He smiles. ‘Well, thank you, ma’am.’
I press the accelerator harder, speeding right up to the limit as I follow the directions of the tinny-voiced navigator. Hope we can make it to our destination without getting pulled over.
We make it twenty-two miles before I see the blue lights in the rearview.
47
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22nd, 22:41
Blue lights. Getting closer.
Adrenaline fizzes through my veins. Pulling evasive manoeuvres isn’t easy in a place you’ve never been through before, but I can’t let them catch us.
I look at North. ‘I’m under the speed limit. Surely the car can’t have been reported stolen already.’
He turns, looking over his shoulder, watching the road and the blue lights. ‘We can’t stop.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ I can’t drive us straight up to the rental place, not if the cops are following.
The navigator is jabbering away about taking a right at the junction. It’s making me crazy. ‘Shut that damn thing up, would you?’
North snatches it from the dash and presses a few buttons. ‘Take a left at the next junction. A right down the side alley. Get ready to run.’
I do as he says. Make a smooth left, trying not to look suspicious. The blue lights are closer, but not on us yet, and there’s no siren. Could be they’re not after us.
As soon as we’re on the next road I swing the sedan right down the side alley. The suspension creaks, tyres bumping over potholes. A few hundred yards in, I stamp on the brakes and we jump out and start running.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice North has the car’s navigator in his hand.
‘Why are you taking that? We know where the rental place is.’
‘So when the cops find the car, they can’t see we searched for a rental place.’
I nod. It’s good thinking, no question.
We hurry through the streets. It’s near on ten minutes before eleven. If we get there too late we’ll have to wait until seven tomorrow to get a car.
I can’t let that happen.
We reach the rental office with two minutes to spare. The bleary-eyed guy behind the counter looks up when the bell over the door goes. He seems surprised to see people wanting a vehicle at this time of night. ‘I was just closing.’
I keep walking towards the counter. ‘Sign on the door says you’re open.’
The guy gives a shrug and sighs loudly. ‘Yeah, welcome to my world,’ he mutters under his breath.
North rests his elbows on the counter and eyeballs the guy. ‘We’re looking for something mid-range, compact.’
‘I can do that,’ the guy says. His tone sounds like there’s nothing he’d like to do less. He taps a few keys on the computer beside him. ‘I’ve got a Jetta available. If you want something else you’ll have to come back tomorrow after tonight’s returns have been valeted.’
‘The Jetta is fine.’
‘Alrighty then.’ He taps a few more keys. Looks back at me, then North. ‘You got ID?’
As North reaches into his jacket pocket for his wallet, I put my go bag on the floor, unzip it and take out the wallet with Nicole Bendrois’ drivers’ licence. As I straighten up, the images on the television screen in the corner of the waiting area catch my eye. I inhale hard.
The banner across the bottom of the screen screams: FBI Agent Killers Heading to Miami.
On camera a female reporter is interviewing Special Agent Jackson Peters. They’re on location somewhere; it looks like a train station, but it’s not Jacksonville or Fort Lauderdale. The television’s sound is muted, so I read the subtitles as they appear.
‘So are you any closer to catching these murderers?’ the reporter asks.
Jackson Peters keeps his expression neutral. ‘We’re on their trail.’
‘But you haven’t caught up with them yet; why not?’
Peters frowns. It looks like he’s trying hard to keep his cool. ‘We have reason to believe the fugitives are heading to Miami, most likely by rail, and we’re prepared. I can’t go into details, but we are poised to take them into custody.’
As the camera moves away from Peters to focus solely on the reporter, I catch a glimpse of a sign a little ways behind them – Port Miami.
‘Ma’am, your ID please?’ The rental guy’s voice pulls me back to the room.
Flustered, my mind still thinking on Jackson Peters, I hand over the driver’s licence. ‘Sorry, here it is.’
The guy looks at me for a beat longer than necessary, then takes the ID and studies it real careful. He holds up both of our IDs. ‘I just need to scan these into the system.’
As he turns away, heading out back, into the office behind the counter, I look at North. ‘You think he—?’
‘Not here.’ North’s voice is firm. ‘Wait till we’re in the car.’
I nod. Gesture towards the television. ‘Check it out.’
As North watches the news looping on a cycle – a kidnapping in Fort Myers, a stabbing in Ocala, then back to Jackson Peters – I wonder how Peters knew we’d likely be at Port Miami. Did he guess we jumped on the freight train when we didn’t board the passenger one at Jacksonville, or did Monroe see an opportunity and tell him our plan? I hate not knowing.
I tap my fingers against the counter. What the hell is keeping the rental guy so long? It’s ten past eleven now – past closing time. Surely he should be hurrying to get us processed. I glance over my shoulder through the glass shop front, looking for anyone waiting outside or vehicles parked up watching us. I can’t see nothing; the glare from the lights inside reflect back from the glass, obscuring my view of the street outside. I feel a twist in my gut and hope I’m just getting paranoid.
‘Ms Bendrois?’
My throat feeling suddenly dry, I turn back around. Knowing they’ll be cameras on the counter, I keep my face angled down. Sure, the rental guy has a copy of Nicole Bendrois’ ID, but that picture truly is her rather than me, so there’s less chance of my real identity being spotted from it.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ The guy hands Nicole’s ID back to me, but holds onto North’s, and stays watching him real close for a long moment.
My breath catches in my throat. Has he figured out who North is?
North frowns. ‘Everything okay?’
The guy lets out a sigh. Shakes his head. ‘Well, the thing is, our computer search has turned up a problem.’
I pick my go bag off the floor, ready to run. Catch North’s eye and flick my gaze to the door.
North doesn’t move. He narrows his eyes at the rental guy. ‘What’s that?’
‘The points on your licence? You’ve got more than we allow.’
Trying not to let my relief show too obviously, I smile at the guy. ‘It doesn’t matter none. I’ll drive.’
‘Yes, ma’am. That’s what I was going to suggest.’
Fifteen minutes later I’ve signed the paperwork in Nicole Bendrois’ name, paid cash for two days’ rental, and we’ve taken possession of a VW Jetta. It’s a whole lot smaller than the vehicles I’m used to and makes me feel like I’m driving with my elbows squished in, but it runs okay and we’re heading along out of Wynwood in the direction of Everglades City. With every mile we travel away from Miami, I breathe a little easier.
It’s near on eleven-thirty when I finally get to power up the cellphone I bought at the drugstore and call JT’s number. My heart thumps in my chest and I’m gutted when it goes straight to voicemail. I dial Dakota’s cell but it diverts to voicemail too. Panic grips me. Fear that something bad has happened to my family.
In the passenger seat, North swallows his medication and follows it up with a candy bar and a swig of one of the water bottles. He raises an eyebrow. ‘You okay?’
I drop the cellphone onto my lap. Stare out at the highway. ‘They’re not answering.’
‘It’s late. They could be sleeping.’
Dakota maybe, but not JT. He wouldn’t have swi
tched his cell off; he’d keep it on, waiting for me to call.
I shake my head. ‘Something’s not right. He’d answer. He always answers.’
‘You can try again in the morning.’
‘I want to speak to them now.’ My tone is harsher than I intended.
Grabbing the cell, I try Red’s number. It goes to voicemail, the same as JT’s and Dakota’s. I end the call and fear twists in my stomach.
The last time Red stopped answering his cellphone the Miami Mob had damn near beaten him to death. My stomach lurches, and I taste bile.
I got a real nasty feeling about this.
48
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd, 00:23
I follow Highway 41 out of town. My eyes are sore from the coloured contact lenses I’m wearing and the effort of concentrating on the dark road. I’m feeling hotter by the minute and my left arm is stiff and tender beneath my jacket. It’s a bad sign. I know that if I want to avoid another infection I need to act fast.
‘You okay?’ North sounds real concerned. ‘Your cheeks are flushed.’
‘I left my antibiotics back at Carly’s place. I need some more.’
He nods, looking thoughtful. ‘Pull a U-turn.’
‘What?’
‘We passed a place, maybe a half mile back in that small town. We can get some there.’
I wipe the sweat from my forehead. ‘They won’t serve me without a script.’
North smiles. ‘I was thinking more that we’d self-serve.’
The drugstore stands alongside a small grocery store on the edge of a cluster of homes that are too few to really call a town. I drive past, casing out the location. All the lights are off. The street is deserted. If we’re busting into someplace, this is as good a shot as any.
I swing the car around and drive back along the street, parking up a couple of hundred yards from the drugstore. Cutting the lights, I undo my seatbelt and reach for my go bag on the back seat. ‘I’ve got lock picks in my carryall.’
‘Let me have them.’
Taking them out, I turn back to North. My breathing is a little laboured from the effort. ‘Why?’
There’s a concerned expression on his face. ‘Because you’re not in any state to get this done.’
He’s right, though it pains me to admit it. I’m burning up and feeling weak. I need the antibiotics, but if I go inside with North I risk jeopardising the mission. Damn. Frustrated, I nod. ‘Okay.’
North takes the picks and climbs out of the car. I switch the engine back on, keeping the Jetta idling as I wait for him to return.
Minutes pass. I hate waiting. Sweat runs down my face. I keep looking in the rearview mirror, watching for North to emerge from the drugstore. A streetlamp flickers. A stray food wrapper wafts along the sidewalk like a modern-day tumbleweed. The street stays ghost-town quiet. No vehicles pass.
Ten minutes later, and there’s still no sign of North. I feel the tension tighten in my belly. This isn’t good. He should have been done by now. What the hell is keeping him?
Movement on the street catches my eye. A few hundred yards ahead there’s a person on the opposite sidewalk walking this way. It’s hard to tell if they’re male or female at this distance. But whoever they are, they’re getting closer.
My breath catches in my chest. I look back in the rearview; still no sign of North. I put my hand on the door handle, thinking on whether to go help him.
An ear-splitting wail pierces through the silence. In the mirror I see a red light flashing on the front of the drug store. Goddamn it. North’s tripped an alarm. Next moment I see him hurtle around the corner of the building onto the sidewalk and sprint towards the Jetta.
I put the gear into drive. Look forwards. The figure on the opposite side of the street is closer now. It’s a man but he’s still too far away to make out his features. I hope to hell he doesn’t manage to get a good look at our faces.
North yanks open the car door and throws himself inside. ‘Go!’
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. Flooring the gas, I shoot the Jetta onto the highway and accelerate out of town. As we pass the pedestrian on the sidewalk we keep our heads turned away.
‘Did you get them?’ I ask North.
‘Yeah.’ He passes me a pack of antibiotics. I recognise the name – they’re the same ones Carly gave me. ‘Should last a while.’
‘Thanks.’
‘The door wasn’t alarmed. It was the dispensary that was. I thought I’d disabled it. Trying to do it took a while.’
I press a couple of tablets into my palm and swallow them down with a gulp of water. I shake my head. ‘Like I said, thanks.’
We drive on in silence, both knowing that the alarm and the eyewitness could bring trouble our way. If they got a look at the licence plate and the cops trace it back to the rental shop, they’ll have our fake IDs. If they find the car we stole from near the station and left by the rental shop, then connect the two, it’ll give them a picture of our movements.
Damn.
I hope local law enforcement don’t figure out the connection fast. And, when they do, I hope it takes a long while for that information to reach Special Agent Jackson Peters.
Otherwise the FBI will be on our tail before dawn.
I keep driving. Forty minutes later, at Carnestown, I make a left turn onto the country road towards Everglades City. I’m already feeling better – my temperature has dropped and the sweating has stopped. I feel more alert too, which is a good thing because the terrain out here is way different from the urban sprawl of Miami. Swamps and scrubland borders the road, and there are no streetlights to guide our path, just the beams of the Jetta’s headlights and a faint dusting of stars above.
A couple of miles along the road I have to brake hard before manoeuvring around a gator that’s making its way along the side of the blacktop. Its eyes glint yellow as it turns to watch us pass, and I shudder.
Despite feeling better physically my unease has been growing stronger with every minute along the journey; my fear for the safety of JT, Dakota and Red mingling with the memories of the last time I came to the Everglades. Men died that night; me and my family almost died with them. I swore then that I’d never return to this godforsaken place – this wild country – yet just a few months later here I am.
Beside me, in the passenger seat, North stirs in his sleep. He’s been dozing for the past hour and I’ve seen no sense in waking him. The road has been pretty clear, and there’s been no sign of cops or Miami Mobsters on our tail.
‘We’re almost there,’ I say.
North blinks awake. Rubs his face with his hands and peers through the windshield. ‘Yeah?’
As if on cue a sign appears at the side of the road. There’s a picture of a bird and a fish against the backdrop of a sunset over water. The words read: Welcome to Everglades City. Established 1924 Florida.
I glance at the clock on the dash. It’s real late. In a place where we’ve done no recon, and I’ve got no sense of the geography, trying to get to the Old Man could be a risky strategy.
I look at North. ‘So you know the Old Man’s routine on this annual pilgrimage of his. What’s the plan?’
‘He always stays at a villa on Lake Placid. The community’s gated. We won’t be able to get in there now without drawing attention to ourselves.’
Keeping my foot easy on the gas, I glance out at the dark landscape around us. The road is built up higher than the land, making a causeway that crosses the swamps. Moonlight reflects off the water all around us. I know what’s likely to be lurking beneath it. I shudder again. ‘So what are you suggesting?’
‘How much cash you got left?’
‘Maybe a hundred bucks and change.’
‘Keep going along Collier. There’s a place we can stay until it’s daylight.’
I drive along Collier, and a few minutes later North directs me to a place called the City Motel. It’s small with a neon sign out front saying Vacancies. We park the Jetta in the rear p
arking lot and I get out and head to the wooden-clad building with a sign saying Office above the door.
The door’s locked, but there’s a light on inside. I move around the building, trying to see whether I can spot anyone inside. I see a neat counter with information pamphlets, and a coffee maker with go cups on a table to the side, but no signs of life. Damn.
I move back to the door. That’s when I notice the buzzer and a weathered sign instructing late arrivals to press long and firm. Figuring that’s what we are, I do as it says and wait. No one comes.
I’m looking back towards the car and North, wondering on my next move, when the door clicks unlocked. I flinch at the sound, and snap around to face the door.
An older woman with her hair in curlers and a long fluffy housecoat wrapped around her, opens the door. ‘What’d you want?’
I give her my most winning smile. ‘We’re looking for a room.’
‘We got them, but we close at ten.’ She makes a show of looking at her watch. ‘You’re four hours late and counting.’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but we sure would appreciate a room. We’ve been driving a long time and my friend told us your motel is the best place to stay here in Everglades City. She said your rooms are neat as pins and the beds are real comfy.’
She narrows her eyes, deciding whether to let me in, then nods, seemingly pacified by my compliment. ‘Fine then, come in here and I’ll get you set up.’
Our room is number eleven, in the middle of the back line of rooms in the horseshoe-shaped one-storey cinderblock building that makes up the majority of the motel. It’s basic but clean, and there’s enough space for me not to feel like our twin beds are virtually next to each other.
North flops down onto the nearest bed. He takes a gulp of water, finishing the bottle he’s been working on. ‘We should rest,’ he says. ‘There’s no guarantee how things will turn out later.’
Deep Dirty Truth Page 18
