Gone ’Til November

by Wallace Stroby

  FIFTEEN

  Morgan parked the Toyota on a fire road, out of sight of the highway, and walked a quarter mile to where the woods ended and the dead cornfield began.

  It was dusk, the shadows thickening around him. Across the cornfield, he could see lights go on in the house. It had taken him twenty minutes to find it, out here in the middle of nowhere, and he’d driven by twice, feeling exposed, before doubling back and finding this spot.

  He wore a black windbreaker he’d bought in Arcadia, had zipped it halfway to cover the Beretta in his belt. He’d run the air conditioner in the car, but here in the open he was sweating under the pullover, his hands clammy inside the cotton work gloves.

  As it grew darker, the woods seemed to come to life around him. The chirping of crickets everywhere, louder noises he didn’t recognize. He found himself touching the Beretta through his jacket.

  From the edge of the trees, the ground sloped down to the cornfield, giving him a clear view of the front and back of the house. A pickup truck and an old Camaro were parked in the carport.

  The front door opened, and a woman came out. Late thirties, blond hair, one side braided, black T-shirt, jeans. She stood in the yard, turned back to speak to a man in the doorway. Jeans and white T-shirt, curly hair. Flynn.

  The woman got behind the wheel of the Camaro, started the engine. The noise was loud, ragged, the telltale cough of a bad muffler. Flynn went back in, closing the door behind him.

  When she pulled out of the carport, Morgan walked back through the woods to the car.

  It was easy to pick her up again. Once back on the main road, it wasn’t long before he saw the distinctive shape of the Camaro’s taillights ahead. Little traffic, easy to keep her in sight without getting close. He thought he’d lost her on a rise once, then saw the Camaro parked outside a package goods store. He’d driven by, pulled onto the shoulder a half mile later, doused the lights. Five minutes later, the Camaro passed him. After a few moments, he pulled out after it.

  They were heading west, farther away from town, nothing but woods out here. He followed at a distance, saw her slow, make a left, seem to disappear into the trees.

  He drove by and saw the road there, the billboard for the housing development. There was a phone number on it, a drawing of a town house, an orange arrow that pointed down the road.

  A half mile ahead, he pulled onto the shoulder and swung the Toyota back around. As he neared the side road, he killed the lights, made the turn.

  The road was newly paved, the curbs marked with yellow chalk, spray-painted red arrows where the gas lines were. The trees gave way to condo units in varying degrees of construction, empty lots between them, all the buildings dark. He slowed, not wanting to come up on her if she’d pulled to the side of the road.

  He passed a backhoe and bulldozer parked in a cleared lot. Ahead on his left, in one of the completed units, he could see light in a window, the Camaro parked at the curb outside.

  He turned onto a side street, parked, untwisted the wires that dangled from the broken steering column, killed the engine. He used an elbow to break the plastic cover of the dome light, pulled the bulb out. Then he took the roll of reflector tape from the hardware store bag and got out.

  He cut through yards, all the houses empty, no one else living here yet. As he neared the lighted unit, he could hear music inside. Empty lots on both sides, no streetlight out front.

  Kneeling behind the Camaro, shielded from the house, he tore off a two-inch strip of tape. He picked a spot low on the bumper, brushed it clean, flattened the tape there, pressing until it held. At night, in the reflection of headlights, it would be easy to spot.

  He put the roll of tape in his jacket pocket, slipped the Beretta out of his belt. He went up into an empty yard, coming up on the house from the right side. There was an attached garage there, a window. He looked in. In the lightspill from an open door he could see a blue Navigator with Palm Beach County plates. He tried the window. Unlocked.

  He moved to the back of the house. The music was louder here, a thumping bass line. Reggae. There was a redwood deck, sliding glass doors with vertical blinds, lights on inside.

  A side window cast a square of light on the dirt. He found a discarded cinder block, set it down, climbed up. No blinds or curtains. He was looking into a small dining room, a living room beyond. No furniture except for an old blue couch and a table lamp on the hardwood floor.

  The woman sat on the couch, looking up at a light-skinned black man swaying in the center of the room, dancing by himself. He had thick dreadlocks tied back in a ponytail, wore a sleeveless T-shirt and loose fatigue pants that exposed two inches of flat stomach. He drew on a spliff, blew smoke out, still moving to the music. There was a boom box on the floor, plugged into a wall socket, a six-pack of Michelob beside it.

  The woman spoke, and the man passed her the spliff. She drew deeply on it. He held out his hand and she took it, let him pull her off the couch. They began to dance, close, slow, their hips inches apart.

  There was an ashtray on the arm of the couch, and he set the spliff in it and turned back to the woman. She was still dancing, eyes closed. He caught her braids, twisted them roughly so her neck bent. He kissed her then, openmouthed, and she ground against him.

  When the kiss ended, she stepped back, pulled the T-shirt over her head. She was braless, and he leaned to suck her breasts while she worked at her belt. When it was loose, she pushed the jeans down, kicked them away. She knelt on the couch, facing away from him, her hands gripping the back of it. She looked over her shoulder, braids half-covering her face, spoke to him. He moved behind her, started to loosen his pants.

  Morgan stepped down, picked up the cinder block, put it back where he’d found it. He could hear their noises inside, loud, even over the music. He walked back to the car.

  He was still parked there, the cell on the seat beside him, when Mikey called back.

  “C-Love gave me your message,” Mikey said. “What up?”

  “These Haitians. How well you know them?”

  “C-Love did the meeting. He handled the details. Why?”

  “You trust them?”

  “What you mean?”

  “Would they rip you? Set up the deal, then take your boy down?”

  A pause. Mikey thinking about it.

  “No,” he said. “That don’t make sense. Those boys are businessmen. What I sent was a down payment, that’s all. There was more coming. A lot more. Why they want to mess that up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And why fuck with me anyway? They know that shit would come back on them.”

  “Maybe they thought all the heat on you right now, you wouldn’t be able to do anything.”

  Another pause.

  “Nah. Like I said, don’t make sense. They got so much shit coming in down there, they don’t know what to do with it. Why cut off a market? And why leave the guns? No banger ever walked away from a machine gun.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Why you ask?”

  “Just wondering,” Morgan said. “I’m down here, and that cop who shot Willis? His girlfriend’s got a taste for the dark. She’s holed up with him right now.”

  “Haitian?”

  “Could be.”

  “Motherfucker.”

  “Maybe it’s not connected,” Morgan said. “Maybe she just likes a little strange on the side.”

  “Maybe you need to have a talk with that boy.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Let me send the twins, man. This shit is getting complicated.”

  “No need for that. I’ll tell you if there is.”

  “They ready when you need them.”

  I’m sure they are, Morgan thought, and ready to get their hands on that money, too.

  “No,” he said. “It’s under control.”

  “Keep it that way, brother,” Mikey said and ended the call.

  SIXTEEN

  Sara
signed on to the computer, got the keyword prompt, typed in “Taurus revolver,” hit RETURN.

  Three hits, links to reports. The first was the Willis shooting. She clicked on the second, waited for it to come up. It was a case from a year ago that she remembered, an attempted armed robbery at a gas station, the suspect dropping the weapon as he fled. She wrote the evidence control number on a pad.

  The third link was a domestic violence case from two years ago. Three guns had been seized as part of a restraining order—a Smith and Wesson .38 Chiefs Special, a Colt .45 automatic, and a Taurus revolver—but the Taurus was logged as being a .357. She wrote down the number anyway, did a fresh search on “Taurus” with no qualifiers, found nothing else. She signed off, tore the top sheet from the pad.

  The Evidence Control Room was in the basement. A long, institutional-green corridor, pipes running along the ceiling, fluorescent lights hanging below them. There was a window halfway down the hall, a closed door beside it.

  Charlie Stern was at the window, writing on a clipboard. She could hear his faint wheezing. He was in his late fifties but looked ten years older, his belly sloping over his belt, his flattop solid white.

  “ ’Lo, Sara,” he said.

  “Charlie, I’m wondering if you can help me with something.”

  He looked at her, then at the clock on the wall behind him. “Five forty-five.”

  “I know. This will only take a couple minutes.”

  After six, when Charlie left, anyone wanting access to Evidence had to go through the sheriff. She didn’t want that.

  “What have you got?” he said.

  She handed him the slip of paper. “I need to see the weapons under these numbers. I’m looking for a Taurus, .38 caliber.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Case I’m working. Just need to make sure they’re accounted for.”

  “Hold on,” he said and left the window.

  She waited. Through the window she could see rows of metal shelving rising to the ceiling, brown banker’s boxes. She could hear his breathing, his slow, heavy footsteps.

  Five minutes later, he came back to the window, put two heavy plastic evidence bags on the sill, got his clipboard.

  “You’ll need to sign these out,” he said.

  “I just need to look. Only take a minute.”

  She opened the bags, looked at the weapons inside. The first was the .38, with cracked walnut grips. The second was bigger, the .357, nickel plated. Both had yellow plastic cord threaded through the barrels and cylinders.

  “Let me ask you something, Charlie.”

  He raised an eyebrow. She could sense his impatience.

  “When did we start computerizing all our evidence, logging it in?”

  He shrugged.

  “Nineteen ninety-nine maybe. They had a clerk in here for a while, backlogging the hard copies into the computer, but I don’t know how far back she got. Couple years maybe, why?”

  “If I was looking for a weapon taken as evidence before that, how would I find it?”

  “Well, if you knew the case file number, I could track it that way. Everything back here is in order, more or less. I need to go soon, Sara. Can this wait?”

  She smiled at him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But as long as I’m down here . . . if you could just help me out a little.”

  “We used to keep logs, hard copy, of all the weapons moved into Evidence. That’s before my time, though.”

  “You still have them?”

  He sighed, then touched a button under the window. The door buzzed open. “Come on in.”

  When she went through, he shut the door behind her, pulled the grate down over the window, secured it with a padlock.

  “Last thing I need is someone else coming along,” he said. “They’re over here.”

  On one side of the room was a desk and wall shelves stacked with ledger books.

  “Each of those covers about four years,” he said. “None of them are in the computer yet.”

  She took the first book down, dusted her sleeve along the spine—1986–1990.

  She nodded at the desk chair. “You mind?”

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ve got paperwork to finish up.” He went back to the window and the clipboard.

  The desktop was cluttered with papers. Near the phone was a half-eaten cheese sandwich on white bread. A fly crawled along its edge. She sat, opened the book on her lap.

  It was set up like a standard financial ledger, headings for each year, then each month, tabbed columns. Most of the entries were in blue ink, some in green or red. The same spidery hand throughout. Charlie’s predecessor, whoever that had been. Each entry had a case number.

  She ran her fingers down the tabs, looking at the annotations. Shotgun, 12-gauge, single-shot. Colt .45, Peacemaker. Star .25. All weapons that had been seized during or after a crime. She stopped every time she came to a .38. Smith and Wesson. Rugers. Dan Wessons. No Taurus.

  She turned pages, scanned columns, her nose itching from the dust.

  “How we doing back there, Sara?”

  “Okay, Charlie. Sorry about this.”

  “Let me know when you’re done.” Resignation in his voice.

  She found it on the sixth page. March 1988. A Taurus .38, seized in a motor vehicle stop. The serial number was written down. At the end of the column, the case number.

  She opened desk drawers. There was a Penthouse in the top one, an inhaler. She opened the second, found a blank sheet of SO stationery. She wrote down the two numbers.

  “Charlie?” she called out.

  “You want to tell me what this is all about, Sara?”

  They’d found the box. It was on the fourth rack up, three aisles back, and Sara had pulled the sliding ladder over, climbed up herself. Charlie seemed grateful. He stood beside her, looking up, breathing heavy.

  She pulled the box off the shelf, backed down the ladder carefully, Charlie steadying it for her.

  “Thanks,” she said and carried the box to the desk. Before taking the lid off, she checked the case numbers written on the front—01404 to 01411. She was looking for 01408.

  There were six evidence bags in the box, each with a case number written on the plastic. She went through them carefully. Clothes, a Buck knife, a .25 automatic. No Taurus, and no bag that matched the case number.

  “What’s wrong?” Charlie said.

  “Anybody check anything out of here recently, Charlie?”

  “Not when I was around. That far back, why would anyone want to? Those cases are long closed, and if they weren’t, they won’t ever be.”

  She fit the lid back on.

  It doesn’t mean anything. Things get misfiled all the time. Probably half the things down here are misfiled.

  “Okay,” she said. “All set.”

  “Good.”

  She went up the ladder again, slid the box back into the cleared space in the dust. She climbed down, brushed the front of her uniform.

  “You all right?” Charlie said. “You look like you’re not so happy all of the sudden.”

  “It’s okay,” she lied. “Turned out to be nothing after all.”

  He looked at her for a moment, then went around the room switching off lights. The overhead fluorescents hummed, blinked, and went dark.

  She followed him into the corridor. He locked the door behind them.

  “One other thing, Charlie?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t tell anyone about this, okay? It’s just something I had to see for myself.”

  “If you say so,” he said and held the stairwell door for her.

  Back upstairs, she changed in the ladies’ room, bundled her uniform and vest into her tac bag. When she got out to the parking lot, Billy was leaning against the hood of the Blazer. His truck was parked behind it.

  She stopped.

  “Hey, Sara.”

  He wore jeans, a flannel shirt, looked like he hadn’t slept.

&nb
sp; She didn’t move.

  “I didn’t want to come out to the house again,” he said. “I didn’t know if I’d be welcome.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Not out here, Sara. Not like this.”

  She looked back at the front door. Hoped someone would come out, see them together.

  “I was thinking about the other night,” he said. “I didn’t like the way we left things.”

  “Not the time, Billy. I need to go, Danny’s waiting.”

  “Maybe you could call JoBeth, ask her to stay a little later. Then we could get a drink, talk.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Has your opinion of me changed that much? We can’t even have a friendly drink anymore?”

  “You look like hell, Billy. And you shouldn’t be here anyway.”

  “Did Danny like the dinosaur model?”

  “He did.”

  “Just one drink, Sara. I just want to talk. Can’t you give me that?”

  She looked at her watch, then back at him.

  “Twenty minutes. That’s all.”

  “Good enough.” He gestured to his truck.

  “I’ll follow you,” she said.

  “Don’t want to drive with me?”

  “You want to talk or not?”

  “Sorry. Whatever you want,” he said.

  “If I lose you, I’ll see you there.”

  “Not Tiger’s. Not tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere else. I’ll find a place.”

  “Not far.”

  He nodded, moved toward his truck.

  She got behind the wheel, set the tac bag on the passenger seat. She watched him pull out of the lot, the truck bouncing as a tire went over the curb.

  She followed him, opened the bag, took out the leather Cordura waistpack she sometimes wore. She pulled the Velcro breakaway tab that opened the front pocket. Steering with one hand, she took the Glock from the tac bag, tugged it free of its holster. She slid it into the waistpack, closed the Velcro.

  As they got farther from town, heading west, she noticed the gray Toyota about three car lengths back, moving at a steady speed, not closing the distance. Something about it jogged her memory, but she couldn’t place where she’d seen it before.