Blue wanted to be out of this prison. He wanted to be far away from South Carolina and Lucy Tait. Damn, he never wanted to see her again.
He wanted to take a sailboat out onto the ocean, out of sight of land, and just be one with the water and sky. He wanted to erase Lucy’s face from his memory.
It wasn’t going to happen.
He wanted to stop thinking about her, but she followed him everywhere, filling his mind, overwhelming him with her presence.
Why had she done it? How could she have done it? It didn’t make sense. Did she really think he’d killed Gerry? Or worse, could she possibly be part of some conspiracy against him?
It didn’t make sense.
It didn’t make any sense at all.
He closed his eyes, and she was there, in his mind, arms crossed, mouth tight, glaring at him with barely concealed impatience.
“Why?” he asked, speaking the word aloud, causing some of the inmates to look curiously at him and then to move farther away.
Blue needed to know why. Of course, Lucy couldn’t answer.
Lucy sat outside the gates of R. W. Fisher’s plantation-style mansion, slumped in the front seat of Sarah’s car. She’d borrowed her friend’s shiny black Honda because she knew her own battered truck would stand out on this well-manicured street like a sore thumb. She had also borrowed a microcassette recorder from Sarah’s husband’s office, and she’d dug up a pair of binoculars from her own attic.
The night was endlessly long. It was only 3:00 a.m. and she felt as if she’d been sitting out here for half an eternity instead of eight hours. She’d followed R. W. Fisher home from his office at a little after seven. He’d gone inside and hadn’t come out since.
The binoculars weren’t much use. The house was dark, and through the binoculars it was simply larger and dark.
The microcassette recorder wasn’t much use, either. Lucy managed to amuse herself for about five minutes by recording her voice as she sang the latest country hits, and then playing back the tape. But since most of the popular songs were about heartache and love gone wrong, she quickly stopped.
She forced herself to stay awake by chewing some caffe-inated gum that she’d picked up at a truck stop. She didn’t dare drink any of the coffee she’d brought, for fear she’d have to leave her stakeout to find a bathroom.
The night was sticky and hot, but she didn’t turn the car on and sit in air-conditioned comfort; she was afraid a neighbor would notice the running car engine and call the police.
The very same police who were somehow involved in a murderous plot with R. W. Fisher.
So Lucy just sat. And sweated. And wished that Blue hadn’t been so quick to doubt her. She wondered if Northgate was as awful as she had heard. She wondered where Blue was, if he was sleeping or still awake. She prayed that he was safe.
At 5:57 a.m., Fisher’s gate swung open. Lucy sat up straight, then scrunched down even farther in her seat to hide. Fisher appeared, driving a big, off-road vehicle with oversized tires. Lucy would have bet both her house and the computer software company she owned in Charleston that the tread on those big tires was nearly brand-new. And she would have gone double or nothing on those tires being the same ones that had left those tracks Blue found in the woods near where Gerry’s body was discovered.
As she watched, Fisher turned to the right out of his driveway and moved swiftly down the street.
She started Sarah’s car, waiting until he was some distance away before pulling out after him.
He didn’t go far. He made a right into the parking lot of the middle school and stopped.
Lucy drove past without even braking, but quickly pulled off the road several hundred yards farther down. She grabbed the microcassette recorder—just in case—and scrambled out of the car, backtracking on foot through the woods.
Fisher stood near his truck, one foot on the bumper as he tightened the laces of his sneakers. He was wearing running shorts and a T-shirt, and for someone pushing seventy, he was in outrageously good shape.
He did several more stretches, adjusted his headphones and Walkman, then started running along the edge of the middle-school playing field. Lucy followed, running a parallel course through some impossibly dense woods.
He was in hideously good shape, she realized when she was out of breath after only a short distance. Of course, Fisher wasn’t running in long jeans and cowboy boots, leaping over roots and rocks and getting smacked in the face with tree branches and vines. She saw that she was losing him and she pushed herself harder, faster.
He reached the corner edge of the field and took a trail that led into the woods. He slowed his pace slightly, but not much.
Lucy was glad for the headphones Fisher was wearing, glad he couldn’t hear her. She was making more noise than a herd of wild elephants. She remembered the way Blue had been able to run silently through the woods. And tirelessly, too. As a particularly thick branch smacked her square in the forehead, she wished that he were there with her. But he wasn’t. If she wanted to keep up with Fisher, she was going to have to do it on her own.
You gotta want it badly enough. The words of Blue’s SEAL training instructor flashed in her mind. She did. She wanted it. Badly. She wanted a happy ending to this nightmare. She wanted to find the proof that would free Blue from jail. She wanted him to walk out of the county prison and into her arms. And as long as she was making up happy endings, she wanted him to kiss her and tell her that he loved her. She wanted to marry him and live happily ever after.
God, she was stupid. It wasn’t going to happen that way. Even if she didn’t get herself killed, even if she succeeded in getting Blue out of jail, he was going to ride off into the sunset with perfect, pink, frilly Jenny Lee Beaumont.
Lucy cursed as she tripped over a root and fell, tearing a hole in the knee of her jeans. She ignored the pain, ignored the scrape and the blood, and picked herself up and ran.
R. W. Fisher was way ahead of her along the trail.
Of course, if Fisher really was just out for a morning run, Lucy was going to feel pretty idiotic. She was praying that he was meeting someone, praying that something would happen to—
Lucy stopped suddenly, dropping down into the underbrush.
Fisher had stopped running. He stood now in the middle of the trail, catching his breath, headphones off, leaning against a huge boulder. He hadn’t heard or seen her, thank God.
Slowly, carefully, trying her hardest not to make a sound, Lucy crept forward.
Please, she was praying in rhythm with her pounding heart. Please, please, please, please, let him be meeting someone, please, please, please…
Then she heard it. The sound of a dirt bike coming along the trail. She used the cover of its engine to creep even closer and to take out the microcassette recorder.
But then Lucy realized it was not one dirt bike she’d heard but two. The riders braked to a stop and cut the engines. They were both wearing helmets, and as she watched, they pulled them off.
Travis Southeby. And…Frank Redfield? Oh, my God, if kind, gentlemanly Frank was involved in this, maybe Tom Harper was, also. And Chief Bradley—why not him, too?
“What are we going to do about McCoy?” Fisher asked. His voice carried clearly to Lucy. She quickly switched on the recorder and pushed the microphone level up to high. Fisher shook his head in disbelief. “Jesus, didn’t I just ask that same question a week ago? Didn’t we just have this conversation?”
“This time it’s a different McCoy,” Travis said. “But I don’t think we have a problem, Mr. Fisher. Blue McCoy is in Northgate prison, and he’s gonna stay there. There’s no way in hell he can make that bail.”
“Seems he’s got some special Navy lawyer flying in,” Fisher said. “When I heard about that, I came very close to calling New York and—”
“Snake doesn’t want to get involved,” Travis said. “He did his bit—”
“By breaking Gerry’s neck?” scoffed Fisher. “He should’ve made it lo
ok like some kind of accident. But a broken neck…? That was asinine.”
“Blue was easy to frame,” Travis said. “He’ll take the fall.”
“But what about this Navy lawyer?”
“It’s not a problem,” Frank interjected. “McCoy is up at Northgate, right? There’s going to be a fight in the cafeteria at noon. Blue McCoy is not going to survive. I can guarantee it.”
Lucy stopped breathing. Blue McCoy was not going to survive? Not as long as she was alive and kicking.
Fisher nodded, his well-lined face looking suddenly tired and old. “All right.”
“What I’m interested in knowing is how you plan to fill the gap that Gerry’s death left,” Travis said. “How the hell are we going to get that money into the system and back to New York by the syndicate’s deadline?”
“Matt Parker,” Fisher said. “He’s been willing to help up until now. I’m sure he’ll be happy to continue our relationship. I’ll arrange a loan with the bank. Nothing that draws attention in our direction, of course. But it’ll enable Matt to purchase a suitable business—maybe even McCoy’s construction company. Construction was the perfect way to launder the money.”
“Too bad Gerry chickened out,” Travis said.
New York syndicate. Launder money. My God, that was what this was all about. Someone named “Snake,” probably from that same New York syndicate, had broken Gerry’s neck because Gerry hadn’t wanted to play along.
“We’ll be rich yet, gentlemen,” Frank said, putting his helmet back on. “Next year at this time, we’ll be rolling in money.”
Lucy lay hidden in the underbrush long after the dirt bikes had pulled away, long after Fisher had run back down the trail. She wasn’t sure exactly where she’d be next year at this time, but she knew one thing for certain. R. W. Fisher and Frank Redfield and Travis Southeby and anyone else involved in Gerry’s murder were going to be in jail.
Even if she had to put them there herself.
Chapter Fifteen
Lucy ran back toward Sarah’s car, faster even than she’d run while following R. W. Fisher.
According to her watch, it was nearly six forty-five. She had to get up to Northgate by ten-thirty for morning visiting hours to warn Blue that he was in danger. It was about an hour’s drive, but that was okay. She could make it.
Of course, once she got there, there was no guarantee that Blue would see her.
She was drenched with sweat and covered with burrs and dirt as she climbed into the car. She started the engine with a roar and headed quickly for home.
She had to call someone. Say what she’d overheard—what she’d gotten on tape.
She couldn’t call the local police. They were involved. She knew that for sure. How about the state troopers? Hell, there was no guarantee they weren’t in on the deal. And the local federal agents? Shoot, she was so paranoid now she was afraid to call anyone.
Lucy pulled into her driveway with a spray of gravel. She ran up her porch steps and quickly unlocked her kitchen door, then closed it behind her.
Think. She had to think.
She picked up the phone, then hung it back up. Then, with a sudden burst of inspiration, she picked the phone back up and pushed the redial button. She closed her eyes and prayed that Blue had been the last person to use the phone and that the last call he’d made had been to SEAL Team Ten’s headquarters in California.
It was ringing. Wherever she’d dialed, it was ringing. She could only hope it wasn’t ringing in the local pizzeria.
“Night shift,” said a deep voice on the other end of the phone.
My God, of course, it was three hours earlier in California. Out there, it was five o’clock in the morning.
“Who’s this?” she asked.
There was a pause. “Who’s this?” came the wary reply.
Lucy took a deep breath and a big chance. “My name is Lucy Tait, and I’m a friend of Blue McCoy’s,” she said. “He’s in big trouble, and I need to speak to Joe Cat right away.”
Another pause, then, “Where are you calling from, ma’am?” the voice asked.
“Hatboro Creek, South Carolina,” she said.
“Can you be more specific about this ‘trouble’ you say Lieutenant McCoy is in?”
“Who is this, please? I can’t say more until I know who I’m talking to.”
There was another brief silence, then, “My name is Daryl Becker,” the voice said. “Blue calls me ‘Harvard.’”
Harvard. She’d heard that name before. “You went through BUD/S with Blue and Joe Cat,” she said.
“How do you know that?” he asked suspiciously.
“Blue told me.”
“We talking about the same Blue McCoy?” Harvard asked. “The Blue McCoy who hasn’t said more than three full sentences in his entire life?”
“He talks to me,” Lucy said. “Please, you’ve got to help. I need to speak with Joe Cat.”
“It’s 0500 here on the West Coast,” Harvard said. “We just got back last night after several weeks away. Joe is with his lady tonight.”
“Veronica,” Lucy said.
Harvard laughed. “If you know about her, Blue has been yapping his mouth off. You must be special, Lucy Tait.”
“No, just a friend.”
“I’m his friend, too,” Harvard said. “So tell me what’s going on.”
Lucy did, telling him everything from the money-laundering scheme to Gerry’s murder, the charges against Blue and the impending murder attempt at Northgate prison. Afterward, Harvard was silent.
“Damn,” he said. “When that redneck white boy gets in trouble, he gets in big trouble, doesn’t he?”
“I need help,” Lucy said. “I can’t do this on my own, but I don’t know who to call. I need to know who I can trust.”
“Okay, Lucy Tait,” Harvard said. “This one is too big for me, too. Lay your telephone number on me. I’ll risk certain death by calling Cat and waking him from his blissful slumber. He’ll know what to do. I’ll have him call you right back.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said, giving him her number.
She hung up the phone and opened the refrigerator, pouring herself a glass of orange juice as she tried not to watch the clock. God, she was a mess. She was soaked with sweat and dirt, her hair straggly and stringy, her knee still bleeding through the hole in her torn jeans.
Three minutes and forty seconds after she hung up from Harvard, the telephone rang.
Lucy scooped it up. “Yes?”
“Lucy? This is Joe Catalanotto from Alpha Squad.”
Lucy closed her eyes. “Thank God.”
“Look, Lucy, Harvard filled me in on what’s happening out there. I’ve already called the admiral and arranged for emergency leave. I’m on my way, but it’s going to take too long to get there, you hear what I’m saying?” Joe Cat’s voice was pure urban New York. It was deep and rich and filled with the confidence of a Navy SEAL commander. “Ronnie is gonna get in touch with Kevin Laughton, a FInCOM—Federal Intelligence Commission—agent I trust…works out of D.C. He’ll send someone out to Hatboro Creek—someone you can trust with that tape of yours.”
Ronnie? Veronica. Of course. His wife.
“What I want you to do,” Joe continued, “is go out to wherever Blue is being held and tell him about this noon assassination attempt. Do whatever you need to do, Lucy, to get him out of that prison.”
Lucy took a deep breath. “You want me to tunnel him out of there?”
Joe laughed. He had a deep, husky laugh. “If you have to, yeah. Do whatever it takes. Just don’t get Blue or yourself killed.”
Before Joe hung up, he gave her his home phone number, the SEAL Team Ten headquarters number, and Kevin Laughton’s, the FInCOM agent’s, number. Just in case.
Lucy hung up the phone.
Do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. Whatever.
She picked up the phone and dialed Sarah’s number. She knew she was going to wake her friend up.
&nbs
p; “’Lo?” Sarah answered sleepily.
“It’s me,” Lucy said. “How much money do you have in your savings account?”
Lucy worked quickly. She dug out the files for both her house and her business from her home office. She found the title for her truck. She gathered her savings-deposit passbooks and uncovered her checkbook from her dresser.
She searched the Charleston Yellow Pages, making phone call after phone call until she found exactly the right type of entrepreneur she needed. She gave him directions to Hatboro Creek and made him promise to arrive no later than 9:00 a.m., when the local bank opened.
She made a copy of the microcassette, using her telephone answering machine to play the miniature tape and holding the microcassette recorder above the speaker. The quality of the tape was going to stink, but she didn’t care. As long as the words were faintly audible and the voices were identifiable. She stashed one of the tapes in the kitchen utensil drawer for safekeeping.
At 8:57 a.m. she climbed into Sarah’s car and headed downtown.
Sarah was standing on the sidewalk in front of the bank. Lucy parked and got out of the car.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Sarah said worriedly. “It’s the thirty-thousand dollars Richard was intending to spend to modernize his office.”
“You’ll get it back,” Lucy said, hoping she was telling her friend the truth. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Your money pushes me over the top.”
“I had no idea you had that much,” Sarah said.
“It’s mostly tied up in the business,” Lucy said. “Look, before I forget, I hid a tape in my kitchen, in the utensil drawer. If anything happens to me—”
“Oh, God, don’t say that.”
“It’s important,” Lucy said. “On my bulletin board is a phone number of a federal agent named Kevin Laughton. Make sure he gets the tape.”
“The tape from the utensil drawer.” Sarah nodded. “Why the utensil drawer?”
Alpha Squad Page 48
