God, she was stupid. It wasn't going to happen that way. Even if she didn't get herself killed, even if she succeeded in getting Blue out of jail, he was going to ride off into the sunset with perfect, pink, frilly Jenny Lee Beaumont.
Lucy cursed as she tripped over a root and fell, tearing a hole in the knee of her jeans. She ignored the pain, ignored the scrape and the blood, and picked herself up and ran.
R.W. Fisher was way ahead of her along the trail.
Of course, if Fisher really was just out for a morning run, Lucy was going to feel pretty idiotic. She was praying that he was meeting someone, praying that something would happen to—
Lucy stopped suddenly, dropping down into the underbrush.
Fisher had stopped running. He stood now in the middle of the trail, catching his breath, headphones off, leaning against a huge boulder. He hadn't heard or seen her, thank God.
Slowly, carefully, trying her hardest not to make a sound, Lucy crept forward.
Please, she was praying in rhythm with her pounding heart. Please, please, please, please, let him be meeting someone, please, please, please.
Then she heard it. The sound of a dirt bike coming along the trail. She used the cover of its engine to creep even closer and to take out the microcassette recorder.
But then Lucy realized it was not one dirt bike she'd heard but two. The riders braked to a stop and cut the engines. They were both wearing helmets, and as she watched, they pulled them off.
Travis Southeby. And... Frank Redfield? Oh, my God, if kind, gentlemanly Frank was involved in this, maybe Tom Harper was, also. And Chief Bradley—why not him, too?
"What are we going to do about McCoy?" Fisher asked.
His voice carried clearly to Lucy. She quickly switched on the recorder and pushed the microphone level up to high.
Fisher shook his head in disbelief. "Jesus, didn't I just ask that same question a week ago? Didn't we just have this conversation?"
"This time it's a different McCoy," Travis said. "But I don't think we have a problem, Mr. Fisher. Blue McCoy is in Northgate prison, and he's gonna stay there. There's no way in hell he can make that bail."
"Seems he's got some special navy lawyer flying in," Fisher said. "When I heard about that, I came very close to calling New York and—"
"Snake doesn't want to get involved," Travis said. "He did his bit—"
"By breaking Gerry's neck?" scoffed Fisher. "He should've made it look like some kind of accident. But a broken neck...? That was asinine."
"Blue was easy to frame," Travis said, "He'll take the fall."
"But what about this navy lawyer?"
"It's not a problem," Frank interjected. "McCoy is up at Northgate, right? There's going to be a fight in the cafeteria at noon. Blue McCoy is not going to survive. I can guarantee it."
Lucy stopped breathing. Blue McCoy was not going to survive? Not as long as she was alive and kicking.
Fisher nodded, his well-lined face looking suddenly tired and old. "All right."
"What I'm interested in knowing is how you plan to fill the gap that Gerry's death left," Travis said. "How the hell are we going to get that money into the system and back to New York by the syndicate's deadline?"
"Matt Parker," Fisher said. "He's been willing to help up until now. I'm sure he'll be happy to continue our relationship. I'll arrange a loan with the bank. Nothing that draws attention in our direction, of course. But it'll enable Matt to purchase a suitable business—maybe even McCoy's construction company. Construction was the perfect way to launder the money."
"Too bad Gerry chickened out," Travis said.
New York syndicate. Launder money. My God, that was what this was all about. Someone named "Snake," probably from that same New York syndicate, had broken Gerry's neck because Gerry hadn't wanted to play along.
"We'll be rich yet, gentlemen," Frank said, putting his helmet back on. "Next year at this time, we'll be rolling in money."
Lucy lay hidden in the underbrush long after the dirt bikes had pulled away, long after Fisher had run back down the trail. She wasn't sure exactly where she'd be next year at this time, but she knew one thing for certain. R.W. Fisher and Frank Redfield and Travis Southeby and anyone else involved in Gerry's murder were going to be in jail.
Even if she had to put them there herself.
Chapter 15
Lucy ran back toward Sarah's car, faster even than she'd run while following R.W. Fisher.
According to her watch, it was nearly six forty-five. She had to get up to Northgate by ten-thirty for morning visiting hours to warn Blue that he was in danger. It was about an hour's drive, but that was okay. She could make it.
Of course, once she got there, there was no guarantee that Blue would see her.
She was drenched with sweat and covered with burrs and dirt as she climbed into the car. She started the engine with a roar and headed quickly for home.
She had to call someone. Say what she'd overheard-what she'd gotten on tape.
She couldn't call the local police. They were involved. She knew that for sure. How about the state troopers? Hell, there was no guarantee they weren't in on the deal. And the local federal agents? Shoot, she was so paranoid now she was afraid to call anyone.
Lucy pulled into her driveway with a spray of gravel. She ran up her porch steps and quickly unlocked her kitchen door, then closed it behind her.
Think. She had to think.
She picked up the phone, then hung it back up. Then, with a sudden burst of inspiration, she picked the phone back up and pushed the redial button. She closed her eyes and prayed that Blue had been the last person to use the phone and that the last call he'd made had been to Seal Team Ten's headquarters in California.
It was ringing. Wherever she'd dialled, it was ringing. She could only hope it wasn't ringing in the local pizzeria.
"Night shift," said a deep voice on the other end of the phone.
My God, of course, it was three hours earlier in California. Out there, it was five o'clock in the morning.
"Who's this?" she asked.
There was a pause. "Who's this?" came the wary reply.
Lucy took a deep breath and a big chance. "My name is Lucy Tait, and I'm a friend of Blue McCoy's," she said. "He's in big trouble, and I need to speak to Joe Cat right away."
Another pause, then, "Where are you calling from, ma'am?" the voice asked.
"Hatboro Creek, South Carolina," she said.
"Can you be more specific about this 'trouble' you say Lieutenant McCoy is in?"
"Who is this, please? I can't say more until I know who I'm talking to."
There was another brief silence, then, "My name is Daryl Becker," the voice said. "Blue calls me 'Harvard,'"
Harvard. She'd heard that name before. "You went through BUDS with Blue and Joe Cat," she said.
"How do you know that?" he asked suspiciously.
"Blue told me."
"We talking about the same Blue McCoy?" Harvard asked. "The Blue McCoy who hasn't said more than three full sentences in his entire life?"
"He talks to me," Lucy said. "Please, you've got to help. I need to speak with Joe Cat."
"It's 0500 here on the West Coast," Harvard said. "We just got back last night after several weeks away. Joe is with his lady tonight."
"Veronica," Lucy said,
Harvard laughed. "If you know about her, Blue has been yapping his mouth off. You must be special, Lucy Tait."
"No, just a friend."
"I'm his friend, too," Harvard said. "So tell me what's going on."
Lucy did, telling him everything from the money-laundering scheme to Gerry's murder, the charges against Blue and the impending murder attempt at Northgate prison. Afterward, Harvard was silent.
"Damn," he said. "When that redneck white boy gets in trouble, he gets in big trouble, doesn't he?"
"I need help," Lucy said. "I can't do this on my own, but I don't know who to call. I need to know who I can trust."
>
"Okay, Lucy Tait," Harvard said. "This one is too big for me, too. Lay your telephone number on me. I'll risk certain death by calling Cat and waking him from his blissful slumber. He'll know what to do. I'll have him call you right back."
"Thank you," Lucy said, giving him her number.
She hung up the phone and opened the refrigerator, pouring herself a glass of orange juice as she tried not to watch the clock. God, she was a mess. She was soaked with sweat and dirt, her hair straggly and stringy, her knee still bleeding through the hole in her torn jeans.
Three minutes and forty seconds after she hung up from Harvard, the telephone rang.
Lucy scooped it up. "Yes?"
"Lucy? This is Joe Catalanotto from Alpha Squad."
Lucy closed her eyes. "Thank God."
"Look, Lucy, Harvard filled me in on what's happening out there. I've already called the admiral and arranged for emergency leave. I'm on my way, but it's going to take too long to get there, you hear what I'm saying?" Joe Cat's voice was pure urban New York. It was deep and rich and filled with the confidence of a Navy SEAL commander.
"Ronnie is gonna get in touch with Kevin Laughton, a FInCOM—Federal Intelligence Commission—agent I trust... works out of D.C. He'll send someone out to Hatboro Creek—someone you can trust with that tape of yours."
Ronnie? Veronica. Of course. His wife.
"What I want you to do," Joe continued, "is go out to wherever Blue is being held and tell him about this noon assassination attempt. Do whatever you need to do, Lucy, to get him out of that prison."
Lucy took a deep breath. "You want me to tunnel him out of there?"
Joe laughed. He had a deep, husky laugh. "If you have to, yeah. Do whatever it takes. Just don't get Blue or yourself killed."
Before Joe hung up, he gave her his home phone number, the SEAL Team Ten headquarters number, and Kevin Laughton's, the FInCOM agent's, number. Just in case.
Lucy hung up the phone.
Do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. Whatever.
She picked up the phone and dialled Sarah's number. She knew she was going to wake her friend up.
" 'Lo?" Sarah answered sleepily.
"It's me," Lucy said. "How much money do you have in your savings account?"
Lucy worked quickly. She dug out the files for both her house and her business from her home office. She found the title for her truck. She gathered her savings-deposit passbooks and uncovered her chequebook from her dresser.
She searched the Charleston Yellow Pages, making phone call after phone call until she found exactly the right type of entrepreneur she needed. She gave him directions to Hatboro Creek and made him promise to arrive no later than :00 a.m., when the local bank opened.
She made a copy of the microcassette, using her telephone answering machine to play the miniature tape and holding the microcassette recorder above the speaker. The quality of the tape was going to stink, but she didn't care. As long as the words were faintly audible and the voices were identifiable. She stashed one of the tapes in the kitchen utensil drawer for safekeeping.
At 8:57 a.m. she climbed into Sarah's car and headed downtown.
Sarah was standing on the sidewalk in front of the bank. Lucy parked and got out of the car:
"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Sarah said worriedly. "It's the thirty-thousand dollars Richard was intending to spend to modernize his office."
"You'll get it back," Lucy said, hoping she was telling her friend the truth. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. Your money pushes me over the top."
"I had no idea you had that much," Sarah said.
"It's mostly tied up in the business," Lucy said. "Look, before I forget, I hid a tape in my kitchen, in the utensil drawer. If anything happens to me—"
"Oh, God, don't say that."
"It's important," Lucy said. "On my bulletin board is a phone number of a federal agent named Kevin Laughton. Make sure he gets the tape."
"The tape from the utensil drawer." Sarah nodded. "Why the utensil drawer?"
"I was going to hide it in the toaster, but then I thought, what if someone comes in and wants some toast—"
Lucy looked up as a heavy man in a business suit and an incredibly obvious toupee approached them. It had to be Benjamin Robinson, the man she'd found in the Yellow Pages. It had to be.
"Ms. Tait?" the. man said, looking questioningly from Sarah to Lucy.
Lucy held out her hand. "Mr. Robinson," she said. "I'm Lucy Tait. Shall we go into the bank and get down to business?"
A skinny man stopped near Blue in the prison courtyard during the morning exercise period. He lit a cigarette with hands that shook and stared up at the sky.
"You gonna be snuffed, "
It took a moment before Blue realized the man was talking to him. He looked away from the man, down at the ground at his uncomfortable sneakers, as the meaning of what he'd said sank in. Snuffed. Killed. "When?"
"Lunch," the man replied.
That soon. Blue felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as his body prepared for a fight. "How many?"
"Too many. Even if you fight back, they gonna get you. If you don't show up at lunch, they do you at dinner."
"How many?" Blue asked again. There was no such thing as too many. He just had to know in advance so he could plan, strategize against an attack.
"There's thirty of 'em, bubba. All hard timers."
Thirty. God. Not impossible, but not good odds, either.
"They gonna get you," the man said.
Thirty. This was gonna be a tough one. This guy was quite possibly right. "Why tell me about it, then?"
"I'm telling you because if it was me gonna die, I'd want to know." The man flicked ash from his cigarette, still not looking at Blue. "Write a will," he said. "Make peace with whichever God it is you believe in. Or get on line for the telephone—call your girl and tell her you love her." He started to walk away. "Tie up loose ends."
Get on line for the telephone. Lord, if only he could. But Blue didn't have telephone privileges yet. Not for another week. And according to the skinny inmate, Blue wasn't going to live that long.
Blue went inside the main building to the library.
"I'd like a pen and a piece of paper, please," Blue said to the burly inmate who was acting as librarian.
Silently the man laid both on the counter. Blue could see reflections of his imminent death in the silence of the man's eyes.
"Thanks," Blue told him, but the inmate said nothing, as if Blue were already dead. The pen was attached to the counter by a chain so no one could steal it and turn it into some kind of weapon. He stood there, lifted the pen and held it poised over the paper.
Damn. This was going to be harder to write than he'd thought.
He started it off easily enough: "Dear Lucy." But after that it got much harder.
He didn't have time for it to be hard. He didn't have time for it to come out perfectly. He knew what he wanted to say, so he just had to say it. He wrote, trying hard to print legibly.
I've had a lot of time to think over the past twenty-four hours, and every time I try to fit you into this puzzle of who killed Gerry, the picture comes out looking all wrong. Whenever I think of you going to the police station, intending to deliver information that would strengthen their case against me, I just can't believe it.
I've been thinking about Travis Southeby, about the way he stood up against me at the Grill, about the way he took such pleasure in telling me you had turned me in. At first I accused him of playing head games with me, and now I can't help but believe that he was in-dead messing with my mind. I believed Tom Harper when he said you'd been to the police station, but what if he was lying, too? Or what if you'd been there, but for some other reason entirely?
I guess it all boils down to the fact that I don't want to believe them. I won't believe them. But I'm afraid it's too late. I'm afraid they already won.
It kills me I didn't see you when I had the
chance. I'm not sure I'll have that chance again, because someone in here wants me dead-probably so that I won't be able to prove my innocence and open up the question of who really killed Gerry.
Maybe I'm a fool, and maybe you're involved with these murderers. But I don't want to believe that. I'm not going to believe that. If I'm going to die, I'd rather die loving you.
Blue took a deep breath, then plunged on.
I've never said these words to anyone ever in my life, let alone written them down, but somehow over the past few days, I fell in love with you, Yankee.
I thought you should know.
He started to sign the letter "Carter," but crossed it out and wrote in "Blue."
He folded the letter in thirds and pushed the pen back toward the librarian, who again said nothing. He asked for an envelope and a stamp, and the librarian pointed silently down the hall toward the tiny room that served as the mail drop-off and pick-up point.
While Blue was there, several guards came in. They rattled off a series of numbers. It took him a moment to realize they were ID numbers—his ID numbers. They were looking for him.
"You're wanted in the warden's office," they said as he dropped his letter into the mail slot.
Was it possible the warden had somehow found out about the death threat? Was he going to put Blue into solitary until the danger passed? It was a long walk to the warden's office near the front gate of the prison, and Blue had plenty of time to speculate.
But when the guard opened the office door and Blue walked inside, the warden's words surprised him.
"Your bail has been made," the man said. "Sign the paperwork, change your clothes and you're free to go."
His bail had been made. Half a million dollars. Who the hell had come up with half a million dollars just like that? And just in time, too.
The clock on the warden's wall read 11:10. In twenty minutes, the inmates would be lining up to go in for lunch. In twenty minutes thirty men would be looking for him, ready to snuff out his life. But he wouldn't be there. He wasn't going to be forced to fight with thirty-to-one odds. Relief flooded through him, hot and thick. He wasn't going to die today. At least not before lunch.
Forever Blue Page 22