“Shit. They got a tire,” Winslow said. The shaking was becoming intolerable. They’d surely crash if he kept trying to drive on the ruined tire. Winslow cursed and began pulling over to the side. He fumbled for the gun Charleyboy had left in the center console. If nothing else, he’d take some of the bastards down with him before he died. It was a better prospect than returning to what Luther and Zig’s brother had in store for him after they’d seen what he’d done. Winslow had told Charleyboy he wasn’t a brave man, and that was true. But sometimes a man terrified of an agonizing death can be indistinguishable from a brave one.
“There’s someone else coming,” Charleyboy said.
Winslow’s heart leaped with sudden hope. Had the DEA figured things out and mounted a rescue so quickly? It seemed incredible, but then… He looked in the rearview and saw a flare of headlights rushing up beside the car that was tailing them. It was a big vehicle, probably another SUV, but he couldn’t tell behind the hard, bright glare of new halogen bulbs. The SUV slowed to one side, knocking the car pursuing them sideways. It left the road, throwing up a rooster tail of black earth before coming to a stop. Winslow finally steered the van to a shuddering halt as well, about a hundred yards down the road. He put his head on the steering wheel for a second, nearly sobbing with relief. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire made him sit up straight again. If there was a fight, he needed to be in it. He picked up his weapon out of the center console. As he opened the driver’s side door of the van, it was nearly torn off by the black SUV that screamed by him inches away, then slid to a stop, tires squealing on pavement. It looked enough like a generic government vehicle to make Winslow breathe a little easier. Looks like the cavalry’s here. But his brow furrowed at the look of the man who got out. Instead of the usual tactical gear or government windbreaker, the man was dressed in a light grey suit that fit him so perfectly it had to have been tailored. His haircut looked as expensive as the suit. He was carrying a pistol in one hand, held down by his side. Winslow realized too late that he wasn’t one of the good guys and started to raise his own weapon. There was the rattling sound of multiple weapons being cocked behind him. Winslow froze.
“Drop the weapon, Señor Winslow,” the man approaching him said. “Or the men behind you will fire.” He spoke with a pronounced Latino accent. As he approached, Winslow saw that he was grinning, his teeth very white in his dark face. The bastard was enjoying himself. “We don’t mean you any harm,” the man said.
“I wish I could believe that,” Winslow answered.
“Truly,” the man said. “Put the gun down. Caspar Gutierrez would like a word with you, and with Mr. Charlebois.”
“Goddamn it,” Winslow said. He let the gun fall.
“MEXICO,” SAVANNAH said.
“Yeah.” Mick was looking smug as he laid out his plan.
The four of them were sitting in a booth in a diner just off of I-10 in Metairie. Mick reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. As he unfolded it, Keith could see it was a printout of one of the pictures Mick had shown him back at the trailer in North Carolina. “It’s called San Pancho,” he said as he pushed the paper across the table at Savannah. “It’s like paradise.”
She looked at it for a moment and shook her head. “I suppose we’re going to drive there.”
Mick looked puzzled at her attitude. “Well, yeah.”
She sighed and pushed it back at him. “Mick. Sweetheart. You know that I love you. But, baby, you just shot a cop.” She turned to Lana, who seemed absorbed by her phone. “And don’t know who that guy was you shot, but I’m thinking he had to be a cop, too. Maybe DEA. They’d been set up on the house.” Lana didn’t answer. “Every law enforcement officer in Louisiana is going to be looking for us. And if they don’t catch us, it’s going to be every cop in Louisiana, Texas, Arkansas…you get what I’m saying?”
Mick’s jaw tightened. “We can make it.”
The waitress was just walking by. “You folks ready to order yet?” It was the third time she’d asked.
Savannah held up her nearly empty cup. “Just the coffee, please.”
The last thing Keith’s stomach could take at that moment was food, and he didn’t drink coffee. “Water for me, please, ma’am.”
“I’ll have a burger, medium,” Mick said. “And onion rings.” He looked around, noticed how Savannah and Keith were looking at him. “What?”
“Western Omelet for me,” Lana spoke up, and smiled at Savannah. “Got a long drive ahead. Got to keep our strength up.”
Keith saw the look his mother shot across the table. There was going to be trouble there.
“CAHILL,” HER LIEUTENANT said in a deceptively mild voice, “you really fucked this one up, wouldn’t you agree?”
She was standing at attention in front of his desk inside his small office. She hadn’t been offered a chair. Her back was ramrod straight and she was looking at a spot just over the lieutenant’s bald head. “I couldn’t say, sir.”
His voice sharpened and his dark brown eyes narrowed. “Oh, no? Well, let’s review.” He raised a single finger. “Number one, we’ve got a deputy in the trauma unit at University Medical Center in critical condition from a gunshot wound. I’m hearing that if he lives, which is by no means a sure thing, he probably won’t walk again.” He raised another finger. “Two, we’ve also got a civilian wounded in the same incident, a civilian who, for some reason completely unknown to me, was armed and apparently acting in the capacity of a law enforcement officer in my goddamn jurisdiction.”
“Sir,” Chance said, “Mr. McGee is a retired sheriff—”
“The operative word there, Deputy, being ‘retired.’ Now shut the hell up.” He raised a third finger and counted it off. “Three, the federal witness you were supposed to be watching not only got away from you, she stole your personal vehicle. And just to make things even more embarrassing for you, she seems to have done so with the express purpose of meeting up with the people who shot Deputy Knight.”
She felt her face getting red. “That one was my fault, sir.”
He lost his veneer of composure and slammed his hand down on the desk. She didn’t flinch. “You’re goddamn right it was your fault!”
“Yes, sir. May I ask about Agent Winslow, sir?”
“The DEA’s on that one. I don’t think they’ll want any more of your help.”
That one stung worse than anything else he’d said. “Yes, sir,” was all she said.
He shook his head. “I knew your dad, Cahill. Worked with him several times. He was a damn fine officer. I can’t imagine—”
That was too much. “Lieutenant Carver,” she interrupted, eyes blazing. “My father has nothing to do with this. I’d appreciate you not bringing his name into it. Sir.” She saw his eyes widen with shock, then narrow with anger. She figured she was finished anyway, so she plowed ahead. “And by the way, sir, my father’s still alive, so there’s no need to refer to him in past tense. But I will convey your regards, sir. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear from you, since I don’t believe he’s heard from you since his injury.”
Carver’s hands were clenched on the edge of the desk, as if he was trying to restrain himself from throttling her. “You know the drill,” he said in a low voice. “You’re suspended pending an investigation by the state police. An investigation which I believe and hope will cost you your badge. So turn in that badge and your weapon. And go home.”
She blinked back tears. “Yes, sir.” She turned on her heel and left.
WYATT SAW Cahill coming out of the lieutenant’s office and knew that whatever had gone on in there, it wasn’t good.
She almost didn’t notice him as she walked past. Then she spotted him and stopped dead. “What are you doing here?” She looked down at his side. “You’re out of the hospital?”
“They dug a pellet out of me, taped up the wound where another one grazed me, gave me some antibiotics, and sent me on my way. Guess my North Carolina insurance doesn’t buy
me much down her in Louisiana. Lucky that little girl in the car was a lousy shot.”
“Girl? I didn’t see her.”
“Neither did I, till she shot me.”
“So what are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Thought you might need some backup. Sorry if I was too late.”
She looked back at the door. He could see the anger in her eyes and the set of her jaw. She relaxed and looked back at him, her expression softening a little. “Thanks. Don’t know if it’d do any good. Looks like we’re both civilians now.”
“For the moment,” he said. “Can you hang around a bit? There’s another thing I need to talk to your boss about.”
“Mick and Keith Jakes?”
“Mick Jakes,” he corrected her. “Tyler Welch.”
She looked dubious. “I don’t know if he’s in a listening mood.”
McGee smiled. “I can be right persuasive. And afterward, I’d like us to talk about what we do next.”
“Next?” she shook her head. “McGee, there is no next. I’m suspended and you’re a civilian.”
“So we’ll have coffee and talk about Saints football.”
“Uh-huh. Why do I have the feeling I’m going to regret this?”
“I don’t know, why?” He turned and knocked on the lieutenant’s door. He entered without waiting for an answer.
THE MAN behind the desk was holding a phone receiver in one hand, the fingers of the other poised to press the buttons. He was a dark-skinned black man with a shaved head and the kind of face that gave Wyatt the impression that irritation was a more or less permanent condition. “Lieutenant…” Wyatt checked the nameplate on the desk, “…Carver?”
“Yes?” Carver put the phone down.
Wyatt advanced on the desk and stuck out his hand. “Wyatt McGee,” he said. The expression on Carver’s face turned from annoyed to wary.
He stood up and extended his own hand as if he expected Wyatt to try and bite it off. “Mr. McGee,” he said, “I’m glad you’re okay. You are okay, aren’t you?”
Wyatt figured the man was trying to get some sort of admission in case of a civil suit. “This?” he gestured at his side, where his shirt covered the bandages they’d put in at the hospital. “Been hurt worse breaking up a bar fight back home.” He took Carver’s hand and shook it firmly, enjoying the look of bafflement on the lieutenant’s face.
“Good. I mean…” Carver withdrew his hand and sat down. “What can I do for you, Mr. McGee?”
“Well, the main thing I’m here for is to fill you in on Mick Jakes and Tyler Welch.”
“Those the two young men who shot my deputy and wounded you?”
Wyatt shook his head. “The one who wounded me was a girl. I don’t know her. She popped out of the backseat with a shotgun. I guess I’m lucky she was too excited to aim.”
“With respect, Mr. McGee, it would have been luckier all around if you hadn’t involved yourself in police business.”
Wyatt fought down his irritation. He’d probably already been elected sheriff for the first time when this paper-pusher had been a rookie. “Well, I felt it was my business to let someone here know about these two boys. I think one of them—”
“Mr. McGee,” Carver broke in. “I don’t really care about the history of any of these people, or how they came from broken homes, or how no one gave them enough warm fuzzies when they were little. They shot one of my officers. That officer may die, or be crippled for life, because of those boys.” The last word came out bitter. “And we’re going after them for it. Hard. New Orleans hard. If they give themselves up, they’ll survive. Probably. If not, well…” He spread his hands in feigned helplessness, as if the implied result was as inevitable as it was fatal. “You were a sheriff back in North Carolina, I hear. I’m surprised you don’t understand that we can’t let this kind of thing go unpunished.”
“I’m not asking that they go unpunished. I’m trying to…” He stopped. He wasn’t sure anymore what he was trying to do. He’d wanted to help his friend’s son and assuage some of his guilt over Mick. But Carver had a point. If someone had shot one of his deputies, he’d have gone after them with everything he had. He’d have taken pleasure in gunning that person down himself. And he would have been applauded for it. Suddenly, he felt very tired. He felt old.
Carver shook his head in pity. “Go home, Sheriff McGee. Let us do our jobs.”
Wyatt nodded. “Thanks for your time, Lieutenant.” He turned as if to walk out, then turned back. “Oh, one more thing.”
Carver sighed. “Yes?”
“Cahill. She’s a good cop. She made a mistake, but no need to let it ruin her career.”
“Goodbye, Mr. McGee.” The loss of the honorific wasn’t lost on Wyatt. His face burning, he turned and left the office.
Cahill was waiting for him in the lobby. “That bad, huh?” she said when she saw his face.
“Yeah. That bad.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We get that cup of coffee,” he said. “Then I go home.”
MICK AND LANA lingered over their meals until Savannah wanted to reach across the table and smack them both. Keith nervously tapped the bottom of his empty water glass on the table until she gently reached out and put a hand on his wrist to stop him. “Sorry,” he muttered. She gave the wrist a squeeze to let him know it was all right. She studied his face. He’d grown into such a handsome young man. He’d lost the baby fat, leaving cheekbones like a male model’s. He must be a real heartbreaker, she thought to herself. She turned her attention to Mick. There was something about him that bothered her. He looked different from the picture on Facebook, but that wasn’t it. Most people looked at least a little different than their Facebook profile. Maybe it was the way he acted. He’d always been so fierce. The fierceness was still there, but there was an ugly edge to it now. He also looked older than twenty. She felt an almost physical pain in her heart as she thought of what he must have gone through. It had changed him in ways she couldn’t even imagine. She wanted to know. She wanted to comfort him. But she didn’t know how that was going to happen now. After all this time, her dream of being reunified with her sons had turned into a nightmare of being on the run. Mick had shot a cop. Maybe even killed him. And this cockeyed plan he had of driving all the way to Mexico…
“Oh, shit,” Keith said. He was looking at the TV behind the diner’s long counter. She followed his gaze and gasped in shock. The sound was turned down, but the picture on the screen was her own face, the portrait she’d put on her Facebook profile. It was taken in soft focus, ten years ago, but it was unmistakably her. The lettering under the picture blazed out at her: Mother, Two Sons Sought in Police Officer Shooting.
She looked around. No one was looking at her. Mick noticed her look. He hadn’t seen the TV. “What?” he asked.
“We made the news,” Savannah said. She stole another look at the TV. Her picture was gone, replaced by a concerned-looking Asian anchorwoman. She’d seen enough similar stories to know what was being said without hearing: “If you see these people, do not approach, extremely dangerous,” and so on.
“We need to go,” she said. “Before someone recognizes us.”
“We’re fine, Mama,” Mick said.
“No.” Lana’s tone was so emphatic that even Mick sat up straight and looked at her. She was looking up at the TV screen as well. “We need to go, baby. Now.” She slid out of the booth.
Mick’s cocky grin was gone. Lana’s concern had affected him where Savannah’s apparently hadn’t. Before this is over, Savannah thought, that girl and I are going to butt heads.
“Okay,” Mick said. He pulled out a wad of bills and tossed them on the counter. The waitress was approaching, check in hand. “That ought to cover it,” Mick said with a bright smile.
The waitress was staring at the pile of bills. “Um. Okay. Can you wait just a minute while I figure this up?”
“No,” Mick said. “It’s fine. Keep the change.”
Damn it, Savannah thought. Way to be inconspicuous. She had to jog to catch up with Mick and Lana as they strode out the door. Keith was right behind her.
“What’s happening?” he asked. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know, Keith,” she said as they walked to the parking lot in front of the diner. Ahead of them and forty feet overhead, the traffic on I-10 sighed by on the overpass. The night was lit with the hard orange glow of streetlamps. Savannah racked her brain, mentally going through the contact list on one of the phones in her purse, her regular phone. She didn’t want to think about the other one, the one Winslow had given her that she’d stashed in her roller bag as she left the house, then transferred to the depths of her purse when she’d gotten to Cahill’s trailer. Calling those two again wasn’t even Plan B. If anything, it was Plan Z.
Suddenly, a name jumped out from her memory. It wasn’t the name of someone she’d normally call on for anything. But it was the name of someone who had a place for them to hide, and access to vehicles, if the price was right.
She got to the car as Mick was firing up the engine. “Baby,” she said to Keith, “get in the back.” She saw with a flash of irritation that Lana had taken the front seat. “Lana,” she said, smiling in a way she hoped conveyed not a degree of warmth, “can you take the back, too? I need to talk to Mick.”
The girl looked up at Savannah, her emotions flickering across her face like distant summer lightning. Jealousy, uncertainty, insecurity. This girl had better not ever play poker. Everything that goes through her mind shows up on her face. She’d have felt sorry for the younger woman if the little bitch hadn’t been standing in her way. She kept the smile pasted on her face until Lana broke eye contact and slid out of the bucket seat. “Thanks, sweetie.” The dismissal couldn’t have been more blatant if Savannah had given Lana the back of her hand.
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