“It’s too late for that shit, Candy. You’ll be driving on Preston Road until I tell you to turn, about five miles more. Now, I’m going to find your phone.”
Candy stifled a whimper as Gerall’s hands roamed over the front of her T-shirt and down across the zipper of her jeans. It took him about ten seconds to locate the phone and jam his hand down into her pocket. With the gun still poking into her side, he turned the phone on, and laughed.
“Ain’t you popular! You have eleven missed calls, all from lover boy Halliday. You think he might be worried about you? Oh, I bet he has no idea how worried he should be, since the cops around here are dumb as goats. Wanna listen to his messages?”
No! Candy’s whole body stiffened. It was bad enough that she’d royally screwed up her own life, but if Turner had mentioned the task force in any of those voice mails, Gerrall would warn his father, and the drug dealers would clear out, or worse still, would be lying in wait for the task force. People would be killed. It would all be her fault.
She didn’t even pause to think. Simultaneously, Candy slapped her left hand down on the driver’s side window button and snatched the phone from Gerrall with her right. She threw it out of the car and grabbed the wheel, bracing herself for the sound of the gun.
Instead she felt a stinging slap to the side of her head, followed by the press of the gun barrel into her temple again.
“Bitch!” Gerrall screamed, jabbing at her head with the gun. “You’re going to make me shoot you! You want to be shot, don’t you?”
“Please, no. Don’t shoot anyone. Just listen to me.” Her thoughts raced. She could die without ever seeing Turner again, or hearing his voice. She might never see Cheri again. Or J.J. Or Jacinta. Or Lenny. Or Hugo. Or Tater Wayne. Or Reggie and Rosemary. Viv. Garland. Tanyalee. Gladys, even.
And she found it fascinating that at this moment, when it could very well be over for her, she didn’t care about the five-bedroom stucco with the Gulf of Mexico views or the Infiniti or her bank balance or the Birkin bags and the Louboutin platform pumps and the spa visits.
None of that meant anything. She knew what she wanted now.
What had Cheri said just before her wedding? “One day you’ll wake up and know what to do—it’s that simple.”
Well, this must be that day, Candy thought. And dammit, she wasn’t going to die now, not after she’d just woken up!
“Can we pull over and just talk?” she asked Gerrall. “You don’t have to do this. I won’t press charges. Just let us go and—”
Gerrall’s loud burst of laughter cut her off. “You think I’m just some stupid country boy, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong about that, Miss Hot Ass. You have no idea who you’re dealing with. See, you could have had everything if you’d just given me a chance, but no, you were too good for me. Is that it?”
The gun pressed harder against her head. She saw Miller in the backseat, still purple and sweaty and straining against his gag.
Suddenly she found herself taking a turn a little too fast and hit the brakes. Something was wrong. She heard a metal-on-metal squealing sound and the car wasn’t slowing as it should. She didn’t know if she could handle the curve at this speed.
Oh, God. She’d tried her best. She really had. But she couldn’t keep it together anymore. As she wrestled with the wheel, she began to cry.
* * *
“Everything’s in place, Sheriff. We’re ready to roll. We’re waiting for your word.”
Turner stared at his phone, anger and fear roiling around in his gut. About twenty minutes earlier, she’d hung up on him. He’d called six times since and she hadn’t answered or called back, which meant she’d either turned off her phone or was intentionally making him sweat. None of those things were like her. Candy knew that her safety was everything to him. She’d said she understood. She promised him.
O’Connor cleared her throat, which made Turner glance up from his phone. That’s when he noticed that the rest of the task force had exited the conference room. When had that happened?
“Dante’s safely out,” O’Connor told him, and by the look on her face he imagined it was not the first time she was giving him this bit of news. “He’s got the little girl and they’re clear. We can move.”
Turner blinked at her. “I can’t find Candy,” was all he could say.
* * *
Turner was halfway down the hallway when Bitsy yelled out for him. “Sheriff! You better take this call!”
“I can’t,” he shouted, pulling his cap down tight and heading for the back door. He’d given the order—the bust was playing out at that very moment. And he was fairly certain that Gerall had Candy. Cheri said they’d parted ways twenty-five minutes earlier and Lenny said she hadn’t returned to her shift at the diner but her car was still in the lot. Sure, there was a slight chance Candy might be off by herself sulking, as Cheri suggested, but Turner knew in his bones that it was something far worse than a temper tantrum.
“You have to, Sheriff! Please!”
“Transfer it to my cell, Bitsy.”
He was in the SUV when his cell rang.
“Halliday,” he said.
“Sheriff, this is Louellen Lukins over at Cherokee Pines, Waintright Miller’s secretary. I thought you should know we think something might have happened to Mr. Miller.”
Turner flipped on his lights and his siren. He could see the federal agents speeding away just up ahead, traffic moving to the side of the road in their wake. He hit the gas even harder.
The hairs stood up on the back of Turner’s neck. “Go on.”
“Well, it just don’t make sense, is all. Mr. Miller was waiting for the tow truck to come get his car, because the brakes were shot to hell and it wasn’t safe to drive. But he got a call a few minutes later, told me he’d be right back, but never did. Then about fifteen minutes later the tow truck driver showed up and was pissed because he couldn’t find the car, so’s I went with him out back and found Mr. Miller’s car gone but his cell phone and wallet tossed on the asphalt, money and credit cards still in there. I called Bitsy right away.”
Turner thanked Louellen for her quick thinking and within seconds had an all-points bulletin out for Miller’s blue 2009 Buick Lucerne—with shot-to-hell brakes.
* * *
“You’re trying to kill us!” Gerrall screamed.
“No!” Candy spoke as loud as she could through the panicked sobs. “There’s something wrong with the brakes! I swear to God!” Miller’s wailing suddenly became louder than ever, and Candy glanced in the rearview mirror to see him furiously nodding and screeching into his gag. She made eye contact with him for a split second, still fighting to keep control of the car.
“Is there something wrong with the brakes?” she called out.
Miller nodded violently.
“Oh, shee-it,” she said.
Gerrall spun around in the seat, the gun still against Candy’s skull. “You fucker!” he screamed at Miller. “I should blow your brains out right now!”
The gun had suddenly become her second most pressing concern. She couldn’t find the car’s emergency brake, and unfortunately she had been on a steady decline for many long seconds, and the car continued to speed up. She was up to sixty-five miles per hour, a good twenty over the posted speed limit. The only good news was that as she’d groped around she’d located her seat belt, pulled it over her lap, and snapped it. When she spotted the hill up ahead she laughed with joy. It would be her salvation. If she could only make it …
“Turn now!” Gerrall screamed.
“What?”
“There! At the flag! Now!” He started waving the gun around and grabbed the steering wheel.
It was a blur. Candy knew she hit something when Gerrall tugged at the steering wheel but hadn’t had time to see what it was. The airbag had deployed and the car kept rolling. She couldn’t see. She knew Miller had been tossed around in the back. She’d also heard Gerrall scream and slam into the dashboard, but she had n
o idea how badly either were hurt because she didn’t have time to look. The car kept moving downhill. Peering over the airbag, she saw a trailer with men standing around out front. She thought she heard gunshots. Then there was another loud bang!
Then, only darkness.
* * *
Turner drove, his knuckles white on the wheel, one second following the next, one mile after another, as the bottom fell out of his soul.
He knew this feeling. It was the feeling he promised himself he’d never have again as long as he drew breath. Something horrible had happened to the woman he loved, and he was too late to stop it. Though he was coordinating this response and his radio was crackling with nonstop task force chatter, he felt split in two. One half of him was duty. The other half was Candy. And he knew he had only seconds left before he no longer gave a fuck about duty.
She was still missing. All of his day shift deputies were searching for her, along with everyone at the Bugle and half the general population of Bigler. Still nothing. No accident reports. No sightings. With each second that went by, Turner grew more certain that Gerrall had her, and probably Miller, as well. It made perfect sense. Miller had fired him. Candy had turned him down. They had to pay.
Turner radioed the task force one last reminder of how this would play out—half of the team would secure the meth lab while the other half would take the trailer, outbuildings, and property. If Miller’s car was spotted on the compound, they were to put Candy’s and Miller’s safety as priority one. If not, it was standard evidence protection protocol and getting the suspects in custody—alive if at all possible. To help with that, six ambulances were bringing up the rear of the convoy.
Turner slammed his fist on the steering wheel.
How the fuck had he let this happen to her? How could he have failed her so spectacularly?
He would not lose her. He would not lose that sweet laugh, those gentle lips, that velvet skin, that warmth and love and bliss. He would get to her in time. He had no choice. He’d just found her.
Turner’s whole body shook with rage and pent-up frustration.
He would not lose her.
He’d just found her.
* * *
Candy felt herself coming awake, but had a difficult time getting her eyelids to open. So much noise. Shouting. Such a horrible smell. Oh, and her head throbbed! She hurt from her toes to her hair. She probably was having a nightmare. She was …
Her eyes suddenly flew open.
She was tied to a chair and gagged. She was in a room with a half-dozen scuzzy men, one of them Gerrall, no longer dressed as a girl and staggering around smeared with blood and holding his left arm tight to his side like it was broken. He was screaming at someone. It didn’t take Candy long to figure out it was the infamous Bobby Ray Spivey.
“You can’t do anything right,” Bobby Ray hollered. “Why did you bring this stupid bitch here? Huh? And what the fuck were you thinking, doing this to the Fat Man? We can’t touch him! If we do, we’re all dead!”
“Shut up,” was Gerrall’s comeback.
Candy wasn’t following the conversation too well. She felt woozy.
Bobby Ray cracked Gerrall upside his head with a fist. Gerrall crumpled to the floor.
In the middle of all this insanity, Candy sensed she was being stared at. The men not actively beating on each other were sprawled on a collection of filthy chairs and couches, alternating their attention between leering at her and watching the father-son battle of wits.
Oh, God, her head hurt. What had happened? She remembered Gerrall shoving her in some car … making her drive … then the brakes gave out.
Candy shifted her gaze to her right and jerked in shock. The front end of a car was sticking through the wall of what she now realized was a trailer home. It was the car she’d been driving, and it was twisted and leaking green fluid right onto the dirty carpeting.
And then she checked to her left. It was poor Wainright Miller, in a similar situation, still tied up and gagged. He was breathing, that much she could tell, but unconscious.
Gerrall staggered up from the floor, wincing in pain.
“Well, your little sissy boy is in no shape to take care of that girl so whad’ya say I take a shot at her?” The man who said that was speaking to Bobby Ray but grinning at Candy.
No. As she frantically looked around the trailer, her understanding of the situation became sharper. She was in a load of trouble. First off, she was the only female. There were guns and crumpled beer cans thrown everywhere. Several men were talking shit about how Candy “disrespected” Gerrall and would have to pay. And the leering continued, along with cussing, laughing, and lots of beer.
Her mind began to race. Her body trembled. The perspiration rolled down her face and back. She hadn’t survived two kidnappings and a car crash in the last two months to give up now. The question wasn’t if she would get out of here alive, but how?
Suddenly, Candy’s mind was flooded with memories of Turner—his beautiful face, his intense eyes, his bad-ass walk, the way he smelled out of the shower, his touch, the way he made her feel. She loved him. There was no doubt, not a single shred. And he loved her. It was that simple.
And because of that, she had no choice but to make it out of this hellhole in one piece. Whatever it took.
Candy reared back in the chair as Bobby Ray stepped toward her.
“So you got the hots for Sheriff Halliday, I hear.” He bent at the waist and displayed his green teeth to her. Candy could smell several years of cigarette smoke clinging to his hair and clothes. She had to shut her eyes and glance down and away.
“Oh, so I’m not good enough for you? Is that it?” Bobby Ray grabbed her chin and tugged on it but she refused to look at him. That made him laugh something awful. The laugh immediately turned into an awful, hacking cough.
“Let me have a shot at her!” shouted the same man from across the room. Candy figured that must be his standard pickup line.
“I said shut up,” Gerrall snapped. “She’s my girlfriend!”
Everyone in the room broke up at that.
Bobby Ray didn’t pay them any mind. Instead, he studied Candy carefully. “I knowed your daddy pretty good. Me and him was involved in some of the same po-litical groups.”
“Is that what y’all called the KKK back then?” one of the men called out, laughing.
Bobby Ray spun around, pulled a gun from his waistband and shot the commentator in the leg. The man wailed in agony and hobbled out of the trailer, dripping blood.
Candy overcame her horror enough to notice a muffled squealing sound coming from her left, and she turned to see that Miller had woken up. He stared at her with huge, questioning eyes—then peed himself.
All right. The situation was going downhill fast. Candy made a quick study of her condition—feet looped around the front legs of the chair and tied tightly to the rear legs. The same rope was crossed many times around her middle and chest and then used to yank her arms tightly and tie them to the back of the chair. Knowing she wouldn’t be going anywhere soon, her body sagged in despair.
“You know,” Bobby Ray said, returning his attention to Candy. “If Jonesy were alive today, he’d shoot Halliday between the eyes for touching his baby girl.” He put a hand on her thigh. “Maybe I ought to be a stand-in for your daddy and protect your honor. Whad’ya think?” His yellow fingers crawled up her leg. “Only maybe I can play with you a little bit beforehand. Huh?”
“Don’t touch her!” Gerrall shrieked. “She’s mine! Nobody can touch her but me!” He lunged toward his father but Bobby Ray bashed him in the head again.
This was too much. These people were animals. She and Miller were going to die if she didn’t figure something out fast.
“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want to do. You know damn well that’s how it works around here.”
Gerrall’s face contorted with sadness. “I don’t want you killin’ her like you did Junie Halliday! She didn’t have to die! She didn
’t do nothing but want to help me! She was the only person who ever wanted to help me! I hate you! I hate you for running her off the road the way you did!”
Candy hardly had time to react to that terrible revelation. At exactly the same instant, Bobby Ray and Gerrall had pulled out their guns and were locked in a standoff.
* * *
They were too late.
That’s what Turner thought when they heard the gunshot. But seconds later a man staggered out, obviously hit in the leg, and tumbled down the aluminum front steps of the trailer. An agent plastered up against the outside wall of the trailer shut the door after him, and an emergency medical technician was there to treat the man while Turner interviewed him.
“Is there a woman inside?”
The man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head at Turner’s question. He howled in agony.
“A woman,” Turner repeated, grabbing him by the face. “Is she alive?”
He nodded, wincing in pain. “She’s alive,” he mumbled. “Help me. Somebody help me.”
Turner made one last check. The lab was secure. Seven people were already in custody. Two FBI snipers were on the roof. Four DEA agents were at the back door. Eight were at the front door. And two additional state police snipers had maneuvered into position inside the wrecked car.
He gave the signal, just as two simultaneous gunshots rang out and echoed through the compound.
* * *
The trailer door burst open, and Candy raised her eyes from the carnage on the floor to a burst of sunlight, followed by chaos. There was nowhere she could hide. She could only sit and hope she wasn’t shot or trampled in the melee. But it unfolded seamlessly, and within seconds, every man who had been lounging in the room was facedown on the floor and handcuffed. She blinked into the bright light, hoping what she was seeing wasn’t some kind of apparition brought on by her injuries.
There could be no mistaking that walk. Smooth and determined, it was the walk she loved with all her heart. And suddenly, Turner was there, kneeling at her feet, tenderly unwrapping her gag and cutting her loose as he spoke to her, his voice contained and calm on the surface.
I Want Candy Page 27
