A Dangerous Affair (38 page)

She advanced to the real room 19 and found the door ajar with the blinds drawn and the lights out.

She felt the urge to run, convinced Morallen was either halfway to Mexico or dead in an alley somewhere.
Don't cower from your fears, confront them. You didn't come this far to give up now.

She nudged her way inside the room and flicked the light switch. A desk lamp revealed an unkempt bed and soiled carpet with fast food wrappers in the trash.

"Manny?"

A tapping sound drew her attention toward the bathroom, where she caught the reflection of Morallen in the mirror, slumped on the floor with a needle in his arm and a trail of white foam oozing from his nose and mouth. She checked his pulse and recoiled in horror when she felt the dead body twitch.

A masked figure with gloved hands muted her scream, smothering her face from behind, with a knife pressed to her throat.

Leslie sprayed the air with Mace and bit down hard, sinking her teeth into an index finger. The action prompted a swift response from her attacker, who lost focus for an instant and relinquished his grip.

Leslie slammed her elbow in a backward motion at her attacker's groin and bolted for the door, barking her shin on the bed frame as she ran.

Half running, half hobbling, she scurried along the second floor banister and clattered down a flight of stairs. She hustled to the edge of the parking lot beyond the vending machine area. She ducked between two pick-up trucks and clutched her keychain Mace, cursing herself for leaving her Blackberry in the car. She wanted to cry and scream at the same time, but her survival instincts took over, compelling her to stay low in a cramped position on her hands and knees.

Heavy footsteps descended the motel stairs. Light rain dotted the parking lot.

Leslie peered underneath the chassis of a white Monte Carlo SS and prayed for the black boots to move away from her. But the size fourteen soles stayed put like a pair of sentries stationed close enough to hear her breathing. She begged forgiveness for every sin she'd ever committed, as if the vetting of her own transgressions would resolve her predicament.

Her muscles tensed when the boots stepped toward the Monte Carlo's rear quarter panel. Dark eyes peered through a black ski mask, searching for signs of movement, while the moonlight shimmered on the single-edged serrated blade.

Spurred by the fight or flight impulse, Leslie sprang from her hiding spot and bolted across the slippery pavement toward the open road, waving her arms and screaming like a banshee at an oncoming car that swerved in front of her. A horn blasted in the waning seconds it took the driver to regain control of his fish-tailing vehicle.

Leslie ran behind a gas station surrounded by stacks of used tires and skirted toward the railroad track. Lights from an oncoming train preceded a loud warning whistle.

She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the glare and saw a large figure advance in her direction.

"Who's there?" she shouted above the clamor of the approaching locomotive.

Blanchart kept his hands at his sides.

"What are you doing here?" Leslie called out, her voice strained with fear.

"I caught a domestic disturbance call."

"Where's your car?"

Blanchart blocked Leslie's path while the southbound train rambled along the tracks. "It's dangerous to be out here alone."

Leslie stepped backwards and limped on a twisted ankle. "You're not in uniform," she said, her world closing in from all sides.

"I'm off duty," said Blanchart. He gripped the silenced revolver tucked in his belt behind his back. "You should be more careful."

Leslie felt the rush of air from the fast-moving cargo train. She had nowhere to hide and no way to outrun the sheriff.
This is it,
she told herself, resigned to the hope that her teeth would match the bite marks on Blanchart's finger when the good guys found her body. "I spoke to the FBI," she blurted.

"Good for you," said Blanchart when a deputy's patrol car approached with the lights flashing.

"It's okay," Blanchart told the eager rookie who jumped out to assist him. "I'll take it from here."

Chapter 56

Varden followed Lloyd's Triumph for hours along a route that circled through town and back, until the last of the blinding sun disappeared below the horizon. He flipped his visor and grabbed a ham sandwich from an Igloo cooler. He chewed vigorously as if this meal were his last, washing down the sandwich with sour cream potato chips and cold coffee. In the door beside him, urine sloshed inside a plastic bottle wedged between a folded road atlas and a rechargeable flashlight.

He knew more about Lloyd Sullivan than Lloyd knew about himself. Random room inspections, court records, and the ever-present surveillance cameras afforded him an omniscient view of the young convict who'd served ten years in the poky. He knew everything about Lloyd Sullivan, from the way he dressed, to the food he ate and drank, to how much time he spent on the shitter every morning after breakfast.

In the span of his law enforcement career, Varden never saw an ex-convict who didn't fall back on old habits. Lloyd Sullivan was dealing drugs again. He could feel it in his bones.

He followed the Triumph to the library and parked in the last row, close enough to keep his eye on the prize but far enough to avoid detection. He grabbed the SLR camera from the seat and deactivated the flash.

Inside the building, he tracked his subject to the periodical section. There would be no more Mickey Mouse citations for speeding or skipping curfew. This time Lloyd Sullivan earned a bona fide parole violation that guaranteed him a one-way ticket back to life behind bars.

Varden followed his target to the media center and mulled about in the fiction section, waiting for the drug exchange to happen. He knew from experience that whatever weight Lloyd was pushing, he kept it out of the house and off his person, opting for a quiet, secluded, and readily accessible location to conduct his business.

Varden loitered near the end of the aisle, pretending to be engrossed in a book as the closing announcement came from the public address system.

The lights dimmed. Patrons approached the checkout counter with their books.

Varden peered through a gap in the bookshelf. He fit the camera lens between two hard-cover volumes and snapped a dozen photos of Lloyd, though the back of his helmet was towards the camera.

There were no drugs to speak of to be seen and no cash exchanging hands. Just the smack of disbelief when the ex-con in the Triumph jacket removed his helmet to reveal the face of Marvin Tate.

Chapter 57

Lloyd planted the shovel head firmly in the graveyard soil and pushed with his foot. Hunched inside a box-shaped hole more than three feet deep, he scooped the clump of sandy dirt, swinging the uprooted earth toward the pile above the grave of a man he hoped he wouldn't find.

He worked tirelessly, his sweaty palms blistered and sore from repeated contact with the shovel's wooden handle. Motivated by a looming curfew and the prospect of a third strike from Varden, he dug faster until he finally nicked the coffin lid.

He clanged the spade a second time to be sure. Then he knelt down beneath the ominous night sky so vast and powerful that his own life seemed insignificant. A tiny speck in a universe of uncertainty about his place in the world and the tenuous relationships he maintained with his family and the married woman he'd fallen in love with.

When a slow-moving vehicle approached the cemetery's gated entrance, he hit the ground above the coffin and killed the flashlight.

A sheriff's deputy idled his car beyond the gate, panning a spotlight at the cemetery.

Lloyd watched the focused beam shoot over his position toward the wooded area on the ten-acre property. White light blanketed rows of headstones in slow motion, illuminating everything above ground.

He clutched the shovel in a prone position with his boots crammed against a wall of dirt. The green LED flashed on his ankle monitor. He heard a car door open and close, followed by the faint sound of footsteps as the officer inspected the gated grounds on foot. A second light, more narrow and less concentrated, scanned the headstones through the fence.

Lloyd remained still inside the grave, fearful that the giant dirt mound would draw attention. Clouds drifted across the moon's path. Crickets chirped. Leaves rustled in the breeze. Earthworms slithered in and out of fresh soil.

Lloyd wiped dirt on his face. Sweat oozed from his pores. Time passed slowly, then he heard a police radio squawk. After the spot beam panned the ground beside him, it was extinguished. He heard the crunch of gravel under tires as the deputy drove away.

Lloyd poked his head out to verify the cop was gone. With his curfew looming, he pawed at the coffin with his bare hands, straddling the elongated box between his legs for leverage. He opened the lid and shone the flashlight at a black trash bag folded over itself. He tugged on the bag and flipped it upside down, spilling bricks of used bills secured with rubber bands. The money made him sick and elated at the same time, lending credence to Brenda's story about his father's effort to make the best of a bad situation.

He stuffed the cash inside a black backpack and climbed out to refill the man-made cavity. When he finished, he patted the loose surface with the shovel and nudged sections of torn sod to conceal the disturbance.

He carried the backpack on his shoulder and hiked through a clearing, where Jamie sat inside Marvin's pick-up. He tossed the shovel in the empty truck bed, unaware of the figure looming in the darkness beyond the trees.

"What took you so long?" Jamie asked when Lloyd climbed in the driver's seat.

"I had company."

"Did he see you?"

"I doubt it," said Lloyd. "If he did, he would have opened the gate." He drove out of the woods toward the main road and unzipped the bag on his lap. He handed bricks of cash to Jamie. "Take these."

"I can't."

"You'll need the money."

Jamie clung to his arm. "
We'll
need it. I can't do this alone."

Lloyd laced his fingers with Jamie's and kissed her hand gently. "Samantha has everything in place. She'll call me when you're safe."

"Did she say anything?" Jamie asked. She sounded afraid to hear the answer.

"About what?"

"Never mind..."

Lloyd rubbed her hand. "Samantha's on board all the way. And so am I."

"Then it's really happening?"

Lloyd nodded. "Just like we planned." He could sense Jamie's apprehension. Understandable given the circumstances, but not insurmountable. "Are you okay with everything at your end?"

"I think so," said Jamie. "I crushed enough pills to knock out an elephant."

"And you're sure he'll drink it?"

Jamie nodded slowly. "Alan has the same routine every night. He can't sleep without a drink before bed."

Lloyd detoured from the highway and followed an alternate route to Jamie's car at the Winn-Dixie parking lot. "Did you pack the duct tape?"

"Yes."

"And the Super Glue?"