All Through the Night

by Davis Bunn

  No question. Eric’s number had come up on the screen. And his response was locked in the trunk of his limo.

  Eric turned to the shooter still covering Wayne and said, “Go get Tommy.”

  The guy Wayne had laid out still wore grass stains on his face. “He’s just coming to.”

  “I didn’t ask how he was. I said get him.” He turned to Neally. “Up.”

  The board member had observed the entire scene with a look of helpless tragedy. Wayne said, “They nabbed your family?”

  “Borrowed,” Eric corrected. “I’m an attorney. I prize proper syntax. We borrowed them. Temporarily.”

  Wayne asked the silent, defeated man, “You believe that?”

  Eric said, “I could gag you if you want.”

  Wayne asked, “What is it you’re after?”

  “That is no longer your concern. Not that it ever was.” Eric picked up Wayne’s phone from the glass-topped table and dialed a number. “You have two choices. You can tell the man what has happened, or I will have the gentleman you dunked shoot you in the knee. I will hold the phone while you scream. Then I will say the words. It hardly matters.”

  Wayne knew before the phone was pressed to his ear that Easton Grey would be on the other end. He said, “They have us.”

  “Wayne?” The man sounded weak with confusion. “Triton has just made a ridiculously low offer to buy my company.”

  He felt the pistol barrel drill into the point where his jaw met his ear. “Me, Jerry, Julio, Tatyana. They have—”

  Eric took the phone away. “Do what is required, Easton. And all this will go away.”

  He tossed Wayne’s phone into the pool and said to the driver, “Put all three of them in the trunk.”

  “It’ll be a tight fit.”

  “Good. Fit this one in close to my ex. They were so chummy at the club. I wouldn’t dream of keeping them apart for an instant longer than necessary.” He did not smile at Wayne so much as reveal what lay beneath the surface. “If this one gives you any trouble, break something.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Wayne knew he was going to have one chance. Not even that. A fragment of a chance. Maybe less. Maybe the only way he could do it was take a hit. One thing for certain, though. Wayne was not going inside that trunk.

  What did they call those people, the ones that got stuck with arrows or boiled in oil, and got their agony frozen in colored glass for their troubles? Martyrs. Right. That was him. Wayne Grusza. A martyr for broken promises and impulse control.

  Just like now.

  “Move.”

  Wayne wanted Eric talking. A talking guy meant part of the brain was occupied with something other than watching. “Why, Eric?”

  The shooter behind him said, “No questions.”

  “Why did you—”

  Wayne stopped because the guy he’d dropped in the pool whacked the back of his skull with the pistol. “Shut up.”

  But Eric took the bait. “Why does anyone do anything? Profit and personal gain.”

  “Triton?”

  The space between the house and the property’s side wall was constricted by the limo and the shrub border. Tall blooming oleander in shades of ivory and coral framed the drive and hid the cement wall. The ground underneath Wayne’s feet smelled of the cedar chips bordering the trees. Wayne’s every sense was on full alert.

  Jerry was directly in front of him. The cop shuffled with shoulders slumped and wrists bound behind his back. Julio was in front of Jerry. One shooter stood by the open trunk. Another, the guy from inside the house, was out back somewhere readying the boat they used to get here. The limo driver stood on the car’s other side, watching it all with a sardonic smirk. The other shooter followed directly behind Wayne, his wet pants flapping with each step. Wayne slowed slightly, as though uncertain where to go. The shooter stepped in close enough to prod the pistol into his spine. “Step it up.”

  Eric said, “I had always considered the islands too restrictive a place to live. But that was before Triton introduced me to the pleasure of flying by Lear.”

  “Talk about flying.” Wayne saw Julio glance into the limo’s trunk and blanch. “Sorry about what happened to your Ferrari.”

  The pistol jammed Wayne’s skull this time.

  “No. Wait.” Wayne heard the approaching footsteps. “What’s the matter with my—”

  Wayne used the limo’s fender as a launching pad. He climbed straight up, the last thing in the world they expected. He knew that because of how they all stared as he tightroped two steps alongside the open trunk lid, pausing only to spin and toe-kick the wet shooter in the temple, sending him flying into Eric. The limo driver had his gun raised but was clearly worried about hitting his boss. The guy behind the limo was blocked by the open trunk. Or so Wayne hoped.

  He pounded across the limo’s roof and sprang impossibly high. He crested the oleanders and the wall, but barely. He did not so much step across the wall as try and keep himself erect for the landing.

  The wall’s opposite side was laced with gravel bordered with rail ties. His hands were bound behind him, so he just rolled and rolled until his face met grass. A rock or rail tie or something had jabbed him hard. The way it hurt when he pushed himself to his knees, using his chin for balance, Wayne feared he might have cracked a rib. He stumbled away from the muffled shouts coming from the wall’s other side. He jackrabbited over the low hedges lining the front walk and raced around this home of stone and mock coral.

  Wayne was spurred on by his one glimpse into the limo’s trunk. When his climbing had rocked the lid, the opening between the lid and the car had sliced across a vision of dark hair, taped mouth, and terrified grey eyes.

  The boundary walls were faced in stone like the house. Shouts and curses bounced at Wayne from every side. He could not tell where they were, but he knew they were coming.

  For once, he hoped for motion sensors in the lawn. But he couldn’t count on them. Tatyana’s survival depended upon his getting the one chance not just right, but solid. So when he rounded the neighboring home’s rear corner, instead of peeling for the water like he should, Wayne raced midway back across the lawn.

  Then he turned around and took aim for the home’s rear glass doors.

  Fast as he could.

  Head down and legs pumping almost to his chest.

  Not even thinking how much it was going to hurt when he hit.

  Wayne’s catapulting leap took out not just the glass but one entire door panel. He slid on the interior tiles and heard the broken shards beneath his body. He knew he was going to pay for that one. But right then he didn’t feel any pain, not even from his rib. Because out front was the sweetest melody, a constant whoop-whoop of the house alarm.

  “Come and get me!” He actually yelled it out loud.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The evening shadows were long enough to drape across the entire street. Wayne limped from palm to shrub to telephone pole. Lantern Island was one of the oldest developments on Florida’s Gulf Coast, which was why the lots were so deep. Nowadays waterfront lots were cut so skimpy and the houses built so big, a sneeze was enough to break the boundaries.

  Those were his thoughts while hustling along in pain and solitude. A meandering assortment of nonsense that kept him from focusing on the other thoughts. As in, the state of his body.

  He could have waited for security. Should have, most likely. But he then risked meeting some ambitious kid who saw Wayne as his chance to break into real copdom. Do the interrogation himself, lock Wayne in a back room until he figured how to best work the whole deal. Wayne had no idea how real the risk was. He only knew he couldn’t afford the threat of more lost time.

  He walked.

  The island was so quiet Wayne had no trouble hearing a car long before it appeared. He crouched behind whatever cover was closest while one security car after another cruised by. They might always be so diligent, but Wayne didn’t think so.

  The limo with its overstuffed trunk
had taken off soon after the house alarm had sounded. One of the shooters had come over for a quick scout, but Wayne had remained safely hidden in a pantry off the living room, far from the broken back window. He had heard an outboard motor roar into life and then someone shout a name. Tommy. Twice. The shooter had cursed and fired two rounds into the kitchen wall before taking off. Wayne had stayed where he was long enough to be sure they were truly gone. He had used the time to work on his plastic band with a paring knife he had picked up off the kitchen counter. But he had been unable to saw through the band. The plastic seemed as strong as steel. Or perhaps it was his urgent need to scoot before the security arrived.

  He had slipped the knife into his rear pocket and headed out, making it to the shrubs on the opposite side of the street just as the first patrol car had flashed into view.

  His hands were still bound but they didn’t bother him anymore, which Wayne took as a bad sign. His rib hurt and blood from a slice across his forehead wouldn’t stop dripping into his vision. He felt something dig into his right thigh with each step. Wayne assumed it was glass. He kept to the grass so he wouldn’t leave a telltale trail on the asphalt for any vigilant patrol.

  He half walked, half trotted past the scam accountant’s house. Police tape fluttered in the breeze, blocking the drive and the front portico. Wayne kept looking over, wondering why he felt as though he was missing something. But Dorsett’s house was empty and so silent he could hear the plastic tape flap in the wind.

  Up ahead at the next house, the lights glowed rich against the backdrop of blue and gold water and green and golden lawn. The setting was a tropical version of paradise, far too fine for this troubled earth. Too nice as well for the man scurrying along the drive, doing his best to keep to the long shadows.

  At the edge of the porch, Wayne froze.

  Up to that point, all the way across the island, the clearest sound Wayne had heard was the ticking clock. Now even this was almost drowned out by something completely different.

  Inside the house, a child laughed.

  Wayne stood at the porch stairs and willed himself forward. But he could not take that first step.

  He could not risk frightening the child. The little boy lucky enough to live in this place. Nurtured and kept safe and loved by his parents.

  Wayne stayed like that, frozen between his need and his inability to reveal the world’s underbelly to the child inside that house.

  He had nowhere else to go. But he could not take the risk.

  He turned away.

  He was midway down the drive when headlights appeared at the road’s far turn. Wayne trotted around the back of the garage and waited.

  A car purred down the drive. The garage doors ground up. Wayne hustled back around and stepped inside just as the engine died. He waited.

  The passenger window powered down. A man yelled, “I’m calling the police!”

  Wayne’s relief was so great he had to choke out the words. “Ask for Detective Mehan in Homicide! Tell him it’s an emergency!”

  From beyond the garage’s perimeter, a small voice called, “Daddy!”

  Wayne flinched so hard he stumbled over a child’s toy and went down hard. He rolled under the other car. “Don’t let him see me!”

  “Stay out, Roger!”

  “Daddy’s home!”

  “Daddy’s still working. See the phone? Go back in the house. Tell Mommy I said not to come out.”

  “But—”

  “Do what I say, Roger!”

  “Okay.”

  Wayne remained on the cold smooth concrete. His rib throbbed from the latest fall. He watched the approach of polished loafers attached to legs in fashionable trouser legs. “Is he gone?”

  “You’re tied up.”

  “Your son. Is he gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “You want me to?”

  “Yes. Hurry. Detective Mehan. Homicide. Tell him it’s—”

  “An emergency.” The man spoke into his phone. “They want to know who’s calling.”

  “Wayne Grusza.”

  There was a longer pause. “Wayne?”

  “Tell him.”

  “All right. He’s coming.”

  “There’s a knife in my back pocket. My hands, I can’t feel them anymore.”

  “Are you dangerous?”

  Wayne found it good to chuckle. Even when it hurt. “Not to you.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Robert was his name. Roberto, actually. Roberto Pavet. Mother Nicaraguan, father Cajun French. He was a smallish man, neat and concise with his movements as he led Wayne around the house and into the bathroom connected to the pool. “Can you undress yourself?”

  Coming from a doctor, it felt less like an insult. “There’s something in my leg.”

  He bent over. “Hold very still.”

  The pain was almost cleansing. “I’m sorry about this. I had nowhere—”

  “Clean yourself off and I’ll have a look at your wounds. How are your hands?”

  “They hurt a lot.”

  “That’s a good sign.” He shut the door.

  Wayne let the shower run as hot as he could stand. The water at his feet pooled pinkish. Robert returned with a ratty towel, his doctor’s bag, and clothes. He dumped Wayne’s tattered garments into a plastic waste can.

  Wayne cut off the water. “I’m going to bleed on your towel.”

  “This one doesn’t matter. Slip into the shorts. No, leave the shirt off for now.”

  Wayne did as he was instructed. Robert then turned and said, “You can come in now.” To Wayne, “No, stay in the shower. All right, your head first.”

  Wayne gripped the shower stall and leaned forward. Patricia slipped in the door and leaned against it. She said nothing. Just watched him.

  The doctor’s hands were deft, his motions swift. “What happened?”

  “We are investigating a scam involving people who live on the island. It turned bad.”

  Patricia asked, “Our neighbor?”

  “He was one of them.”

  “I’m going to need to stitch this. Do you want something—”

  “I can’t. They’ve kidnapped my friends.”

  Patricia asked, “That lady?”

  “Yes. And three others.”

  Patricia crossed her arms. Wayne winced, not at the needle in his skin, but the memory. It was so familiar, that gesture. He had watched it so often. The trigger was cocked and she was about to fire. Like so many times before.

  Patricia said, “I have something I want to tell you.”

  Robert glanced around, then went back to his stitching. He was a handsome man with a polished Latino edge. Standing so close only accented the difference between himself and Wayne.

  Patricia took a breath. A big one. “I need to tell you how sorry I am.”

  Wayne rocked back. Robert warned him with his eyes. Stay still.

  “I had no business talking to you the way I did there on the bridge. But seeing you there …”

  Wayne waited until Robert had snipped the dangling thread to say, “It must have been a major shock.”

  She held up her hand. Not in the angry manner of before, pushing hard against the distance between them. Just asking for patience. “I’ve told myself a hundred thousand times, I needed to find you. Speak to you about, well, everything.”

  The words seemed to take shape of their own accord. “It’s not just you. I should have called, told you I was coming. But I couldn’t either.”

  This time she nodded agreement. “Then there you were, with a police car and those tense men and that woman. I wasn’t ready. I should have been. I’ve prayed about this for years. But all I could think was, you’re back and you’re going to destroy what I’ve built for myself and my family.”

  “I don’t want that, Patricia.”

  “I just wish …” She fought against the tremble that struck her chin. When she could not hold back the tears, she fu
mbled for the door and slipped out.

  Robert sighed. A quiet professional sound. “Okay. Turn around.”

  Wayne emerged from the bathroom to hear, “Daddy, why is the man wearing your clothes?”

  The boy had his mother’s blond hair and a pure Florida tan. He was an impossibly beautiful child. And immensely happy.

  Wayne made a process of looking over the room, keeping his gestures slow and steady. “You have a beautiful home.”

  “Come sit down. You must be hungry. Roger, this is Mr. Grusza. Say hello.”

  “The man wearing Daddy’s clothes?”

  “He got his clothes dirty.”

  “He fell down?”

  “Twice,” Wayne replied. He slipped into the stool at the kitchen counter next to the young child. “At least.”

  “I fall down too.”

  “Finish your supper, son.”

  There was a cross between the pair of sliding doors that formed the kitchen’s rear wall. The child was watching cartoons on a television tucked into an alcove at the end of the counter. The sunset splashed upon the entire setting, the water’s motion sparkling the walls and the faces with a beauty so strong it almost masked the adults’ strain. Wayne saw how the two of them would not meet his eye, and felt bulky and threatening. “Could I use your phone?”

  Robert set the handset on the counter in front of Wayne without meeting his eye. Wayne dialed information and asked for Easton Grey’s residence on John’s Island.

  “I’m sorry, sir. That number is restricted.”

  He pressed the phone to his chest. Only one other name came to mind. He asked for the number, then when he realized he did not have anything to write with, he asked the operator to put him through.

  In his weakened state, it seemed as though age had distilled the woman’s sweetness to a point where she could soothe his spirit merely by saying hello.

  “It’s Wayne, Victoria. I need to contact Easton Grey and I was hoping—”

  “He’s here.”

  “…What?”

  “He came with his family. He got word of some mess—I didn’t ask and he didn’t say. But I was there at the house and I could see he was worried. So I invited him home. He’s been trying to call you and the others but no one has answered. Where are you?”