In the distance I could hear the wail of sirens. Nailor must’ve sent a car, I thought. The sounds grew louder and stopped. Footsteps clattered up the fire-escape stairs and in through the back door of the club. I struggled to open my eyes, blinking at the sudden surge of light.
“Sierra.” It was John Nailor’s voice, soft by my ear, his arms scooping me up by the shoulders and supporting my head.
“Tell the EMTs to get in here,” he barked to someone. I blinked, opening my eyes and trying to focus.
“I’m all right,” I protested, but it was a waste of breath. “Someone hit me, out by my car.”
“Yeah, it’s a mess. It looks like they were searching for something,” he said. “Don’t talk anymore. We’re going to get you to the hospital.”
“No,” I said, mustering all the strength I could find. “No more ambulance rides. I’m fine, really.”
The EMTs arrived and started their prodding and poking. I lay there feeling too weak and nauseous to fight.
“Someone broke into my locker, too,” I said.
“Todd,” Nailor said, turning and addressing a young uniformed officer, “tell the lab guys to check the dressing room.” The patrolman nodded and vanished. One of the EMTs, a dark-haired, tanned man, turned to Nailor.
“I think it’s probably a concussion, but she oughta have an X ray, get checked by a doc.”
“I’m not going in an ambulance,” I said to them. “I’ll drive myself later.” Who was I trying to kid?
John Nailor spoke up. “I’ll see she gets there,” he said. He patted my shoulder, more a warning to keep my mouth shut than sympathy. Carla Terrance, who picked that moment to come inside, thought differently.
“How sweet,” she said, her voice dripping acid. “John, if you can pry yourself away, I need you outside.”
Nailor didn’t like the intrusion, but he followed Carla silently. They were gone for almost five minutes, leaving me to try and figure out what was going on. Whoever’d ransacked my locker either stayed behind, hiding after closing time, or knew the security code, or knew how to disable the alarm system. Did they hit me and then riffle through my locker? I’d heard two voices; maybe one had done the car and one the locker. My head ached with the exertion and I was almost grateful when John Nailor returned.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s get you to a doctor.”
At this point I thought I was feeling strong enough to take it under my own power. I stood up and promptly started to sag. Nailor jumped forward and caught my arm as I went down, and he was laughing.
“You don’t learn, do you?” he asked. “Let’s do it my way. You lean on my arm and I’ll walk you to my car. I’m gonna drive you to the hospital, check you into the ER, and then I’m going to come back here.”
As he spoke, he started leading me slowly toward the door. His shirt felt smooth and his muscles taut beneath the fabric. I wanted not to like leaning on him, but I was having trouble doing that.
“How will I get back to my car?” We were outside now and I could see that the Camaro was covered with crime scene technicians.
“I’ll come get you,” he said. “Listen, do you think you could take a look at the interior of your vehicle and see if you notice anything missing? It’d speed things up for us.”
“No problem,” I said weakly. We walked slowly across the parking lot, coming to a stop beside the hood of the car. Carla Terrance stood, her back to us, slowly examining my few belongings.
“This is the inventory of the interior,” she said, her voice tight with controlled anger. “Anything of yours missing?”
I stared at the assortment of cosmetics, papers, pens, and lifestyle detritus. Nothing appeared to be missing. My wallet still had ten dollars and my lone credit card in it. No, nothing was missing, but as I looked I saw that something had been added. In the middle of the assorted junk lay a gold dangle earring with an amethyst teardrop, Denise’s amethyst earring.
I didn’t let my eyes linger. Instead I reached for my wallet.
“I’ll need this,” I said. “It’s got my insurance card and my checkbook.” Carla frowned but made no move to stop me. “Can I take the rest of my things?” I asked.
“Go ahead.” Carla sighed. “You’re sure nothing’s missing?” I picked up a few pens, a notepad, and finally the earring.
“No, not a thing,” I assured her. How had Denise’s earring gotten into my new car? Had it been in my dance bag or my purse? Surely I would have noticed it. The earring was huge. I was starting to feel dizzy and leaned against the edge of the fender to hold myself steady.
“Let’s get you to the hospital,” John said. “I’ll be back in a half an hour,” he told Terrance. She appeared not to hear him, turning instead to Detective Donlevy, who’d made his appearance along with the rest of Panama City’s police force.
“Here we are.” Nailor opened the car door and lowered me into the passenger seat. My head was spinning again and I wasn’t sure I’d make it to Bay County Medical before I threw up.
He started the engine and pulled out onto Thomas Drive. The police radio was spitting out a staccato stream of numbers and street addresses, the law-enforcement chatter designed to keep the rest of the world at arm’s length. The car radio played a jangled country melody, and I knew for certain I would not make Bay County.
We rounded the corner onto Joan Avenue, leaving the junky part of Thomas Drive behind and spinning past a little residential section.
“Would you mind pulling over a second?” I asked.
Maybe he saw the color had drained from my face. Whatever it was caused him to ask no questions. He lurched to a stop in front of a tractor tire painted topaz blue that held blood-red geraniums, someone’s idea of a flower bed.
I jumped out and tried to make it to the end of the car before I hurled. I hate throwing up in front of an audience. I was leaning on the car for support when I felt his arms wrapping around my shoulder and holding my waist.
“It’s all right,” he said, as if comforting a child. “This happens when you have a concussion.” I was in no condition to comment.
When I’d finished he reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a crisp white handkerchief, and handed it to me. He led me back to the car, gently deposited me in my seat, and returned to the driver’s side. I didn’t even want to look at him. This was one of the low moments of my life.
Nailor slowly pulled the car back onto the road and headed at a slower pace toward Bay County Medical Center. He reached over and flicked off the car radio, then turned the police radio’s volume down to just a whisper. I tried closing my eyes, but it made me dizzy, so I focused on the early-morning ride from Panama City Beach over Hathaway Bridge to Panama City. When the bridge crossing made my head start spinning, I watched Nailor drive. I liked watching the way the muscles on his tanned forearms moved against the white of his rolled-up shirtsleeves.
He pulled into Bay County’s emergency-room parking area like someone who’d routinely visited, and I guessed in his line of work that was par for the course. When he led me inside, he seemed to know several of the nurses and admitting clerks. This was standard procedure for him, I thought.
When I was safely settled in an examining room, he stuck his head in the door.
“I’m going. I’ll be back to pick you up and take you home. An officer will transport your vehicle to your trailer.” Detective Nailor was back on duty, there was no doubt about it. I lay back on the gurney and closed my eyes.
* * *
I had a concussion. At least my assailant hadn’t fractured my skull. I should try and stay still for a few days. I listened to the nurse drone on as she signed my discharge papers and handed me back over to Nailor. The whole process had taken two hours, and it was well into the morning when we emerged from Bay County and headed back to the Lively Oaks Trailer Park.
Fluffy’d be pissed for sure, I thought. Her food dish would be empty and she was not one to miss a meal. By the time Nailor turned into the entranc
e of the park, I was remembering the feel of my sheets against my skin and thinking how good eight hours of sleep would be for my headache.
“I really appreciate this,” I said as we rolled onto my parking pad. “I’m sorry about hurling on the way to the hospital.”
John Nailor smiled. “Sierra, really, don’t think anything more about it.”
He came around to my side of the car and helped me out.
“I can make it from here,” I said. “Thanks.”
“I’ll get you inside,” he insisted, taking the key from my hand. “Maybe you should call a friend to come stay with you.” Yeah, right, I thought: One friend’s missing, presumed dead or wanted for murder, one friend’s not speaking to me, and my other friend’s just as likely to hallucinate and think I’m an alien invader.
“I’ll do that,” I said. He needed to get back to work and I needed to sleep, then figure out why I had one hundred thousand dollars and an amethyst earring belonging to my missing buddy.
He swung open the door, then turned back around to me so quickly I almost tripped and fell backward.
“Go back to the car,” he barked, not really seeing me.
“What?”
“You can’t go in there right now, so I want you to wait in my car for a minute.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “It’s my trailer and I’m going inside.” I tried to push past him, but he held my arm. He wanted to move and get to the radio in his car, but he wasn’t going to risk leaving and having me decide to go inside.
“What is it? Let me see.”
I pushed his arm hard enough that it moved and I could crane and look inside. Whoever’d done my car and my locker had moved across town and torn my trailer apart.
“Fluffy?” I yelled. John Nailor still hung on to my arm. “Fluffy, where are you?” I pushed at Nailor, desperate in my need to reach my baby.
“Sierra,” Nailor said, “it may not be safe for you to go in there.” As he spoke he dropped my arm, reaching inside his suit coat for his gun. “I’ll look for her. You sit here.” He went inside the trailer without waiting for my answer.
What? Did he really believe I’d sit there and let him play Tarzan to my Jane? Oh, I think not. I stepped over the sill and saw what some creep or creeps unknown had done to ruin my home. The kitchen drawers were pulled out, the contents strewn haphazardly around the room. Cabinets were torn apart. Even the refrigerator and freezer were emptied.
I looked into the living room and realized it had received the same treatment. The cushion ripped off my futon, the plants upended out of their pots. From the other end of the trailer, I could hear Nailor moving slowly, opening doors, searching for Fluffy and any sign that the intruder could still be in the house.
“Fluffy, baby,” I called.
Nailor yelled out from my bedroom. “Goddamn it, Sierra, I told you to stay out. You’re contaminating the scene.”
“No, I’m not, I’m looking for my dog. I don’t care about your scene. I care about Fluffy.”
He came walking down the hallway toward me, sticking the gun back into his holster. “Well, it probably doesn’t matter. Whoever did your car and your locker didn’t leave prints. I’m sure the same guys did this. But we need to check anyway.” He walked past me, into the kitchen, and picked up two overturned barstools off the floor, placing them back at my table. He motioned me into a seat and I didn’t resist; I didn’t have the energy to fight everything.
“Sierra, who did this and what are they looking for?”
I wanted to tell him, but I had to think. I wanted to say Frankie, but what if I was wrong? Even if I was right, I had a feeling I knew what the money was for: It had to be for Arlo’s ransom. Maybe Frankie was trying to help Denise. But why hadn’t he come to ask for the money back? He didn’t need to tear up my trailer and my new car. What good could Frankie do Denise if Nailor had him in jail? And what if someone had Fluffy? I needed the leverage of the money.
“I don’t know who did this,” I answered after a few moments. “I tried to think and I don’t know.” I looked him right in the eye and lied.
It was just as bad lying to him, after all he’d done for me today, as when I used to try and pull the wool over Sister Mary Margaret in second grade. Sister always knew when I was lying, and from the disappointment in John Nailor’s eyes, I figured he could read me, too. Whatever closeness we had started to build would disintegrate now. He knew I didn’t trust him and he was probably tired of trying to get me to.
“They could have killed you, Sierra,” he said softly. “This was a warning. If they didn’t find what they were looking for, then you can count on them coming back. I can put a cop in your driveway, but I can’t guarantee your safety. You should tell me what’s going on and let me help you.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t even trust myself to look at him. I was going to have to find Frankie and straighten the mess out by myself.
“I guess your mind’s made up, then,” he said. “I’ll call and get the lab guys out here.” He was resigned, on autopilot. “I’ll get someone over here to watch your place as soon as possible.”
I didn’t know what else to do. My head was spinning with fatigue and pain and I couldn’t think. I wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand and say something that would make him understand how I felt, but I couldn’t. He stood up and walked out the kitchen door, looking like the same tired man I’d seen the first time we met.
There was nothing that I could do immediately except wait for the forensics team and look for Fluffy. I searched through the trailer, calling and whistling, but she wasn’t there. I wandered out into the trailer park, dark glasses shielding my eyes from the sunlight that threatened to make my head explode. I found her sitting on Pat’s back stoop, shivering in the tropical heat.
“Who was it, Fluff?” I asked. “Who’s doing this to us?” Fluffy shivered, moaning with fear. I held her close, carrying her like a baby all the way back to the trailer. At first Fluffy didn’t want to go inside, struggling against my grip as we mounted the stairs.
“It’s all right, girl,” I murmured. “They’re gone.” I held her tight, carrying her through the devastated trailer, surveying the damage. When we got to the bathroom I leaned down to check the Jacuzzi motor housing. It was untouched.
“Well, I got the money and I got you,” I whispered. “The rest I can deal with.”
Fluffy whimpered like she’d lost faith and I couldn’t blame her. I wasn’t in any shape to be holding a revival meeting in the Church of Lost Causes.
Twenty-six
I had a plan. I’d been awake now for an hour, listening to Fluffy snore and trying to fight off the king-sized headache that threatened to gnaw its way from the right to the left side of my head. As soon as I could swill enough coffee to get motivated, I was going to find Frankie. That was the sum total of my plan; whatever came after that would be pure guesswork and luck.
The entire trailer was a wreck and would have to stay that way for now. I cleared enough counter space to resurrect my coffeemaker, found the remains of a bag of ground coffee and one unbroken mug. I found the paper lying outside on the stoop, the only part of my afternoon ritual left intact.
“Come on, Fluff,” I said, opening a can of dog food, “you can sit up here with me.” I emptied the can into her dish and placed it at the table, then picked Fluffy up and perched her on a bar-stool. “Special occasion, Fluff,” I said. “You eat with Mama.”
Fluffy felt this was only fitting. She preened and reached her two front paws up until she maintained a balance between the stool and the table. I poured myself a cup of coffee and opened the paper. We were silent for a few moments. Every now and then Fluffy would peer over at the paper, as if inquir-ing about the daily news, and then turn her attention back to her dish.
“Holy shit, Fluff,” I said. “Listen to this.” In the local section of the paper, down at the bottom of the third page, was a small article. “Local Man Seriously Injured in Motorc
ycle Accident,” it read. I pulled the paper closer, reading half to Fluffy, half to myself. “It says a local man, Frankie Paramus, thirty-four, was seriously injured when his Harley FBX-80’s front tire blew out.” Fluffy stopped eating and looked at me, listening.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” I said, “but I don’t know too many guys named Frankie who ride Harley FBX-80s in Panama City.” Fluffy nodded in agreement. “Says he lost control and slid into the intersection of Fifteenth and Lsenby. That’s right down from Southern Tattoo,” I added. “He’s in Bay County in serious condition.”
Fluffy didn’t appear to be listening. Her head turned toward the door and she started to growl.
“Fluff, forget about that dog down the street,” I said. “This is much more important. How’re we going to talk to Frankie if he’s in intensive care or something?” I looked back at the paper. “It says he’s been in there since yesterday afternoon.” So he couldn’t have trashed my trailer, or hit me outside of the Tiffany.
Fluffy erupted into frenzied barking and jumped down off the barstool, our cozy breakfast forgotten. Someone was knocking at the door and Fluffy wasn’t at all happy about the intrusion. I leaped up and followed her to the front door, standing cautiously by the side and trying to peer through the bay window out into the driveway. My heart had started erratically racing and my stomach involuntarily began to knot up. I kept remembering Nailor’s last caution: “If they didn’t find what they’re looking for, they’ll be back.”
It was only Lyle. He stood on my steps, his hat slung low over his face, his expression unreadable. Damn. Just what I needed, some moon-eyed cowboy wanting to give me his life history. And then, where had the son of a bitch been last night when he’d promised to meet me in the parking lot?
The Miracle Strip Page 16
