Distantly, like sounds in a nightmare, he heard more explosions.
Eden suddenly reared up on her knees and, like some mythological Amazon, grabbed the wipers with her hands and bent them back. Enraged, Finch threw the car into reverse again and crashed into something behind him. Eden tumbled to the ground.
The engine died.
In the glare of the headlights, he saw her limping away, pathetic in her terror, hardly worthy of someone like him. But she deserved to die. He started the car, tore forward, and crashed into her from behind.
Her body catapulted up, up, and vanished somewhere above him, in the rainy darkness, in the embrace of the broken trees. He turned abruptly and raced back toward the road. He supposed her body had struck the ground already, bones broken, spine fucked, the life leaking from her. God has spoken. Your time is up.
He swerved onto the slick asphalt. Flames from the gas station licked at the plumes of black smoke that billowed through the rain. Sirens wailed through the darkness. They were close.
Too close.
He raced up U.S. 1, the stupid, twisted wipers whipping through the air, the windshield so thick with mud and rain he couldn’t see anything. He lowered his window, slowed the car to a crawl, and leaned out, swiping at the glass with an old towel. He grabbed the wiper and twisted it back toward him until it brushed the glass.
Not great, but it would do.
He didn’t know how he made it the last seven or eight miles. The wiper on his side squealed and complained and hit the glass every second or third pass. The car rattled and coughed, the side mirror fell off, he was pretty sure he lost part of the back fender.
When he finally stopped in front of his gate, he was so tired, so completely spent, his body folded over the steering wheel and he pressed his cheek against the warm plastic and shut his eyes.
It could’ve been so different.
At some point between Eden’s place and the gas station, he had seen just how wonderful it might have been for them, the two of them taking off into a sunrise, headed toward New Zealand, his need for vengeance sated. Paul would be in jail, Suki would be distraught, their marriage would be destroyed. All of that would happen regardless, except that he didn’t get Eden. He didn’t get the girl because she had turned on him.
Finally, he hauled himself out of his car and pushed the heavy wooden gate open and drove inside. Get the Flybridge, bring it to this dock, load it up, do whatever he needed to do with Adam and Mira. Then he would split. That was the plan.
It sucked as a plan, but it was the only one he had.
He had reached the end of the line, mile zero.
PART THREE
End Game
Of course the game is rigged. Don’t let that stop you. If you don’t play, you don’t win.
—Robert Heinlein
Chapter 23
Lay Lady Lay
The inside of Eden Thompkins’s apartment looked as if she had left in a hurry—and that she planned to be away for a while. The closet was nearly empty, dresser drawers hung open and had been cleaned out, hangers littered the closet floor. Sheppard didn’t find any makeup, shampoo, conditioner, or hair dryer, or any of the other items that women usually included on their toiletry list.
Several pairs of shoes were on the mat just inside the kitchen door. A torn umbrella, still damp, stood in a corner. Her generator had been turned off when they’d entered the house, but the AC unit in the bedroom still felt warm and the coffeepot still held hot coffee. She hadn’t been gone that long.
According to what Goot had found out from the manager of Pepe’s, Eden didn’t have a car. It seemed unlikely that she had set out on foot with a suitcase, and the taxis in Key West were about as rare these days as rain in the Sahara. So how had she gotten out of here? A friend?
A friend like Spenser?
Sheppard suddenly thought of the car they had nearly hit on their way in here, tried to remember the make, model, color, something, but drew a blank. He was pretty sure, though, that two people had been inside.
He hurried into the living room, where Goot and Blake were going through some of Eden’s belongings. “That car we nearly hit,” Sheppard said. “Do either of you remember what it looked like?”
“I think it was a VW,” Blake said. “But I wouldn’t swear to it.”
“Our guy was in it, with Eden,” Sheppard said. “I’m almost sure of it.”
“I’ll put out an APB,” Goot said. “But what color? Model?”
“Not a Bug,” Blake said.
“And not a van,” Goot added.
“Then put out an APB for any VW except for those two models,” Sheppard said. “My guess is they’re headed out of Key West.”
“So she was screwing Paul and Spenser and he used her to get info on the family,” Goot muttered. “Do I have that about right?”
“That’s how it looks,” Sheppard replied.
“It makes a weird kind of sense,” Blake remarked. “It would explain how Spenser knew Paul wouldn’t be home that night and that Suki was out of town.”
“I’m going to knock on a couple of apartment doors, find out if she told anyone she was leaving and where she was going.”
Outside, the rain continued to fall, a shimmering curtain in the glare of his flashlight. He stood for a moment on the porch, wondering if Spenser intended to take off with Eden and leave Mira and Adam where they were or if he would kill them before he left. If the man’s past was any indication, Sheppard suspected the latter. He seemed to be the sort of man who tied up his loose ends. How would it end? Bullets? Or fire?
How long do they have? Minutes? Hours?
Anxiety ripped through him as he hurried along the side of the building, where the ground was like sponge, and climbed the creaking stairs to the front door of the building. Inside, the hot, humid hallway stank of mold and old cellars. Mailboxes, two rows of three each, were lined up on the wall, each with a doorbell next to each box and an intercom above the rows. The bells wouldn’t work without power, so he would have to go door to door. But before he did that, he thought, he wanted to take a look inside Eden’s mailbox.
It was neatly labeled E. THOMPMNS, and required a key—or a warrant—to open it. Fuck both, the clock is ticking. He brought out a small leather case from his pack, unzipped it, and removed the handiest tool he owned. It looked like a dentist’s pick. He slid it into the lock, worked it hard and fast, heard the telling click, and the little metal door swung open.
The package inside was about half as tall as a bottle of water, slightly thicker. A trick? Some perverted little calling card from Spenser? He hesitated, then picked it up. It was addressed to Paul Nichols.
Sheppard sat down on the bottom step of the stairs, set his flashlight beside him, and tore open the package. A cell phone, a handwritten letter.
Dear Paul,
By the time you get this, I’ll be on my way to New Zealand, on Spenser’s boat. I’ve been seeing him nearly as long as I’ve been seeing you. I figured that since you’re married, why shouldn’t I have someone else too? Since there’s nothing for me here, it’s time to get out.
Spense believes that you arranged the kidnapping of your son for publicity purposes. As he puts it, you’re a faded memory no one will hire and what better way to revive your career than a publicity pity ploy?
I have some trouble with this theory, but you definitely are a liar and a cheat, so maybe it’s not a stretch that you would do something as awful as kidnap your own kid for the publicity. Then again, I’m kind of uneasy about my honey Spenser Finch. Maybe I just have lousy taste in men.
See, I was going through my old videotapes, trying to decide which ones to take with me, and ran across a copy of a short-lived show called Long Hours. The male lead was a guy named Scott Connor, who looks an awful lot like Spenser, but younger. I asked him about it once, early on in our relationship, but he claims he was never in Hollywood.
Anyway, if that name means anything to you, please use this cell t
o call my regular cell. It’s the backup I got right before the hurricane hit.
Well, I’m off to Sugarloaf and then to New Zealand. I kind of hope I don’t hear from you. That would mean that Spenser was right about you and he couldn’t possibly be the cutie on Long Hours.
Spenser at least enjoys being with me.
Eden
Sugarloaf. Spenser Finch’s boat was on Sugarloaf. But which Sugarloaf? It consisted of two islands, known as Upper and Lower Sugarloaf, had a population of over six thousand souls, more than four thousand homes. Water everywhere. Boats everywhere. At least two marinas and countless coves and nooks where boats anchored. And it was dark. And raining. Could it get any worse?
Sheppard stepped out onto the porch, where a wet breeze cooled him, and scrolled through the numbers on the cell’s phone book. He found an entry for main cell and one for SF—had to be Spenser Finch, he thought—and called Eden’s cell first. He got a recording and hung up.
If Finch’s cell was on, they could track him. It might take longer than usual because so many cell towers were still down due to the hurricane. He called the office and Lydia Santos answered.
“It’s Shep, Lydia. His name’s Spenser Finch. I need you to run a cell number. Got a pencil?”
“Shoot.”
Sheppard ticked it off, noting that it was a 305 area code—Miami. “I need to know the mailing address for the bills. Tell Agent Ellis we need to triangulate that number, if possible. Also, I want the last ten numbers he called.”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve got something.”
He disconnected and stood there a moment, his mind racing through his options. The air smelled thick, viscous, the way it had in those long, nightmare hours as Danielle had moved on. He felt that if he raised his hand, hooked his fingers into claws, and raked them down through the darkness, he would rip open the fabric of space and time.
His cell rang and Goot’s number came up. “Shep, I just got a call from Cordoba. There’s been an explosion as a gas station just outside of town. Thanks to the rain, the station didn’t burn and there’re troopers there now. They say they have Spenser and Eden on the security videotape.”
Bingo. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
Finch turned the Zodiac raft down a canal just east of his house. The engine chugged noisily, and the raft bobbed like a sick fish in the rain-pocked water. His destination was the fourth house on the right.
For months now, he’d kept the Penn Yann Flybridge tied up at the dock of an elderly woman who came down here only in the winter. He paid her handsomely for the privilege, and always included a personal note with his money order, playing up his role as a friendly neighbor who reminded the lady, of course, of her son.
But she and her bridge buddies weren’t around now, and even if any elderly folks remained in the houses along here, they probably were too deaf to hear the engine. He drew the raft up alongside the seawall, right behind the Flybridge, turned off the engine, and tipped it back inside the raft. He tied the raft to the back of the Flybridge and scrambled onto the seawall, alert for movement, lights, people. But nothing human moved out here. The rain fell softly, a soothing, gentle sound. Now and then, a gust of wind blew through, rustling trees along the canal, and stirring the water so that it slapped against the sides of the Flybridge.
The boat wasn’t large—just thirty feet long, with twin Mercruiser engines. It had an anchor pulpit, swim platform, a small kitchen with a microwave, fridge, stove, and a mahogany futon couch. The head was hardly the lap of luxury, and barely large enough to accommodate one person. But the toilet and shower worked, there was hot and cold running water. It would do.
Within minutes, the Flybridge was headed through the rain, back into the lagoon, towing the raft behind it. The wet air cleared Finch’s head. He had clothes and other personal items already on the Flybridge. In the storage closet on the porch of the house, he kept a supply case packed and ready.
The food in the house refrigerator would go into a cooler; he would take his MacAir, a few personal items. Everything else would burn. In the years since he’d fled Seattle, he’d learned that if necessary, he could live with few possessions.
He tied up at his dock, plugged in the boat so he could have lights and power without turning on the engine, and lowered the plank that would make access to the deck easier. He loped up to the house, still wrestling with the end game.
Kill Adam? Take him? What? Would the ultimate revenge in terms of Suki and Paul Nichols be their son’s death or that he was missing indefinitely?
Closure, he thought. There was a lot of be said for closure. It freed you.
He didn’t intend to free the Nicholses. Okay, so Adam would stay alive for a while, but he would crank up the anxiety level.
And what about Mira? She was excess baggage, but might prove useful with Adam. A mother figure and all that. Down the road a piece, he might be able to use her as leverage too.
Then again, she irritated him—the way she looked at him, the things she said, the way her eyes rolled back in their sockets when she picked up something especially awful about his past. Holier-than-thou Mira. Who needed it? However, if she could see his future—and if he could trust what she said… . Too many ifs…
He unlocked the storage closet, slid the storage box out, removed the wheelbarrow, and set the box inside it. He put his bike and tire pump inside too, and pushed the wheelbarrow out to the boat. He felt a sudden, inexplicable loss as he pushed the wheelbarrow across the plank and onto the deck. Eden was supposed to be here. It could’ve been so different.
Finch unloaded everything and sank onto the cooler, his exhaustion as abrupt and extreme as this mystifying feeling about Eden. If they hadn’t stopped for gas, would she be here now? Would she be laughing, eager, loving? He wondered if what she’d said to him at the end was true, the horrid, hurtful things about how she was using him.
And did she really leave a letter for Paul or was she just testing his feelings for her? What was real?
She’s dead. That’s real. Get over it.
But he was having a few problems getting over it. With his old man, with Priscilla Branchley, he’d felt like God when he had ended their lives. But he hadn’t felt that way when he’d struck Eden with the car. He’d felt empty. It was as if, at that moment, he had lost his taste for the God game. He pressed his fists into his eyes, then forced himself to stand, to move, to finish the task.
Several days from now, Sheppard and his boys would find the house. Or its remains. If he didn’t torch the place, what would they actually find? The power and water would be off, the fridge cleaned out, the beds made, the dishes in the cabinets, two cars in the driveway, a bedroom still boarded up, and everyone gone. Forensics would sweep in, dusting for prints, taking hair and dust and fabric samples. The forensic shrinks would go through his books, photo albums, DVDs, CDs, and eventually would cook up a theory about who he was, what made him tick, and where he might be headed and why. They would be wrong about all of it.
Only two things were certain right now: He would not be heading to New Zealand and, once again, he would be alone.
The stink of smoke and ruin blanketed the station and the surrounding area. The stench had seeped into the back room where Sheppard and Goot watched the video feed from the security cameras inside the station. What struck Sheppard most about the images was the moment when Eden Thompkins apparently recognized the sketches on CNN and turned with a wild, terrified expression and looked around for Finch.
And then, in yet another image, caught by a second camera, there was Finch’s expression. Astonishment, shock. Sheppard suspected it was the turning point: Finch had realized that Eden knew the truth. Instead of tending to her, though, Finch raced toward the kid behind the counter, who was reaching for the phone. By the time he remembered Eden, the clerk was dead and Eden was out the door.
The feed switched to the outside cameras and carried the drama until the seconds before the garbage can ignited.<
br />
Sheppard asked the officer to go back through these final images a frame at a time. An instant before the garbage ignited, there was a flurry of movement to the left—Eden, he thought, racing away from the station.
Had she made it? Was she alive?
While Goot remained to get copies of the video feed, Sheppard went outside, into the stink and the diminishing rain, past the barrier of police cars, and stopped on the other side of the road. He called Eden’s cell number; her recording came on after just two rings.
Flashlight on, he headed into the trees. The rain released the sweet scents of pine and earth and pretty soon, those smells overpowered the ones from the explosion. The fallen pine needles and wet earth cushioned his footsteps and a beautiful silence settled through the trees. Sheppard pulled out Eden’s backup cell phone and called her regular cell number. If she was in here and the phone was on—and not on vibrate, with the ringer loud enough for someone to hear—then he would hear it here.
One ring. Two. He held the phone slightly away from his ear and strained to hear something. Anything.
On the fourth ring, he heard it, a refrain from an old Bob Dylan song, “Lay Lady Lay.” If anything typified what he knew of Eden’s life, this song was it, he thought, and moved toward it. He stopped when her message came on. He disconnected, shone the flashlight to the left, right, and noticed that the ground here was torn up, as if a car had raced through. He called the number again, waited for the song, heard it, and moved sharply to the right.
He found her up against the trunk of a tree, her body twisted grotesquely—one arm bent behind her, her right leg at an impossible angle against the ground, her head at a forty five-degree angle. Her eyes were wide open, her clothes were soaked, and the end of a branch protruded from her throat.
Sheppard knelt beside her and gently shut her eyes. He glanced around slowly, looking slightly to the left or right of whatever he saw. Mira had taught him to do this whenever he was in the presence of someone who had just passed over. The spirit may stay close to what is familiar and what’s more familiar than your own body? He didn’t see anything, but just the same he leaned close to her and whispered, “Help me. Help me find this fucker before anyone else dies. Please.”
Cold As Death (The Mira Morales Series Book 5) Page 28
