“Don’t you ever shut up?” Ronnie said irritably. “We’re late. Boone will be gone if we don’t get out there right now. Tie that extension cord around her hands. We’ll put her in the trunk.”

  Jackie had to bite back the tears. She was trembling all over, not from fear now, but crazy, blinding rage. Ollie was dead. Eddie too. She shot out from under the desk, kicking over a trash basket. Ronnie whipped around, pistol drawn. She yanked down on the master circuit-breaker switch, he fired, and the room went black.

  The Caddie stopped spinning so abruptly that Truman was thrown sideways across the floor. He got unsteadily to his knees and looked out the window. The Bondurant Motors sign was off, the red and yellow lights in the lot extinguished. Had help arrived?

  He didn’t intend to wait around up here and find out. He crawled out the rear window and onto the trunk of the car. The fiberglass was so slick, he started sliding immediately. Somehow, he managed to reach out and grab one of the Caddie’s outrageous fins. Still slipping, but not as uncontrollably, he flopped over on his belly. He found the rear bumper with the toes of his tennis shoes and put on the brakes. Bracing his sweating palms on the trunk, he hand-walked himself to a semi-erect stance. He pushed off hard with his toes and tucked his body inward, sort of a reverse of the way he’d seen high divers do back flips. Only they were aiming for water, forgiving, soothing water. Tar and gravel was the best he could hope for.

  The landing was bad and hard. His chin hit the roof first, driving his teeth right up into his skull, it felt like. Elbows and knees were lousy shock absorbers, too, especially ones as old as his. He lay there for a minute, dazed and bleeding and hurting worse than he could ever remember hurting in his whole life.

  Pain was all right, he reasoned, groaning and struggling to stand up. Pain meant you were alive, not squashed like a bug on the windshield of life.

  Chapter TWENTY-NINE

  “You’ll have to get the padlock,” Eddie said, handing Ollie the bolt cutters and leaning heavily against the chain-link fence. His breath was coming short and shallow now, and in the floodlights of the back lot he could see that his arm was bleeding badly again.

  “I can get it,” Ollie assured him, clenching his teeth as he squeezed the bolt cutter’s handles together.

  “Hold it steady,” Eddie coached. “Those bolt cutters are diamond-forged. Could slice a telephone pole in half.”

  “I … can … get … it,” Ollie grunted.

  The padlock fell to the asphalt. “I did it,” he said, disbelieving.

  Eddie didn’t answer. He was sprawled out on the ground, blood puddling under his outstretched arm.

  “Eddie?” He’d lost a lot of blood. But he’s a big guy, Ollie thought. He’s got a lot of blood. See if there’s a pulse, Ollie told himself. He could feel his own pulse racing like a hamster on amphetamines. He put his fingers on Eddie’s jaw, just under his earlobe. The beat was faint and slow, but it was there.

  Ollie pitched the bolt cutters aside and yanked the gate open. He had to get to Truman and Jackie, get to the phone, get an ambulance, get the cops. He reached down and gently removed the .38 from Eddie’s waistband. Ollie was alone now. He needed all the firepower he could get.

  The garage door was open, but it was dark inside. This was the way Truman and Jackie must have gotten in. He was running toward the garage when the lights went out. A moment later he heard the gunshot. From inside somewhere. The showroom? Whose gun? Ollie froze. He needed to think. As far as he knew, Jackie and Truman didn’t have weapons. That left Ronnie Bondurant and Billy Tripp.

  Truman’s equilibrium had been knocked for a loop, along with most of his joints and his eyeglasses. He felt around in the dark, found his glasses, then started inching toward the glow of the streetlights on U.S. 19. When he got to the fuzzy gray outline of the billboard, he stood and looked down at the parking lot. He saw the traffic on the highway, and the sales inventory of Bondurant Motors. And the gray Lincoln. Parked right beside it was a car he didn’t recognize at first. Two tones of yellow. Late seventies, American sedan. With a sinking feeling, he knew it was the Monte Carlo, and that something had gone very wrong.

  Looking down made him dizzier. He steadied himself and moved toward where he thought the trapdoor should be. He could almost hear his bones creaking. One minute he was taking a step, the next his foot met not solid footing, but thin air. He stumbled backward, nearly falling again, righted himself, and sensibly eased himself down to a sitting position, feeling for the edge of the trapdoor with his hands.

  Finding it, he dangled his legs down into the hole until he found the top rung of the ladder and started the laborious climb down. Up had been a hell of a lot easier.

  Faint voices were coming from the front of the car lot. Their words were indistinguishable. Maybe, Ollie thought, it’s the cops, the good guys. But just in case it was the bad guys, he drew the big pistol, the .38. It was so heavy he had to hold it with both hands, the left hand clamped around the right wrist, and still he couldn’t hold it any higher than waist level, not while he was crouched low, keeping tight to the side of the building, moving in on the voices like Elliot Ness and the Untouchables on the Chicago mob.

  “Goddamnit,” Ronnie was saying. “Didn’t I tell you to tie her up? Didn’t I? Did you look in the back like I told you?”

  They were standing outside the front door of the showroom, so close Ollie could have hit them with a rock from where he hid. “I’m sorry, Ronnie,” Billy said, shoulders twitching. “I’m real sorry. She was gone when I got there. I looked, but she ain’t back there. She must have come out this way, huh?”

  Ronnie trotted out to the sidewalk, paced up and down in front of the lot three times, then came back.

  LeeAnn could have run across the street to her friends at The Candy Store for help. She could hide for a while, but she wouldn’t get far. And she was scared of him now. Too scared to go to the cops, he’d guarantee that.

  “Screw it,” he said finally. “Let’s get going. There’s forty-five-thousand dollars riding on this thing. Bring that black chick out here. Wormy can take care of her after the thing with Boone is done. You said the Flora-Bama, right?”

  “Yeah, Ronnie,” Billy said. “Man, I’m sorry about LeeAnn getting away. Hey. You want me to get rid of the other one in there? Sort of make up for LeeAnn? I hit her a good one on the head. She’s out cold. I can dump her in one of those canals out there on Weedon Island. By the time the gators and crabs get done with her, won’t be nothing left to identify. I’ll meet you guys at the Flora-Bama and we’ll take down Hernando Boone. Right?”

  Ronnie nodded irritably. “All right. Don’t screw this one up, Billy. It’s your last chance. Screw this one up and you’ll end up in that canal right alongside the girl.”

  Ronnie got behind the steering wheel of the Lincoln and sped out of the parking lot.

  Ollie let him go. It was Jackie he was worried about now.

  Not three minutes later, Billy Tripp kicked the front door open and came out carrying Jackie in his arms. She was limp, but Ollie couldn’t see how bad she was hurt. He aimed the .38 and actually had Tripp in his sights for a fleeting instant. Then he put the gun away. He was no sharpshooter. There was no way he could nail Tripp without hitting Jackie. He watched while Tripp dumped Jackie in the backseat of the Monte Carlo and waited until he saw Tripp head in the same direction as Ronnie Bondurant.

  The showroom was still dark, but he felt around until he found a phone. Ollie called 911 like he should have done before. “We need an ambulance at Bondurant Motors,” Ollie said urgently. “Send the police. There’s been a shooting.”

  There was a loud clatter coming from the garage. He hesitated, then took out the .38.

  Truman dropped down onto the hood of the Blazer and from there slid down to the garage floor. The tool bench was only a few steps away. Pity he hadn’t memorized how many. He kicked something with his foot, heard it roll, reached down to retrieve it, and found the flashlight Jackie had set on the floor.

  With the light he could choose his weapon. A tire iron seemed appropriate, but as he reached for it, he knocked a metric wrench to the floor. The ringing seemed to echo through the garage. It would bring Ronnie or Wormy out here to investigate, he knew. He pressed himself flat against the open door to the showroom, the tire iron raised above his head, ready to strike.

  Ollie moved, catlike, toward the door to the garage. It was eerily quiet now, and even darker than the showroom because of the lack of windows. He stepped into the doorway, assuming his crouched gunslinger stance.

  Truman saw only the toe of the intruder’s shoe. But it was such a small shoe.

  “Ollie?” he whispered.

  “Truman?” Ollie’s hand relaxed on the .22.

  “For Pete’s sake!” Truman said. “I saw the Monte Carlo out front and I just figured, uh, well, I figured it wasn’t good news.”

  “It wasn’t,” Ollie said soberly. “Wormy pulled a gun, and he was going to kill us both. Eddie shot first. Wormy’s dead, I think. But Billy Tripp, don’t ask me how, he got away and came back here. Eddie got hit in the arm. He’s lost a lot of blood, TK He’s passed out in back, right outside the fence. And there’s more. Tripp’s got Jackie. I saw him put her in his car. He said she was alive, but he was going to kill her.”

  “My God,” Truman said. “I heard a shot. Was that what happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Ollie said. “I heard it, too. That guy, TK, he’s going to throw Jackie in one of those canals out on Weedon Island. There are alligators out there. Did you know that?”

  “I know a little bit about Weedon Island,” Truman said grimly. “Was that where Bondurant was headed, too?”

  “They’re supposed to meet first at some place called the Flora-Bama. I never heard of it before. Then they’re going to Weedon Island, to rip off somebody named Hernando.”

  “The Flora-Bama’s a tourist court. Out there by the dog track, right before you turn to go to Weedon Island,” Truman said.

  “Let’s get out there then,” Ollie said. He pulled the .38 out of the waistband of his sagging pants. “Here. Eddie’s gun. I called 911, told them to send an ambulance and the police.”

  “I’ve got to talk to that damned FDLE agent,” Truman said. “Jackie was supposed to call him. I’ve got to let him know what’s going on. Bondurant is on the move.”

  They heard the wail of sirens coming close.

  “I’d better get out there and show them where Eddie’s at,” Ollie said. “There was a lot of blood. And his pulse wasn’t too good.”

  “You stay with Eddie,” Truman said. “I’m going after Jackie. When the police get here, tell them what you just told me. Maybe they can put out an alert for that Monte Carlo.”

  Ollie tossed him a set of keys. “Take Eddie’s truck. It can go a hundred and twenty an hour. And it has a phone, too.”

  Truman didn’t waste any time with the operator at the FDLE office. “This is an emergency, life-and-death situation,” he told her. “I know all these guys have beepers and car phones and all kinds of modern gadgets. I’m a taxpayer and I pay for them. You get Ed Weingarten on the horn and tell him to call Truman Kicklighter at this number.”

  The truck was humming along at seventy miles per hour, but it only felt like forty, which was the actual speed limit. The cell phone buzzed.

  “Mr. Kicklighter?” Weingarten’s voice crackled with anger. “Is this some kind of joke? I’m on an operation at this moment, sir, or I’d be talking to the state’s attorney about obstruction of justice charges against you.”

  “Cut the crap,” Truman snapped. “I’m on an operation, too. You’ll find Jeff Cantrell’s body in the trunk of the Cadillac on the roof of Bondurant Motors. St. Pete police and an ambulance are already there. Wormy Weems shot one of my associates earlier tonight, and he’s in bad shape. Bondurant and one of his thugs, a young hood named Billy Tripp, are on their way to Weedon Island. Tripp has kidnapped a young woman, and she’s in his car. They’re planning some kind of holdup of Hernando Boone. I don’t know too much about that part. I’m on my way out there right now.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Weingarten said curtly.

  “Wait a minute, damnit. Did you hear me? Tripp has Jackleen Canaday. She’s been shot, I think. He’s driving a seventies gold two-tone Monte Carlo. I don’t know the license plate number. Tripp intends to dump Jackie’s body in one of those canals on Weedon, then meet up with Bondurant at…”

  “We’re aware of the situation,” Weingarten said, interrupting. “Stay away from Weedon Island, Mr. Kicklighter. You’ll just be in the way. Go home. Watch the eleven o’clock news. Channel eight.”

  “You called in a television crew?” Truman was incredulous. “You idiot. I told you, Tripp has Jackie. We think she’s still alive. And he could be anywhere on that island. If he gets wind that anybody’s onto him, he’ll finish the job and dump her. There are alligators in those canals, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I’ve got to keep this line clear for official communications,” Weingarten said. “Good-bye, Mr. Kicklighter.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Truman said. He was going so much faster than the rest of the traffic, nobody could see him talking to himself. As if he cared now. He threw the cell phone on the seat next to him. “He’ll get Jackie killed. And give an exclusive on my story. To a television station.”

  Jackie’s head felt like somebody had tried to chop it in two with an ax. It was the worst headache she’d ever had, and there was a place high up on the crown of her head that burned something fierce. She guessed the bullet had merely skimmed a new part in her hair. If there was a bullet lodged in her skull, she’d feel it, wouldn’t she?

  At first, after she’d been shot, she’d been sure she was dead. Then, when Bondurant grabbed her, all she could think to do was lie still and play possum.

  Up in the front seat, Billy Tripp was mumbling to himself.

  The back of the Monte Carlo was like a rolling garbage can. Beer bottles, paint cans, old shoes, dirty clothes, a big plastic bucket full of junk.

  Jackie snaked a hand down to the bucket, keeping her eyes nearly closed, watching Tripp to make sure he wasn’t watching her. She wondered where his gun was. The bucket was stuffed with rags, brushes, rollers, and a caulking gun. Too bad it wasn’t a real gun. Her fingertips probed silently until they closed on something useful.

  She sat up quickly and jabbed the knife blade into the base of Tripp’s skull. “Don’t turn around,” she said fiercely. “Don’t you move, boy, or I’ll cut you ear to ear.”

  Tripp stiffened. “I thought you were dead. Don’t cut me. Put the knife away. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “You’re not gonna get the chance,” Jackie said, emboldened. “Take that gun of yours and toss it back here to me.”

  Tripp did as she said. The gun was black and it looked and felt real.

  She looked out the window and tried to get her bearings, but everything she saw looked out of context until she saw a street marker and realized they were on Fourth Street North. Up ahead, she saw a big gas station with a little convenience store in the middle.

  “Turn in at this Texaco,” she said, jabbing at his neck. “And don’t try to pull anything.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked. But he signaled and turned into the gas station.

  “Pretty snotty for a cracker boy with no gun and a knife in your neck, aren’t you?” she said. “We’re both getting out of this car now, and I’m going to call the police and tell them how you and your boss killed Jeff Cantrell and tried to kill me and toss me to the ‘gators. Then we’re going to sit and wait for your sorry butt to get put under arrest.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” Billy protested. “Ronnie killed Jeff Cantrell. They tried to kill me. They did kill Weems.”

  “Too bad they didn’t kill you,” Jackie said. “Anyway, I heard you tell Ronnie that Wormy was going to meet up with you at that motel. How’s a dead man going to a motel?”

  “There’s no time for all this now,” Tripp said, sighing. “You’re screwing up everything. Look. I don’t work for Bondurant. I’m an undercover FDLE agent.”

  “And I’m Aretha Franklin,” Jackie said.

  “I work for Ed Weingarten. Your friend Truman knows him. We’ve been investigating Bondurant and Boone for a long time. I’ve been undercover two months. Tonight’s the night we bust them. Wormy is dead. If I don’t show up to meet Ronnie at that motel, he could get suspicious and blow town. He won’t go after Boone alone.”

  “How do I know you’re not just making all this up?” Jackie asked, keeping the knife to his neck, but easing up a little, just in case.

  “My service revolver is in a holster strapped to my ankle. My badge and ID are there, too,” Tripp said. “And there’s a microphone taped to my chest, under my shirt. I’ve been transmitting to our people. They’re parked in a van out near the Boy Scout camp. Take that knife off my neck and I’ll show you.”

  “Wow,” she said after he showed her the badge and gun. “You could have shot me any time you wanted.”

  “You could have cut me ear to ear,” he reminded her. “You called me a cracker boy.”

  “That was bad manners,” Jackie said apologetically. “Anyway, it was only a putty knife. See?”

  Truman reflexively eased off the gas when he saw all the flashing blue lights converging on the Texaco station at Sixty-second Avenue North. Probably another holdup, he thought, pitying the poor devils who had to work late nights at convenience stores.

  He stopped at the light at Eighty-third Avenue and saw, out of the corner of his eye, a hideous yellow Monte Carlo go barreling right through the red light.

  Tripp. It had to be. And if he really meant to dump Jackie’s body at Weedon Island, he’d just passed the turnoff for the quickest way there. He was still headed north on Fourth Street.

 

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