by Erik Carter
“Jake!”
He turned to her.
“Shhhhhh. Give silence a try. Just be quiet sometimes, love. Shhh. Silence.”
They continued down the beach, not speaking. Just the two of them, just their two sets of footsteps squeaking in the sand. The towers were still far off in the distance.
After a few moments of this, Jake felt C.C. looking his direction. He turned, found her with a little smile on her face. “Well, how did you like it, being silent for a few moments?”
Jake pointed at the Gulf. “It wasn’t silent at all. There was the sound of the waves. Duh.”
C.C. scowl-smiled at him. “Quiet your mind, love. You think way too much. Be present. In the moment.”
She let loose of his hand and stepped into the waves. Her sarong soaked instantly, to her knees. The cloth floated, tossing with the motion of the waterline, rising and lowering on her legs. She smiled, beckoned for him.
He stepped in, sloshed toward her. “Damn, the water’s so warm tonight. Feels like bathwater. It’s been so hot lately. And humid. In a couple months, it’ll be—”
C.C. put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Quiet. Be here. With me. In this moment. Right now. This moment. Silence.”
She kissed him.
Jake looked at the tape player. His hand shook. He pressed the REWIND button. The tape screeched for just a moment as it rewound the brief bit of the message he’d already played.
Then he pressed PLAY.
“Hey, it’s me.”
C.C. stopped abruptly, her breaths audible over the hum of the recording. A moment passed. And when she spoke again, her voice was angry, something Jake had rarely heard, something that sounded wrong coming from Cecilia Farone.
“I saw Charlie Marsh a few minutes ago. He told me you called him. He said you’re going tonight.”
Another pause.
“You promised me you wouldn’t go. You promised me! Now you’ve lied to me. And you know…”
Another pause, momentary.
“You know how important honesty is to me.” Her voice cracked. “But I guess if I’m having my quirky intuitions, my hippie feelings, you don’t need to be honest with me, huh?” She was clearly crying now. “And now I’m scared out of my mind about you. I know something’s going to happen tonight, something horrible. I know it.”
Another pause.
“Asshole!”
A loud clank as she slammed the phone.
A beep indicated the message had ended.
Jake pressed STOP, folded his arms across the top of the steering wheel, and put his head on his forearm.
He cried.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The woman calling herself Christie Mosley stared through her binoculars at the black Pontiac Grand Prix, a block away.
She’d seen Rowe lay out over the steering wheel, and she’d begun to settle back into her seat, assuming that he’d fallen asleep.
But now she saw swift movements from his back, rising and lowering. Shaking.
He wasn’t sleeping at all.
He was crying.
Her cellular phone rang.
“Yes?” she said, propping it against her shoulder, not taking the binoculars from her face.
“Straight from the Pensacola Police dispatch,” Falcon said. “Farone family brutally murdered—brother and sister.”
“Oh … my god.”
That’s why Rowe was weeping.
“Your boyfriend,” Falcon said with a heavy, sarcastic emphasis on boyfriend, “must be making his power moves. You can’t follow Jake Rowe all night. If Burton’s plan is going into full swing, you gotta get back to him.” A pause. “What’s the current status on Rowe?”
She watched as Rowe continued to shake on the steering wheel. Suddenly he slammed a fist against the car’s dash. The weeping continued.
And somehow she felt compelled to maintain his privacy.
“He’s … he’s regrouping in his car.”
“Give it another hour,” Falcon said. “Then we need you back with Burton.”
“Roger that.”
The call ended. She placed the phone in the cupholder.
For a moment longer, she watched as the figure in the distance wept, head now directly on the steering wheel, arms draped.
She lowered the binoculars. And exhaled.
A half hour later and a few miles away, she parked her Cutlass Supreme and watched as Rowe’s Grand Prix rolled to a stop outside a ho-hum apartment complex of two-story, motel-style buildings. The ground-level units had a small porch; the second-floor units had balconies with thin black handrails. Copious palm trees. A pool area in the center of the parking lot. It must have been a nice place at one point, but neglect had stolen most of its luster.
Her cellular was at her shoulder again. “All right, we’re at Shallowbrook Apartments now. I’ve been here before. This is Odom’s place. Burton had him stash some coke here a few weeks ago.”
The Grand Prix’s driver-side door opened.
“Rowe’s walking up to one of the buildings,” she said. “He just stashed a Glock 19 under his belt. Shit, he’s lost his damn mind. He’s gonna whack Odom. You know that, right?”
“Obviously,” Falcon said. “Don’t interfere.”
Chapter Thirty
Glover tried to contain himself, tried not to snicker.
He was in the Farone library with Burton, and standing before them was the old butler, Saunders, looking flustered, sweaty. At their feet was Cecilia Farone’s destroyed body, lying in the puddle of blood where he and Burton and the others had left her.
“It was inconceivable,” Saunders said, running a hand over his forehead. “You just wouldn’t believe it.”
“Pete Hudson? Are you sure?” Burton said, shaking his head. He looked at Cecilia’s body again, quickly turned away, shuddering.
Again, Glover stifled a snicker. Burton was good at putting on an act. Too good. Chilling.
“As I live,” Saunders said. “He was laying here with her in the blood. Like something out of a horror movie. Those are his.”
Saunders pointed at a line of bloody footprints leaving the pool surrounding Cecilia, going out the doorway. They were large, as were Pete Hudson’s feet, and the spacing was broad—he’d been at a run.
Burton nodded, sighed, and looked down at Cecilia again.
“Well, I did see her and Pete having an angry conversation after the meeting.” He pointed to the Mossberg, leaning against the wall. “Where’s the body?”
Saunders raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“Hudson. Where’d you dump his body?”
Saunders shook his head. “There is no body. He got away.”
Burton’s mouth opened. He turned on Glover.
Glover had contained his snickering, but now he couldn’t hide his shock. Like Burton, his mouth went wide. He heard himself gasp.
Pete Hudson was alive. Out there somewhere. On the loose.
Anger stormed in Burton’s eyes. His realistic yet thin facade of civility rarely wavered, but few things enraged him as much as losing control of a situation.
Burton's smile quivered back into place. “Hudson got away, did he?”
“But I got him in the leg,” Saunders said and motioned toward the Mossberg.
“Hurt bad?”
Saunders shrugged. “Grazed him. He’s not going to die, but he’s bloody well hurting.”
The old man suddenly looked away, distraught. His hand returned to his forehead.
“I can’t believe it,” Saunders said. “Pete killed Sylvester and Cecilia. In one night…”
Burton glanced at the body. “Well, Hudson is a ruthless bastard deep down. Don’t let that goofy smile fool you. I’ve had chats with the guy. Total psycho. Have you called the police?”
“I did. I hesitated, but … I didn’t know what else to do. The phone lines weren’t working, and I couldn’t find a cellular in the entire house. He must have taken them all. I had to drive into town, to
a payphone. I got back right before you arrived.”
“And you reported Hudson?”
“Of course.”
Burton smiled. “Very good.” He reached behind his back and took out his Smith & Wesson Model 29, aimed it at Saunders’s chest.
Glover gasped.
On the ride over, Burton had told him the plan of action. This hadn’t been discussed. This was not on the agenda.
“Burton, what are you doing?” Glover said, the first time he’d spoken since they returned to the mansion.
Burton ignored him.
Saunders brought his hands up slowly. But he didn’t panic, just narrowed his eyes at Burton. The old guy had been through a lot. He wasn’t easily rattled.
“What the hell is this?”
“I need information from you, Saunders,” Burton said. “Where’s the second press? I only know of the money-printing press. I need to know where the other one is.”
Saunders’s eyes went to Cecilia’s body and back to Burton. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
“Answer me.”
“Piss off. The police will arrive any moment.”
CRACK!
Burton fired. The round was horribly loud, amplified by the wooden walls, the stacks of books. Glover’s hands went to his ears.
Saunders howled and clenched his thigh, both hands, blood oozing between his fingers. But he didn’t fall. Tough old salt.
This was definitely not on the agenda.
“Looks like Hudson circled back to the mansion,” Burton said. “Decided he should silence the only witness. He managed to put a round in your leg. But did he finish you off?”
Burton aimed at his head.
“Okay!” Saunders screamed. His faced dripped with sweat. “Okay! The business park on Alexander Street, in Warrington.” He groaned. “Suite 109.”
Burton nodded. “Thanks, Saunders.”
CRACK!
A spout of blood from Saunders’s forehead. He crumpled to the floor, a couple feet away from Cecilia. A stream of bright, fresh blood raced out onto the carpet and mixed with the thick darkened blood already there.
Saunders’s mouth was open, teeth exposed.
Glover felt his hands shaking.
Burton turned to him, smiling. He looked down, saw Glover’s shaking hands, scoffed.
“Come on, pussy,” he said and walked off.
Glover glanced at Saunders’s body then followed Burton.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jake turned his notebook to the right page, then stuffed it into his back pocket.
The apartment buildings encircled a courtyard with a rundown gazebo in the center. Each building’s second story had balconies with a shared staircase between two apartment units. Jake cut through the courtyard, avoiding the mismatched patches of light—some warm-hued, others cool-hued—from the black lampposts, crossing thick, poorly kept centipedegrass. Many of the units had their screen doors open, and Jake heard snippets of nighttime home life as he passed—laughter, a New Kids on the Block song playing through a tinny speaker, the clatter of silverware, copious televisions.
Odom’s building was ahead. Jake retrieved the Glock. He climbed the stairs quickly, stepping as lightly as possible, but the tired boards still moaned under his weight.
At the balcony, the door to his left was closed and dark. Through the other door, he saw the bluish light of a television set, its brightness level waning and waxing. Like so many of the apartments, Odom’s sliding glass door had been opened to a screen door. He heard a sitcom laugh track.
He dispatched with stealth and threw open the door.
There was Odom. On his couch. In nothing but his tighty-whities, watching L.A. Law. The TV was the only source of light.
Odom was in his late forties, one of the oldest members of Burton’s gang. White, long, and lean. His cavernous cheeks sported a gray-and-brown beard.
Instant recognition in Odom’s blue, deep-set eyes. “Oh, Jesus Christ … You were supposed to die.”
Jake yanked the notebook from his pocket, showed the note.
Did you hurt her?
Odom squinted at it, confused for a moment before a malicious sneer materialized on his lips.
“What’s with the note? Cat got your tongue, Loudmouth?”
Jake jabbed the notebook forward, scowled.
Odom’s sneer grew wider.
“You’re damn right I hurt her. We all slapped her around for a while. Tell ya what, though, I wanted more. That was a fine piece of ass you had there, Hudson. But Burton wouldn’t let us. Crazy son of a bitch really thought of her as a sister, I think.”
Odom’s eyes flicked to the small, ratty table beside the couch. Peeking out of a stack of car magazines and Playboys was the butt of a revolver.
Jake darkened his expression and shot an eyebrow up, telling Odom that he’d seen what the man had hidden in the magazines.
With a series of swipes from the Glock, Jake motioned for Odom to stand up, move away from the revolver, and put his raise his hands. Odom did as instructed.
Then Jake motioned for him to get on his knees.
Odom continued to sneer, but Jake could see genuine fear now, as though Odom hadn’t considered Loudmouth Hudson a genuine threat to this point, even after the man had barged into his apartment aiming a gun.
Odom went to his knees, hands up.
Jake motioned for him to put his hands on his head. Odom acquiesced.
“Just blast me right here, huh? All these people in the surrounding apartments to hear it? Not even gonna use a silencer to cut down on the noise?”
The man had a point. Jake hesitated.
Odom suddenly dove for the couch, plunging his hands between the cushions, and pulled out a small pistol.
Two guns stashed within feet of each other in the living room. This guy was loaded to the teeth.
Jake lunged at him. Got his hands around his neck. Swung his side into Odom’s arms, getting out of the path of the gun.
Odom tried to maneuver the pistol back around, and Jake swept laterally, clamped his hand on Odom’s wrist, torqued it in the opposite direction. Odom went to the floor as Jake stripped the gun from his hand—a front disarm technique Jake learned at the academy.
One of Odom’s big boots swept at Jake, catching him behind the knee and bringing him to the floor beside him. Jake wrapped his legs around Odom’s waist and rolled them away from Odom’s pistol.
They crashed into Odom’s recliner. Jake was behind Odom, and the Glock weighted Jake’s hand, ready and willing.
But Jake gave a thought to what Odom had said.
It would be a mistake to put a round through Odom’s head in the apartment complex—not just because of the potential of being found out, but also because there could be an errant bullet. Someone else could get hurt.
Or killed.
So instead of shooting Odom, he would strangle him.
Odom’s neck was in the crook of Jake’s elbow, and he gagged as Jake pulsed his bicep. Fingernails dug into Jake’s arms. Odom swung a fist backward like a hammer at Jake’s ribs, missing once, connecting on the second attempt, which nearly stole Jake’s breath.
But Jake had a powerful advantage, and through his taut arm he felt the beginnings of Odom’s death. He felt the man’s panic. His desperation. His dissipating strength.
A recent memory flashed through Jake’s mind. One from only moments earlier: Odom’s sneering face, his gleeful confirmation that he had been one of many who had taken part in ending C.C.’s life, that he’d wanted to sexually assault her as well.
No, strangling Odom wouldn’t suffice.
Jake jerked his arm hard to the side.
Crack!
Broken neck.
Panting, Jake rolled off him, his head coming to rest on the matted carpet next to the coffee table. For a few moments, he remained like this, breathing hard and looking up at the popcorn texture of the ceiling.
Then he got to his knees. And looked down at Odom.
<
br /> Eyes open. Tongue hanging from his mouth, onto his scraggly, disgusting beard.
Jake flipped his notebook to the list and crossed off another name.
Cobb
Gamble
Hodges
Knox
McBride
Odom
Glover
Burton
The pencil stayed on the page for a moment as he looked at the list.
Two down; six to go.
He stood, went to the bedroom in the back, a room just as shitty as the living room. The bed was unmade, its tussled bedding faded and old. There was the sour smell of body odor.
To the closet. Where he knew Odom would have a stash of weapons.
Odom didn’t disappoint.
On the closet floor was a steel weapons case. The numerically-coded lock was unlatched. He tipped its door open and found a small arsenal.
Plenty of the items could be helpful for what Jake’s mission, but there was only object item he was searching for.
A suppressor.
There were several in the case. Most of them were shit, some of them even homemade-looking. But he found a decent one. Tested the threading. It fit.
He started to close the case. And stopped.
A blackjack baton. About eight inches long with a flexible, braided leather handle and a battered, black-painted, lead bulb on the end.
Jake picked it up.
Blackjacks had been outlawed in his department for some time—before he joined—but he learned about them during his training. It was a brutal weapon used in close-quarters combat. The weighted end was effective at knocking people out.
They were also known to split open scalps.
He thought of C.C.’s destroyed face.
The lead bulb at the end of Odom’s blackjack was covered with blackened blood, not quite dry, still sticky.
Jake nearly dropped it before he tightened his grip around the leather handle.