Thorn was stepping away from the oak to pick his best path when a crash came from the brush to his left. He slid back behind the tree, brought the Glock up, poised to take his shot.
But the huff and grunt came so fast and from such a startling level, Thorn had no time to fire. The feral hog was low and squat with a reddish-brown mottled coat, three feet at the shoulders, more than two hundred pounds. It was trundling directly at him, coming so fast there was no way he could dodge or outrun the thing.
It squealed at Thorn and squealed twice more at a higher pitch. The five-inch tusks jutting from its lower jaw were almost hidden by a froth of slobber. Ten feet away, the hog slewed to a stop, and beheld Thorn with its tiny eyes, red and crazed. He’d heard stories of hogs charging humans, but for all he knew, they could’ve been tall tales. He’d never stumbled onto one, so had no idea how much danger he was in. Still, just the look of the thing was so fearsome, his instinct was to shoot.
Thorn brought the pistol up and aimed between those demented eyes. The boar, however, had another plan. He stumbled awkwardly to his right then steadied himself and set off again, careening through the tangle of low-hanging branches. As he passed not more than a yard away, Thorn caught its trailing smell, as foul as sewer gas. Along its left flank a bloody gash ran from its front shoulder to its hip. A stray round from Jonah’s weapon must have strafed him and sent him into this frenzy.
The boar plowed into the undergrowth, sent twigs and leaves spinning, and hurtled ahead until it was out of sight. Seconds later more gunfire erupted from the direction the hog had taken. Deep within the brambles, the animal screeched and squealed and screeched again. After another spurt of gunfire, the hog was silent.
Thorn listened to the branches moan and scrape against one another. He saw an owl sitting serenely on a high limb like some weary judge who has seen it all and is no longer fazed by the follies of humankind. Thorn watched the owl and waited for something to happen. Nothing did.
He stepped away from his hiding place, ready to resume his easterly marathon, when fifty feet away Jonah emerged from the dense scrub, clawing through the snag of branches and limbs, and lurched into a clearing.
His face was smeared with blood, blood on his lips, blood coated both hands and arms, and blood drenched his gray sweatshirt. He was bathed in blood. He had wallowed in blood and wallowed some more.
Overhead the sunlight brightened, putting a harsh shine on the brushstrokes of Jonah’s work. Boar blood smeared on his throat and boar blood gleamed in the spiraling canals of his ears and blood glazed his skinned head. Pinwheels of light spun in the branches, and a half-dozen squirrels chased one another up and down the limbs of the oak, shrieking like a mob of ghouls celebrating one of their own.
For a full thirty seconds as Jonah stumbled past, Thorn had an unobstructed shot, but when he raised his pistol, his hand was so unsteady he couldn’t bring himself to fire.
TWENTY-ONE
* * *
WHILE SUGAR WAS FILLING HIS gas tank in Clewiston, a few miles south of the turn off to Coquina Ranch, Rusty headed into the station to use the john. At the pumps across from him, two bikers with Santa Claus beards were filling the teardrop tanks on their choppers and eyeing Sugarman like he might be just the guy they’d been looking for.
They both wore black leather vests over black T-shirts and identical ratty blue jeans and black leather boots. There was mud on their boots, and the yellow stains of bug spatter and bird shit on their vests.
A half hour beyond the city limits of any Florida city, you crossed the same demoralizing Rubicon and started running into these bozos, or their redneck cousins and their Confederate half-brothers, or some other good Christian boys from the holy exalted order of the bed-sheet. All these decades had come and gone, a new century and all that, a fresh generation with more accepting views taking the reins, and still a guy like Sugarman couldn’t get out of his car at a gas station in the countryside of Florida without a couple of eager beavers looking to start something a lot more serious than a conversation.
Rusty came striding back as Sugar’s gas pump shut off.
She saw the bikers and they saw her, and what they didn’t like about Sugarman to begin with they liked even less now.
“There some kind of problem?” Rusty said to the guys.
Aw, shit. Sugarman shook his head in resignation. Running a quick estimate of how long it would take to duck into the Toyota, open the glove compartment, shuck his Smith and Wesson from the leather holster, and let these guys have a long look at its sleek and sinister shape. Too damn long for comfort.
As Rusty walked over to the guys, Sugar’s cell buzzed. He drew it out, checked the Caller ID. City of Miami Police Department.
He answered, heard Mullaney’s crusty voice say, “That you, Sugarman?”
“In the flesh. But hey, listen, can I call you back in five? I got a situation.”
“This is your one big shot, Sugar. I have work on top of work on top of three shitloads of unreturned phone calls from people a lot more important to my career in law enforcement than your sorry ass.”
Rusty was talking to the bikers. First one, then the other. They’d finished fueling up their hogs and were listening to her. Nobody was throwing any punches and nobody was screaming. They weren’t making flower garlands, either.
“It’s about Coquina Ranch.”
“That’s a toxic waste dump,” Mullaney said. “Stay out of that shit.”
“I got a dog in the fight. Can’t stay out.”
“Let me guess,” Mullaney said. “His name rhymes with fishing bum.”
“Thorn’s made some improvements since you knew him.”
“I heard he’s got money now. Inherited Fort Knox.”
“More money than the state of Florida.”
“That ain’t saying much.”
“Look, Chief. I need a favor. Old times’ sake and all that.”
“Spit it out. There’s phones ringing, my secretary’s waving at me.”
One of the bikers had taken off his leather skullcap and was holding it in front of his chest like he was in the presence of royalty. The other guy had his head bent to the side, listening to Rusty speak while giving Sugar a curious look.
“Frisco Hammond’s cell number would be useful.”
“The guy doesn’t answer his phone. What’s second on your list?”
“What kind of guy is he? Trustworthy?”
“Got a mind of his own, doesn’t play well with others, but yeah, I’d take him along to the O.K. Corral. Last question?”
“Name of somebody on the inside. Lead investigator, maybe.”
“What’s this about, Sugarman?”
Sugarman gave him the bullet points. Keeping it vague. Real estate, Thorn and Earl Hammond making a deal.
When Mullaney came back he’d turned off the wisecracks.
“Look, this isn’t for general consumption, Sugar. I shouldn’t be having this conversation, but I got a soft spot for you, don’t ask me why. Must be that second Bloody Mary I had with lunch.”
Then he told Sugarman the situation, the news that hadn’t hit the airwaves yet.
If Sugar had been prone to gasping, that would’ve been the moment for it.
At the adjacent gas pumps, Rusty was shaking hands with the bikers. Regular old-fashioned last-century handshakes. When she was done, she walked over to the Toyota and got in. Sugar listened to the last of Mullaney’s explanation, thanked his friend, then took his time returning to the driver’s side, keeping a watch on the good-old boys. They’d already remounted their hogs, ignoring him now. First one then the other cranked his bike, gunned it, and glided away in a swell of thunder.
Sugar got in, started the car, and pulled out onto the highway.
“How the hell did you manage that?”
Rusty said, “Taco Shine.”
“I’m sorry?” Sugar looked over at her. “Taco what?”
“Back in my other life, pre-Thorn,” she said. “Th
e Outlaws, you know, the biker club. Taco was the man. I rode with them for a couple of years.”
“Wait,” Sugar said. “You’re talking about William Shine. That guy?”
“William Taco Shine.”
“He killed somebody.”
“He killed a snitch,” Rusty said. “The guy rode with us for a year. He and Taco were close. Somehow Taco found out the snitch was on the verge of giving up the entire club. Everybody was going down so this stooge could get a sentence reduction on a gun-running beef.”
“Shine’s on death row at Raiford.”
“Yeah.”
“Snitch have anything on you?”
“Enough,” she said. “I could’ve had an unpleasant year or two.”
“I can’t believe you rode with those guys.”
“Taco’s my half-brother.”
“Whoa.”
“Older by five years, same mom. He was having money troubles, so I let him crash at my place in Tavernier for a year, and before I know it my three-bedroom became the clubhouse. I saw some pretty dark shit, got my hands dirtier than I planned on. Because I’m Taco’s little sister, I was off-limits, none of the guys could fuck with me. It drove them crazy, having a woman around they couldn’t gang rape or beat the shit out of.”
“And those guys back there—they were in the Outlaws?”
“No, I just asked them if they’d ever run across Taco. They had.”
“You’re Taco Shine’s sister? Jesus. That’s a hard one to picture.”
A mile went by before she spoke again.
“So, Sugar, when you’re thinking about Thorn and me together, how difficult Thorn must be to live with, you’ve got to keep it in perspective. Compared to Taco, Thorn’s a goddamn model citizen.”
Sugarman slowed with the traffic in Clewiston. Pontoon boaters heading for the lake, migrant laborers, seven to a car, long-haul truckers, and tourists taking the scenic route up the spine of the state.
“You were on the phone back there,” Rusty said.
Sugarman was still chewing on William Shine. Taco slit the snitch’s throat with a Bowie knife, he remembered that. Now he was trying to see Rusty Stabler riding alongside Taco’s chromed-up Harley, all that G-force and wind, all that crystal meth and the loud, violent nights. Holding her own in that rough crowd. He needed to revise his view of her. Factor in Taco Shine. It was going to take a while. He wondered if Thorn knew about Taco. But then he probably did. Rusty wasn’t one to conceal her past, and it wouldn’t bother Thorn. He enjoyed complicated women. They seemed to be his specialty.
“The phone, Sugar. You were talking to somebody.”
“Mullaney,” he said. “Yeah, I spoke with the chief.”
“Do any good?”
“I got Frisco’s number. Mullaney promised to call him, pave the way.”
“Good work.”
“And something else,” he said. Then his mind strayed back to Taco and he fumbled for something to say.
“Sugar?” She tapped him on the arm. “Look at me, Sugar.”
They were stopped at a light beside the Clewiston Inn. Old two-story hotel on the downtown square with a beat-up tennis court across the shady parking lot. Rusty turned her head, giving Sugar the face-on view. Ash-blond hair clipped short, sharp cheekbones, narrow face, dark brown eyes flecked with gold, a wide generous mouth. Holding still for him, like she was having her portrait drawn, allowing him to absorb her, drink it in, all those layers on display, the shrewd businesswoman she’d become in the last year, the seasoned fishing guide she’d been before that, and deeper down in the shadows was that other woman, the one who’d traveled a harsher road than any he could imagine, who’d stuck her chin out into the blasting wind, full-throttle wild and reckless.
“There’s more to me than you thought. You’re taken aback.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I think I get it now.”
“Good,” she said. “I need you to get it.”
She gave him an easy smile. Then tilted her head, leaned across the center console. It probably was meant as a sisterly peck, or an air-kiss, but when her lips were about to graze his cheek, Sugarman moved too soon or in the wrong direction, or else she moved, one of those awkward bumps and dodges that are impossible to reconstruct. But their lips got flush somehow and settled.
The kiss lasted a half second longer than it should have, then both of them jerked away. She busied herself with brushing the legs of her jeans. While Sugarman looked over at her, absorbing one more version of Rusty Stabler, the one he’d never allowed himself to imagine.
An air horn blasted behind them. The light was green. All around them the world was in a hurry.
For the next mile Sugarman concentrated on driving. Rusty worked on being a quiet passenger, attentive to the scenery.
As they were leaving the franchise strip of Clewiston, re-entering the sweep of empty pinelands, she said, “You were telling me about your phone call.”
“Oh, yeah, the phone call.”
“Something about Thorn?”
“Herbert Sanchez,” Sugar said. He was having a chill. Not sure if it was from the kiss, or because of what he was about to say. “Sanchez quashed it.”
“He did what?”
“He let it be known to the commissioner of the FDLE that he wanted the investigation of the deaths at Coquina Ranch brought to a speedy conclusion. Like right now. It’s done.”
“Not even twenty-four hours? He can do that?”
“The FDLE is his domain. They had jurisdiction, so their work is complete.”
“What about an inquest or whatever they do? Medical examiner, fingerprints, written reports, all that stuff.”
“Technicalities remain, but for all intents and purposes, it’s done. Mullaney thought it was odd. He said the FBI and the state’s attorney weren’t happy, people with FDLE are stewing, but there it is. The governor’s a close friend of the Hammond family. Out of respect for their privacy and their personal pain, the authorities will tie a bow on it and walk away. Browning’s young wife blew away the shooter, and apparently the guy she killed had a long history at the ranch, he was friendly with the wife, so she’s an emotional wreck. And that’s the story. The governor wants it settled and done. So it’s settled and done.”
Rusty stared out the windshield as the road narrowed to two lanes. They’d picked up a wasp at the gas station. It sailed past Rusty’s cheek and landed on the dashboard. Sugarman lowered his window and shooed it back outside.
“Jesus,” she said. “The goddamn governor’s in on it. He leaks Thorn’s name, comes to the ranch to preside over an execution, then cuts off the investigation. He’s dead center.”
Sugarman drove one-handed, chewed away a flake of skin on his thumb
“How long has this deal been in the works? When was it you first proposed the land swap?”
“It all happened very fast. First of November is when I spoke to Margaret the first time. It took a couple of days to rough out a proposal, then Margaret put it in front of Earl Hammond a day after that. He agreed within twenty-four hours.”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Roughly.”
“So let’s walk it through. Probably starts with Governor Sanchez getting wind of the deal. He passes the news to the grandson. For reasons we have yet to determine, Browning Hammond decides he doesn’t want the five hundred million that’s coming his way. He wants all that land instead. So they throw together a scheme. Make it look like a disgruntled employee went berserk, the old man is killed, the employee is gunned down by the wife, which means she’s in on it, too. You got four eyewitnesses, one of whom is the highest elected official in the state. State cop is dead, old man Hammond is dead, shooter is dead.”
“Thorn is kidnapped.”
“Yeah, Thorn is kidnapped, and whatever real estate transaction was about to occur evaporates.”
“But you and I know there was a deal, and Margaret Milbanks knows there was one. What’s to keep one of us from calli
ng the press?”
“Oh, come on. What press?”
“The Herald. Hell, The New York Times. There’s a governor involved.”
“I don’t think so. You looked at a newspaper lately?”
“What?”
“I don’t think you can rely on a newspaper to bring down the high and mighty anymore. The days of that kind of journalism are gone. Woodward and Bernstein, there’s nobody doing that anymore. Now it’s press releases. Rusty Stabler calls the Herald out of the blue with suspicions about the governor, first thing they do is look up Sanchez’s approval ratings. He was in the seventies last I heard. He’s bulletproof. Thanks, ma’am, for your intriguing story, but no thanks. The few newspapers that still exist make their nut printing society-page photos.”
She was giving him a queer look.
“I’m babbling,” he said.
She nodded.
“It’s that kiss. What was that?”
“That didn’t happen,” she said. “There was no kiss.”
“Okay,” he said. “That’s probably best. There was no kiss.”
They drove in silence. Sugarman kept his eyes on the road, but it took all his self-control not to look over.
“So now what?”
“Well, with the investigation on ice, our job is easier. Not so many cops around.”
“But they’re wrong. It’s not about a disgruntled employee. It’s about five hundred million dollars and a two hundred thousand acre ranch. And it’s about Earl Hammond being in a big damn hurry to take that land off the table.”
Sugarman watched a hawk slice through the windy trees, swooping down for a closer look at something in the tall grass.
“You didn’t tell Mullaney about the Florida Forever deal.”
“Some of it.”
“How much?”
“Broad outline. I just said Thorn was involved in a real estate transaction with Earl.”
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