Suddenly a light flashed on inside the trailer. Jamie scrambled across the seat and leaned out the driver's window. "Someone's up," she said.
Buford glanced toward the mobile home. "Oh, shit."
Suddenly the trailer door was flung open and Jamie caught the silhouette of a man holding a shotgun. He fired into the air. Jamie ducked. Buford dived beneath the truck.
"Get away from my car!" the man shouted.
"You done missed three payments, mister!" Buford called out loudly. "I've been hired to tow it in! You cause trouble and I'm calling the cops!"
The man fired again. A bullet pinged off the side of Buford's truck. "Holy hell!" Jamie cried, and hit the floor.
"Stay down!" Buford told her. "They're always upset at first."
Jamie closed her eyes. It was happening all over again. For some reason that she couldn't fathom, people insisted on shooting at her.
"What are we supposed to do in the meantime?" she replied loudly.
Buford didn't hesitate. "I reckon we wait."
* * * * *
The smell of freshly cut lumber greeted Max as he stepped inside the cabin with his bag. No surprise there; the cabin had been renovated and redecorated for his use. Even so, the construction crew had kept the antique heart pine floors intact, knowing that Max, who was personally doing renovations to his home in Virginia, would appreciate them. The furniture was simple; probably much of it had already been in place. Max was grateful for that as well. The fact that he could afford to build a brand-new cabin with all new furniture and appliances did not mean he preferred it. Simplicity and comfort was more his style.
As usual, his staff had taken care of everything from securing the place to providing groceries. Max looked inside the refrigerator and cabinets and nodded his approval. His people knew his likes and dislikes, right down to the brand of beer and cold cuts he preferred. He checked out the two bedrooms and decided on the loft area. He spent an hour on his cell phone, finalizing his plans. He and Muffin had worked tirelessly once they'd gotten back on the road, but Max was a man who left nothing to chance. He knew what he was facing, knew the dangers.
By morning he would have all the information he needed on Harlan Rawlins, celebrity evangelist. Max hoped Muffin would be able to get information on Harlan's mob connections as well. Max's plan was simple: First, find Rawlins. The hit man who'd tried to kill Max had been linked to Rawlins, and Rawlins was supposedly linked to the mob.
Rawlins and his mob friends obviously felt they had a score to settle with Max because they'd lost the bid on his TV network. It would have been the perfect vehicle for Rawlins to spread his word and draw in literally hundreds of thousands of new members. New members meant more money, and owning a TV network would have made the mob more powerful than ever. It was no surprise they were angry; the only question was, how far would they go to get revenge? Max knew he would ultimately have to contact his friends with the FBI, but he needed more information. He needed to know exactly who and what he was up against.
Finally, he showered and went to bed. He closed his eyes. He was not a heavy sleeper, and he had long ago adapted to only five or six hours of rest. He could exist on less if necessary, and there had been times in his life he had found it necessary.
This might be one of those times.
* * * * *
It was after 3:00 a.m. when Buford delivered Jamie to the front door of a motel called the Hickory Inn, less than a mile from Jessup. Jamie's back and legs ached, and it was all she could do to reach for her purse. She had crouched on the floorboard for hours before Gunsmoke, as Jamie referred to the gun-toting man in the trailer, had cut the lights and gone to bed.
"I'll have to file a police report," Buford said, "but I'll keep your name out of it." He was apologetic.
Jamie tossed him a weary look. "Well, thanks for an evening I'm not likely to forget. I just hope I never miss a car payment." She climbed from the truck and went inside the motel. The furniture in the small lobby was old, but the place looked and smelled clean. She rang the bell three times before a woman ambled to the counter, the hair on one side of her head mashed flat, her print dress badly wrinkled. The sign on the counter read: Mavis.
"I'd like a room, please," Jamie said.
The woman crossed her arms, glanced at her wristwatch, and shot Jamie a dark look. "Do you happen to know what time it is?"
Jamie was in no mood to argue. "Late?"
"I closed at midnight."
"You forgot to turn your vacancy sign off."
"That's beside the point. No decent woman would check into a room at this hour unless she had monkey business on her mind."
Jamie leaned across the counter. "Mavis, I have not had a good night. I want a room. And don't give me a room on the second floor, because my legs are sore and I am not going to climb those concrete stairs. And inside that room, I want HBO like your sign says, and I want one of those cute little coffeepots, and a soft bed with clean sheets. Now, either you give me a room or I'm going to go out into that parking lot and pitch such a fit that I'll wake up every one of your guests. That's how bad my night has been."
Mavis grunted and slapped a registration form on the counter.
* * * * *
Max rose at 5:00 a.m. and, once again, checked the security monitor, computer console, and other gadgets at one end of the kitchen table where he would spend much of his time working. Outside cameras were connected to the CPU, and the monitors displayed the road leading to the cabin, as well as the surrounding property. He drank two cups of coffee, read his E-mail, and waited until the sun came up before stepping out of the front door. Electronic eyes and sophisticated motion detectors with image recognition enhancement were attached to trees and fence posts and would catch movement and set off an alarm inside the house. One of Max's employees had come in the day before to set it up, per Max's specifications.
All seemed well as Max started for the garage where he'd locked his car. He punched a series of numbers on a concealed security panel and opened the door. Muffin was waiting for him.
"How'd you sleep?" she asked. "I'll bet you didn't get a minute's rest worrying about Jamie and feeling like the biggest jerk in the world."
Max sighed. "Good morning to you, Muffin."
"See, you even sound tired. Guilt will do that to you. The first thing that goes is your appetite. Then you'll start tossing and turning all night in your bed, unable to forgive yourself for hurting someone's feelings."
"Is this going to take long?"
"Of course you're in denial right now, so you're probably OK. Once you accept the reality of the situation, all hell will break loose. Sleep deprivation, confusion, and disorientation will occur," she added. "You'll stop taking care of yourself, and your health will go to hell. Next thing you know, you've landed in the hospital with a life-threatening illness."
"I take it you're still sore with me?"
"No more than usual."
"Can we get down to business?"
"Fine. I worked all night, but I managed to get the rest of the information you asked for on Harlan Rawlins. Don't ask me how I got it or we'll both go to prison. Have you set up the printer yet?"
"Yeah, everything is up and running."
"OK, it's printing now. As for your schedule, a woman by the name of Karen Callaway will be here shortly to give you your new look, and your retired FBI pal will arrive at nine o'clock to take your picture and get your new identification in order."
"How long will it take?"
"Max, the guy is bringing his equipment in the trunk of his car. Is that quick enough for you?"
"Good old Paul. What else have you got for me?"
"You and Dave Anderson are now working part-time for Bennett Electric. Dave is bringing by a couple of uniforms later. Tom Bennett, the owner, is cooperating fully."
Max was not surprised. He had bailed Bennett Electric Company from near bankruptcy several days ago. It was sheer genius that Max's mergers and acquisitions man had
managed to find it so quickly; not only had the partnership been sealed within a matter of hours, but also Max and Muffin had mapped out a business plan for Tom Bennett that promised substantial profits within a year. Tom Bennett was one grateful man, and Dave Anderson, long-time employee of Holt Industries, was a top-notch mechanical and electrical engineer who could fill in literally wherever Max needed him. Dave had already memorized the layout of Rawlins's house and was ready to move on the project.
"What about transportation?" Max asked.
"You and Dave will be sharing one of Bennett's trucks." Muffin didn't sound happy about it.
"I'm sorry I'm going to have to leave you in the garage for a few days, Muf, but my car won't exactly blend with the community."
"That's not the problem."
"I'm listening."
"Why did you call Dave Anderson in on this job? You know how he gets. He can be so obsessive-compulsive at times, he makes me crazy."
"Dave is having problems. He and his wife Melinda are divorcing."
"And we need to get involved in that for what reason?"
"Because Dave is my friend, and because he's an electrical genius who could rewire the entire White House in twenty-four hours if he had to. Besides, everybody has one or two quirks."
"OK, whatever. As far as sitting in a cool garage, that sounds good to me."
"Still having hot flashes?"
"If I get any hotter my hard drive is going into meltdown and the car's radiator will spew like a volcano."
Max nodded as though the whole thing made perfect sense. "Speaking of transportation, have you had a chance to check out a red Mustang?"
"I found a guy in New Hampshire who deals strictly with Mustangs. He has a 1964 1/2 red convertible, black interior and top. It's a V-8 with a stick shift. The guy said it looks like it just rolled off the showroom floor, and he should know, because he's one of the top dealers in the country. I checked him out."
"I'd like to see a picture of it."
"You will. I forwarded the scanned photos to you with the rest of the stuff I'm sending to your printer. Am I good, Max, or what?"
"Damn good."
"Oh, and this guy even agreed to deliver the car personally for the right price."
"Then I suggest we pay what he's asking."
"I know what you're thinking, Max. You're thinking Jamie is going to take one look at that Mustang and forgive you. You're thinking she's going to be waiting for you with open arms when you finish up here. You're thinking see-through nighties, edible panties, and hot steamy sex, but I'm here to tell you, it isn't going to happen.
"I'm not saying don't buy the car for her; it's your fault hers was sprayed with bullets to begin with. I know Jamie's got a thing for vintage Mustangs and that she needs transportation, but she's a proud woman and she might take it the wrong way."
"The two of you can think what you want, but my intentions are honorable. Have the guy deliver the car to the newspaper office and tell him to give the keys to Jamie's assistant, Vera Bankhead."
"You just better hope Miss Bankhead doesn't get the wrong impression. Jamie's like a daughter to her. And don't forget, that woman carries a gun."
Chapter Two
Jamie awoke to someone pounding on her door. She was stark naked, having washed her underwear in the bathroom sink before she'd climbed into bed and fallen into an exhausted sleep. It had not occurred to her to grab her suitcase from Max's car before she'd slammed out.
Just one more thing, she thought.
Coming off the bed, she dragged the sheet with her. Her eyes were gritty, her blond hair standing out to there, and she just remembered she didn't have a toothbrush. "Who is it?" She thought her voice sounded like a frog giving birth.
"Mavis. Checkout was fifteen minutes ago. I have to clean your room."
"It's not even noon!" Jamie said.
"Not my problem."
Jamie leaned her head against the door. This was not a good sign. Here she was, tired, no clothes or car, and she was about to get thrown out of a second-rate motel. It was starting out to be a really sucky morning. Finally, she raised her head, and, keeping the chain in place, she cracked the door. The sun hit her between the eyes. "I'm requesting a late checkout," Jamie said.
"I'll have to charge you for another night."
Jamie just looked at Mavis. She wore pink sponge curlers beneath a gauzy scarf, and her rouge stood out on her pasty skin, two perfectly round circles that looked as though they'd been pressed on with an ink stamp. She was enjoying herself, Jamie decided.
Mavis tapped one foot impatiently.
"It'll take me a minute to get dressed," Jamie told her. She closed the door and hurried to the coffeepot. She dropped the filter into the top, added water, and stepped inside the bathroom. Her panties were still damp. "Oh, great," she muttered, thinking it was just another sign that her morning wasn't going to be all that great.
She slipped them on anyway, threw on her jeans and top, and filled a thick paper cup with coffee. She was still sipping it when she stepped out her door a few minutes later. She found Mavis waiting with a maid's cart.
"Is there a taxi service in this town?" Jamie asked.
Mavis looked her up and down. "Are those the same clothes you had on last night?"
"Yes, but I washed my underwear," Jamie blurted before she had time to think. She sighed. "Yes, they are. Why?"
"Are you in trouble with the law?"
"Not yet."
Mavis gave her a long look. "Dixie Cab Service. Phone calls are a dollar."
Jamie fished a dollar bill from her purse, hurried back into the room, and grabbed the telephone book. She dialed the number for a taxi just as Mavis turned on the vacuum cleaner.
* * * * *
"This is it," the cabdriver announced a half hour later as he pulled into the parking lot of Bud's Used Cars. Jamie paid him and climbed from the battered cab.
She made her way toward a small construction trailer where a sign read: Bad Credit? No Problem. She opened the trailer door and was hit with a blast of cold air blowing from a sputtering window unit. Jamie found a man sitting at his desk, holding a cigar in one hand and sipping coffee from a chipped mug with the words Do Me in his other.
He stood so fast he almost spilled his coffee. "Good morning, miss," he said. "I'm Bud Herzog. What can I do for you this fine day?"
"I need a car. Something cheap but reliable."
"Well then, you've come to the right place. Matter of fact, I got several good, clean cars coming in day after tomorrow."
"I need something today. Now."
"Oh, well." Bud chewed his cigar. "I'm a little low on inventory, but you're welcome to look. You interested in a Cadillac? It's twelve years old, but it's solid. Low mileage."
Jamie thought about it. "I'm not really the Cadillac type."
"You're absolutely right. You need something sporty. Come with me, I've got just the car." He led her outside to a shiny red vehicle. "Now, this here is a Camaro RS. Fully loaded, got all the extras. It's a 1997 model, has a few miles on it, but it runs like a charm. Used to be owned by an old schoolteacher."
Jamie shot him a sideways glance. "An old schoolteacher, huh?"
"Yep. Liberian, I believe she was," he added, mispronouncing the word. "She took real good care of it."
Jamie peered inside the window. "It's got one hundred and sixty thousand miles on it!"
"Yeah, she had to commute to work."
"How much?"
"This one goes for twenty-one hundred dollars, but I'm going to give you my rock-bottom price and sell it to you for fifteen. Is that a deal or what?"
Jamie gaped at him. "I can't afford to spend that kind of money. Don't you have something under five hundred dollars?"
Bud looked surprised. "Hon, you can't buy a good bicycle for under five hundred bucks. Not these days, anyhow." He suddenly looked hurt. "I'm cutting my profit to the bone here, darlin'."
Jamie checked out several other cars, but t
hey were even more expensive. She spied an old pickup truck parked on the last row. "How much for that truck?"
Bud looked surprised. "I plumb forgot about that old thing. My cousin brought it in last night, and I haven't had a chance to clean it up. I don't think you'd be happy with it."
"How come?"
"It's old and beat-up. You can see it's got a lot of rust on it. There's a hole in the floorboard on the passenger's side, but my cousin nailed plywood to it so his kids wouldn't fall out. Mostly, he used it to carry hunting dogs. He's a big coon hunter."
Jamie walked toward the truck. "Just how old is it?"
"Early eighties. It's a Dodge, and they hold up pretty good, but I wouldn't feel right selling it to you."
Jamie opened the door and winced at the sight. On the driver's side, the leather seat was split and the stuffing had spilled out. Papers and fast-food bags littered the floor. "Mileage is high," she noted. "Does it run?"
Bud nodded. "Pretty good."
"How does it look under the hood?"
"Well, my cousin is a mechanic, so he's careful to change the oil and transmission fluid and keep everything in working order. He rebuilt the engine some five or six years ago, but it's still an old truck."
"Do you think it'll get me to Knoxville?"
"You know any shortcuts?" He laughed. When Jamie didn't join in, his look sobered. "Yeah, I reckon it'll get you where you're going."
"How much?"
Bud shrugged. "As is? I reckon I could let you have it for six hundred dollars."
Jamie blinked. "Excuse me, but are we talking about the same truck?"
"OK, OK, I'll sell it to you for four hundred dollars, but I can't give you a warranty at that price."
Jamie glanced at the bed in back. And found herself looking into the face of one of the ugliest bloodhounds she'd ever seen. He had a wrinkled forlorn face, mournful eyes, and long ears. Skin hung in loose, pendulous folds, as though he had never quite managed to fill his own hide.
"What's with the dog?" she asked.
"Oh, yeah, I forgot. He comes with the truck."
She blinked at Bud. "What do you mean, he comes with the truck?"
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