“Police! Don’t move!”
He looked at her. The sirens were louder, closer.
You could shoot him now. He has a weapon. He killed Billy. Do it.
Her finger tightened on the trigger but didn’t squeeze. He watched her, his gun not moving.
“Drop the weapon,” she said. “Now.”
When he spoke, his voice was calm. “You need to get out from there,” he said, “and get out of my way.”
She realized then why he’d backed up. The Blazer would have blocked the narrow road, but as he’d reversed she’d followed him into a wider clearing. There was room to get around her now, past her. If she’d stopped farther down the road, he’d have been trapped.
Too late now.
“Put that weapon down,” she said.
“I don’t want to shoot you, woman. If I did, I would have done it back there. Or let those other boys get you. But I let you be.”
She was breathing shallowly, starting to hyperventilate. She tried to control it, steadied the Glock. She looked back toward the refinery, saw flashing emergency lights turning down the service road there.
“Just you and me,” he said. “Nobody’s going to save you. And nobody has to get hurt. Just get out of my way.”
“I can’t do that.”
She felt sweat in her eyes, blinked it away. The Glock began to waver.
“You owe me, woman.”
She was trembling, her arms spasming as if she were holding a heavy weight. The barrel clinked on the lip of the door, then again.
“Are you wearing a vest?” he said.
She steadied the gun.
“Yes,” he said. “I guess you are.”
Then, as if in a movie, she saw his gun angle down, the bloom of the muzzle flash. She was already squeezing the trigger when the impact hit her. A sledgehammer to the chest, the stars and moon whirling around her, and then she was on her back, the imprint of bright flashes echoing in her eyes.
He shot you.
She looked up at the sky, saw a shadow cross the moon. She heard a car door shut, somewhere far away, the squeal of tires. The smell of exhaust as the car passed by her, a foot from her face. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She closed her eyes.
Danny.
He swung the Monte Carlo around the Blazer, steering wide of where the woman lay. As he rumbled over the metal bridge, he felt the searing pain on his right side. The familiar place. He dropped the Beretta on the seat, wrenched the wheel to the right as he reached the highway. The tires sprayed gravel and then he was on the wide road, lights out, gas pedal to the floor.
In his rearview, he saw more emergency vehicles far behind him, watched as, one by one, they turned down the service road to the refinery, their lights blotted out by the trees.
The Monte Carlo leaped ahead, the V8 growling, the moon bright enough to drive by. He was alone on the road.
How much night was left? He knew he wouldn’t get far in daylight. He needed to find another car, switch plates, get out onto the interstate, head north, out of this county, out of this state.
He looked over at the gearbag, saw bits of safety glass on the seat. For the first time he saw the starred hole in the windshield, just above the dashboard.
He tugged his right glove off with his teeth, let it fall in his lap. He pulled away the edge of the windbreaker. Just a dull ache down there, numbness, but everything was wet, warm, and he could feel it spreading down his leg. He touched his pullover on the right side, felt where the bullet had gone in.
Up ahead, a tan Florida Highway Patrol car came over a rise, siren blaring, lights flashing. It blew past him. He watched it in his rearview, waited for it to swing around, come after him. It topped another rise and was gone.
After a while, he slowed to fifty. He was unsure how long he’d been driving. The highway seemed more like a country road now. Trees on one side, sugarcane on the other. Dawn was a pink bar on the horizon. A soft whistling came through the hole in the windshield. He felt sleepy, cold.
He popped the glove box open, got a cassette out. Sam Cooke. He took it out of its case, left a bloody thumbprint on it as it slid into the player. He adjusted the volume, Sam’s sweet and rough voice coming strong through the speakers. “I was born by the river . . .”
Tired as he was, it made him smile.
Sara rolled onto her knees, put one palm against the ground to steady herself. The pain was a solid block across her chest.
There was a single dime-sized hole in the interior of the open door. She touched her chest, felt the indentation in the vest that matched it. She saw the Glock beneath the Blazer, out of reach.
She fell back into a sitting position then, heard something fall to the ground. She picked it up. A flattened slug.
She was still looking at it when sirens began to scream behind her. She turned, saw the first cruiser pull onto the service road, rumble over the bridge.
She put a hand on the seat for support, got her feet under her. You can do it. You can. The next thing she knew she was standing, wavering but standing, still holding the slug. The pain in her chest began to lessen.
She looked at the flashing lights, heard sirens, doors opening, people calling to her. Deputies with guns drawn. She saw Sheriff Hammond coming toward her. She tried to smile to show him she was all right. She couldn’t.
THIRTY-TWO
Sara stood beside an EMT van, a blanket around her shoulders, and watched them bring the bodies out. They’d tried to get her into a van, take her to the hospital—Not yet—and eventually Hammond had given in. Her chest hurt to the touch, but she could breathe without pain.
There were nearly a dozen emergency vehicles parked in front of the refinery, radios crackling and squawking. The sun was up, had chased the shadows away. Birds sang in the trees.
They’d dressed and wrapped her wrist, made her take the blanket because they were worried she was slipping into shock, but she knew she wasn’t. One of the EMTs hovered nearby.
Elwood came up alongside her.
“Anything?” she said.
“Not yet. Statewide BOLO. Jersey plates, he won’t get far.”
“Sorry I couldn’t get the tag number.”
“Priorities, Sara. What’s important is you’re all right.”
They brought them out on covered stretchers, one at a time, loaded them carefully into the back of the other EMT vans. When they brought the fourth stretcher out, the sheriff walked beside it, and she knew it was Billy.
She let the blanket slip from her shoulders to the ground. The sheriff came around the stretcher to head her off. The EMTs stopped where they were, unsure what to do.
She looked down at the stretcher, the rough green blanket covering him. The sheriff put a hand on her shoulder.
“Is he bagged?” she said.
“No.”
She pulled the blanket down over that face. His head was tilted to the left on the stretcher, eyes half open, looking off at something only he could see.
She should feel something, she knew, but there was nothing there. Just a numbness that seemed to stretch far down into her, fill her entirely.
She reached down, and one of the EMTs said, “Hey,” but the sheriff motioned to him and he was silent. She laid fingers on Billy’s eyelids and gently closed them, then lifted the blanket back over his face.
She stepped away from the stretcher. The EMTs looked at the sheriff. He nodded.
They carried him away.
When he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, Morgan found a side road that wound through the trees. The cassette had switched over to the other side. Sam still singing sweet and strong, but running out of time.
The road turned to dirt after a while, the Monte Carlo bumping back and forth. He powered the window down, could smell the woods, the cleanness of them, and something else on the breeze, a coolness.
When he came out of the trees, he was at a river. There was a clearing here, a gentle slope down to the water’s edge. He
pulled the Monte Carlo into the shade of a weeping willow, turned the ignition off. The engine coughed and was silent.
It’s come a long way, he thought. Time to rest.
The branches of the willow moved in the breeze, brushed the top of the car. Morgan listened to the music, looked out at the river. It was moving slow, wind rippling the surface. On the far bank were more willows, another clearing, picnic tables under the trees. Early morning and no one around. The breeze that blew across the water smelled of flowers. Birds chirped in the trees.
His right shoe was full of blood, cooling now. He looked at the gearbag, wondered what was in it.
He let his head rest on the seat back, smelling the sweet air, feeling the sun on his face. And then he closed his eyes.
THIRTY-THREE
The line rang once, twice. Sara waited, cell phone to her ear, wondered if she had the right number. The sheriff had run interference with the phone company, backtraced her home phone, gotten the number for her, hadn’t asked why.
She was in the living room, lit by a single lamp. Danny was sleeping, his door half open. The house was quiet.
After the fourth ring, there was a pause and then the woman said “Who is this?”
“Sara Cross.”
Silence on the line, then, “How did you get this number?”
“I just wanted to call, to tell you thanks.”
Another pause. “I didn’t do that for you.”
“I understand.”
“It was for that little boy.”
“I know. That’s why I wanted to thank you.”
“Well, now you have. And there’s no reason to be calling this number again, is there?”
“No,” Sara said. “There isn’t.”
“Then we’re done,” Simone James said, and the line went silent.
The costume wasn’t quite finished. It took her three tries to get the bandana folded right. When she did, it fit neatly over his head, covering the sparseness of his hair. She tied it in back, adjusted the patch over his left eye.
“There you go, Captain.”
He bounded down the hall to the bathroom, pulled up a stool so he could see himself in the mirror.
“Well?” she called to him.
“It’s great!”
She went to the window, looked out. It was almost dark, the streetlights blinking on one by one. On the windowsill, beside the bowl of bite-sized candies, a candle flickered in the jack-o’-lantern she’d carved.
She heard his pounding feet, turned to see him come running back into the living room.
“Easy,” she said.
“I’m ready!”
“Okay, but remember what I told you.”
She straightened the big belt, the plastic sword that hung from it.
“You going to be okay walking in those boots?”
“Sure.”
“You’re going to stay with me now, right? Not run ahead?”
He nodded.
She got a jacket from the closet, pulled it on. He was already waiting at the door, carrying a plastic bag that said PIRATE’S BOOTY.
He turned to look at her, and she stopped. And in that moment, she felt the fear, the uncertainty, the pain empty out of her, like something untangling inside.
“Mom, are you all right?”
She blinked at the wetness, zipped up the jacket.
“Yeah, little guy,” she said. “I’m all right.”
Then she took his hand, and together they walked out into the night.
Gone ’Til November Page 21
