by Tim Tigner
“If I were behind this,” Troy agreed, “that’s exactly how I would have planned it.”
As he pulled her to her feet, Troy noted that she could not weigh much more than a hundred pounds, if that. There was no way she had lifted Evan into the trunk. Even drained of blood he was at least a deuce.
Troy started toward the garage door but she stopped him with “Wait.”
He turned.
“Shouldn’t we, you know, try to clean up? Get rid of fingerprints?”
“In an ideal world I’d like to take a shower too.” He gestured the length of his blood-soaked body. “But we’re a long way from ideal.”
“We can’t walk down the street looking like this,” she replied, mimicking his gesture. “You look like you just sprang from the Devil’s womb and I don’t look much better.”
“It’s after midnight,” Troy said, pointing to his Ironman watch.
“So much the better. Let’s take the car and solve two problems at once. We can drive to a car wash—pop the trunk and ride through on the hood. It will be a hoot.”
Smart lady, he thought. Smart, cool, and quick to rebound. “You’re right.”
She looked surprised to have won without more of a fight.
He backtracked to the car and slammed the trunk. He pulled Evan’s keys from his pocket and slid into the driver’s seat. “Well, let’s go then.”
The woman walked around the car and hopped in beside him.
Troy turned the ignition, but nothing happened. He tried the dome light and then the headlights. Nothing. “The battery is either dead or disconnected.”
“You really a doctor?” she asked. “Not a mechanic?”
Troy guessed it was the first time in history that a woman had asked that question and hoped to hear mechanic. He gave her a wry smile and popped the hood. “I’m a combat surgeon. That’s more like a plumber, but I’ll see what I can do.”
While looking beneath the hood with a beautiful woman waiting in the car, most guys pray that they will find a big red wire hanging loose from its connector. Troy found exactly that. “The positive terminal has been disconnected from the battery,” he said, pushing it back over the battery lead.
The door chime engaged, applauding his efforts.
As he lowered the hood slowly back into place, his gaze fell on the front passenger tire. It was completely flat. A picture of the spare—lying in a blood-filled tire well beneath Evan’s blubbery corpse—flashed before his eyes.
“What?” she asked, reading his grimace.
He walked around and opened her door. “Get out. We have to walk. We have a flat.”
She did not move. Instead she said, “I can change a tire in five minutes. Surely you can manage it in three?”
He stared at her a moment, trying to pierce her resolve with his eyes.
She did not flinch.
“I’m not sure about three minutes, but I expect that I can change a tire faster than I can change your mind.”
“You are quick.”
“Soooo, as long as you’re willing to help, go ahead and pop the trunk.”
The word trunk made the connection for her. Her face puckered, but she quickly swallowed the lemon. She reached across the driver’s seat for the release lever and then joined him around back. She had the Colt tucked beneath the waistband of her pink shorts where it looked ridiculously large. Her eyes avoided the trunk.
Troy rotated the body until he could grab it beneath the shoulders. Evan had definitely taken full advantage of the free-doughnuts perk. “Help me do this right,” he said. “We need to flip him over onto his left side so he doesn’t leave an enormous bloodstain on the floor.”
“I’m not good with blood,” she said, her eyes locking onto his like a life preserver.
“How are you with jail?” Troy asked, regretting the words even as they left his mouth. “Sorry. Look, you don’t have to do any real lifting. Just keep his feet from flailing as I flip the body.”
She nodded.
Troy was still trying to hoist Evan over the trunk’s lip when he heard footsteps behind them and the overhead lights blazed to life. He turned to see a police officer walking carrying a can of Coke in one hand and jingling his keys with the other. Although he was dressed like Evan, the lean captain was the yin to the hefty detective’s yang. He had a beak of a nose and an Adam’s apple that was nearly as prominent. His straight sandy hair parted in the middle of his forehead and hung surprisingly long for a ranking cop. He froze mid-step as his eyes came to rest on what must have been an unbelievable sight.
Before the captain had a chance to react, Tinkerbell had the Colt leveled at him. She was good with that thing, Troy marveled. And for someone so petite, she could muster quite a commanding voice. “Down on your knees! Now! Hands behind your head!”
Chapter 4
Countermeasures
TROY HASTILY DUMPED the corpse back into the Ford’s trunk. “And so the chase begins.”
He had been hoping to clarify a few basic aspects of his situation before running from the law—things like the year, and what continent he was on, and whether or not the woman with him was a murdering psychopath. Looking over at his pistol-packing coconspirator, Troy knew that was not going to happen.
She held the weapon steady and pointed at the name tag on the officer’s chest. Troy was glad not to be on the receiving end this time, but sorry to see all chance of an anonymous escape evaporate.
Captain Honey had instantly dropped his keys and his Coke out of shock. Now he was sinking to his knees as ordered. No surprise there. After seeing his blood-soaked captors pawing at his colleague’s pale corpse, it was a wonder Honey’s pants were still dry.
Troy shut the trunk—gently so as not to startle the woman—and walked toward the captain without a word. He arced his route to keep well clear of Tinkerbell’s firing zone. She looked cool on the outside, but he knew from experience that she was panicked on the inside and thus likely to be jittery around the trigger.
Speaking in an Irish brogue, he said, “Ya do as ye’re told, captain, and we’ll be out of here in two shakes. Ya try to be smart, and we’ll be with ye for eternity.”
Honey nodded weakly.
After pocketing his gun, Troy used Honey’s own handcuffs to secure his hands behind his back. Then he grabbed the collar of Honey’s shirt in one hand and lowered him face down onto the cola-covered floor.
“Use his shoelaces to bind his ankles together,” the woman suggested, her accent suddenly Irish as well. “Then truss ‘em to the cuffs. That’ll keep him put. An’ don’t be forgettin’ to stuff a stocking in his gob.”
My kinda psychopath, Troy thought, as he followed her suggestion. Quick, decisive and bold.
Satisfied that Honey’s bindings would buy them a modest head start, Troy ran back to Evan’s car, slid in behind the driver’s seat, and turned over the engine.
Tinkerbell slid in beside him. She still looked cool, but in the close quarters he could smell her sweat.
Captain Honey stared at them in silence.
Troy threw the patrol car into gear and hit the gas. The flat tire thunked but the car still rolled. They only needed a mile or two, and he prayed the spent rubber was good for as much. The garage door opened automatically as the car approached, revealing a curtain of wind-driven rain. “How did I know it would be raining,” he said.
When no comment came, Troy looked over at the woman who had hitched her wagon to his. She stared back at him, eyes wide and blazing. This seemed a good moment to put her in the right frame of mind.
“The chase begins the moment we roll out that door,” he said.
She did not seem to be breathing.
“They are going to catch us, eventually, you know.”
She remained silent, but paled.
“Now that Captain Honey has seen us, our only chance of living out the rest of our natural lives beyond bars is to figure out what really happened. We’ve got to solve this before they catch us.”<
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She nodded and finally spoke. “I know.”
“It will likely take us weeks, maybe months.”
“I understand.”
“From this moment forth, we’ve always got to be thinking in terms of countermeasures: escape, evade, and confuse. We make one mistake, and it’s life without parole.”
“For chrissake, I’m with the program. That should already be obvious. Now hit it.”
Troy punched the gas and the Ford surged out into the storm. He turned right to keep the weight off the bad tire and then gave the motor its head. The road was short and winding. The buildings around them were commercial in nature, but not in the Fifth Avenue sense. They were cheery wooden structures, gaily painted behind wide sidewalks. The scene reminded Troy of the Deep South. Definitely not Kandahar or L.A. Grand Cayman it was.
He heard a thud inside the car. He looked over to see that the woman had dropped the Colt on the floor. Darting his attention back and forth between her and the road, he saw her kick it away with her foot. So comfortable with the weapon just moments ago, she now seemed disgusted by it, like a reluctant actress whose tasteless scene was done.
“You did great back there,” he said. “I was thoroughly impressed.”
“We’ve got to get rid of this car,” she replied. “The police will be looking for it in no time.”
“I know.”
“They can probably track us with GPS.”
“On an island? I can’t see the taxpayers springing for that expense.”
“Maybe it’s not so expensive in two thousand eight.”
Troy caught her eye. He had not thought of that. “Good call.”
Their road dead-ended at a T intersection, forcing him to hit the brakes when every instinct demanded that he floor the gas. A car shot past in front of them and the woman said, “We’re driving on the wrong side of the road.”
“Good thing we’re in a cop car then,” he said, turning left toward the ocean.
“Look for a big hotel,” she said. “We can leave the car in a busy corner of the parking lot. If we roll down the windows and pop the trunk, the wind-driven rain should be as good as a car wash.”
It was not a bad idea, Troy thought, but he had a better one. Seconds later they hit another T intersection, this one with a traffic light. Across the road a large pier disappeared into the harbor. He looked down the road to the right and then the left. Nobody appeared to be about, but then no sane person would be. “I’ve got another idea. Hold on.”
He drove straight across the intersection toward the opposing curb. The deflated left side of the chassis bucked and protested loudly as it passed over the hump, but the wind swallowed the noise and the powerful engine barreled ahead, pushing the car forward with rear-wheel drive.
Like much of the surrounding architecture, the pier appeared to be constructed entirely of wood. Troy propelled the Ford out to the far end where it widened into a viewing platform. He put the transmission in park and looked back over his shoulder. Between the darkness and the rain, the only things visible on land were the streetlights, and they were a blur.
Looking forward again he inspected the railing before them—just boards and nails.
He turned to Tinkerbell. “Get out.”
“You’re not going to—”
“The tidal salt water will destroy our DNA and fingerprints.” Troy pressed buttons to lower all four windows as he spoke. “Now for the tricky part. I really do suggest that you get out.”
She did.
Troy threw Honey’s Colt onto the floor next to Evan’s, hoping to sever all links to both guns. Then he put the Ford in reverse and backed up until the front bumper was about thirty feet from the railing. Pressing his foot down on the brake, he shifted the cruiser into drive and pushed his door all the way open. This would be a first.
“It can’t be as easy as it looks in the movies,” the woman shouted.
“Nothing ever is—but we’re doing okay so far.”
Holding the doorsill with his right hand while grabbing the edge of the roof with his left, he shifted his foot from the brake to the gas. The car shot forward. He pulled with his left hand and pushed with his feet until he was standing up on the doorsill. He jumped backwards and away, hitting the boardwalk as the cruiser crashed into the rail. He heard the sound of wood splintering over his own grunts and groans, but by the time he had stopped rolling and regained his feet, the cruiser was already submerged.
The woman stood by the gap in the rail, watching the tail disappear beneath the waves. “It barely made it through,” she said. “Then it dropped like a rock and flipped upside down. With the rail in this condition, they will find it come first light.”
“The salt water will have done its job by then,” Troy said.
“So, what now?” she asked.
“Now we find a hotel and go for a swim.”
She stared at him with incredulous eyes. “Perhaps a massage while we’re at it?”
“That would require registration,” he said with a wink.
Her expression changed. “The chlorine … The bloodstains … Got it,” she said.
“You need to do one thing first, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell me your name.”
She smiled for the first time. It was a beautiful smile; one of those smiles that used to make men pick up swords and storm castles. “Emerald, my name is Emerald Green. My friends call me Emmy.”
Chapter 5
Out of the Frying Pan
FARKAS CURSED the weather as he drew the emery board across his fingertips. First a few freak murders, now a tropical storm. What was next, swarms of locusts? He wished the police would get their act together so he could get back to business as usual. Tying up loose ends was not his forte.
He rubbed the pads of his fingers together, testing for the slightest ridge. Nothing. Smooth as silk. He returned the emery board to his shirt pocket without taking his eyes off the rain-soaked garage door. He would leave no prints on this job site, but then he never did.
As he slid back in the saddle, his satellite phone began to vibrate. Farkas cringed. He knew who it was without looking.
He removed the ear bud connected to the police scanner at his waist and gave the canal a scratch before activating the wireless satellite phone receiver in his other ear. “Yeah.”
“Are we happy?”
“Not yet.”
“Tell me.”
“Call me back in an hour. We should be happy then.”
“Tell me now.”
Farkas was not in the mood for this, but he knew who buttered his bread. “A fight broke out at some hick bar named Moonshines. It ended with two dead teenage tourists and a roomful of drunken locals all pointing the finger at each other. The entire third shift of the George Town Police Department was called in early and asked to report directly to the scene.”
“The entire third shift?”
“That’s only half-a-dozen cops. Oh yeah. Did I mention the bloody hurricane?”
There was a long pause, followed by, “Where are you now?”
“I’m staking out the police garage from a bus stop across the street.”
“A bus stop? You’re not in a car?”
“They’ve been using a scooter, so I have been too. Only way to match their maneuverability. Bloody things are everywhere here, and fortunately they fit under bus stops.”
Again a pause. “So our friends are in place, but undiscovered?”
“Right,” Farkas said. “I expected discovery over an hour ago. Who would have predicted a double-homicide in paradise? I mean, what are the odds?”
“Tell me you set the flasher to max and erased the full twenty percent?”
“I did. These two are much too clever and resourceful to play patty-cake with. Troy will have lost about seven years of memory, Emmy six. Poor bastard will think he’s still in the army. She’ll believe she’s still eking a living off the streets of L.A.”
�
�Good. How long since the flash?”
“That’s the problem. Three hours.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. I’ve been monitoring the police scanner. They’re wrapping up at Moonshines. I’m expecting a full house any minute, but we’re cutting it close.” As he spoke, the streetlight above the garage began to dance. For an instant Farkas thought it was an optical illusion caused by wind and rain, but experience quickly superseded. He cursed. His blood sugar had dropped dangerously low.
Farkas had passed out a few weeks back in a Chicago hotel lobby. He’d been waiting for the elevator after an early morning run when the room started spinning. Then the marble floor hit him in the face. He woke up in the hospital with a raging headache and a pancreatic tumor. An insulinoma. Benign but requiring regular and frequent anti-insulin injections to avoid hypoglycemia. Operable in the long term and not a big deal in the short. He already carried an insulin injection kit. Camouflage for the tool of his latest trade. All he had to do was exchange the insulin for anti-insulin and then actually start poking himself four times a day.
“I gotta go,” he said, hanging up on his boss without waiting for acknowledgement.
The reminder alarm on his watch had startled him just as he was liberating the cop’s soul from his body. He had twitched and nearly put a bullet into Troy as well. With Troy dead or injured, all his trouble would have been for naught. Farkas had slapped the beeper off without thinking—three hours ago.
Eager to correct his mistake, Farkas pulled a black leather pouch from the left cargo pocket on his shorts, unzipped it, and laid it open on the seat of the scooter between his legs. He selected the silver injector pen—not the black; even in a hypoglycemic haze he could never make that mistake—and cocked the mechanism.
His satellite phone began to buzz again.
He ignored it.
He was pulling up the tails of his black silk shirt to expose his favored injection site when the light across the street actually did start flashing and the garage door began ascending.
“Govno!” Farkas cursed in his native Croatian. He stuffed his shirt back into his shorts as he studied the opening door. Could Troy and Emmy really be escaping? He would prefer swarms of locusts.
