by Linda Ladd
“Yuri's in the Isuzu,” he ground out to Misha, turning toward it as Nikolai and Andre fought their way out of the tavern.
Within minutes they were pulling out of the parking lot, amidst the pulsing roar of dozens of motorcycles. Vehicles were pouring onto the highway in both directions while the distant whine of sirens pierced the din. Yuri turned west, the way Kate and the big guy had escaped, and Dmitri turned his wrath on the rest of his team.
“Jones said that guy Miller was going to turn her over to us for cash. What the hell happened to screw things up?” Dmitri was furious, almost as much as when he'd awoken bleeding from the head inside the goddamned root cellar. Kate Reed would pay for that humiliation as well as this one. It was personal now, a vendetta, just him and her. With effort, he controlled the rage roiling inside him, and said through gritted teeth, “Well, Misha?"
Misha was holding a handkerchief to his nose, muffling his answer. “They were too many, uncle. Drunken animals. Jones told us not to use our guns because some of them were friends of his."
“Since when does Jones give you orders, nephew?"
Dmitri's voice was so lethal that no one offered further explanation but sat sullen and uncommunicative. Dmitri strove to get himself under control. He rarely allowed himself the luxury of showing rage, which he considered stupid and unproductive. But never had he been so frustrated, as Kate Reed continued to slip through his fingers time and time again. He took a couple of deep breaths while Yuri slowed to the speed limit. A dark blue Missouri Highway Patrol car sped past heading east, followed by another a few seconds later. Muttering an oath beneath his breath, Dmitri nipped open his cellular telephone.
“Yes, please give me the highway patrol. I want to report a stolen car."
He gave the operator the make and model of both the Cadillac and the Grand Cherokee Kate Reed had busted up with her incredible marksmanship. He shook his head. No wonder she'd taken his Beretta when she'd fled the cellar. It had been sheer luck that Yuri had found it where she'd fallen by the river.
And Jones had been right about the guy helping her. He'd obviously changed his appearance from the way Matty had described him, but Dmitri had gotten a good look at him this time. He was a big man with black hair, strong looking, and he'd been at Jumbo's yesterday when they'd been there. Dmitri had seen him leave the restaurant himself. He wondered why the man was putting his life on the line for Kate, unless they were lovers, unless Kate had been going to him all along. The idea of them together made him livid, and he hung up the phone without giving his name. They couldn't trace the cars to him. They'd rented both vehicles in St. Louis under false names.
“Now that you've let her make fools out of you,” he said, twisting slightly to look at the trio in the backseat, “anybody care to tell me what happened in there?"
Misha answered in Russian. “Kate Reed has changed her looks. Cut her hair and dyed it brown. She wore a shirt from the truckstop that said Jumbo's Famous Ozark Butterfly Biscuits. The man with her was big. Taller than me."
Misha sounded as if he took personal offense to that.
“Yes, Misha, and he's obviously smarter than you, too, by the outcome of your first encounter with him."
Anger burning through him like a hot current, Dmitri turned to Yuri, thinking he'd do well to send the other three back to St. Louis and let them face Vince's wrath, which was growing with each passing hour.
“Find the first big petrol stop so we can ditch this car and get another one, Yuri. We have no choice after this royal screwup but to go back and have a little talk with the black man who owns the truck stop. I saw the guy Kate's with hanging around there yesterday. He seemed to know his way around the place, and something tells me he knows this Jumbo character as well. If we can't get anything out of the fat Negro, then we'll have to check every goddamned place along this highway until we find her. Vince is losing patience, and so am I."
No one replied. Everyone knew what that meant.
Twenty-Two
KATE ENTERED Hillbilly Junction as if it was the Roman coloseum and she, a Christian martyr. She was still pumped up with fear and a dreadful adrenaline rush from firing the gun, but it felt good to fight back. She was fed up with running scared; she had to play their deadly game if she was to survive.
Inside the door she hesitated and glanced around the crowded souvenir shop. This was the most convenient place to stop when heading west, and she feared she might run into someone she knew from Van Buren. She had before, on several occasions when she'd driven to Springfield on shopping excursions. Thank God, she didn't see a familiar face, and she decided that most everyone in the place had come off the big tour buses. She had a bad feeling that the unpleasant biker odors of beer and cigarette smoke permeated her clothes. Nobody seemed to notice her, so she kept her head down and tried to look inconspicuous.
The counters were filled with myriad souvenirs stamped with The Ozarks or Missouri or Hillbilly Junction, lots of toys, sweatshirts and teensy little spoons and shot glasses sporting the official seals of every state in the union, just about anything a tour bus traveler would want to shell out money for. A white sign with red letters advertised the snack bar as Moonshine Joe's and offered popcorn, soft drinks, hamburgers and hot dogs.
Through long, heavily laden souvenir racks was a nice big restaurant designed for more leisurely meals; it touted the Ozarks’ Finest Chicken and a complete food bar. The tour bus clientele had migrated there, eating lunch and making a whole lot of noise. The gas pump checkout was near the front door. It had a glass case that displayed big luscious sheets of homemade fudge in every conceivable flavor from peanut butter to amaretto chocolate swirl.
Pretending to browse through T-shirts adorned with lanky hillbillies wearing big straw hats, Kate made her way toward the restaurant proper, deciding to melt into the busy lunch crowd. She soothed Joey who was getting fussy, sputtering angrily and twisting in his baby seat. She hoped he wouldn't start crying and bring every pair of eyes in Hillbilly Junction down on them. He was bound to be hungry, and Joey never minded letting her know when he wanted a bottle. She stopped for a moment and tickled his bottom lip with the clown pacifier. He watched her face as he pulled on it like crazy for a minute, then got mad, spit it out and let out a furious cry.
The restaurant hostess was waiting at her station, a wonderfully bright smile on her face. She was young, probably late teens, her long brown hair twisted up under a peaked white waitress's cap, which Kate suspected she hated to wear. She had lots of brown freckles across the bridge of her nose and braces on her teeth.
“How many will be dining, ma'am?"
“Two, please. My husband will join me.” Kate thought of Michael and her heart dropped a beat. She couldn't believe he was really dead, and now it seemed an eternity ago, a bizarre hallucination that couldn't possibly be true. She forced his face from her mind, unable to think about it.
A church pew sat beside the door, and on the right was a private Victorian room with mauve walls, lace curtains, a crystal chandelier and a fireplace. The girl led Kate into a more spacious room with a cathedral ceiling, knotty pine floors and native stone walls, and at least two hundred senior citizens enjoying themselves immensely. Kate knew that the elderly flocked in droves to Branson for clean, wholesome fun. By the looks of it, most of them went there via Hillbilly Junction.
Avoiding eye contact with the diners, she felt as if every soul in the place was comparing her with wanted posters and television bulletins, especially now that Joey was having such a fit. She was led to a teal-blue corner booth alongside a window that gave her an unimpeded view of the parking lot.
A pint jar filled with dry beans and dried flowers was the centerpiece, and the silverware was tied up in bright kitchen towels. Kate accepted the large green menu handed to her, smiled and politely thanked the hostess but watched anxiously for Booker to show himself outside. Give him time, she told herself, but panic was just beneath the surface, especially when she thought he'd gotten s
mart and left her to fight her own battles. She wouldn't blame him. She wouldn't blame anyone for getting out of this mess. It was hard to believe he had put himself in the line of fire for her in the first place.
Ten minutes crawled by, then fifteen, and Booker didn't show. Kate ordered fried chicken, iced tea, and warm milk for Joey. The baby was still crying for his bottle, causing lots of people to stare at them. She tried helplessly to soothe him but he wouldn't have any of it. She worried again that he might have a stomachache. She'd been feeding him milk he wasn't used to, dragging him around in godawful places. No wonder he was mad; he'd been through enough and wanted to go home. As soon as the waitress brought the milk, she poured it into his bottle, praying he'd be content to take it.
“Sure got a cute baby there,” the waitress noted, stopping and gazing intently at Joey. She was older than the hostess had been, graying dark hair pulled severely into a bun atop her head. She wore black slacks and a white dress shirt, topped with a black bib apron with a moonshine-swilling hillbilly logo. Her name tag said Gail. Her face was pleasant but heavily lined, tired and beaten down. She appeared overly interested in Joey, and Kate was instantly suspicious. Dmitri and his men were placing informants along the highways, and Gail could very well be one. Kate tensed up, very frightened again.
Fearing the woman might be on the lookout for Dmitri, she tried to act normally and said, “Thanks. She's ready for her bottle, that's for sure."
“Oh, a little girl. What's her name? She's a tiny little thing, isn't she? Can't be more'n a month or so, huh?"
“Jennifer,” replied Kate off the top of her head, but the waitress was snooping after Joey's age, maybe putting two and two together.
“Your food'll be out shortly, ma'am. We're real busy. You know, the lunch bunch."
“I'm in no hurry. My husband isn't here yet anyway.” Kate smiled at Gail, hoping to God she was wrong and the woman was just friendly.
Gail nodded, turning away as a man nearby, obviously irritated, called out for a bottle of catsup. Kate breathed easier when the waitress got busy again, but she'd keep a close eye on Gail, just in case. She tried to give Joey his bottle but he wouldn't take it. He wailed louder, and Kate's nerves quivered until she wanted to roll up into a ball and hide. More and more diners were turning to stare at her. She checked Joey's diaper to see if he was wet. Slightly damp but not messed, thank God. She'd change him as soon as they got on the road again. If they got on the road again. She tried to banish increasingly negative thoughts and kept her face averted, desperately soothing Joey, but she was getting worried. Booker should have been back a long time ago. Where the devil was he?
She shot a worried look past diners sporting white hair, eyeglasses and polyester pantsuits, appalled when she saw two uniformed highway patrolmen waiting at the hostess station. Oh, God, were they after her?
Kate turned toward the wall, lifting Joey out of his seat and cradling him against her chest. She searched for a rear exit. There was probably a back door out of the kitchen; she debated getting up and leaving while she still could. Where in God's name was Booker?
When she glanced at the cops again, they were coming toward her. She froze in dread, then melted with relief when the hostess merely seated them at a nearby table. Both officers were tall and held brimmed hats in their hands. They both looked at Kate when Joey let out an angry yell. She cringed, waiting for recognition to flare in their eyes. They sat down and chatted with the waitress. She hoped her apprehension wasn't written all over her face.
Joey would not stop crying. No matter how she held him, how she whispered to him, nothing worked. She had a terrible feeling he was sick, the stomachache she'd been worried about, maybe, or an earache from the plunge in the river. Panic surged, nearly overwhelming her; Joey had never been ill since she'd gotten him. What was she going to do? They couldn't take him to a hospital. The police would surely have alerted emergency rooms to be on the lookout for them.
As Joey's cries turned into screams, everyone in the place watched her. One of the cops leaned close and said something to his partner. Kate patted Joey's back, searching the parking lot for Booker. The patrolman stood up. Oh, no, no, he was coming over to her table.
“Good God Almighty, Katie? That is you, isn't it?"
Jumping as if jabbed with a fork, Kate jerked around, then nearly fainted. Heaven help her, it was Henry Hinkley from Van Buren. His bushy white brows were drawn together in consternation, apparently nonplussed by her new look. She wished she'd stuffed all her dark hair inside the baseball cap so she wouldn't have to explain her change in appearance.
To her relief, the seated highway patrolman called out a greeting to the man who had materialized in front of her, obviously old friends, and the other officer sat back down as Henry turned and said hello. Kate braced herself as Henry slid into the booth across from her.
“Hi, Judge,” she managed as brightly as she could. She noticed the nosy waitress standing beside the salad bar, watching them. “What're you doing way up here?” Inside she had disintegrated to a basket case. Why did she have to run into him now, of all times? And why did Joey have to pick this moment to get sick? And, for heaven's sake, what had happened to Booker?
“I'm on the way to Branson,” the judge answered, examining her face with narrowed eyes. His gaze lingered on the darkening bruise on her cheek. Kate turned her face slightly and hoped it didn't look too bad. “Driving a busload of folk up to see the shows. Already been down to Hot Springs and the horse races. Spent most of last week there. Lost a dadgum bundle on the ponies."
Kate remembered then that Henry had bought himself a bus and had taken to guiding tours. Judge Hinkley had been Pop's best friend when he'd been the circuit judge at Van Buren. In his seventies now, Henry was retired but had been voted out of office a decade ago for abandoning his loyal wife of thirty years and eloping with a seventeen-year-old assistant law clerk by the name of Gwennie Briggs. She, in turn, had run off with his young law partner, Mel Lance, Jr., before her marriage to the judge was hardly consummated. Judge Hinkley had become the laughingstock of the legal community afterward, lambasted by the decent citizens of Carter County. He had never lived the scandal down.
“What's the matter with Joey? Colic or something?"
The judge liked babies and had come to visit Joey just after Michael had brought him home, armed with a dozen packages of disposable diapers and a silver rattle. He'd stayed long enough to rock Joey to sleep. A month ago, which seemed totally inconceivable to Kate. The last few days alone seemed like a year.
“You all right, honey?” the judge was asking now.
Kate stared at him like a felon facing the executioner. Henry had known her too long and too well. She felt she could trust him with anything, but involving him in this mess would get him thrown in jail as an accomplice after the fact. Or murdered by Dmitri. That sobered her quickly enough. There was no way she could tell him the truth. She plastered a big, happy smile on her face, but she had a feeling she looked as plastic as a Malibu Barbie. “I'm fine, really, just worried about Joey. I'm going to Branson, too, with a friend of mine."
Kate watched Gail move past their booth and stop to wipe off the next table, but she had a feeling the woman was really eavesdropping on their conversation.
“Is that a fact? Who you here with?” Henry was eyeing her intently as he helped himself to the glass of water the waitress had left for Booker. His hair was thick and wavy, white as chalk, with a cowlick at midforehead that sent a natural wave above his right temple. His mane was his pride and joy; he loved comparisons with Kenny Rogers.
“Just a friend."
“Where's Slick? Still getting sleazebag junkies off up in Clayton?"
Slick was what Henry had called Michael. Needless to say, he hadn't cared much for her husband. But the judge obviously hadn't heard what had happened to her during the last few hellish days, or he wouldn't be asking such questions. Momentarily she considered telling him everything, baring her soul an
d asking his help, but discarded the idea at once. She could trust him but she couldn't bring herself to endanger the kind old man.
Henry set down the glass. He shook his head and leaned forward, lowering his voice as Gail walked past them yet again. “Why are you lying to me, Katie girl? You think I haven't heard all the newscasts about you? It's all over the media. Did that sonofabitch beat you up? Is that why you had to shoot him?"
Oh, God, he did know. Kate glanced around nervously, not wanting the cops to overhear them. It seemed now that everyone must know who she was, who Joey was. She searched for Gail but couldn't see her anywhere.
“I didn't shoot Michael, Judge, I swear to God.” She hesitated a moment, as Joey squirmed and fought in her arms. She patted his back, thinking that if she could get him to burp, it might help his stomachache. She was so jittery; she heard the tremor in her voice. “I can't tell you what's going on, Henry, I really can't. You've just got to trust me on this. I need your help, I need it desperately. The baby and I both do. Something's wrong with Joey, I think he's sick, and I've got to get him out of here.” She scanned the parking lot for Booker but didn't see him. Didn't see Gail, either.
The judge was frowning.
“Please, Henry, don't ask any more questions, just hear me out. I haven't done anything wrong, none of the things the news people are reporting. I need to get to Branson as soon as possible, and I don't have a ride."
When she kept glancing anxiously at the door, Henry finally followed her gaze. He spoke softly. “You've got to tell me more than that. You're in big trouble, Katie, bigger than you obviously realize. Maybe I can help you."
“I don't want you getting involved. Can't you just trust me, just this once, Henry? I need help, and I don't have anywhere else to turn. Please, please help me.” Joey had stopped crying to heave in a shaky breath, and Kate tried to interest him in the bottle, but he still wouldn't take the nipple. He was sick, something was terribly wrong, and Kate didn't know what else to do for him. She put his pacifier in his mouth and he sucked on it a moment, then stiffened and cried as if struck by a gas cramp.
