Sons-of-bitches.
A kaleidoscope of nightmare images flooded my mind, Dakota in every one of them. I shuddered. On the radio Dustin Lynch was singing ‘Cowboys and Angels’. I loved that song, used the music as a distraction, anything to stop me from thinking about what they could be doing to my baby. Had to stay focused on getting her back.
JT had long since fallen asleep, cramped in the passenger seat. I couldn’t understand how. Sure, he’d been dog tired, we both had, but the very thought of sleeping seemed impossible to me. I swung the Mustang a little faster around the bends, just to see if I could wake him. Couldn’t.
We’d agreed to stay away from downtown, to find a motel less popular with tourists to use as a base. Someplace where management wouldn’t ask questions and the guests would mind their own business. In short, a rent-by-the-hour or the-night kind of place.
I chose the industrial quarter, an area near the Savannah Paper Company on the outskirts of town. From there it should be real easy to slip away from the motel and get back on the road in whichever direction we’d need to go to find Dakota.
As we descended the final hill, through the gaps in the trees, I caught brief glimpses of the sprawl of the city below. The sun was almost down and the streetlights were already lit, illuminating neat rows of boulevards and avenues. From the west, the paper mill’s towering stacks spewed smoke like sinister breath across the houses.
My cell buzzed again in my pocket. My heartbeat quickened even though I was pretty sure that it would be Quinn once more. Still, I pulled it out, checked the caller ID: a blocked number. My heart thumped harder. I fumbled with the handset, pressed Answer, held the cell to my ear. ‘Hello?’
Nothing. The caller had hung up.
Two blasts of a horn made me jump, dropping the cell into my lap. I jerked my head up. Realised I’d let the Mustang drift over the centre line. A large truck was bearing down on us. The driver was pointing, his face contorted with anger, yelling things that I couldn’t hear, but could imagine real easy.
I turned the wheel, took us back into our lane. Cussed under my breath, banged the steering wheel with my fists. I’d been too slow, again. Just like at the gas station. I’d failed Dakota, nearly got me and JT killed. That call had to have been Emerson’s men, and I’d missed them. I stared at the road ahead. Numb.
In the passenger seat, JT straightened up. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Oh you’re awake now? Great.’
He frowned. ‘What’d I miss?’
In my lap, the cell vibrated twice. A voicemail. Hope. I pulled on to the dirt at the side of the highway, dialling the answer service before the Mustang had come to a stop. ‘I missed a call, a blocked number.’
JT said nothing. Knew what I was thinking. Watched me real close as I waited for the answer service to pick up.
I listened. I’d gotten three new messages since I’d last checked. The first was from Quinn, left earlier that afternoon, asking where I was and telling me to call him back. The second was him too, an hour later, again asking where I’d gotten to and saying to call him real urgent.
The third message wasn’t Quinn, but it wasn’t Dakota’s kidnappers either. It was Special Agent Alex Monroe. The Fed that Quinn had been getting a hair up his ass about. He said he hoped I was safe, and left a cell number, asking me to call him. I pressed two to save the message, and hung up. Wasn’t concerned with anything he wanted right then, only with what was happening to my baby. The Fed would just have to wait.
Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what this man who was chasing us was like. From his accent I’d have bet on him being Kentucky-born. I wondered if his conformation matched his breeding and the smooth richness of his voice.
The cell was still in my hand when it started buzzing again. I answered without thinking. ‘Hello?’
‘Lori? What the hell? Do you know how many times I’ve called?’
Quinn. Not calm, not happy. His voice was an octave or two higher than usual, and certainly a few notches louder in volume. I took a breath, tried to sound normal. ‘Hey, yourself.’
‘Jesus, Lori. What the hell’s going on?’
Damn. He was freaking out. ‘I’ve been a little busy.’
‘The cops have been here crawling all over the office. And that Fed has called again. Twice. They all want to speak to you.’
‘I know.’
‘Tell me you’ve called them.’
JT moved in the seat beside me, looked at the cell, raised an eyebrow.
‘Quinn,’ I mouthed silently at him. JT nodded.
I spoke into the cell. ‘Not yet.’
‘Jeez, Lori, they’re saying that Tate’s right in the shit and that there’s a mob connection. He’s in with some bad people. The Feds are all over it. You need to take him in right now. Go to the closest precinct and hand him over.’
Shit. No way could I do that. ‘He’s my pick-up. I’m bringing him back to Florida as agreed. Quit worrying.’
‘It’s too dangerous. You can’t—’
I ended the call, shoved my cell phone into my pocket, and swung the Mustang back on to the highway.
JT glanced at me. ‘Trouble?’
I shook my head. ‘I can handle Quinn.’
JT gave a half-smile. ‘That I do not doubt.’
I piloted the Mustang along the highway as it twisted through the outskirts of the city. Log wagons hugged close on either side of us, making their way to the mill. Here the air tasted smoky, the texture chewier on my tongue than at the cabin, the atmosphere more claustrophobic.
I went with the flow of the traffic, letting it pull us, like a canoe on the rapids in the fall, past the entrance to the mill and on around its boxy, grey buildings and smoking chimney stacks. Just as the highway began to straighten, stretching away from the industrial quarter and inviting us to escape to the more attractive downtown, I took a left into the parking lot for Motel 68.
Most spaces were large enough for an eighteen-wheeler. Few were for cars. Good. That meant this place was perfect for what we needed. I swung the Mustang into a spot between a pick-up truck and a Toyota, and killed the engine. Glanced at JT.
‘You set?’
He nodded.
I pulled my carryall from the back seat and climbed out. It was good to stand straight after all the driving we’d done. My back felt all bent out of shape, like it might have gotten permanently curved into the shape of the Mustang’s seat. We walked towards the motel.
It took twelve minutes and five rings of the bell to get service. Judging from the scabby paint in the lobby and the stains on the grey carpet tiles, Motel 68 sure wasn’t fancy. When the skinny guy in an oversized grey shirt and black pants came out from the back room, the scowl on his face and the red creases along his left cheek told me we’d woken him.
He made a show of tucking his shirt tails into his pants, huffing and puffing like it was a physical effort, and then, with no better grace, signed me and JT into room forty-three. Low-rent joint or no, I didn’t care for his attitude, but in that situation his lack of interest was a real advantage.
I asked for a twin room and paid fifty-two dollars cash. Still making no eye contact the skinny guy wrote me a receipt. I tucked it into the small billfold I kept in my purse for expenses. Habit, I guess.
‘There’s no twins left, only doubles,’ the motel guy said, handing JT the key and not raising so much as an eyebrow when JT’s shirt cuff rode up, revealing the red-raw cuff marks scored around his wrists. ‘Forty-three’s on the second floor, all the way around back, last one on the end. Checkout by two.’
I clenched the handle of my carryall tighter, pissed that we’d gotten a double room, and at the motel guy for giving JT the key when I’d done the paying. Then I spotted the object on the end of the keychain: a chunky wooden block, like the type Dakota had loved playing with when she was little. She’d spent hours sat on the purple rag-rug, building up towers and knocking them down. I pushed away the memory. That JT had gotten the key
seemed of no importance anymore.
JT nodded thanks and we left the lobby in search of our room. Outside, in the hall, I bought a couple of sausage-biscuits from the hot-food vending machine. I passed one to JT, and we ate them as we walked. Despite my hunger, every swallow felt like an effort.
It’ll be okay, I told myself. It had to be. We’d made it this far, and in less than two hours we’d have Scott and the device. From there it’d be a short step to Dakota. Problem was, no matter how much I repeated it like a mantra, I couldn’t quite believe it was true.
The motel was laid out in a traditional horseshoe pattern: three lines of cream, two-storey buildings with blue doors to each room, all arranged around a small rectangular pool. The pool was flood-lit, and looked clean enough, with a white picket fence around the outside to stop kids or drunken adults falling in. It was doing its job well enough: the water lay dead calm; not a ripple broke the surface.
Our room was plain and functional: double bed, a desk and chair, and a small bathroom with a shower and no tub. The walls had been painted a dark-red hue, a colour no doubt chosen for its ability not to show the dirt. And, if regular patrons went against the dog-eared notice pinned to the back of the door, thanking folks for not smoking, then at least the telltale stains of tobacco would be lost in the shadows. I put my carryall on the bed. One bed, and two of us, gave more than a few possibilities.
I checked my watch and glanced at JT. ‘I’ll take first turn in the shower.’
He had his back to me. He’d liberated the coffee-maker from where it had been stashed on the top shelf of the wardrobe, and was filling the water reservoir from the basin tap. He caught my eye in the mirror, nodded.
He seemed to dominate the small space, like a giant in a dollhouse. What was to say that as soon as I stepped into the shower he’d not be gone? He hadn’t wanted me to go with him to meet Scott, and I was all out of cuffs, so had no way to restrain him. If I wanted a shower I’d either have to trust him or have him in there with me. Neither was perfect, but only one option would give me eyes on him the whole time; and I needed that, couldn’t let him bolt. Had to do whatever it took to get Dakota back.
I took my washbag from the carryall. Paused a moment, watching as JT tipped double the recommended sachets of coffee into the filter paper. Knew what I was planning didn’t feel right, but that I had to do it anyway.
Trying to ignore the nerves fluttering in my chest, I stepped across to him and slid my hands up his back, over his shirt, to his shoulders. I felt the muscle, firm and toned beneath my fingers. Felt him tense beneath my touch. ‘Why don’t you come join me?’
He turned to face me, his expression real serious. His eyes searched mine with that intense gaze of his. ‘You don’t need to be doing this.’
‘I want to.’ I held his stare, my heart thumping, my mouth dry. Told myself I had to do this to keep him close, even though it felt real wrong. Knew I should kiss him, touch him, do something to make him believe I was sincere. I felt paralysed, didn’t move.
JT shook his head, said softly, ‘No, you don’t. You want me to stick around, and I’m gonna do that anyways.’
I frowned. He’d always been able to read me real well. I should have known that he’d see right through my play. I definitely felt relief, but it was tainted with the bite of disappointment. Wondered briefly what was driving it – regret I’d offered myself so easily as bait, or regret that he’d not taken it?
He put his arms around me, pulled me close. The firmness of his hold felt like comfort, the warmth of his body like safety. I wanted to relax into him, to pretend just for a moment everything was okay.
I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
JT must have felt me go rigid beneath his grasp. He sighed and released me. Looked real sad. ‘Like I said, you don’t want to.’
I stepped back, my heart pounding against my chest, put a little more distance between us. ‘Tonight, you take the chair.’
He held my gaze a long moment. ‘Sure.’
‘Okay then.’
He nodded towards the bathroom. ‘Go ahead and take your shower, kiddo. I’m not going anyplace.’
I believed him, and that had to be good enough. I forced a smile and made my tone sound a whole lot lighter than I felt. ‘Just make sure that you don’t.’
He smiled, and for just a moment my pulse quickened for a whole other reason than the fear that had been hounding me since Dakota was taken. Two steps, and I could have gotten close to him again. Instead I snatched up my washbag and hurried through to the shower, slamming the door behind me.
Turning the dial to the max, I stood beneath the jets of water for as long as I could bear it. The air-conditioning unit whirred and rattled, trying to keep up with the steam filling the compact space. I let the water pummel my aching muscles. Pushed away the memories of how things had been before. Refused to let myself think on how he’d felt, how he’d tasted, how I’d wanted him. How, maybe, despite my vow, I still wanted him. Even though I knew it could only end in hurt.
Goose-bumped and shivering, I stepped out of the shower and pulled a towel around my shoulders. There was no wisdom in allowing those kind of feelings back, confusing the situation, pulling my focus from Dakota.
Me and JT together were like gasoline and fire. Intensely hot, but impossible to control. And when we did partner up, the people I cared for died. This time, I knew for damn sure, I could not let that happen.
25
We arrived downtown fifteen minutes before the meet. Leaving the Mustang a couple of blocks away, we hustled towards the river. Thelma’s Bar occupied a prime bit of real estate overlooking the water – a part of town popular with both tourists and locals, and traffic-free, give or take the occasional cab.
We scaled the stone steps down from street level to the harbour and followed the crowd heading for the bars on the waterfront. The atmosphere felt fun and hopeful; laughing people strolled to their evening’s destinations. To me, their smiling faces seemed alien, impossible, their fun somehow ugly and distorted as if warped by a fairground hall of mirrors. How could the world just carry on as normal when my daughter had been stolen? It seemed twisted, a sick joke, like I’d been stabbed through the heart and they were laughing at me as I bled out.
JT strode fast. Fresh from the shower, he wore clean jeans and a long-sleeved shirt to hide the cuff marks scored into his wrists. I did my best to keep pace with him and disguise the limp still dogging me from the crash. I tried to focus, but damn if the cobbles weren’t a bitch to walk on in my thin-soled sandals. I’d worn the only dress I ever carry in my go-bag – a plain black number, short and stretchy enough to chase down a fugitive. And I’d used a thick layer of foundation to conceal the dark bruising that’d developed along my shin. I didn’t want to risk Scott getting spooked by any signs of violence.
The sound of smooth jazz filtered out from a bar a few doors down. I ignored the chilled rhythm, and concentrated on tailing JT, a little to his left and seven paces behind. A loved-up couple and a family of three filled the space between us: camouflage.
As we got closer to Thelma’s the atmosphere changed from chilled to party. It felt like carnival. People laughed, kissed and danced to the music that flooded out from the bars. I tried to act as if that was how I felt too, put some wiggle in my walk and swung my purse a little, pretending like it was full of night-out nonsense – lipstick, rubbers and the like – not a weapons-grade taser.
Moving through the crowd, we passed the Cotton Exchange, and drew level with the sports bar alongside Thelma’s. I checked my watch: five to ten. Felt nervous, hyper-alert. I heard a wolf-whistle from the balcony above. Looking up I saw a bunch of guys smiling. A real cutie raised his beer in salute. I stared up at him. Felt numb. For just a moment my usual savvy deserted me.
Then autopilot took over. Blend in, I told myself. Get your head back in the game. There was no choice, Dakota was depending on me, I had to make things right.
So I smiled at the cutie. If
I’d been there on a social visit I would have gotten myself a piece of that. It would’ve made for a good distraction; a safe, no-history, no-future kind of distraction. The only kind of fun I allow myself these days. But I hadn’t the time or inclination. Scott Palmer was the only man I needed in my crosshairs. He was the key to getting my daughter safe.
JT paused in the doorway to Thelma’s Bar and nodded me through. As I stepped over the threshold, I felt his hand press against the small of my back, guiding me through the door. I glanced up at him as I passed.
He nodded again. Time to get this done.
They were still serving dinner. I smelt it before I saw it. Sizzling shrimp gumbo, just like my grandma used to make. I figured it must taste as good as it looked as all the tables were taken.
JT scanned the room, then looked back at me and shook his head. No sign of Scott. I guessed that, until he showed, we’d have to cool our heels at the bar.
Ignoring the grumpy expression of the waitress when I waved away her offer to put us on the list for a table, I followed JT to the bar. I was relieved Thelma’s didn’t have a television. No chance of JT’s mugshot appearing on-screen for all the folks to see. I hoped our luck continued to hold good.
I ordered a soda. JT asked for a coffee, black, and two bourbons, no ice. The bartender, a final-year college kid with an easy smile and blond-frosted tips to his dark hair, fixed our drinks. JT handed him a twenty.
I raised an eyebrow, guessed that he’d picked up some cash at the cabin. Wondered what else he’d gotten there that he’d not run past me.
Deep Down Dead Page 16
