Next Last Chance

by Jon A. Hunt

  A gust that hadn’t kept up with the rest of last night’s weather dislodged fat drops from the treetops, which splatted erratically around me. An overburdened limb cracked somewhere and came to earth with a brittle thud. Whiskey’s better-behaved stable mates neighed inside their stalls, where they’d presumably been all night. Grayness lightened the sky and made medium-sized shapes like trees and fences discernable. I ignored the stables. I passed the playful bronze foals. The fountain jets weren’t working. For some reason, my attention locked onto the boarded-up guest house. Maybe it just seemed horsey. That’s where I found Whiskey.

  He stood so motionless I almost passed him by like everybody else. His legs were ramrod straight, his head high, both ears turned forward. For the moment his attention focused solely on the empty house. He might have been standing there for hours in spite of the weather—he was that kind of ornery—but I could just make out a dull metallic glint at his muzzle and reins dangling. Someone had been riding him.

  “Hey, fella,” I said gently. “No one’s home.”

  People who call horses “prey animals” haven’t had one come after them. Whiskey turned quick as a squirrel. His front hooves slammed into the damp sod and he charged, a juggernaut propelled by rasping breath and thunderous footfalls. I’d managed to piss the gelding off while standing in the center of a broad lawn separating the old guest house and newer mansion; there were no trees to hide behind. The Smith & Wesson found its way out of my jacket.

  Mrs. Donovan, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is I found your stupid horse. But I had to shoot him. Just before he trampled me to death.

  Adrenaline does funny things to your senses. Whiskey hurtled my direction fast as any thoroughbred but he seemed to take forever to get to me. It felt like I had all the time in the world to line the .45’s sights up with the white blaze on his forehead. His hoof beats sounded hollow and each one happened so separately I could count them. The trigger’s curved metal mated with my forefinger.

  “WHISKEY, NO!”

  Smith & Wesson might not have stopped that horse. Sandra Donovan did. Whiskey’s violent footfalls changed tempo. My tritium sights suddenly pointed at nothing. The horse had swung his head and veered. He skidded on the slick lawn but he’d run his whole life on turf and found traction to stop short of crushing me. The flashlights across the paddock pivoted toward us and etched jittery patterns in the mist as they approached. Sandra’s lithe silhouette sprinted ahead of them. I crooked my elbows so the gun faced the sky and thumbed the safety on.

  The gelding stomped fiercely. His shadow swelled and shrank with deep rapid breaths, and he made as close a sound to a snarl as I’d ever heard a horse make. Sandra slowed to a quick walk and reached for the bridle. He shied, she caught the leather anyway and was beside him, murmuring reassurances. Almost made me wish I was a horse.

  A tide of groomsmen flowed around us. The rest of Hillbriar’s staff hid behind flashlights. None of the tenders got too close, either, except for one idiot who ducked behind Whiskey in his haste to help secure the horse. Whiskey calmly fired a back hoof into the man’s shoulder. The groomsman bounced like a badly pitched softball. His curses didn’t conceal the kindling sharp snap of bone.

  Sandra gripped the bridle tightly. Whiskey wasn’t going anywhere. He’d just reminded us who was in charge.

  Waldron appeared beside me. “Pete, Dan, get him to the hospital,” he commanded in a voice more authoritative than I’d have expected. “Take the BMW. Call when y’all are there.”

  Two men carefully circled the gelding and carried their injured comrade toward the garage. The man cussed up a hurricane the whole way.

  “Had yo’ chance, Mr. Bedlam,” the old handyman said so only I could hear. There wasn’t enough light to twinkle in anybody’s eye, though imagining it wasn’t difficult. Whiskey snorted.

  I stowed the gun. Headlights flung my shadow between Sandra and JD’s murderous horse. Both were stunning, suddenly illuminated. The woman’s face was pale and her expression was haunted. The BMW swept down the driveway and my eyes struggled to readjust. The car slowed to bypass the fallen tree, then sped out of earshot.

  “Waldron.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Find out who was riding him. If they worked here, fire them.”

  “Ma’am, yo’ know it weren’t none here.”

  An extra lead was clipped to Whiskey’s bridle and two men meekly steered him toward the stables. I watched to be sure he didn’t pass within kicking range. Sandra exhaled unsteadily.

  “Just….just make sure,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Color returned to her face. Or maybe that was just the beginning of a sunrise. “You have the cash?” she asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “Is your car at the end of the drive?”

  “It is.”

  She strode past me. Honeysuckle trailed after her. “Then you’ll drive.”

  That wasn’t ideal. Keep things looking ordinary, don’t spook whoever watched the drop, that had been my plan. “Waldron—”

  “—has more important matters to attend to now. Are we going?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I let her walk ahead while I glanced back, first at the guest house that had strangely fixed Whiskey’s attention, then at the horse’s sleek form entering the stables. That old house and that horse could answer a lot of my questions, if either only talked.

  I pushed the Viper hard as I dared on wet roads with a passenger. Half the lights on Franklin Pike were out, the other half flashed amber accusations after we thundered beneath them. I expected blue lights to jump in the mix any time but there were enough accidents already to keep the cops busy. A traction control warning blinked when I threw the car left onto Battery Lane, then the rubber grabbed and the Viper straightened and hurtled forward more or less on the right side of the road. Every time the engine approached redline the tachometer flashed an angry red snake’s head, a clever gimmick but difficult to admire at speed.

  If any of this impressed Sandra, I couldn’t tell. She clutched the fat envelope full of her husband’s money, her eyes quiet. Maybe for her this was just a fast road trip in a loud car.

  I checked the mirrors again. I was the only idiot driving that fast. The Viper clawed up the ramp to 440 West at a hundred and five. We had forty-five minutes to reach Whites Creek.

  “Tyler, I’m sorry.”

  Her first words since leaving Hillbriar were acceptable. She’d put my name in front and I liked hearing her say it.

  “Don’t sweat it,” I said. “You’d have just been safer in your own car.”

  “I’m safe here.”

  She sounded like she meant it, and a seat belt and air bags weren’t why. I sat up straighter to try and look as big and bad as I felt.

  “Would you have done it?” Her question scarcely competed with the Viper’s exhaust.

  “Shot your horse?”

  “Whiskey is JD’s horse, not mine. But yes, that’s what I meant.”

  Merging onto I-40 demanded my full attention. Two semis vied for the lane I needed. I downshifted, crossed the rumble strip and passed them on the wrong side in time to catapult around the curve intersecting Briley Parkway. The ramp was clear and I floored the accelerator again. Dashed lines blurred. The tachometer’s red snake head flared before my next upshift.

  “I’m pretty sure he wasn’t bluffing,” I said.

  “Were you?”

  The sun had gotten up and she could see my shrug. That was all the answer she would get. I’d never shot a horse yet, for what it was worth. Maybe next time she’d make sure Whiskey was where he was supposed to be when I arrived.

  “Who do you think was riding him?”

  “I don’t know. This wasn’t the first time.”

  The matter wouldn’t have been my business if I hadn’t nearly been trampled.

  “Waldron seemed pretty sure none of your staff were involved,” I said.

 
“He’s probably right. Not much gets past Waldron. But the stables were locked. Who outside Hillbriar has a key?”

  “He doesn’t seem like a horse anyone would want to ride bareback.”

  “Last time the groomsmen swore it’s the previous Mrs. Donovan’s ghost.”

  I didn’t believe that any more than Sandra. Ghosts don’t need a bridle or reins. Too bad the security cameras were down, though showing up unrecorded at Hillbriar had its merits. The thought inspired a glance at the rear view mirror, which I regretted. Something low and small had appeared behind us. The little blue Mazda had to be topped out to keep up with us at 140.

  “Do you ever drive the speed limit?”

  Maybe she didn’t feel all that safe after all.

  “I will in a minute.”

  I nudged the speedometer to 160. The parkway was fortunately empty. Our tail didn’t have what it took under the hood and dwindled to nothing. When I braked hard for the Whites Creek Pike exit nobody was around to see. Fifty-five miles per hour seemed slow enough for parallel parking. Time remained for a last question before we needed to concentrate on the post office. True to character, I picked an awkward one.

  “Why do you think Whiskey was just standing next to the guest house?”

  Sandra’s response was abrupt. “I don’t know. I hate that place.”

  Nine

  A new drizzle freshened the asphalt’s sheen. Everybody had more water than they knew what to do with but the sky hadn’t gotten the memo. The Viper’s engine and windshield wipers conversed without us. Sandra hadn’t seemed receptive to topics I chose, and my own attention vacillated between wondering how to salvage my original stakeout plan and what to do about the next tail we’d collected. This one was a grownup sedan and kept a professionally discrete distance, probably some of Pennington’s boys.

  Pennington….

  What was it about that name? I’d have to dwell on that later: the Whites Creek post office appeared, fluorescent light spilling from the front windows. We were right on time.

  “Sandra, I have an idea, if you’re willing to pitch in on the detective work.”

  Mrs. Donovan was pale. Her morning hadn’t exactly been restful. She nodded “yes.”

  Three minutes and the drop was over. Sandra entered the little government building like royalty, my leather jacket draped over her shoulders because she’d forgotten hers and royalty shouldn’t go bare shouldered in the rain. The envelope crammed full of Franklins was tucked under her arm as casually as any other woman might tote a purse. She deposited the jacket on a high counter against the lobby window and bent to unlock the box. I kept the wipers off and peered through raindrops that crowded the windshield. The only other vehicles present belonged behind the chain link fence surrounding the employee lot, two mail Jeeps and an ancient blue Mustang with a missing hubcap. By the time my attention returned to the front door, Sandra exited as regally as she’d gone in. She settled into the passenger side, stuffed my jacket behind the seat and latched the safety belt.

  I notched the transmission into reverse. Gravel sputtered under the tires. I swung onto the highway and turned right beneath the dangling traffic light. The motor’s pulse, the feathery hiss of rubber on wet blacktop, snare drum bangs of rain on the steel roof and the rhythmic bump of wiper blades got me thinking of a jazz ensemble.

  “What happens now?”

  “Hmm?” I’d almost had a decent riff worked out in my head. “It depends on who picks up the cash. Probably a lot of waiting.”

  “I had nothing else planned today.”

  Wrangling killer horses and dropping eighty-five grand off at a post office might be routine for JD’s wife. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she picked up a book of stamps while inside. My preference, though, was to do my job alone. I wasn’t safe to be around now. But Sandra Donovan knew nothing about Nick or Del, or the FBI’s sudden interest in me, or shadowy killers with monogrammed bullets. I doubted she’d have said anything different if she did.

  “There’s a lot out behind the school up ahead,” I said. “We can wait out the rain and not be too conspicuous.”

  “In this?”

  “Yeah, well my other car’s in the shop.”

  Part of me missed the more nondescript Charger. It had a smaller fan base.

  “We’re being followed still?” She’d caught me studying the mirrors.

  “Not still,” I said. “Again. Different car.”

  Whites Creek High School had a main lot with speed bumps and, during classes, its own Metro police car. The school had another parking area out back between the baseball diamonds and football field. On clear days kids in the outfield could daydream and watch dairy cows grazing across the highway, but the downpour was so stiff now the student body stayed indoors. The cop probably wasn’t outside, either. Not that it mattered. All the parked cars had turned into unidentifiable smaller versions of the school’s larger hulk. Nobody would notice one more.

  Trying to elude yet another follower meant leaving the post office—and the micro-camera Sandra had left hidden among mailing supplies—farther behind than I wanted. So I maneuvered the Viper alongside a green recycling dumpster, killed the lights, set the parking brake and left the engine idling. I also laid the Smith & Wesson within easy reach on the center console. Sandra’s eyes widened enough for me to see their green in my peripheral vision.

  “Just a precaution,” I said. “Almost none of the people tailing us want to kill anyone.”

  We sat grimly inside a purring metal shell. I watched the highway. She watched the gun. The grownup sedan’s running lights continued past, never leaving the main road, never changing speed. Professional. Discrete.

  “Are you a killer, Tyler?”

  I forgot about watching the highway and made eye contact. Glossy tresses framed her exquisite face and spilled over her shoulders. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, enticing swells beneath a silk blouse so soft it looked fluid. She was hauntingly feminine. Yet the sole emotion in those gold-flecked emerald eyes was confusion. She couldn’t read me.

  I stowed the automatic back under my arm and retrieved my cell phone from the cup holder where I’d never dare set a coffee mug. The display chided me for ignoring a world which had gotten up not long after I had, proclaiming that by 9:46 I’d missed five calls. I apologized to Sandra. She nodded and her green eyes refocused on the rain.

  Delbert Ray had left two messages to let me know repairs to my regular car would be finished tomorrow. If I brought my service loaner in and picked up the mended Charger, that’d be swell. I deleted both messages.

  Danny Ayers had tried my number three times and left no comment. That was unlike him. I tapped the screen icon to return his call. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Ty?” The usual carefree enthusiasm wasn’t apparent.

  “Hey, Danny. You called.”

  “Yeah. Hi. I thought you might want to know R&D had some guys come in to look around. They asked about you. Griffin told them to get lost till they had the right paperwork.”

  Brad Griffin was Danny’s supervisor. He let Danny do his thing most of the time. To the rest of the world, Griffin could be a real hard-ass.

  “And?”

  “They left. But they said they’d be back.”

  “Suits?”

  “Yeah. Griffin said they were from the FBI. Am I in trouble?”

  All the kid ever wanted to do was make new gizmos. It bugged me that I couldn’t definitively tell him not to worry.

  “I doubt it,” I said. “You haven’t broken any laws, right?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Somebody else might have, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He’d relaxed enough to sound conspiratorial, like he’d spotted classmates smoking weed behind the bleachers. “Whoever they are, they’re trying to tap into your phone signal. Voice and data are routed through our system here, so they’re redirected to Walmart’s customer service number. Don’t they need a warra
nt or something to do that?”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t tell us about it either way.”

  “I guess not. I don’t think they are able to listen in on you yet. But the phone’s location can be triangulated from the cell towers, and they might be able to see the numbers of incoming and outgoing calls. The micro-cam signals should still be secure.”

  “Thanks for the warning! I owe you face time with the Viper, but better wait a while.”

  “Cool. Bye!” He hung up fast for a kid who often struggled with ending conversations.

  The rain’s snare drum rattle softened. My imaginary jazz ensemble dissolved into a misty blues progression with a burbling V-10 baseline. I’d left the engine and defroster running, partly to maintain a clear view, partly because Sandra Donovan had enough trouble without being seen in an exotic sports car with a stranger and fogged windows while her husband was out of town. Snippets of my visit with JD played through my head: the elevator ride, Elsa’s daring polka-dot dress, JD’s desk clock. I’d made Music City’s master negotiator late for his meeting—

  —with Mr. Pennington.

  Sure, the world had plenty of Penningtons. But JD’s and Rafferty’s had to be the same man. My luck just worked that way. Had it taken me this long to remember the associations because I was in more hot water than my client? Or because my client smelled like honeysuckle?

  The dash clock read 9:56. JD’s money had been at the post office for twenty-six minutes. Or maybe it had already left. I set my phone on its back on the center console, tapped the micro-camera app, and Sandra and I leaned in close.

  She’d done better than I’d hoped. A bank of brass-colored windowed doors with white numbers filled the phone’s display. Reflections of the lobby’s front windows showed as a bonus in each tiny box window. A curl of paper obscured one corner but in general the view was excellent. The box with the Donovan’s cash still contained an overfilled manila envelope.