“I love you, Dixie.”
I touched my open palm to the side of his face. “I know you do.”
26
I drove home on autopilot, feeling light-headed and weird, caught between a future that could be completely different than the one I’d always imagined, and a past that would always be a part of who I was.
I was shocked at the idea of Guidry moving away, shocked at how I’d reacted when he’d told me. When Todd and I were together, I would have followed him to another continent. Why was I so disturbed at the idea of moving to New Orleans with Guidry?
I didn’t think it was because I loved Guidry less. It was more that I loved me more. I’d worked too hard at learning to be at home in the person I was to abandon that person. And I wasn’t sure I’d still be me if I moved away from the Key, where I was a part of every grain of sand on the beaches. I had to decide how far love can stretch, how much it can remold you and reshape you and leave you glad you’ve changed.
If I went to New Orleans, I’d be somebody else, and there was no guarantee I’d be comfortable as somebody else. If I ended up hating the person I became after I went with Guidry to New Orleans, I’d no longer love him either. And I knew, with a terrible awareness, that Guidry feared the same thing was happening to him, that he was losing himself away from his beloved New Orleans. If he did, he would lose his love for me.
There was another factor that I’d never considered until this evening, but now I had to look at it. When my little girl died, a part of me had died with her. I’d never expected to have another baby. I hadn’t wanted another baby. But now that Guidry had forced the issue, I felt the idea nibbling at the edges of my mind, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to push it away.
Guidry had been right when he said we’d never discussed the possibility of us having babies together. Now it seemed strange that we hadn’t. Even stranger was that I had no idea why Guidry and his ex-wife hadn’t had children. I should have known something that important. I should have asked if their childlessness had been by choice. More specifically, whose choice? If Guidry didn’t want children, I should know that. Not that I wanted to have a baby, but someday I might.
I thought about Ruby and Zack, and how their love had become diseased by bitterness and distrust. Had they chosen to have Opal, or had she come as a fortunate accident? If Ruby went to prison and Opal was spirited away to live someplace with Angelina, Ruby and Zack would never have a second chance to create a family. They would suffer the loss, but Opal would suffer more.
In an ideal world—one in which I made all the rules—everybody’s drinking water would contain birth control chemicals. Consenting adults could screw around all they wanted to. They could fall in love, out of love, break people’s hearts and have their own hearts broken. They could spend all their money, gamble it away, or stuff it down a rat hole. They could live as selfishly as they wanted for as long as they wanted.
But if a couple decided to have children, they would have to pass rigorous tests of character and kindness and good humor. They would have to prove they were responsible people with the ability to provide a good home, medical care, and education for a child. They would also have to agree to stay together for the rest of their lives, and swear that if something went wrong in their relationship they’d damn well fix it. Only then would I issue the antidote to the birth control chemicals.
Turning down the drive to my apartment jerked me back to reality. I didn’t run the world, I wasn’t married or pregnant and might never be again, and any decision I made about moving with Guidry to New Orleans would have to be made later.
At home, I was glad that Paco was inside the house with Ella. If I hurried, I might be able to leave for the trip to Arcadia without lying about where I was going. Upstairs in my apartment, I hurried to change clothes. I kept the lace underwear on. If I got killed trying to rescue Opal, at least I’d look good when people viewed my body. But when it came to outerwear, I chose tough. Faded jeans, a hooded black T, and a pair of sturdy boots.
I chose tough for accessories too. I got them from the secret drawer built into my bed’s wooden frame. The drawer was custom designed to hold my guns—some that had once belonged to Todd and some that had been my own off-duty guns. Always cleaned, oiled, and ready for use, they lie in special niches inside the drawer. I’m qualified on all of them, but my favorite is a sweet five-shot J-frame .38. With its black rubber grip, stainless steel barrel and cylinder, it’s lightweight and easy to slip into a pocket. No safety levers to think about, no magazines to fail. It was the perfect weapon for the night’s mission.
I picked the revolver out of its niche, slid it into the back of my jeans, and pushed a couple of filled speed loaders into my pockets. Then, fully armed with lipstick, lace underwear, and revolver, I headed out to meet Zack and Cupcake.
Every civilized person knows that violence of any kind is the ultimate admission of failure. Whether it’s between individuals or between nations, it points to a level of ignorance or stupidity or laziness too profound to resolve grievances with words or compromise. But if I had to shoot somebody in order to save Opal, I wouldn’t hesitate for a nanosecond.
Zack’s property—his home and adjacent race shop—was on the southeast side of Sarasota county, one of the few spreads still immune to developers and gated communities. A flush of twilight still lingered on the western horizon when I arrived at a gate blocking the entrance to Zack’s tree-thick property. The gate was wrought iron, with a design of a race car worked into the bars. Through the gate, I could see a neat frame house set under oaks and pines, with a green lawn that looked as if somebody gave it careful attention.
A double-decker transport van sat beyond the house on an immaculate paved area in front of a long, low building with an open front. The building looked somewhat like an automotive repair shop, with tools and auto parts hanging on the back wall, a row of new tires along the side, and a pit in the center with a rack for lifting a car overhead. There were also several things I didn’t recognize, like a couple of metal frames that looked as if they’d been designed to fit inside a gutted car. A black Chevy Camaro with rusty spots on its fenders was angled on the pavement in front of the garage’s open bay doors. Several other vintage cars were parked to the side.
I rolled to the ubiquitous security station, pressed a button, and waited for a human voice to ask my business. In this case, the human voice was gruff and male.
I said, “I’m Dixie Hemingway.”
The voice became gruffer. “Wait for the gate to open.”
The gate parted, and I rolled into a parking lot that quickly filled with a throng of men.
Zack came to my window. “Some of my friends have come to help.”
One by one, men with grim faces stepped forward to shake my hand through the car window. They looked at me hard in the eyes, as if they were taking my measure.
Cupcake stood to the side watching them.
With all that testosterone, an argument was bound to start. Zack and Cupcake immediately got into a debate over which car we should use, while the other guys offered grunts of agreement or dissent.
Zack wanted to drive one of his race cars because it was faster. Half the other men thought that was a good idea. But Cupcake argued that he and I should ride in the same car with Zack, and Zack’s car only held one person. I didn’t understand why it only held one person, but if that was its limit, Cupcake was obviously right.
Raising my voice over the male ones, I said, “My Bronco sits high and has plenty of room.”
A dozen heads tilted down to look at me, a dozen pairs of eyes registered surprised respect that I had an opinion.
Zack said, “No speed.”
Cupcake said, “Don’t need speed, bro.”
With a broad dimpled grin at me, he lumbered to the Bronco, wriggled his bulk into the backseat, and leaned back like a maharaja waiting for his elephant to carry him where he wanted to go.
Zack turned to the other men. “Okay, stay conn
ected. I’ll keep you informed. When it’s time, we’ll put the plan into action. You know what to do.”
I didn’t know what their plan was, but there were immediate nods, back-slapping, and words of agreement. The men walked off to cars parked beside Zack’s home race shop. Those cars didn’t look like they’d make it to the end of the block. But men got inside them—one man to a car—started growling engines, and sat waiting for Zack to lead the way.
I saw Zack’s father looking out the front window of the house. He did not look happy.
As Zack got into the front passenger seat of the Bronco and belted up, I noticed that he wore a wireless phone clip on his right ear.
I said, “Would one of you like to tell me what’s going on?”
Zack did a rolling motion with his hand. “We’ll fill you in on the way.”
I didn’t have an option. I could go under Zack’s terms or not at all. When I turned the ignition key, Zack watched my hand as if he doubted I had sense enough to drive. I goosed the Bronco a little bit to give it a macho sound, and we sailed through Zack’s gate.
On Clark Road out of Sarasota, I looked at Zack’s profile and wondered what was going through his mind. Athletes have always been a mystery to me, and drag racers were an even bigger mystery. I was beginning to realize that drag racers have to be more calculating and deliberate than other athletes. They’re more in competition with themselves than with other racers, and speed is only one component of the competition. The rest is about timing and fuel and precision, things that take intense focus.
I looked over my shoulder to see if the other cars were close behind us, but Cupcake took up so much space that I couldn’t see out the back window. He smiled at me when I looked back. He really did have the sweetest smile I’d ever seen.
Outside Sarasota, Clark Road becomes State Road 72, a stark two-lane highway edged by pines and oaks dripping gray moss like old men’s beards. The highway runs due east to Arcadia, the only incorporated community in DeSoto County. Arcadia is a town of survivors. On Thanksgiving Day in 1905, it was destroyed by a fire that started in a livery stable. A century later, on Friday, August 13, 2004, the city was almost destroyed again by Hurricane Charley. Arcadia still depends primarily on agriculture for its economy, but it has reinvented itself as a tourist attraction for antiques lovers. People drive from miles around on Sundays just to eat a good country breakfast at one of their restaurants and shop in their antiques stores.
Along the highway, bridges span boggy swamps where giant alligators stretch themselves as if posing for tourist photos. Fields of cabbage palms harbor rattlesnakes. Orange groves and fields of ragweed are neighbors to fenced pastures where heat-tolerant Senepol cattle raise their smooth polled heads to look at passing cars. Turkey vultures circle fresh carcasses of small deer or wild pigs struck by speeding trucks. An occasional mailbox atop a post marks a dirt lane twisting to an old Florida world that will soon be extinct.
I drove with both hands on the wheel, careful around frequent twists in the road, imagining how terrifying it would have been for Angelina to hitchhike along this gator-edged highway. Large alligators are awesome animals. They consume anything that comes close to them. Tourists who underestimate their speed or ferocity have been known to lose a family pet to them.
When we were halfway to Arcadia, Zack said, “I looked up Gator Trail on the Internet. It intersects State Road Seventy-two a few miles this side of Arcadia. Just before Horse Creek.”
He sounded as if everybody in Florida knew where Horse Creek was. Maybe they did and I was the only one who didn’t.
I said, “Uh-huh.”
In my rearview mirror, I could see headlights from a line of cars snaking behind us.
We ate up a few more miles and Zack spoke again. “About two years ago, some coyotes crammed a bunch of illegals inside a refrigerator truck and smuggled them into Florida. They dumped them in a house somewhere outside Arcadia and left them. Men, women, and children. They were all half dead from dehydration. Some of them died.”
Cupcake said, “People shouldn’t be treated like that.”
Zack said, “The thing is, Myra Kreigle owned that house. I remember it because Ruby and I had just started dating, and Myra’s name caught my attention. The police talked to her, but she claimed she didn’t know anything about any smuggling. The police believed her, but now I wonder if she was in on the whole thing.”
I said, “Do you remember where the house was?”
“Some place outside town.”
Arcadia is edged by makeshift communities of tin-roof shacks and old mobile homes on dirt roads. As if he realized the futility of looking for Opal in any of those places, Zack went silent and still.
I said, “You promised to tell me why your friends are going with us. And let me just say, for the record, that I think it’s a bad idea. We’ll attract too much attention.”
From the backseat, Cupcake said, “Tell her, bro.”
Zack seemed to try to collect his thoughts. I had the feeling that racing came a lot easier to him than speech.
He said, “They’re just coming along in case we need them. You know, safety in numbers, that kind of thing.”
I could almost feel Cupcake’s eyes roll at the way Zack had evaded the question. Zack didn’t want to share his plan with me, and that was that.
I said, “We’re getting close to Arcadia. Watch for Gator Trail.”
Almost immediately, Cupcake said, “There’s Horse Creek!”
A neat white rectangle low to the ground announced that Horse Creek lay directly ahead. Before we got to it, another well-painted sign at a blacktopped road announced Gator Trail. It seemed as if the entire universe had entered into a conspiracy to help us find Opal. First we’d got information about where Vern had left Opal, now there were signs to direct us. How much better could it get?
I made a sharp turn onto Gator Trail, amazed at how fortunate we were. I was sure we had lucked out, big time.
Somewhere, a donkey probably laughed.
27
As I turned onto Gator Trail, Zack mumbled something into his headset, and instead of turning with us, the line of cars behind us went straight over Horse Creek. In the side mirror, I watched their taillights pull to the shoulder and park half hidden under the trees.
I refused to ask why they weren’t following us to the house. I supposed Zack had given them instructions. I supposed he and his racer friends had arrived at some kind of plan that seemed logical to them. Something told me I might be happier not knowing that plan.
Faint light from a rind of moon carved shallow pools in Gator Trail’s unlit, single-lane blacktop. Our headlights cut a tunnel between a dark tangle of scrub pines, oat grass, conifers, mossy oaks, and palmettos on each side of the road.
Cupcake gestured toward the black silhouettes. “Wild hogs live in there. They come out at night to forage. During the day they dig holes to sleep in.” He sounded as if his skin crawled at the thought.
I didn’t want to think about those feral hogs. As ferocious as alligators, wild hogs are not choosy about what kind of flesh they eat.
After a mile or two, the road made a sharp right, but my headlights caught something on the left that made me stop, back up, and turn the Bronco left.
A decades-old sign almost hidden by brambles and tall weeds announced the entrance to Empire Estates. A second sign warned: NO TRESPASSING! RESIDENTS AND GUESTS ONLY!
The sign had been formed by wooden blue letters nailed to a white board, but the blue paint had crazed like old china, and the letters hung at dipsy angles. Beyond the sign, our headlights picked up the gleam of a white sand road so encroached upon by trees and underbrush that it was narrow as a cart trail. Once the entrance to a luxury retirement community, the broken sign and silver road were all that was left of failed hopes.
Cupcake said, “Somebody’s been stuck.”
Ahead on the road, tires had eaten deeply into sand and left two long furrows. The humped ridges reminded
me of the way loggerhead turtles throw up piles of sand while they dig their nests. But we were a long way from loggerhead nesting grounds, and a different kind of reptile had made those furrows. Most likely, he had done it in a black limo with tinted windows.
Zack said, “Heavy car, too much speed for sand.”
Cupcake said, “Locals would know better.”
“Yup.”
An explosion of light and an impatient honking sound made us all jerk and look out the rear window at a tall pickup. The truck’s engine thrummed with the impatient energy of a motor prepared to roll over anything in its path. Praying the truck wasn’t driven by one of Tucker’s goons, I leaned out my window to get a look at the driver. It was a woman, and she looked like she was on her last nerve.
In half a nanosecond, I was out of the Bronco and trotting to the pickup. The woman had her window rolled down and an elbow resting on the frame.
I said, “Gosh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you back here! The thing is, I’m not even sure I’m on the right road, and when I saw how somebody had got stuck in the sand, I was afraid to go on.”
She didn’t smile, but the hard look in her eyes softened. “Yeah, some fool got stuck there. Big old black limo with a numb-nuts driver.”
I said, “Oh God, I’ll bet that was my crazy old uncle’s driver. That’s who I’m looking for. He’s my mother’s brother, and she’s worried about him.”
She perked up at the thought of my crazy old uncle. “He lives around here?”
“Well, that’s the thing. He lives in Tampa, but he owns a house around here somewhere—I think it’s on this road, but I’m not sure. He’s rich as all get out, has a big black limo and a driver, more money than good sense, to tell the truth. Anyway, he told my mother he was going to come stay in his house down here for a few days. He’s probably all right, but I promised my mother I’d check on him.”
The woman took her elbow off the window frame to get down to dissing my crazy uncle.
Cat Sitter Among the Pigeons Page 17
