inside the Mustang. Jewell.
Susan’s gun. Under the coat.
But he couldn’t get his hand inside, couldn’t find the grip of the .38, still couldn’t get a breath.
Bullets riddled the door of the Mustang and Louis ducked into the mud, crawling behind the front tire. He wrenched Joe’s gun from the ankle holster.
A roar of noise. Splattering mud. Then quiet.
He craned his neck to look up, blinking at the darkness. The truck was gone. And so was Ben.
Louis dropped his head, pain surging through him. His eyes brimmed with hot tears, his hand circled so tight around Joe’s gun his knuckles were white.
Damn it. Damn it.
So close. They had been so damn close.
He heard heavy breaths. And someone running.
Louis’s head shot up, the gun pointed at whatever was coming at him.
“Sir?”
Louis ran a sleeve across his face and tried to stand up. When he couldn’t, Jewell put an arm under him and helped him. Louis leaned against the car, hand to his chest. He felt Jewell’s hand on his arm, steadying him.
“They’re gone,” Jewell said. “I chased them on foot as far as I could but I got in some mud, then just swamp. They got away...I don’t know.” Jewell took a deep breath. “I don’t know how, maybe some access road.”
“Ben?” Louis whispered.
“Gone, sir.”
Louis closed his eyes.
“Sir, you okay?”
Louis nodded, wincing.
“You had to do it,” Jewell said.
“I should’ve handled it another way. I should’ve done something else. I should’ve...”
“There was nothing else you could do,” Jewell said, pointing to Austin’s purse on the ground. “The money was our only leverage and they didn’t even really want it. They wanted you.”
Louis shook his head, the pain in his chest engulfing him. “Not me,” he coughed. “Outlaw. They wanted Outlaw.”
CHAPTER 24
It took a long time to get the Mustang out of the mud and even longer to find their way out of the preserve. Jewell’s map was no help because every turn in the dark maze seemed to lead to another canal. Some of the roads were so overgrown with brush they had to back out, moving slowly to avoid the stands of dark swampy water on each side.
Jewell was driving now and with every dead end, Louis could feel the young cop’s frustration building, feel his sense of impotency. It was a full two hours before they found the scenic drive, and another hour before they made it back to the gravel quarry and homes. Back on Tamiami Trail, there were no cop cars waiting for them. Miller Boulevard had turned out to be just another rutted path dead-ending in a gaping pool of black water.
At East Naples, Louis finally got a signal on the phone. He gave Wainwright the news of their failure. During the rest of the drive back, Louis remained quiet, the throbbing in his chest growing stronger with every mile.
It was after four A.M. when Susan and Joe met him inside the door. Louis paused, holding Susan’s teary gaze as long as he could.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
Susan wrapped her arms around him. It hurt, but he held her awkwardly in a half-embrace, fighting not to fall against her. When she finally pulled back, she wiped her face, trying to hold it together.
“Do you need anything? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said.
The next few minutes were a blur. He had a vague sense of Wainwright asking questions, of Joe’s pale face watching him. Susan was pacing, demanding to hear the tape. Austin was slumped on the sofa. He didn’t even look up at Louis.
Louis tried to peel off the suede coat without pulling at his chest muscles, but he couldn’t. Joe was there, reaching up to help him, her eyes dropping to the bullet hole in his T-shirt.
He started to lift the shirt over his head, but couldn’t do that either. His eyes swept the room, at Jewell and the two other cops standing at the door, at Joe watching him. And at Wainwright, sitting at the kitchen table with Susan. The tape was playing now, and Louis could hear his own voice, tinny and strained.
Suddenly, the Kevlar vest was too heavy on his aching chest. He went through the kitchen without stopping. Wainwright looked up but Susan didn’t, too intent on the tape. Louis pushed open the door to the Florida room just off the kitchen.
Louis looked for a light but couldn’t find a switch. He knew Susan didn’t use the room much; he had been out here only once to help Ben with a flat tire on his bike. It was just a catch-all junk room filled with boxes and a few pieces of mismatched lawn furniture. Some of the glass slats in the jalousie windows were missing. There were puddles on the old tile floor.
Slowly, he crossed his arms and grabbed the bottom of the T-shirt. He tried to pull it up but the pain was unbearable and he had no strength. He gritted his teeth and tried again.
He heard the scrape of the door but didn’t turn around.
“Here, let me help.”
Joe was behind him. He didn’t try to stop her as she gently pulled the shirt up his back and over his head. She was careful as she peeled back the Velcro tabs and took the heavy vest off him, tossing it to the floor. She carefully removed the wire.
“You should go to the hospital,” she said.
He shook his head, fighting the dizziness.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He waited alone, feeling the cold air flow across his bare chest.
In another hour or two, it would be sunrise. Monday morning. Three mornings ago he had awakened in his cottage, antsy to come to this house, eager to pick up where he and Susan had left off before Austin showed up. By sunset, he was in Miami, looking at corpses.
And now. He spotted Ben’s bike leaning against the far wall. Now he was feeling like if he spent one more night in this house, he would go crazy.
Louis heard the door squeak and Joe returned, coming up behind him. He jumped at the gentle press of so
mething icy against his shoulder blade.
“Easy, easy,” Joe whispered.
He stood perfectly still, letting her hold the Ziploc full of ice on his back. The cold breeze swirled around him and he could feel the faint tickle of her hair on his bare skin.
“Jewell said you took two shots,” she said.
“I got hit in the chest first.”
She came around and looked at the bruise spreading over his chest. She pressed the Ziploc against his upper chest, her other hand holding his back. He could feel the tingle of the ice and the warmth of her hand all at once. He felt his nipple grow hard, saw her face so close, smelled the musk of rain, earth, and her.
She was standing inches away and he couldn’t bring himself to look into her eyes. When he finally did, he saw —- what?
Permission.
He held her eyes for a second longer. He reached up and covered her hand with his and gently pushed her hand away.
Joe stepped back. She reached down, picked up his shirt, and held it out to him. He took it and slowly worked it back over his head by himself.
Joe had gone to sit down in one of the lawn chairs. When he sat down in the other one, she reached over to a table and picked up a juice glass, holding it out to him.
“What’s that?” Louis asked.
“Brandy. I brought it out for you.”
“Susan doesn’t keep brandy in the house.”
“Wainwright mentioned you could use a drink and he sent someone to get some.”
Louis took a drink. Cheap stuff, but it would do.
Joe was looking at him. He half expected her to say something about him beating himself up over his failure to get Benjamin, but then he knew she wouldn’t.
Louis took another drink, staring out into the darkness of the small yard. He couldn’t see the palm trees, but he could hear the fronds rustling like taffeta.
“I watched a father shoot his own son once,” Joe said. Louis glanced at her. All he could see was her profile outlined by the light coming from the kitchen window.