by Sandra Brown
The possibility filled Myron with fear. He didn’t know the way to Mexico. What would he do with the money they’d stolen? Where would he sleep tonight?
The pores of his face leaked anxious sweat. He dragged his sleeve across his forehead to keep sweat from running into his eyes. His shirt was sticking to him. His crotch itched with a heat rash. The sweat made it sting. He fidgeted in the seat. His hands were slippery with sweat. He set the pistol on the seat beside him and wiped his palms up and down his pants legs to dry them off.
If Carl didn’t come back for him, he would be real scared.
But if he didn’t do exactly what Carl had said, Carl would be mad. He remembered what Carl had told him.
“Now here’s the plan, Myron. Are you listening? Okay, good. I’m leaving the money here with you. The money we took from the bank, remember?”
“I remember, Carl.”
“Good. It’s in the trunk, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I can’t take it with me, because a man toting a duffel bag would attract unwanted attention. So I’ve got to leave it here. Understand?”
“Sure, Carl.”
“Don’t doze off.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re the guard. You can’t let anybody sneak up on you. You’ve got your guns?”
“Right here, Carl.” He raised the pistol in his hand to show Carl that he had his gun ready. A loaded shotgun lay across his knees.
“Good going,” Carl had said, and Myron had felt proud. “Now, if anybody comes near the car, shoot them.”
“Okay, Carl.”
“I mean it, Myron. This is important. Don’t talk, don’t do anything, just shoot anybody who comes close.”
“Okay, Carl. Can I have a Coke?”
“Sure.”
Carl had set a whole six-pack of Cokes on the seat beside him.
“Where’re you going, Carl?”
“I told you, Myron, I’ve got something to do.”
“Can I come?”
“Jesus.”
And he blew out his breath like he did when he was fixing to get mad and Myron heard him say something about him looking like a walking fright show and that he might just as well have an Uzi tucked under his arm as have Myron tagging along.
Myron didn’t know what all that meant, but that was what Carl had said, and that was why he had to stay in the car and guard the money in the trunk and shoot people if they came up to him.
But Carl had been gone a long time. He was getting scared. His slippery index finger toyed with the trigger on the shotgun lying across his lap. He whimpered in fear over the possibility of being left alone. He wouldn’t know what to do if Carl didn’t come back. He wouldn’t know how to get across the border and find sweet Mexican pussy all by himself.
He stared at the spot on the horizon where he’d last seen Carl, willing him to reappear. He sucked on his lower lip and gnawed his inner cheek. He wiped the sweat off his forehead again. He glanced over his shoulder through the back window.
What he saw caused him to utter a sound of utmost distress.
It was a car, slowing down, pulling up beside him.
Chapter Forty-Five
What a difference twenty-four hours made, thought Emory Lomax.
Yesterday he had marked the long hours until the end of the workday when he could retreat and lick the wounds inflicted by the man named Jack who’d attacked him in his office. He had tucked tail and slunk home, where he had swallowed several aspirin to kill the headache the beer at lunch had given him. Unfortunately, he had later resurrected it with several glasses of bourbon. He wasn’t a good drinker; the bourbon had gotten him shitfaced.
Then the storm struck. Each flash of lightning and every thunderbolt had seemed aimed for the center of his skull, its sole purpose being to add to his misery. But beyond intensifying his headache, the storm had affected him very little.
He hadn’t known when the gale-strength winds tore away his window shutters and sent his metal trash cans tumbling down the street. He was unaware of the hard rains that had overflowed his gutters and flooded his garage up to the wheel axles of his Jag. He knew nothing of the tornado until this morning when his radio alarm clock woke him with the news.
As the storm was wreaking havoc on his community, he had been drinking his way into a drunken stupor, at times wallowing in self-pity, occasionally sweating in fear that his duplicitous machinations would bring him to ruin, continually seething over Jack the Cowboy’s insults.
Now, as he sped in air-conditioned comfort along the road that led to the Corbett ranch, he asked himself for the umpteenth time just who the hell that guy thought he was to talk to him with such condescension. He had entered his office uninvited. He had threatened him with bodily harm. Holding a knife to his throat, no less! Jesus, what audacity.
On the measuring stick of life, this Jack person didn’t even register. With a swaggering hard-body and a face like the Marlboro Man, the guy was a contemporary version of a saddle tramp, a joke, a ne’er-do-well without two nickels to rub together.
Why in hell he had let the guy browbeat him on his own turf, he couldn’t fathom. Of course it had been a surprise attack. He had lain in wait and ambushed him. Undoubtedly that was one reason he had surrendered with shameful haste.
Another was that he’d just concluded a disturbing meeting with Connaught and company, hotshots and high rollers to whom he’d made rash promises that would be difficult to keep.
Getting on Jesse Garcia’s bad side was also a quelling thought, but this Jack character had admitted to lying during their meeting, so he might have been lying about all of it. How did Emory know any such meeting had taken place? He had never heard of Garcia turning on one of his clients. At the risk of damaging his business reputation, it seemed unlikely he would start double-crossing his customers now. Not even for the sacred memory of Uncle What’s-His-Name the bootmaker.
Chalk up his intimidation to any or all of those extenuating circumstances. Or to the unaccustomed drinking at lunch. Or to the oppressive humidity of yesterday afternoon. To a mind fart. To whatever.
The important thing now was that he recognized the cowboy’s grandstanding for what it was. Anna Corbett’s ranch hand was jealous of him, so he had flexed some muscle. Big deal.
On the other hand, the acquisition of the Corbett property was a big deal. Standing between him and achieving that prize goal were a few macho threats issued by a man who wasn’t fit to polish his shoes.
This morning Emory had awakened with a bitch of a hangover, but with a clearer head and a firmer understanding of what he must do. The conquest of Anna Corbett could not be postponed. It must begin in earnest today.
She might continue to give him the cold shoulder, but when she got to know him, she would thaw. The only way she would get to know him was to spend time with him. That’s what he intended to do. Today would be a courtesy call. He would offer her his services and, over the next several weeks, grant her unlimited favors, professional and personal.
When she became dependent on his generosity and kindness, he would really turn on the charm and let her think she was being courted—but only until the deal was closed. He wouldn’t mind sampling the goods, but he’d be damned before he saddled himself with a deaf broad and her bratty kid.
Cowboy Jack had warned him to stay away from her. “Ooooh, I’m scared,” Emory said to the luxurious dashboard of his Jag. What was the guy gonna do? Slit his throat? Beat him up? Emory scoffed. Scare tactics. That’s all it amounted to, and Emory wasn’t falling for it.
“Give a cowboy a freaky-looking knife and he thinks he’s Jim fuckin’ Bowie,” he muttered as he applied his brakes.
Up ahead a car was parked on the shoulder of the road. From what Emory could tell, there was only one person inside, in the passenger seat.
He didn’t have an altruistic bone in his body, but he was politic. He prided himself on being very good at covering his ass. If the car was broken down an
d the individual was a bank customer who later said that Emory Lomax had breezed past without stopping to render aid, that would be bad public relations. Bad all the way around, because his relationship with the bank president was already tenuous.
But if it were said that Emory Lomax was a regular Good Samaritan, that he had inconvenienced himself for a person in need, that would earn him some much-needed brownie points.
Genial smile in place, he pulled up alongside the car.
* * *
“You could have called.”
Cora’s voice was as icy as Ezzy had ever heard it. She was upset, which, in Ezzy’s present state of mind, was just too damn bad. He felt like telling her to “deal with it” and hanging up.
“You knew I’d be worried,” she said in remonstration.
“Did I?”
That crack really ticked her off. She sighed in a huff. “I didn’t call to quarrel with you, Ezzy. Even out here I’ve been hearing news reports about the storms in East Texas last night. The TV said a tornado practically leveled Blewer. I’ve been calling for hours and just now got through. Then when you didn’t answer the house phone… well, put yourself in my place. Wouldn’t it upset you not to hear from me? I was imagining all sorts of horrible things.”
“The sheriff called yesterday evening and asked did I want to help during the emergency.”
“So you dropped everything and rushed right over.”
Her sarcastic tone made him sound like a pathetic individual who had lost all pride and self-esteem, and who would jump at a chance to prove his self-worth. “Yeah, I did,” he said. “It felt good to be needed and wanted by somebody. Anybody.”
It wasn’t like him to try to score major points in a quarrel with Cora, but dammit, he’d barely escaped being killed by a tornado. Moreover, he’d been up all night drinking bad coffee and eating vending-machine snacks, monitoring the police radios, and dispatching younger, able deputies to go out and do the job he was too old to do.
Dispatch. When he reported in, that’s the assignment they’d given him. Not search and rescue. Not flood control. Not any sort of man’s job. He was good enough only for what an old lady could do. All they needed was somebody to receive and send messages, the only qualification being that his body had to be warm. That’s the job they’d assigned a veteran law enforcement officer with fifty years’ experience.
The worst thing about it was that he hadn’t told them to go screw themselves and walk out. He’d done it. Then when the telephone service was restored earlier today, he’d been further humiliated. They’d taken him off dispatch and placed him at a desk to answer incoming calls from the general public and direct them if necessary.
In his view he was entitled to be a little testy, especially with the wife who’d elected to leave him.
She asked, “When did you eat last?”
“Don’t worry about it. Lucy’s been seeing to it that I get fed.”
“Lucy at the Busy Bee?”
“You know any other Lucys?”
“I was just asking.”
“Yeah, Lucy over at the Busy Bee,” he repeated snidely. “I’ve been taking all my meals there.”
That capped her. She was silent for a long time, and Ezzy enjoyed her stewing. Let her wonder, he thought.
Finally she said, “Even though you’re about as pleasant as a boil on the butt, I’m relieved to know you’re all right.”
He wasn’t exactly all right, but he let it pass. The knot on his temple wasn’t worth mentioning. He wasn’t dead, seriously injured, or trapped beneath an I-beam in a collapsed building, and that’s what she meant by all right.
“How did the house fare? Was it damaged?”
“Haven’t been home to find out.” He tried to sound indifferent. “Electricity’s out all over the county. We’re on emergency generators here in the office. Crews are working ’round the clock, but downtown is in a helluva mess and that’s where the main transformers are. Got to hand it to the phone company for getting our service back on this soon. Which leads me to tell you that the lines are ringing off the wall. I’ve got to go, Cora.”
“Okay then, well… You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Right as rain.”
“Call me back when you take a breather.”
Ignoring the misery in her voice, he gave her a clipped “Bye now,” and ended the call. If she was so all-fired worried about him, she could damn well get into her Buick and come home.
As soon as he disconnected, the telephone immediately rang again. “Sheriff’s office.”
“Yeah, uh, sir, I got a passel of snakes in my yard. When the creek water went down, there they was, squiggling all over the place. The wife’s gone ballistic. One of the dogs done got bit.”
In the background Ezzy could hear hunting dogs barking, a woman shrieking, and an unidentifiable pounding noise. He asked the routine questions and jotted down the man’s answers on the standard form. When he gave Ezzy his rural address, Ezzy asked, “So y’ all’ve got your phone service back?”
“No, sir, we ain’t. It’s deader than a hammer. I’m callin’ on my cell phone.”
Ezzy promised that a deputy would be along as soon as possible, but added that it might be a while. He cautioned the man to be careful until help arrived, but he didn’t tell him that they would probably be finding snakes in the house for weeks or months to come. He’d known that kind of infestation to happen after floods.
The next call came from a man who was angry at his neighbor. “If he’d kept that sorry fence of his in better repair, it wouldn’t have blown into my swimming pool.”
Ezzy advised him to take it up with the neighbor and not to clutter the telephone lines with such a petty, personal complaint. The chastisement didn’t sit well with a man already irate. When he started cussing Ezzy out, he hung up on him.
He just wasn’t feeling too charitable today. His tolerance level had maxed out hours ago. Anybody who rubbed him the wrong way was liable to get his head bit off. When the telephone rang again, he practically snarled at the caller.
“Sheriff’s office.”
“Who’s this?”
“Ezzy Hardge.”
A pause. “Didn’t you retire?”
“How can I help you, ma’ am?”
“I’m not sure you can. In fact I know y’all are awful busy over there. I probably shouldn’t even be calling. It’s probably nothing.”
“You got a name, ma’ am?”
“Sorry. It’s Ella Presley. Over at the bank? I’m Emory Lomax’s secretary.”
Too bad for you, Ezzy thought. “Is the bank open today?”
“No, sir. Our electricity is off and several windows were blown out. We just got our phones back on. Some of us came in to, you know, to help clean up the mess.”
“Y’all been robbed or what?” he asked drolly.
“No, no, nothing like that. The reason I’m calling is, well, Mr. Lomax left a while ago, and the president called an emergency meeting of all the bank officers for four o’clock this afternoon, and I haven’t been able to reach Mr. Lomax to notify him of the meeting.”
To Ezzy this sounded like another personal problem. What was it with people today? Had the tornado sucked all the common sense out of Blewer County? He was slowly losing what little patience Cora’s call had left him. “Mrs. Presley, I don’t see where—”
“I wouldn’t bother you, except that Mr. Lomax is never out of touch. Never. I’m always able to reach him either on his cell phone or his pager. But he doesn’t answer his phone and he hasn’t responded to my pages.”
“Maybe he turned them off.”
“He wouldn’t. What really bothers me is that he was on his way out to the Corbett place. Mrs. Corbett—you know, the deaf lady?—well she’s a bank customer. Mr. Lomax personally handles her account. He was worried about her maybe not having any electricity or phone service, so he told me he was going out there to check.”
Ezzy smiled at Mrs. Presley’s naiveté. Lomax
had turned off his pager because he was with Anna Corbett and didn’t want to be disturbed. Recalling how she’d looked the other night, Ezzy couldn’t say he blamed the banker, although he couldn’t imagine a quality lady like her having any romantic interest in an asshole like Lomax.
“He’ll show up before too long,” he said with unconcern. “I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”
“I wouldn’t, except for what happened yesterday afternoon.”
Ezzy stifled a yawn and propped his cheek on his fist. He even closed his eyes. “What happened yesterday afternoon?”
“A man came into the bank and asked to see Mr. Lomax. When I told him he wasn’t back from lunch yet, he told me he would wait and sailed right past me into Mr. Lomax’s private office.”
“What man?”
“He and Mr. Lomax claimed to be old college chums, but one of the tellers told me later—while we were on coffee break—that he was no more a fraternity brother of Mr. Lomax’s than he was a Chinaman. She said he was the Corbetts’ ranch hand and probably hadn’t even gone to college.”
Ezzy’s eyes opened. He lowered his fist and eased forward until both elbows were resting on the desk and he was massaging his forehead with his free hand. This was getting more interesting. “Why would two grown men try and pass him off as a fraternity brother?”
“It’s even weirder than that, Sheriff. I don’t think they’re friendly at all. I heard raised voices behind the door, like they were arguing. And no matter how they tried to trick me into thinking it was a prank, that business with the knife—”
“Knife?”
“Didn’t I tell you that part yet?”
“No, no, you didn’t.” Ezzy grabbed a notepad and pencil. “But I’d sure like for you to tell me now.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Ezzy despised Emory Lomax. It was damned foolish to give that weasel a second thought, much less devote an hour of his time to him. That’s how long it would take him to drive out to the Corbett ranch and back again. Fifteen minutes after leaving the sheriff’s office, he was still debating whether or not to return to town.