He laughed. “It’ll take forever, but it’s not too far.”
She considered it for about five seconds, then threw her arms around his neck. “Spense, oh, Spense,” she said softly. “But…” She pulled back. “What about your job?”
“I can sell computer stuff anywhere. Or I can just quit. I’ve got enough money to last a long time.”
“And you really want to do this? With me?”
“I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather do it with. I’m tired of Florida anyway.” Tired of all of it. “It’s time to move on.” As soon as he said it, he knew it was true.
She ran her nails through his hair, kissed him, knuckled her eyes, and looked slowly around the cramped kitchen. “There’s not much here I want to take. Most of it’s junk.”
“Pack a couple of bags. I’ll go get the car. Your street’s pretty flooded, but maybe I can get as far as the end of the block.”
“There’s an old alley on the other side of the trees out back. Take that road. It hardly ever floods. I’ll meet you there, by the edge of the trees.”
He got up, anxious to get moving. “We’ll stay on the boat tonight and get an early start tomorrow.”
“Where’s your boat?”
“Sugarloaf.”
“What about my rent? The stuff in the fridge? My job?”
“We can mail your landlord the last rent payment, pack the fridge stuff in a cooler, and fuck your job. They cut back so far on your hours they don’t deserve any advance notice.”
The longer he talked, the more inevitable it became. His boat, the Flybridge, was docked behind a snowbird’s house a short distance from his place. He would bring it to his own dock, he and Eden would stay there for the night, and when she was asleep, he would torch the house, ending all of it, just as he had with his old man. Eden would never know about Mira and Adam.
Eden went to the door with him, hugged him again. “Hurry back,” she whispered.
If it hadn’t been the dead of summer, in the aftermath of a category-five hurricane, the shoreline of Key West would have been filled with boats, Sheppard thought, and unfit for the landing of a seaplane. But Blake was able to take them within a quarter-mile of shore, and the Zodiac raft carried the three of them the rest of the way.
They put in at the dock nearest to the restaurant. As they got out, a heavy bouncer-type in a yellow rain slicker hurried over and informed them the slip was reserved and to get the hell out. He had teeth as bad as his attitude and a beer belly that made him look six months pregnant. Sheppard flashed his badge and slung his arm around the man’s shoulders, walking him up the pier a ways.
“You were saying?”
“Hey, man, stay as long as you want.”
“Excellent choice,” Sheppard replied. “Now point us toward Pepe’s.”
As soon as Sheppard saw the place, he recognized it, a landmark from another life, another Sheppard. The name had changed, that was all. The year? He wasn’t sure, could no longer remember. It had been during his first stretch with the Bureau, before Hurricane Andrew, and he and his wife had come here for dinner. They’d had too much to drink, he remembered, and all sorts of weird shit had come to the surface. She did not want kids, they would interfere with her legal career, she was going places, and they could go places together. But not if he really wanted kids. Uh-uh, no way. And in the end, their different needs on this single issue had ended the marriage.
He hated the place just on principle.
Inside, the lights ran on a generator, the air was hot and sticky, and the booths were nearly empty. But the covered bar in the patio area was full. The thin, tanned hostess came over to him and Goot. “How many?” she asked.
Sheppard held up his badge. “Where’s the manager?”
“Oh.” Breathlessness, Key West—style, then, more softly: “Shit. Hold on.”
She hurried off and Goot remarked, “It smells funny in here.”
“Mold,” Sheppard said.
“Uh-huh, I knew it,” Goot replied. “First marriage. Bad night.”
“Most of the nights were bad then.”
The manager was a chunky guy with a weathered face. He looked like he suffered from a terminal disease. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
His phony smile grated on Sheppard, who held up his badge. “Eden Thompkins. Is she working this evening?”
“Eden?” Blink, blink went his eyes. “Uh, no. Her hours were cut back.”
“Then I need a home address.”
The manager folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t just give out my employees’ addresses. What’s this about?”
A petty bureaucrat. It seemed that every facet of American society was filled with them, from the guy with bad teeth out on the dock to this little shit in front of him to Charlie Cordoba and on up through the ranks of government. The irony was that from where the manager stood, Sheppard was the petty bureaucrat. Well, so be it.
Sheppard leaned into the man’s personal space and in a quiet, tight voice said: “What it’s about, my friend, is all over the news. And if you don’t give me her home address, you’ll be charged as an accessory to kidnapping. Any other questions?”
Two blinks, one blink, two again. Like some sort of archaic code. “I… I need to, uh, look it up,” the man stammered.
Sheppard glanced at Goot, who nodded and accompanied the manager through double doors. Blake touched Sheppard’s shoulder. “I’m going to make sure we’ve got a car out front. Breathe, Shep. We’ll get there.”
Right. Breathe. The zen of the moment and all that. But just being inside this place was like time-traveling. He could see his former self with his ex-wife, seated at that table out in the patio, under the thick, woven branches of the banyan tree, their disagreement deepening with every glass of wine they drank.
Sheppard squeezed the bridge of his nose. His cell rang. Kartauk’s number came up. “Yeah, Glen.”
“Suki and I are at my place, Shep.”
“Great.” And what’s your real reason for calling, Glen?
“Thanks very much. I appreciate your helping us out here.”
“Have you seen the news in the last fifteen minutes?”
I’ve been in a seaplane. I’m now standing in a restaurant that’s running on a generator. Nope, sorry. “No, why?”
“Cordoba blew it. The prick gave names, Shep. He did everything he was told not to do.”
“He gave Eden’s name? In a press conference?”
“Eden, Spenser and his aliases, said that Mira is missing, the whole nine yards.”
“Christ.” Damnshitfuck. “Thanks for the tip, Glen. Keep me posted.”
“Did you find her yet?”
“Almost.”
“Keep me in the loop, Shep.”
“You bet.”
The manager emerged from the double doors and, judging from his avid hand gestures, was arguing with Goot. And Goot lost his temper, shoved the manager up against the wall, and snatched a scrap of paper out of his hand. Then he hurried over to Sheppard, wagging the paper.
“Got it. We’re outta here. She lives on Elizabeth Street.”
The manager ran after them and caught up with them on the sidewalk. “You think you can just barge in and intimidate people and shove them around?” he shouted. “This is America. We have laws, we have…”
Sheppard got into the passenger seat of the waiting cruiser and slammed the door, cutting off the sound of the man’s voice. Once Goot scooted into the back, Sheppard said, “Make it fast, Ross,” and gave him the address on Elizabeth Street in Old Town Key West.
Eden waited for Finch at the edge of the woods, where the trees bent over the alley, huddled together like kids inspecting roadkill. She had a suitcase on wheels in one hand, a backpack in the other, and a raincoat thrown over her head. She wore Capri jeans, a cotton shirt, flip-flops. A woman who traveled light, he thought, and in that moment she reminded him of Suki in Acid Test. He knew he had made the right decision.
He pulled the VW wagon alongside her and she tossed everything into the backseat and slid in beside him. “It’s really happening, isn’t it,” she said, and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “What will you do with your car?”
He shrugged. “Leave it.”
“Really? You can afford to do that?”
“It’s just a car. We can buy another car.”
“And you have a boat you never told me about. What else don’t I know about you, Spense honey?”
He glanced at her, grinned, winked, and drove on to the end of the alley. As he turned out onto the road, he jammed on the brakes, barely missing the police cruiser that swerved to avoid hitting him, its horn blaring, blue lights spinning. Time shrieked to a crawl, then stopped altogether. In a frozen moment of utter clarity, Finch knew the tall man in the passenger seat was Wayne Sheppard.
Time slammed forward again, the cruiser sped around the corner, and Finch sat there paralyzed, hands gripping the steering wheel, the roaring rush of blood pounding in his ears.
Spense, Spense, Spense…
His neck felt stiff as he turned his head, looking at Eden. “Yeah?”
“That goddamn cop nearly hit us,” she exclaimed.
And now they’re nearly at your place. He could barely swallow.
“Spense, the engine stalled.”
Sweet Christ. He put the wagon in park, turned the key, the engine fired up. Drive. Fast.
He made a U-turn in the middle of the road and sped off in the opposite direction, swerving up and down back streets, alleys, trying not to imagine what was going on at Eden’s. Paul talked. “Those cops are headed to your place, Eden,” he said finally. “Paul must’ve told them about you.”
“How can you possibly know where they’re headed?” Because I recognized the fed in the passenger seat. “It makes sense. Paul told them where you live.”
“Paul doesn’t know where I live. He’d never been to my place. He never even asked where I live.”
“Then they must’ve gotten your address from work.”
Eden fell into a moody silence, her head turned toward the window. The road out of Key West now stretched before them, shiny, dark, as straight as a needle. Finch took the VW up to seventy; the car slammed into a pothole, the front tires skidded. Slow down, he thought. He had to slow down.
But how long did they have? Minutes? An hour?
No, no, no. The cops didn’t have any idea where Eden was, how could they? She might be at a friend’s place, visiting family, shopping, bar-hopping; they would have to wait at her apartment until she showed up. And despite what Mira said the feds knew about him, his past, it didn’t matter. They didn’t know about the Sugarloaf house, the Flybridge, the kind of car he drove. They didn’t have enough basic information about him and his life now to find him.
“Well, I hope Paul feels like shit when he gets my letter,” Eden said finally in a small, stubborn voice.
“What letter?”
She ran her hands over thighs, making a soft, brushing sound. “The letter I left in my mailbox for the postman to pick up.”
Finch slowed and struggled to keep his voice controlled, quiet. “Tell me you didn’t really do that, Eden.”
“What difference does it make? By the time he gets it, we’ll be gone. I just wanted him to know that—”
“What?” He sounded desperate, tried to tone it back. “What could you possibly want him to know?”
“That… that even if he doesn’t want me, someone else does and that we’re going to sail halfway around the world and good riddance to him and his miserable little life and that if he really did take his son, then he’s more fucked up than I thought.” She spoke rapidly, urgently, paused. “I think that about covers it.”
“You’re sure?”
“You sound a little jealous, Spense.” She leaned into him and nibbled at his earlobe, whispering, “I think I kinda like that.”
“I just don’t want the cops pursuing you and trying to implicate you in Paul’s mess.”
“I didn’t do anything. But I should’ve. I should’ve told him I wanted money or I would go to his wife and tell her about our affair.” She shrugged. “But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
Finch doubted the cops would look in her mailbox. Even if they did, the letter wouldn’t tell them anything. By the time the letter made its way to Paul Nichols, it wouldn’t make any difference to him or Eden. They would be long gone.
Calmer now, he enjoyed the few moments of silence, Eden’s head on his shoulder, the future already unfolding the way he envisioned it. Then he realized the gas light was on, that the car was running on empty. He pulled into a gas station three miles later, the only one between here and Sugarloaf that had gas. Five bucks would do it. He wouldn’t be using the car again after tonight.
The pump’s credit card slot was broken, so he had to go inside to pay. The tall, scrawny kid at the register had his feet on the counter, a Coke in front of him, and was staring at a small TV. “Five on pump two,” Finch said, and handed the guy a ten.
While the kid was looking for change, Eden came in and headed for the restroom. “Hon,” she called, “can you get me a pack of gum?”
Finch nodded, didn’t see any gum at the front. “Where’s the gum?”
“Halfway down aisle two,” the kid said.
As he hunted for gum in aisle two, Eden came out of the restroom, went over to the refrigerator, looking for something cold to drink. Finch still didn’t see any damn gum, but he selected a couple of bags of trail mix. Then, from the TV, Finch heard: “This afternoon, director Paul Nichols, married to Oscar-winning actress Suki Nichols, was brought in for questioning concerning the kidnapping of the couple’s son, Adam. He and two other people are now considered to be persons of interest in the kidnapping. If you have any information about either of these individuals, please call…”
Finch didn’t hear the rest. He had raised his head and saw sketches of himself and Eden on the TV screen. They were good enough so that Eden had recognized herself and was backpedaling from the counter, looking around frantically, and the kid was stealing glances at her, at Finch, then looking back at the screen.
Finch had left his weapon in the glove compartment.
He moved quickly up the aisle. As the kid reached for the phone, Finch broke into a run and Eden spun around, her eyes widening, and he suddenly knew that she had pieced it all together.
He scrambled over the counter, his arm became a club, and the club slammed into the side of the kid’s head. He let out a squeal and toppled sideways, his arms flung outward, hands grappling for something to grab. He fell into the register, his head struck the edge of the open drawer, and he was dead before he hit the floor.
Finch whirled around just in time to see the door closing shut behind Eden.
He went after her, his shoes slapping the hard, tile floor, the TV voice droning on behind him, and burst through the door, into the rain that sliced across the dimly lit pumps and the lot around them. No Eden.
Finch ran over to the VW, certain she would be behind the wheel, fumbling with the key in the ignition. But she wasn’t.
He got in, started the car, hit the brights, made a slow circle through the lot—and saw her pop up from behind the large black garbage can between the pumps. She grabbed the hose from the pump where he’d been parked and gas spewed out. He realized the guy inside must have activated the pump when Finch had handed him the ten bucks.
She shouted at him to stay away from her and danced around, the hose in front of her, gas gushing everywhere, the stink of the fumes rising into the wet air. “You used me, you fucker, you used me for information about Paul and his family, that was it from the get-go. Right?” she shrieked. “Isn’t that right?”
Finch opened his car door, stepped out, held up his hands like a man with a gun against his spine. “You’ve got it all wrong, Eden. Let go of the hose, c’mon, you’re freaked out, that’s all. I didn’t do anything to you. To anyone.�
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She hesitated; gas no longer spewed from the hose. “You have him, Spenser, I know you do. You have the kid. I… I did some research. I found clips from that old TV series and it was you.” She aimed the hose at the garbage can. Gasoline spewed forth. “And in my letter to Paul, I told him to take a look at all that stuff and to call me. I left him my backup cell number. I… I was going with you to find Adam. I was using you, shithead!”
And then she dropped the hose and stuck her hand in the pocket of her Capri pants and wagged a pack of matches in the air.
Finch stopped and backed toward his car, certain she intended to immolate herself. “Don’t do it, Eden.” His voice rang out, but she didn’t seem to hear it.
She lit a match, held it to the matchbox, and tossed it toward the garbage can.
Finch ran toward his car, threw himself inside, and was still racing in reverse when the garbage can ignited. Flames sped along the trail of gasoline, bright and hot, and then the pumps blew, a fireball hurtling upward, lighting up the wet darkness.
He spun into a U-turn and raced toward the road—then saw her flying into the trees on the other side like some enchanted being. Finch jammed the accelerator to the floor, the tires spun, shrieking against the wet pavement, and tore after her. The wagon slammed down over the shoulder of the road, into pebbles, coquina rock, dirt, dead trees. Rain drummed against the car, the wipers whipped back and forth, creating half-moons of thin mud against the glass.
The car bounced through the trees. Eden dodged left, he swerved after her. She cut to the right, he spun the wheel in the same direction. Behind him, a series of explosions sundered the air.
She vanished between trees growing so narrowly together he was forced to go around them, but he went faster, faster, and shot toward her. Eden leaped upward and the car crashed into the tree where she scrambled like a terrified monkey. The impact knocked her down and she landed on the hood of the VW, her cheek mashed against the glass, eyes wide with horror, blood pouring from her nose. The wipers slapped her face, blood mixed with the mud on the windshield.
Cold As Death (The Mira Morales Series Book 5) Page 27
