He waved the gun in the air like it didn’t matter. “That’s different. I got bored, I told you that. I needed new territory. It was nothing personal.”
“So how many people have you killed?”
His grin in the rearview mirror chilled her. “More than you could possibly imagine.”
* * * *
Ed kept Sam apprised with a running play-by on the cell phone. Up ahead, the SUV veered off to the right, the turnoff for the Skyway Bridge.
“We can’t try to take him on the bridge. It’s too dangerous. If he got away, he could easily grab another hostage.”
“Did you hear that, Sam?” Ed asked.
“Yeah, I did. But Pinellas County and the FHP have already been notified and they’re blocking off the bridge. They’re going to let him on and box him in. At least, that’s the way it’s supposed to happen. If he gets off that bridge, we risk losing him. At least the bridge is a confined environment. Besides, the longer he has Mitch, the more of a risk there is that he’ll hurt her.” Ed told the deputy what Sam said and the deputy nodded.
Two more cruisers, one Manatee County and an FHP car, were involved in the pursuit, following Ed and the deputy. Mitch was keeping the Explorer a steady seventy-five miles per hour, only five miles faster than the limit. Apparently, John was oblivious to their presence. Ed sent a silent message to Mitch to hang on.
* * * *
John shoved a dollar bill in Mitch’s face for the toll. “Do not freak on me, or I will kill the toll collector.”
His growl was all she needed to comply. They made it through the toll plaza without incident, although the toll collector seemed to stare at her intently. The cruiser followed about a half mile behind them and before being joined by two other cars. She allowed herself a little hope.
Up ahead, palm trees were pinned back by the stiff twenty-five-plus-knot breeze blowing across the bridge off the Gulf. The high-wind warning lights flashed ahead on the causeway, and Mitch started formulating her plan.
John had eased back a little, still leaning over the back of the seat, but not crowding Mitch quite so closely. Her total compliance to his demands had relaxed him. She tried to keep him talking, keep his mind off his surroundings. It turned her stomach that she’d ever made love to him, but she kept him rambling about his many kills despite her desire to retch.
Mitch had difficulty keeping one eye on the road and the other on John. By the time they reached the causeway approaching the main span, the cruisers were running their lights.
Ed!
John still hadn’t spotted them. There was a fully loaded car carrier about five lengths behind them. Mitch slowed imperceptibly and slid over into the right-hand lane to let it pass. The draft from its passing combined with the stiff winds buffeted the SUV.
“Why are you slowing down?”
“Because the speed limit’s only sixty on the bridge. I can speed up if you want and risk a ticket.”
“No, just drive.”
She risked another glance in the mirror. The largest vehicle behind her now was a full-size Chevy van.
Her plan was dicey at best, but it was all she could do. They were at the base of the main span now, heading north. She accelerated as she started the ascent, putting two car lengths between her and the van, which now rode in the left-hand lane. For most of the length of the bridge, the travel lanes were divided in the center by a gap, until they met at the main span. There, where the supporting cables were anchored, a low, three-foot-tall berm about ten feet wide separated the travel lanes.
As she crested the top of the span, John’s attention was on the view of the St. Pete peninsula, not her. Timing was everything. She prayed as she jammed the brake pedal to the floor while whipping the wheel around hard to the left across both lanes.
“Son of a—” was all John had time to get out. The gun flew from his hand, crazing the windshield before falling to the passenger side floor while he was vaulted over the seat after it.
Mitch felt the ABS trying to compensate. She pumped the pedal, trying to counteract it, coaxing the skid. The SUV slid sideways. Mitch thought she’d avoided a rollover then the bumper caught the wall, flipping the Expedition onto its passenger side.
The air bags deployed, scaring her. She barely had time to register the squeal of tires over the grinding of metal against concrete as another impact rocked the Explorer as the van, unable to avoid the collision, plowed into them. She prayed the people inside were okay.
Her teeth clenched as she waited for additional impacts as the vehicles slid to a stop. With the passenger side facing down, she tore the now-deflating airbag out of her way and grabbed the steering wheel with one hand while scrambling to unbuckle her seat belt with the other.
Mitch’s heart pounded as she forced the driver’s door open. Another set of tires squealed and she felt another impact somewhere along the chain of the accident.
For an instant, anger overcame her terror. “You bastard!” she screamed. “That’s two vehicles you’ve cost me!” She heard him growl, a sound beyond human, and felt his hand clamp onto her ankle. She kicked out, screaming, and felt satisfaction when she connected and he grunted in pain, releasing her.
The momentum had carried them nearly twenty yards down the other side of the center of the span and traffic quickly built up behind them. She knew the bridge cameras had already picked up the wreck and she prayed no one was injured.
Besides John.
Looking behind her to the south, she saw the emergency lights of the cruisers rapidly threading through traffic along the emergency shoulder, but it would still be at least a minute until they arrived. To the north she saw the approaching lights of an FHP cruiser. Looking back to the wreck, she saw John moving, untangling himself. In a moment, he’d be free.
She bolted. The bridge signaling system was already stopping southbound traffic. Heading for the wall, she looked back at the sound of John’s voice.
“I’m going to kill you, bitch!” His head appeared. “You’re dead!” He started pulling himself from the wreck.
She could now hear the cruisers’ sirens, less than a quarter mile away, but they wouldn’t arrive before John freed himself.
The gun!
She mentally kicked herself for not grabbing it. Mitch jumped over the wall, dodging the support cables, and down to the other side where she ran back toward the south.
Mitch heard John hit the pavement and jump the wall. “Come here, Mitch!”
“Fuck you!” she screamed over her shoulder, not looking back.
Confused motorists watched her run, unsure whether to help or not. The deputy in the lead of the northbound group spotted her and raced up the breakdown lane, finally sliding to a stop near her. Ed bounded out of the cruiser before it even came to a complete stop, the 9mm in his hand, and he jumped the wall, putting himself between her and John.
John didn’t stop until he saw the deputy get out and jump the wall too, his weapon also drawn. Mitch and Ed watched him weighing his choices.
“Drop your weapon now!” The deputy assumed a shooter’s stance.
John backed away, the gun hanging limply from his hand. There was a three-inch gash over his left eye and blood ran down his face. “I never thought you’d get the best of me, Mitch.”
“Drop the gun now!” the deputy repeated.
John shook his head. “Never thought it’d all end like this.”
“John, drop the gun. It’s over. Give yourself up,” Mitch said from the protection of Ed’s arm.
John shook his head. “It’s all ruined. Don’t you understand? Game over. I’m not going to prison.” His legs hit the outer wall of the southbound span and he looked down at the water several hundred feet below.
Turning his attention back to Mitch, he smiled, chilling her blood. “I’ll see you in hell, Mitch.” He raised the gun.
Ed pushed Mitch to the ground, bringing his gun up and firing at the same time the deputy fired. Mitch saw a deadly red flower blossom around John’s left shoulder, the bullet’s impact knocking the gun out of his hand and pushing him over the wall.
“No!” Mitch screamed, running to the wall with the deputy and Ed behind her. The deputy holstered his gun and called for backup on his radio.
“Shots fired, man in the water, we need a rescue boat at the center span immediately!”
The murky Tampa Bay swallowed John’s body, with barely a ripple as the waves swept over the area, leaving no trace. Ed holstered the 9mm and wrapped his arms around Mitch as she collapsed against him.
“Will this nightmare ever end?” she sobbed. Hauntingly, Sami’s joking words about John jumping off a bridge came back to her. Mitch was beyond tears, but felt Ed’s on her cheeks as she crumpled to the pavement.
Authorities dragged Tampa Bay for several days. Divers searched the base of the Skyway and along the pilings of the fishing piers on either side, which were remnants of the original span that collapsed years prior after a freighter collided with it.
Nothing.
Without the body, it was impossible to discern whose weapon had found its mark, but the coroner’s inquest concluded there was little chance John Tyne could have survived the fall after being shot. At the time, the outgoing tide probably carried the body to the open Gulf. Ed didn’t admit it to Mitch, but he had aimed to kill more out of anger than self-preservation, and was pretty sure his bullet had found its mark.
John Tyne was declared legally dead.
Mitch was officially a widow.
* * * *
Mitch wasn’t sure what returning to a “normal” life was supposed to entail. A week after the showdown, Mitch still wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep—didn’t cry. Ed turned to Sami for help. Sami was the only person who really could say she knew what Mitch had been through. Sami didn’t need a degree in psychology to tell Mitch had emotionally shut down from the shock of everything that happened
It was an experience she knew quite well.
Sami told Ed to pack Mitch a bag. She picked her friend up in Aripeka despite Mitch’s feeble protests. She took Mitch to a small inn on a lake near Inverness and finally, after twenty-four hours of doing most of the talking, telling Mitch the full story of what happened to her in Brooksville when Steve went crazy, Mitch opened up and let go of the pain, talked about it.
And cried.
Sami was the only one who could understand the fear, the guilt, the anger, the jumble of emotions all fighting for dominance, each demanding Mitch’s full attention and energy. Three days later, Sami drove Mitch home, Mitch’s mental wounds finally scabbing over.
Two weeks after John’s leap from the Skyway, Mitch still carried the 9mm in a holster under her arm. She still triple-checked the locks on the doors at night. She still jumped at noises. It got to the point where Ed made her keep the gun on his side of the bed, fearing she’d panic during the night and accidentally shoot him or Pete.
She still couldn’t believe John was dead. It didn’t seem real without his body.
She still had nightmares.
The real bombshell came five weeks after the incident. Mitch regained quite a bit of her nerves and actually stopped looking over her shoulder all the time.
“Knock knock,” Ron called from the porch.
“Come in.” Mitch jumped up from the couch and hugged her friend. “Wasn’t expecting you until later.”
“I know. I need to talk to you.”
She frowned. “What?”
“Sit down. Where’s Ed?”
“On his way back from St. Pete. He’ll be home within an hour or so. Why?”
“Shoot. I wanted him to be here, but we can do this now.”
“Ron, what
is
it?”
“Sit down, Mitch.”
She sat on the sofa and he sat on the coffee table, facing her.
“Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like this?” she asked him.
“Mitch, I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Okay, bad news first.”
He took a deep breath. “John had a bunch of stuff in both your names. The Feds and police have seized bank accounts and holdings in excess of five million dollars.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
He nodded. “It’s obvious you had no involvement in his stuff, so they’re not going after you. It could have been messy, but it’s not.”
She relaxed. “Is that the good news?”
He shook his head. “No. You get the Carollwood house. They’ve released it. As John’s widow, you get it.”
“Sell it. As soon as possible.”
He nodded. “I figured you’d feel that way. But that’s not the good news either.”
She was confused. “Then what the hell
is
the good news?”
Ron looked around for a second and spied a copy of the Sailboat Trader magazine, a classified advertisement for sailboats. He picked it up and dropped it in her lap.
“Pick a boat out of there.”
“What?”
He smiled. “Pick a boat. Any boat.”
“Ron, you’re not making sense.”