Cut and Run

by Ridley Pearson

  It was only then that Larson noticed the small trickle of red below the man’s curly white hair. He recalled the first shooter’s wild shots as Larson had taken out his knee, the sound of bullets penetrating walls. One of those bullets had found Markowitz.

  “Dr. Markowitz!”

  The old man still had his fingers on the keyboard, but they weren’t moving. He was dead as well. Whatever progress he’d made in decrypting Laena remained to be determined.

  Larson quickly but thoroughly searched the house, closet by closet, room by room, in search of Penny. He looked for clues of the girl’s presence in the food stocked, the laundry washed, bath toys, beach toys: anything he could think of-but found no indication of a child. He returned upstairs to Markowitz, hoping for a disk or storage device, but was faced with only the laptop computer beneath the man’s hands. Larson disconnected the laptop and its power supply and took them with him. There would be hell to pay for leaving a shooting-but to remain behind and suffer through a day of statements and inquiry was unthinkable.

  As he stole through the night toward the marina, Larson called Montgomery at the Useppa Inn and told him to call every law enforcement agency he could. And an air ambulance. Larson left behind the carnage, but not its aftershock. For along with Markowitz, Larson realized he’d lost his connection to the Romeros, and with it his best and perhaps only chance of finding Penny alive.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Having slept only two hours in the past twenty-four, Jimmy Oyer rose from his bunk at the back of the Peterbilt with the sour aftertaste of modafinil in his dry mouth and a raging temper bulging at his temples.

  “What the fuck?” he screamed at whoever was banging on the driver’s side window. He cleared his eyes, squinted, and searched for his glasses. When he spotted the silver badge, he mumbled, “Oh, fuck it,” and climbed down and over the front seats to unlock and open the door. Cops!

  A fist pounded on the window for a second time.

  “Hold your horses…” he mumbled, collecting himself. He tried to think what he’d done wrong, if anything. There was that whore in the trailer park outside of Omaha, but he’d left her with an extra fifty after playing a little rough, and she’d told him that put things right enough. He fought against his clouded head. What kind of badge had that been? He hadn’t gotten a good look at the thing.

  An interstate violation?

  But hell, he’d stopped at every weigh station as required, and they’d signed off on this load-washers, dryers, dishwashers, and stovetops-so what the hell could the problem be?

  He snorted and swallowed to clear his throat, found the lock, and opened the door.

  “What is it?”

  The guy reached up at him incredibly quickly-his hands like a point guard’s. Jimmy felt a line of heat on his exposed neck and clutched at it, as he found it hard to breathe. He sucked for air but it was his neck doing the breathing, not his nose or mouth. When he exhaled, he sprayed a mist of blood onto the window and door. He’d been cut! Coughing, he tried to call out, but it just sprayed more red rain.

  The cop was a little guy with dark skin, a burned face, pinched eyes, and a three-day-old beard. He shoved Jimmy back and into the cab with incredible strength.

  Jimmy carried a few extra pounds. His being lifted like this, up and over the seats and back onto the bunk, shocked him. He swung out with his right hand, but the intruder grabbed him by the wrist-with incredible strength-twisted and turned in one sharp motion, and Jimmy heard something snap as he felt more pain than he knew his arm could suffer. Then he was being bent and rolled over, and the little guy hog-tied him with the wire from the CB radio’s microphone.

  Lying on his stomach like a rocking horse, in his own cab’s sleeper bed, Jimmy gasped wetly for air as he watched a pool of blood spread onto the bed pillow. His blood, from his neck.

  As the guy left the cab, Jimmy’s lights were dimming. He rocked and groaned, but the pool beneath his head only widened with each passing second. Deep green and purple orbs formed at the edges of his eyesight, like holding a camera wrong and putting a finger in front of the lens. Jimmy regretted the whoring, regretted all the mistakes, wanted nothing more than to be home with his wife.

  The greenish purple crept in from the edges, now nearly all he saw. He felt the cab door open. He heard the little guy straining with something. For just a flicker of a second Jimmy thought he saw a pretty little girl in the shotgun seat, silver tape around her eyes, a knotted rag in her mouth. But maybe that was just dreaming about his own kids.

  Engulfed in sadness, drowning in his own blood, Jimmy Oyer succumbed to the sounds of Vince Gill on the four-hundred-watt stereo he’d paid for himself.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Larson swerved out of the way of some teenage trick-or-treaters as he drove the rental car around the bend in the road by the hotel’s golf course, running the wipers to clear the windshield of sea spray that had collected in only a matter of hours. The strobing blue and red emergency beacons caught his eye and filled the faces of dozens of onlookers, many in costume.

  He’d picked up decent cell reception halfway across the bay. Neither Hope nor Tommy had answered their phones, leaving him pushing Tomelson’s charter boat to warp speed. Stomach acid bubbled in his throat. He saw himself as a murderous failure. He’d arrived with only noble intentions of saving his daughter, protecting Hope, carving out a future for them. Seeing himself as part of that future.

  But this?

  He pulled the car over and went the rest of the way on foot. Clearing the front corner, arriving at the hotel’s covered porch, he was met with bedlam.

  He’d been gone a little shy of three hours. He returned to a different world, he realized.

  Already a busy Halloween night, the emergency lights had brought the locals out like moths. Fifty or more had gathered, held back by the staff of college kids in their green golf shirts.

  He found the dense Florida night air as suffocating as St. Louis in August. He tugged at his collar, only to realize it wasn’t the fabric constricting him. He strung his federal shield around his neck by the wallet’s string. It bounced against his chest. His throat tight, he cautioned himself not to give anything away. Practiced in the art of lying, the identity of a witness to protect, he crossed the porch, for the first time bringing attention to himself.

  “You!” an older guy wearing a wrinkled khaki uniform called out. His khaki shirt was buttoned incorrectly, the collar opened beneath the loosened knot of black necktie.

  He wore CHIEF on the pinned-on nameplate. He had the bone structure of a drill sergeant. The look came complete with a buzz cut of gray hair and the requisite crooked nose. But age had softened him considerably. Beers on the back patio hung from his jaw like saddlebags. He held contempt in his flinty eyes, barely containing a pissed-off attitude brought on by his night being ruined.

  There were too many younger kids in the crowd. Spider-Man. Catwoman. Power Rangers. Larson swallowed dryly, knowing you didn’t drag the chief of police out of his house, along with what had to be every emergency vehicle for a few miles, for anything less than a crimes-against-persons felony.

  Beyond the crowd, filling Gasparilla’s only access road, Larson saw bumper-to-bumper vehicles backed up more than fifty yards behind the stop sign at the crossroads. Among the trapped vehicles, a NEWS 7 step van stuck out, its ungainly antenna lying on its roof like a giant corkscrew.

  Sight of the news van told Larson he was at least an hour behind whatever had happened here.

  Squinting at Larson’s shield, the chief said, “Come with me.” It was not an invitation.

  “Vacationing?” the chief asked sarcastically, noting Larson’s Marshals Service shield.

  From behind the registration desk, a pale, nervous woman in a hotel uniform caught Larson’s eye. She looked sick, and Larson quickly felt this way as well.

  “What’s going on here?” Larson asked.

  “I thought I was the one asking questions.” The chie
f made a half-assed effort to stop and shake hands while walking. He squeezed too hard.

  “Floyd Waters,” the chief introduced himself. “You are…?”

  “Visiting friends,” Larson said. “I saw the cruisers.”

  The chief led the way.

  Black-and-white photos hung on the hotel walls and spoke of another era. White dresses and wooden golf clubs. Children in knee socks and bow ties.

  The chief turned left at the top of the stairs. “Where you out of?”

  “ Washington.” Larson found the lie easy, he’d made it often enough. He had no desire to identify himself as FATF just now.

  “Where do your friends live?”

  “On the bay side. I’d rather leave them out of it.”

  “I bet you would.”

  The chief rudely pushed past one of his officers. Larson braced for the sight of her sprawled out on the floor. He lowered his eyes, unable to look.

  “Medics stabilized the white guy and took him off island by ambulance. One in the leg. One in the lung.”

  The white guy. The description echoed in Larson’s head: Tomelson.

  The dead guy on the floor had pale Mediterranean skin. Clearly not purebred enough for Floyd Waters. He’d taken a bullet under the chin that would have killed him instantly. Tommy had either fired from the hip or from the floor.

  “He say anything?” Larson asked. “The one that lived?”

  “Unconscious when I seen him,” the chief answered.

  The chief pointed a dull toe of a black shoe at Tomelson’s nine-millimeter Beretta, partially beneath the bed. He said, “That’s a 92FS. Military officers and federal law enforcement.” He looked up at Larson and said dramatically, “I’m going to ask this once and only once. Did you know this white guy?”

  “Are you going to give me a name, or should I recognize his piece?”

  The big man leaned in close, apparently thinking he might intimidate Larson.

  The armoire doors hung open. Larson noticed the TV’s remote on the bed and then, to his surprise, a computer keyboard upside down on the carpet.

  Larson scanned the room. On the floor, not two feet from the chief’s pant leg, a hotel laundry bag hung partially open. He recognized Hope’s pants as the ones he’d bought for her at Target.

  Had she been abducted? Fled? He felt his breathing quicken.

  Larson needed to find a quick and believable way out of here. He thought the dead man on the floor to be the missing Markowitz guard. The man had hurried to the marina, barely an hour after Hope had checked in. Did the Romeros have someone on the staff of the hotel? Was there some other way they might have learned Hope had checked in?

  His eyes returned to the keyboard, wondering what that had to do with anything.

  “Room’s registered to a couple,” the chief said, studying a piece of paper he’d been handed by a patrolman. “Is this something a U.S. marshal might arrange?” He tried to engage Larson in a staring contest, but Larson wouldn’t give him that. “A marshal carrying a 92FS.”

  “I carry a Glock myself,” Larson said. He patted his side, indicating the hidden weapon. “So does everyone on my squad.”

  “And that squad is…?”

  “Based in Washington.”

  “The laundry bag contains a pair of women’s pants, size four.”

  For playing into the stereotype, Waters didn’t miss much.

  Larson said, “So where is she? If we’re looking at abduction-kidnapping-then I’m required to notify the Bureau… as are your guys.” It was the only card he could think to play, the threat of federal involvement. He hoped it might buy him an invitation to leave without further questioning.

  The chief studied Larson a moment with an unwavering eye. Judging by his breath, the man had been party to a few nightcaps earlier in the evening. “Who’d you say your friends were?”

  Larson hadn’t said. “The Kempers. They’ve got a pair of beautiful daughters,” Larson added. “Both married, but things change. I try to keep my toe in the door.”

  “As long as it’s just your toe,” the chief replied, thinking himself clever.

  “Why don’t you head back on over to your friends and wait for the morning paper? Might be better for everyone.”

  “Better for me,” Larson said.

  “You got a card or something?”

  Larson did have a card, but it listed St. Louis as his office address. “I’ll write it down for you.”

  He stepped around a patrol officer who was serving as crime technician and found a magazine. A corner of the back page had been torn off. Larson studied this a moment, finding it of interest. The inn was too classy a place for torn magazines to be lying around.

  He scribbled out the main Washington number-Rotem’s number-on a subscription solicitation and handed it to Waters.

  “You’ve got business cards right behind your shield,” the chief said, pointing to Larson’s chest.

  Larson had forgotten he’d hung his shield out, and of course there were also cards in his ID wallet. He quickly said, “And I’d be happy to give you one if you’re willing to spend the next three days in Tallahassee going through debriefing.”

  “I know who you are,” the chief said.

  Larson doubted he had a clue, though many cops associated the Marshals Service with witness protection, so it wasn’t impossible. “That makes us even. You’re going to get a phone call some time later tonight, tomorrow morning, and you’re going to want to talk with me. Call this number first, before you make a mistake.”

  “I don’t take orders from you guys,” Waters said.

  “Then take some advice.” Larson said no more. He walked past the man and left the room, wishing he could have taken Hope’s pants with him. Wondering if they offered him any clues to what had become of her.

  Larson hurried out the back of the hotel, stopped in the middle of the practice putting green, and turned to inspect the roof outside Hope’s windows, wondering if he might see her cowering up there, hidden in a shadow. He did not. Plagued by concern, he walked around the street side, leaving the relative quiet of the back to return to the more noisy congregation at the front. Dismayed by the circus atmosphere and not seeing her anywhere, he returned to the rental car.

  Only then did it occur to him to check his BlackBerry-silent for the past hour except for his failed outgoing calls-only to realize he’d never turned the ringer back on.

  The icons showed he had seven e-mails and two voice messages waiting.

  Behind the wheel now, he called his voice mail. Hearing Tomelson’s voice was like stopping time.

  Larson, it’s Tommy. Listen, there’s someone nosing around here at the hotel, and I don’t like it. I’m going to relocate the package in a little Halloween costume of her own. Call me.

  He deleted the message. An automated woman’s voice said, “Second message…”

  Lars… It’s me.

  She sounded out of breath, frightened.

  Something’s happened. To your friend, I mean. It was horrible. Whatever you do, don’t go to the hotel. I’m in a bar. It’s a restaurant called Temptation. Green and white, across from a bike rental place. I’ll stay here…

  Her voice paused. He could feel her checking her watch or a clock.

  … an hour at most. After that, I’m not sure. Call me, or come by.

  She paused.

  Hurry.

  “To delete this message, press seven. To save it, press nine. To reply…”

  Larson disconnected the call, checked the BlackBerry’s message area and saw the two missed calls, the second of which had been made fifty minutes earlier when he’d still been on Tomelson’s charter boat. He kicked himself for having left the ringer off.

  He called her back as he drove around the tiny village looking for the bike rental place or a green and white awning. This time she answered. They were barely into their conversation by the time he caught up to her outside the restaurant.

  She climbed inside. Able to
let down the front for the first time in hours, she nearly collapsed. “It’s all my fault. I blew it. Miller warned me they could trace me. But I wanted to-”

  “Miller?”

  “Find somewhere to pull over. We’ve got to talk.”

  Larson drove straight to the public beach. Hope told him about her brief connection with Markowitz through Miller, and Miller’s detection of the electronic ping that quickly identified her. She detailed Tomelson’s actions in the hotel room. Larson explained the shooting on Useppa, and the setback it dealt them. He indicated the laptop computer at her feet, and Hope got to work as they talked.

  “His family should have told us about the grandson,” Larson said. “That explains so much.”

  “Markowitz, dead?” She mulled this over, Penny’s life in the wind. “He would have kept a disk, a backup of some sort.”

  “I looked around. Didn’t see anything. Patted him down, thinking it might be a USB disk I’m looking for. Nothing. So I took the laptop.”

  “The list will be on the hard drive.” She had the computer running now. “Though in and of itself, that doesn’t help us much.”

  “It may help others.” Larson wondered about a system that placed the innocent in hiding from killers who remained in open society, the twisted logic in that, and his own willing participation in its perpetuation. Now his flesh and blood was a part of it, and this seemed to him penance for his failure to question the moral authority of such a practice. He’d so readily focused on Hope, and then Penny, that only now did the full importance of stopping the sale of Laena hit him. There were not simply tens or even hundreds of Pennys out there, but thousands. Many had hopefully heeded the alarm as Hope had and were now well away from their homes, harder to find. Hundreds? Thousands? But even these still carried an assumed name, and those names were on that list, on credit cards, checks, bank accounts, vehicle registrations, school enrollments. How many would have the wherewithal to drop all that like a stone? How many of the thousands had never seen or heard the alarm? How many were still at risk?