A Dangerous Affair (46 page)

"I didn't. Not at first."

"How long were you at the scene?" Agent Niles continued.

"Like I said in my statement. I was there until emergency services arrived."

"About what time did they arrive?"

"I can't recall exactly. A few minutes after I put the call out."

Agent Donavan strolled around the house while he talked. "We have a witness who claims they saw a man at the scene
before
Ms. Dancroft's vehicle caught fire."

"Then perhaps you should be questioning him," said Blanchart.

"The witness claims he saw a man in uniform," Agent Donavan explained.

"Witnesses portend to see a lot of things," said Blanchart. "That doesn't make them true."

"Point taken," said Agent Donavan. "But this guy is one of those retired Space Coast engineers with nothing better to do than set his watch to beep every hour. I hate the anal retentive type. Who gives a shit when the hour rolls around? If I need to know what time it is, I look at my watch." He exchanged glances with his partner and posed the follow-up question to Blanchart. "Is there anything more you'd like to share?"

Blanchart reached behind his back, pretending to scratch an itch. His fingers touched the semi-auto .22. "Not really..."

Agent Niles removed a wedding photo from the fireplace mantel. "You have a beautiful wife," he said with his Carolina drawl.

"She's a keeper," said Blanchart.

Agent Niles put the photo back. "Your department's had a tough year. Four murders in three months, including one of your own deputies killed in the line of duty. Any leads so far?"

Blanchart followed the men into the kitchen. "You know I can't discuss an open investigation."

Agent Donavan stared out at the pool. "We're not looking to jam up one of our own."

"I appreciate your concern," said Blanchart.

Agent Donavan noted the shed in the back yard. "A couple weeks ago, Ms. Dancroft approached the FBI with some disturbing accusations about your department. The feds weren't eager to get involved so they punted back to us."

"What type of accusations?"

"Does the name 'Manny Morallen' ring a bell?" asked Agent Niles. He poked his head inside the pantry.

"He killed my deputy."

"I'm sure you're also aware Manny Morallen turned up dead in a motel room three days ago," said Agent Donavan. He chewed vigorously on his flavorless wad of gum. "Ms. Dancroft was his attorney."

"Morallen was a drug addict," said Blanchart. "It happens."

Agent Niles poked his finger at the bullet holes in the pantry door. "According to her written statement, Ms. Dancroft seemed convinced you were directly involved in Morallen's murder. She also claimed in her statement you tried to kill her."

Blanchart forced a laugh. "Me?"

"Did I say something funny?"

"She was defending a cop killer. She was desperate to draw attention away from my primary suspect. You can't take her accusations seriously."

"We take everything seriously," said Agent Niles. He reached inside his jacket, ostensibly to scratch his armpit, and discretely unsnapped his holster. "We traced a cell phone call from Ms. Dancroft's phone to an FBI field office around the time of her accident."

"So?"

Agent Donavan stopped chewing and stared at Blanchart. "Why would a woman trapped inside a burning car bother to dial the FBI and not 911 instead? For that matter, how would she have the presence of mind to dial anything when she's choking on all that smoke?"

"You'd have to ask her yourself."

"We will as soon as she's able to talk," said Agent Niles.

"She's still
alive
?"

"She's in critical condition," said Agent Donavan, "but still very much alive. Are you surprised?" He turned his head when he heard a muffled whimper above the sound of the washing machine noise. "Is there anyone else in the house?"

Blanchart waited patiently for the right opportunity to present itself, holding back the urge to do what came natural. "Just us girls."

Agent Donavan signaled to his partner, who stepped forward. "Let's take a ride, Sheriff."

"Now?"

"You have someplace else to be?"

"I'm the sheriff in this town. I have everywhere else to be."

Agent Donavan circled the kitchen island. For the first time, he noticed a trace of blood on the back of the sheriff's sleeve. "You've got something on your sleeve." He pointed with his index finger. "By your wrist."

Blanchart looked down. "I cut my finger."

"Which one?" asked Agent Niles. "We're going to need you to come with us."

Agent Donavan held his hand out. "I need you to surrender your service weapon."

"Am I under arrest?"

"If you'll surrender your weapon..."

Blanchart unbuckled his holster strap and relinquished his duty pistol. He pinched his fingers above his nose and looked down, pretending to stifle the onset of a teary breakdown. "I need a second," he said, stepping away from the men to enter the pool bathroom.

"Stop right there," said Agent Niles. He reached for his own service weapon, but Blanchart's uncanny quickness prevailed.

Before either agent could react to the imminent threat, Blanchart drew the silenced .22 and cycled the trigger twice, shooting both men through the heart.

Smoke curled from the muzzle.

Blanchart stepped over the bodies and shot each man in the head two more times for good measure. Then he tore open the lower space inside the kitchen island and hauled Samantha out by her hair. He pressed the hot muzzle to her ear. "Where is he?"

"Right here!" Lloyd shouted from the pool bath entrance. He threw a carving knife end-over-end at Blanchart but the handle landed first.

Blanchart raised the gun at Lloyd.

Samantha knocked it away.

Lloyd charged at Blanchart, slamming the sheriff against the counter. He pummeled the sheriff with a flurry of elbows and fists before Blanchart pulled his hickory baton and jabbed it at Lloyd's solar plexus.

Lloyd retreated and grabbed a two-quart sauce pan from the dish rack. He swung the pan at Blanchart's face and nicked his chin.

Blanchart cracked his baton against Lloyd's head.

Lloyd slipped in a pool of blood and tripped over Agent Donavan's body.

"Drop it!" Samantha shouted. Her hands trembled around the checkered composite grip of Blanchart's duty weapon.

"You're not going to shoot me," Blanchart taunted her. He lunged with the baton.

Samantha fired randomly, punching holes in the walls and ceiling before Blanchart knocked the gun away and threw her to the ground.

Lloyd grabbed Agent Donovan's gun and turned it on Blanchart. "Last chance."

Blanchart raised the baton in a fit of rage.

Lloyd emptied the clip at Blanchart's body and watched the sheriff collapse in front of him.

Samantha covered her ears. "Stop it!" she shouted, unable to hear her own words.

Lloyd snatched the car keys from Blanchart's pocket. He stared through a window overlooking the pool and the utility shed near the back of the property line. "Did you check the shed?"

"What shed?" Samantha yelled above the ringing in her ears.

Lloyd grabbed her hand and ran outside. He entered the open storage space and stared at a toppled workbench with an old bullet press and an assortment of dirty surgical tools wrapped in a bloody rag.

He shoved the workbench aside and moved the heavy plywood to reveal the makeshift coffin beneath.

Samantha covered her mouth at the ghastly sight of a body wrapped in a plastic sheet.

Lloyd tugged at the sheet around the head. "It's not her," he said, wincing at Marvin Tate's dead face. "Let's go..."

"What about Jamie?"

"We'll find her," Lloyd said convincingly as he led Samantha around the house and back toward the driveway.

"Look out!" Samantha shouted when she saw Blanchart charge from the opposite side, doused from the automatic sprinklers.

Lloyd exchanged shots with Blanchart.

Samantha caught a high pressure round in the eye. The bullet ruptured her socket and lodged at the back of her brain.

Lloyd fired the last round from Agent Donavan's gun and dove inside the sheriff's cruiser to unlock the Remington pump-action from the center mounting post. He racked the shotgun to chamber the first shell as bullets peppered the windshield.

"It's over!" Blanchart shouted across the driveway in his Level II vest and reloaded.

Lloyd rolled away from the sheriff's cruiser and ducked behind the state police car for a better angle. He fired consecutive volleys from the pump-action twelve-gauge, striking Blanchart in the arm. "That's for Samantha," Lloyd shouted with venom in his veins.

Blanchart fired back off-balance at Lloyd who charged his position.

"Drop it!" Lloyd demanded.

Blanchart tossed the silenced .22. His arm bled profusely through his uniform sleeve. "You don't have the balls to finish this."

Lloyd rammed the shotgun's business end at Blanchart's chest, branding a small circle above the sheriff's badge. Water rained down on both men. "Where is she?"

Blanchart laughed. "Pull the trigger and you'll never see her again."

The faint wail of police sirens grew louder.

Lloyd pressed his boot on Blanchart's injured arm. "Where is she?"

Blanchart endured the pain. "This falls on you."

Lloyd shifted more weight on his foot. "Wrong answer."

"I decide who lives and dies," Blanchart growled.

Lloyd eased the shotgun barrel in Blanchart's mouth. "Not if I can help it." He squeezed the trigger and heard the click of an empty chamber.

Blanchart laughed with his mouth around the barrel.

Lloyd pumped the firearm and fired again to produce the same result. Out of time and out of options, he slammed the shotgun stock at Blanchart's face and knocked him cold. Then he commandeered the sheriff's bullet-ridden cruiser and tore out of the driveway in reverse, crushing the mailbox as he centered the wheel and peeled away from the secluded subdivision.

He fiddled with the police radio, his fingers smeared with blood not his own, and accelerated hard to distance himself from the carnage he left behind. His own anger had got the better of him in a moment of vengeance. In reality he had nothing to gain by killing Blanchart. And little to convince himself Jamie was still alive.

He'd witnessed more bloodshed in twenty-four hours than he had after ten years in prison. His gut feelings taught him when to fight and when to leave well enough alone. He'd fought for Jamie to the best of his ability without regard for the consequences of his actions. Now he blamed himself for her predicament, knowing nothing he could do would bring her back.

Distracted by a
thump thump thump
coming from the rear of the car, he adjusted the volume on the police radio and tried to discern the origin.

A flat? A busted tailpipe?

The pounding persisted. Too soft for a flat tire. Too random for a pebble in the tread. Too loud to be his imagination.

He slowed the car.

The thumping stopped for a moment, then continued.

Thump thump thump thump thump...

This time he sat bolt upright and pulled to the shoulder. He jammed the transmission in park and jumped out.

He popped the trunk and found Jamie bound and gagged with her arms and legs covered in welts, her terrified eyes staring back at him with a rag taped inside her mouth.

Chapter 72

Jamie opened the first aid kit from the glove box of her husband's police cruiser. "I thought I was dead..."

She stared at the trees flying by outside the shattered window. Wind turbulence whipped her hair about her face. Glass fragments littered the bullet-ridden seat. The acrid smell of hot ethylene glycol carried through the dashboard vents from a punctured radiator grill.