Capsized

by Sharon Sala

  “What? Don’t people around here ever wreck their cars?”

  Little Ed grinned. “That ain’t the trouble. Just not too many people around here can afford a car to drive.”

  “Yeah, well, then they need to get on the same trail I’m on and their luck might turn,” Françoise said, as he kicked back in an old iron chair and took the cold soda that Little Ed handed him. “Thanks,” he said, and took a long drink.

  “You’re welcome,” Little Ed said, as he settled his bulk onto a long iron bench. “Now tell me about this lucky trail you’re following.”

  Françoise took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Little Ed.

  “Look at this,” he said.

  Little Ed unfolded the paper. He wasn’t a good reader, but the number, two million, quickly jumped out at him. The woman’s face was unfamiliar. He laid the paper aside as he reached for a bag of peanuts. He tore it open and popped a handful into his mouth before looking at Françoise.

  “So what’s the deal with this woman? What has she done?”

  “Who knows?” Francoise said, then added. “Who cares? She’s worth two million to someone. I intend to find her.”

  “Who hired you?” Little Ed asked.

  “Oh hell, no one hired me,” Françoise said. “I picked up this paper in Missouri, but I seen others around. There was a bunch of them floating around the Mississippi delta country.”

  “You sayin’ that everybody and their hound dog is on the hunt for this woman?”

  “I reckon.”

  “Damn, Françoise. You ain’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of being the lucky one, and you know it.”

  Françoise shrugged. “Someone’s gotta find her. Why can’t it be me?”

  “I guess,” Little Ed said, and dumped the rest of the package of peanuts into his mouth.

  Françoise picked up the paper and, as he had countless times in the past few days, stared at the image of Kelly Sloan’s face.

  “Reckon she knows about this hunt?” Little Ed asked.

  “Probably.”

  “If she’s smart, she’ll change her looks.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that,” Françoise said. “They say she’s with this guy drivin’ a black Dodge truck. Probably changed that, too, but I’m not ready to quit.”

  Little Ed gasped, then choked on the half-eaten nuts in his mouth. Françoise thumped him on the back several times until he caught his breath. When he could talk without coughing, Little Ed grabbed the paper out of Françoise’s hands.

  “Let me see that again,” he said.

  Suddenly it dawned on Françoise that Little Ed had choked on more than peanuts. He grabbed his old friend by the arm and yanked him around.

  “What? What do you know? Tell me, damn it!”

  Little Ed looked past Kelly’s picture to the small print beneath it.

  Black Dodge truck, then the tag number. At that point he started to grin. He twisted out of Françoise’s grasp and lumbered over to the trash bin, then dumped it onto the floor. Empty beer bottles and pop cans fell out, along with a pile of used grease rags and a handful of disposable face masks that Little Ed used when painting. He kicked the refuse aside and then, with great effort, bent over and picked up the license plate that he’d taken from Quinn’s truck.

  He turned around and waved it at Françoise.

  “I get a cut of the take.”

  Françoise bolted to his feet, his heart thumping. “Where in hell did you get this?”

  “Took it off the paint job yesterday. The man wanted a new look to his ride. I gave it to him…for a price.”

  Françoise stared, unable to believe what he’d stumbled onto. If it hadn’t been for a worn-out radiator hose, he never would have sidetracked to Tuskeegee.

  “Half a million,” Françoise said. “Just tell me what he’s driving.”

  “That sounds fair,” Little Ed said, and gave him a description of what he’d done to the truck.

  “Help me fix that radiator hose,” Françoise said.

  Little Ed grinned. “I’ll do it. You go get yourself something to eat. You gotta keep up your strength. He’s got a whole day’s jump on you.”

  An hour later, Françoise was back. Little Ed slammed the hood down on his car and handed him the keys.

  “He headed north out of town,” Little Ed said. “Now don’t forget to stay in touch.”

  “You got it,” Françoise said, and took off, heading north.

  * * *

  Will Travis’s pager went off just as he was finishing the paperwork on Daryl Connelly’s assault. It did him good to know they’d nailed the perps responsible. He glanced down at the pager, then frowned. It was Houston Medical. He reached for the phone.

  A few minutes later he disconnected, then turned around and walked to the window. It was a hot, muggy day in Houston, with the ever-present thunderheads hovering off the coast, promising a chance of rain later in the day.

  Daryl Connelly was dead. The news staggered him. He’d thrown a blood clot and died. That suddenly.

  He swiped his hands across his face and then cursed. The paperwork he’d just filed on the Latino who called himself Armenio would have to be amended to murder.

  “God damn the scum of this earth,” he muttered, and reached for his phone.

  * * *

  Quinn pulled into a truck stop just outside of Mobile, Alabama, then killed the engine before he looked at Kelly.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  She nodded, then stretched wearily.

  “I think so,” she said. “Either that or I’m faint from the sight of your beautiful face.”

  Quinn leaned across the seat and planted a hard, hungry kiss on her lips, then unbuckled her seat belt.

  “Get out before I lay you down in the seat of the Fire Monster and have my way with you.”

  “Fire Monster?”

  “Yeah. I like the sound of it. What do you think?”

  “I think you enjoy being a chain-wearing, card-carrying redneck.”

  “Honey, I’m from Texas. Except for the chains, society already considers me a redneck. Let’s eat.”

  Just as they started to get out, it began to rain.

  “Shoot,” Kelly said. “This is going to mess up my hair.”

  Quinn eyed the short red-and-black spikes and grinned. “It’s already messed up,” he said.

  “Just for that, you pay for dinner,” she said.

  “Don’t I always? Besides, I’ll take it out in loving later.”

  They made it inside, laughing as they ran, and quickly took one of the last empty booths. Their rain-soaked entrance into the smokey truck-stop café warranted little more than a few curious glances before the other diners went back to their meals.

  The waitress appeared, took their orders for burgers and fries, and promised to return with their drinks. Quinn was watching a lingering raindrop rolling down the side of Kelly’s face when he saw a red sports car wheel into the parking lot.

  “Somebody’s sure in a hurry,” he said.

  Kelly turned around, catching a glimpse of the car as it cruised through the lot. Something about the way the car was moving up and down the rows made her nervous.

  “No. I think they’re looking for someone,” she said, and the moment she said it, she turned and looked at Quinn.

  “Do you think—”

  “Get up,” he said. “Walk out the back door and wait for me. If I don’t show, hitch a ride with one of the truckers and keep moving.”

  “No. We do this together or—”

  “I’m the one with the gun,” Quinn muttered. “Now do what I said.”

  As she was getting up, the car suddenly slid to a stop behind Quinn’s truck.

  “It’s too late,” she said, pointing out the window.

  “Son of a bitch,” Quinn said. “How did they find us?”

  “Little Ed?”

  “Get out, Kelly. Do it now!”

  “No one is going to recognize me.
I’m going out first. I’ll get behind them, then you come out and head for the truck. There’s only one guy in the car. Surely a DEA agent and a Texas Ranger can handle one bounty hunter.”

  Then she headed for the door before he could argue.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, tossed some bills down on the table and followed her out the door.

  Kelly shifted into a tough-girl stride as she came out of the café. Her head was up, her eyes shifting nervously as she gazed across the parking lot. Then she swiped her hand beneath her nose and combed her hands nervously through her hair, giving whoever might be looking the notion that she was nothing more than a junkie in need of a fix.

  From the corner of her eye she saw the driver of the red car look at her and then look away. It was all she needed to know. She began to walk, moving parallel to Quinn’s truck, then ducking behind an eighteen-wheeler. She squatted down and moved under it, then started working her way back toward the sports car.

  Quinn came outside and headed toward his truck. The fact that his gun was under the front seat made him nervous. Two million dollars was enough to make a fool out of anyone. There was always the chance that the driver would shoot first and ask questions later. He palmed the car keys and hit the button on the remote to unlock it. As he did, the driver got out of his car.

  “Hey, buddy,” Quinn said. “You’re gonna have to move your car so I can back out.”

  Françoise Marin was so high on excitement that he hadn’t even noticed the man was alone. He stepped out from behind his car.

  As he did, Quinn saw the gun. He held up his hands and started to talk.

  “Come on now, buddy, let’s take it easy here. I’ll give you my money and we’ll call it even. You go your way, I’ll go mine.”

  “I don’t want your money,” Françoise said, almost dancing with glee. “I want your woman. Where is she?”

  Quinn frowned. “Woman? I don’t have any woman.”

  “You’re lying,” Francoise said, and waved the gun toward Quinn’s head. “Talk to me now, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  “Look, man, I’m not married. Never have been, and I don’t have any woman with me. Look around you, damn it. There’s nothing around here but a bunch of trucks. I went in alone. I came out alone. How much plainer can I get?”

  Françoise started to frown. This didn’t make sense. The paper said the woman was with this man.

  “What’s your name?” Françoise asked.

  “Henry Shepler. What’s yours…Jesse James?”

  Françoise shifted sideways. The man didn’t seem rattled. Maybe Little Ed had been wrong. Maybe—

  Kelly swung the crowbar she’d snagged from the underbelly of a truck, hitting Françoise Marin in the back of the head just above his neck. He grunted, then dropped.

  Quinn grabbed the gun, then dragged the man between two parked semis.

  “There’s some nylon rope in the back of my truck. Get it for me,” he said.

  “I can’t get in your damn truck. I’ll hold the gun on him. You get the rope,” Kelly said.

  Quinn grinned, handed her the gun he’d confiscated from the man and ran to his truck. Moments later he was back. Quickly he tied the man up, gagged him with a handkerchief, then slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth and dumped him in the back of an empty bull hauler.

  “He’s probably gonna stink some by the time he’s found,” Kelly said.

  “Yeah, and judging by the tags on this truck, he’s gonna be a long way from home.”

  “So they know your truck,” Kelly said. “How do you think that happened?”

  “I guess Little Ed isn’t a man who can be trusted,” Quinn said.

  “I’d say you were right.”

  “Then what do you say we trade vehicles with our friend here?” he asked.

  Kelly nodded. “At least I won’t need a ladder to get inside.”

  “I’ll get our things. Pop the trunk, okay?”

  “That I can do,” Kelly said, and hurried toward their new ride.

  They were leaving without food and a little more anxious than they’d been when they’d arrived, but they were still alive—and they were still together.

  About an hour later, Quinn handed Kelly his cell phone.

  “Let’s call Will Travis. I want to check on Daryl and see if anything else has come up that we should know about.”

  “Right,” Kelly said, and dialed the number Quinn gave her.

  When the phone started ringing, she handed it back to him.

  Travis answered on the second ring.

  “This is Travis.”

  “Travis, it’s me. Quinn. How’s Daryl doing?”

  “He’s dead, Quinn. Threw a clot and died. They’re having a memorial service for him tomorrow, but no funeral. He wanted to be cremated. It’s a hell of a thing to burn. Don’t know if I’d have the guts to schedule it, even knowing I’d be dead.”

  Quinn couldn’t think. He kept driving while struggling with the urge to cry. Travis kept talking, filling in the silence without knowing why.

  “We caught the two bastards who did it. The desk clerk gave us a real good description of the two men, then identified their mug shots. We put out the call. They were spotted in Texas, then again in Oklahoma, where they were arrested. Or I should say, where one was arrested. The other one chose to shoot it out. He’s dead. As for the one we’ve got, he’s still talking. But we do know for sure that they were working for Ortega, at least indirectly. We’re looking for him now. Turns out he was treated at a Houston clinic, but we got there too late. We have a pretty good guess at where he’s gone, though.”

  “Is he still in the States?”

  “We think so,” Travis said. “At any rate, is there anything you need? Anything I can do?”

  “Send flowers in my name.”

  “Yeah. Sure. I’ll do that.”

  Quinn hung up, then laid the phone down before pulling to the side of the road. He turned to Kelly. She was staring out the window.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “God. Oh, God.” Then she started to cry.

  Quinn took her in his arms and cried with her.

  Chapter 7

  About seven hours after Françoise Marin left Tuskeegee, Little Ed had a revelation. He’d thought of nothing else but the half million dollars he would get should Françoise find the woman. But he knew that was far from a sure thing, even with Françoise’s inside information, and Little Ed was not a man to waste a good thing. So he began making calls—hedging his bets, so to speak—and sold his information to a few other men he knew would be interested. If Françoise came up empty, that didn’t mean Little Ed had to lose, too.

  And while he was hatching new plans, Quinn and Kelly continued their flight north. After learning about Daryl, their demeanor had taken on a somber tone. They had just under four days before the trial, and in normal circumstances could have made the drive from Alabama to D.C. in less than twenty-four hours. But that would have left them with three days to twiddle their thumbs and dodge bounty hunters around D.C. until the trial.

  Once again Quinn took to the woods, so to speak, using old two-lane highways. Knowing that Little Ed had probably been the one to finger them made him nervous. Uncertain as to how far the tentacles of his involvement might reach, it was still evident that he’d put a huge dent in their plans.

  They drove all night, stopping twice for gas and once for food and a rest stop. The last time they’d stopped, Kelly had taken the wheel, and she was now driving as Quinn slept. He was still sleeping when they crossed the line into West Virginia. The old highway on which they were driving threaded deep through the heart of Appalachia, winding up the mountains like an errant string that had come undone from a discarded ball of yarn. Ancient and towering trees bordered both sides of the thin ribbon of concrete, shading the pavement from the early morning sun.

  Just as Kelly started up another steep incline, the red sports car s
tarted to sputter. Quinn sat up with a jerk.

  “What’s happening?” he asked, looking around in sleepy confusion.

  “The car…I think it’s about to give up the ghost.”

  “Damn it,” Quinn said. “Maybe it’s just out of gas.”

  Kelly glared. “I’m a woman, but I’m not stupid. It’s not out of gas. The tank is over half full.”

  No sooner had she said that than the car clattered and died.

  “Well, hell,” Quinn said, and reached for his cell phone.

  He turned it on, only to find he had no signal.

  “It’s the mountains,” Kelly said.

  “Great. Now what?” he said, as she guided the car over toward the side of the road as it rolled back down the slope.

  “I don’t know about you, but since there are no rest rooms in sight, I’m going to find a bush. After that, we’ll talk, okay?”

  Quinn sighed with frustration. “Yeah, sure. I might walk up the hill a ways and see if I can’t get a signal.”

  Kelly nodded, then got out of the car and quickly disappeared into the brush at the side of the road. Quinn watched until he was sure she was safely out of sight, then started hiking up the hill.

  * * *

  Françoise Marin came to in a pile of half-dried cow dung. He rolled over on his back, realizing he was tied and gagged, and then closed his eyes against the glare of early morning sunshine. He inhaled sharply, then flinched as the smell of cow dung hit him full force. He froze, then forced himself to think of something else instead of the overwhelming urge to puke. He would be damned before he’d die in his own vomit.

  Finally his stomach settled and the urge passed. He tried to stand up, but the empty cattle trailer in which he was riding kept bouncing like a Nerf ball against a net. Every time the tires rolled over a bump in the road, he fell back to his knees. His head hurt like hell, and his clothes were matted with something dark, wet and green. As he stumbled and bounced, he mentally vowed that if he ever got his hands on Kelly Sloan, he would kill her for free.

  After several false starts, he managed to pull himself upright, and as he did, he realized his troubles were about to be over. There was a van tailgating the truck, and the driver had just spotted him. He could see the man gesturing wildly to the woman beside him. Françoise leaned against the trailer, hoping they could see that he was bound and gagged, then hung on for dear life as the trucker took a turn too fast.