Sting (26 page)

In the midst of the uproar, Morrow went unnoticed as he unlocked Shaw's handcuffs. They went back into his office where Wiley and Hickam were waiting.

Shaw pushed off the hood and removed the sunglassses. “How much did you hear?”

“Most,” Wiley said.

Morrow said, “He seduced her to go with him. Pulled off the side of the road to—”

“—get blown by a just-turned sixteen-year-old,” Shaw said. “A shot to the head was almost better than he deserved.”

Wiley said, “A vehicle pulled up behind them. Royce Sherman thought it was the police. He zipped up. She righted herself.”

Shaw took it from there. “The perp left the headlights on, so they couldn't tell what kind of car he was driving or who he was as he approached. She claims she never saw his face.”

Wiley said, “That's about the time she started crying so hard, we couldn't understand anything else she said.”

“What she said,” Shaw told them, “was that she's scared to death that the killer will come after her.”

“But she can't ID him.”

“Not by his looks.” Shaw paused for effect. “But she might by his voice.”

Nobody said anything for several seconds, then Wiley fell back a step. “Oh, Christ.”

“Yeah,” Shaw said grimly. “The killer spoke a few words to Royce before he shot him. Linda's not sure what he said because he talked funny. Like her uncle Clive. Who has this black thing he holds up to his voice box.”

J
ordie pressed the contraband cell phone against her ear and sat down on the edge of the bed. Guiltily, she glanced toward the connecting door to the living area of the suite and spoke in a hushed voice. “Josh? How—”

“Are you watching TV? Have you heard?”

“What? Heard what? How did you know I'd get this phone?”

“I didn't. Just hoped. You're at Extravaganza now?”

“No. The FBI has me sequestered in a hotel. But they allowed some mail to be brought—”

“Turn on the TV.”

“Josh, where are you? Are you all right?”

“Turn on the TV! If you're in a hotel, you have a TV. Turn it on.”

“Why?”

He puffed a sound of impatience tinged with panic. “Turn. On. The. TV.”

She reached for the remote on the nightstand. “All right. It's on.”

He told her the channel to tune in. As she navigated the aggravating menus inherent to hotel televisions, she said, “I've been so worried, Josh. You shouldn't have run away. Are you all right?”

“No, I'm not all right. Especially not after this.”

“After what?”

“He's gonna kill me!”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?” he asked, his voice going shrill.

She recognized the symptoms. He was in full-blown panic mode.

“Josh, listen, please. You are in terrible trouble.”

“Well no shit, Sherlock.”

She rolled her lips inward to contain a retort. “I'll help you. You know I will. But you must calm down and—”

“Calm down?
Calm down?
He's out there! I know it. And he'll kill me.”

His doomsday predictions continued in Jordie's right ear as she strained with the other to hear the television's audio and piece together the story that had her brother completely unhinged.

“Are you watching?” he asked.

“Yes.” A photo of a young man appeared on the TV screen, astonishing Jordie with its familiarity. In the picture, he didn't have a goatee, but she recognized the insolent grin immediately. Until now, she hadn't even known his name.

“He was at the bar Friday night. He talked to me.”

“Oh I know all about it,” Josh said. “He was on TV the other night, blabbing to a reporter about your little interlude.”

“Fortunately I missed that.”

“He talked about sharing a drink—”

“We didn't share—”

“Bragged about his ‘brush with death.' If news reports are correct, he was back at that same bar last night retelling the story.”

“So what? He's milking his fifteen minutes. There's no cause to panic over—”

“I wouldn't be panicked if he hadn't turned up dead!”

Her heart tripped. “What?”

“Murdered, Jordie. Murdered. I thought you were watching TV.”

“I am. I—”

“He was found shot in the head. It happened after he left the bar where he had an
audience
while boasting about meeting you. Now do you understand why I'm panicked?”

On the screen now was video showing a pickup truck. Its windshield was blood-spattered. It was in a woodsy setting surrounded by crime scene tape, squad cars, and uniformed men.

“That's awful,” she murmured. “But he probably got into an argument with someone last night. I'm sure his murder had nothing to do with me.”

“Are you stupid?” Josh shouted.

“How could it involve me?”

“Before I called you, they were interviewing this hairy, tattooed bartender. He said Royce Sherman was acting like a big shot, bragging about the role he'd played in the ‘Panella-Bennett case.' That's how they phrased it.”

“That's what it is, Josh.”

“Don't tell me this guy's murder has nothing to do with you. With us.” He made a choking sound. “I'm never going to get away from him, am I?”

“Panella?”

“Of course Panella! Who do you think?”

“Please calm down. Tell me where you are. I'll come—”

“No!”

“Josh, you cannot outrun the authorities.”

“I already have. I'm not worried about them. It's Panella. You know what I think?” Without waiting for her to answer, he rushed on. “I don't think he ever left the country. I think he's been lurking around, waiting for me to—”

“—to do something crazy like leave the government's protection?”

“I knew it! I knew you'd side with them.”

“Dammit, Josh, I'm on your side.”

“And you're probably mad because I told Wiley about Costa Rica. I had to, Jordie. I didn't say anything bad about you. Only that you went with Panella.”

She refrained from pointing out how damaging even that much might be. It also occurred to her that even though this was the first time they'd spoken in six months, Josh hadn't asked after her welfare. Knowing full well the ordeal she'd suffered this week because of him, he hadn't apologized or expressed concern over her situation. She wouldn't have expected him to. Nevertheless, it hurt.

As evenly as possible, she said, “If you want my help you have to tell me where you are.”

“No way. Panella's close. I can
feel
him. He's probably watching you. If I told you where I am, you'd lead him right to me. He'll never give up. I know him. He won't stop looking for me till I'm dead.”

“That's paranoia talking, Josh. Billy Panella is thousands of miles away.”

“No. He's here. He killed that guy last night.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“No it's not.”

She envisioned him shaking his head in the manner of an obstinate child, red-faced and unyielding, impossible to reason with.

“That dumb redneck interfered with Panella's plan to have you killed. Worse, he was shooting off his mouth about it last night. The bartender said he took credit for you being alive. To Panella that would be a personal affront. He wouldn't let that slide.”

On the television, a news reporter was trying to get a sound bite from Deputy Morrow, whom she recognized from her rescue the day before. He was pushing his way through a throng, saying nothing except, “No comment at this time.”

The undaunted reporter turned to the camera and said, “Although authorities are reluctant to disclose details of the homicide, unnamed sources have told our newsroom that Royce Sherman was killed execution style with a single gunshot.”

Beginning to worm through Jordie was a suspicion that Josh's ranting wasn't so farfetched after all. What he was saying came uncomfortably close to Shaw's warning.
You can't protect your brother from Panella.

Nevertheless, she hastily dismissed the possibility that Panella was nearby and doing his own killing rather than hiring professionals. That was too frightening a thought to entertain.

Besides, whenever her brother was having a meltdown of this caliber, one of them had to remain calm and rational. She said, “For the sake of argument, let's say that Panella never left the United States. Why would he care about a smart-aleck bragging about his encounter with me? He would have much more important things to worry about.”

“That's right. He does. Me! He's got
me
to worry about. That's what I'm trying to tell you! He's going to kill me.”

“If you're that afraid of him, Josh, turn yourself in.”

“They'll put me in prison and throw away the key.”

“Well, which are you more afraid of?” she asked angrily. “Prison or Billy Panella?” She could just see him worrying the corner of his lip between his teeth. At least he was no longer screeching. She reigned in her own temper and switched to a cajoling tone.

“You've placed yourself in a no-win situation, Josh. You played both ends against the middle and lost, leaving you only two choices. Turn yourself in, or continue living in fear of Panella until either he or a hired assassin ferrets you out. Clearly, your best option is to surrender yourself to the authorities.”

“And be punished for things that aren't my fault.”

“They
are
your fault.”

“You want me dead, don't you? You hope I die. You want me out of your life forever. You always have.”

She bowed her head and rubbed her hairline where a headache was coming on. “Don't say things like that. You know they're not true.”

“When Panella gets to me, when they find me with a bullet in my head, you'll have finally gotten what you want, which is rid of me!”

With that, the phone went dead.

After Shaw dropped his bombshell in Morrow's office, things happened quickly.

Morrow turned over the questioning of Linda Meeker to the two detectives who'd been interviewing her before. Her father's bellowing could be heard throughout the building, publicly denouncing her for a long list of sins that would land her in Hell.

If Shaw had had the strength to lay into the judgmental son of a bitch, he would have. But he barely had the stamina to walk to the car with Wiley and Hickam. He stripped off the hot-as-Hades hoodie and the sunglasses and practically fell into the backseat.

He got out of sight just in time. Before they were even clear of the parking lot, two news vans in an obvious race pulled up in front of the sheriff's office.

“Crap,” Hickam said.

“It was only a matter of time,” Wiley said. “Two murders originating in one backwoods bar within a few days? Had to make news even if it's dismissed as a bizarre coincidence.”

“Morrow said he would personally flay and filet anyone who leaked the girl's name to the media,” Shaw said. “But it'll get out.”

“Morrow's gonna have people guarding her house,” Wiley said.

Shaw was only marginally reassured. He trusted Morrow, but he thought about the sloppy surveillance that had been done on Jordie.

Hickam said, “It'll really turn into a circus if Panella's name gets attached to the crime.”

“Morrow's going to keep that speculation out of the media,” Wiley said.

“Except it's not speculation.”

Wiley conceded Shaw's point. “It's scary to think he's in the area. But I'd be lying if I pretended I'm not a little glad. I'd love to nail the bastard once and for all without having to go to the edge of nowhere in order to find him.” He looked at Hickam. “You notify the marshal's service?”

“Gave the guy a hard-on.”

Wiley smiled and watched as the reporters and cameramen rushed the entry of the sheriff's office. “I hate leaving Morrow alone to stamp out that wildfire.”

“He'll handle it. He's solid,” Shaw said as he dug his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets. He'd never been so tired.

As though reading his mind, Wiley said, “You're going back to the hospital.”

Shaw lowered his hand. “Hell I am. We gotta move Jordie Bennett to a safe house.”

“We don't need your help,” Hickam said.

“Didn't say you did.”

“We can handle it without you.”

“You can, but you're not.”

Hickam shrugged. “Fine. Your funeral.”

“You wish.”

“Hey, cut it out,” Wiley said. “You two are worse than my kids.”

For the past fifteen minutes Hickam had been looking like he could chew nails. He chose now to vent, speaking to Wiley as though Shaw weren't there. “That dog-and-pony show he put on back there wasn't a legal interrogation. Nothing Linda Meeker told him can ever be used in a court of law.”

“Wasn't illegal,” Shaw said. “Wasn't even an interrogation. I didn't ask her a single question. Not
one
. I didn't lead the conversation, she did. All I did was listen.” He looked at Hickam in the rearview mirror and raised his eyebrows, inviting him to contradict him.

Hickam said, “Too bad that disarming tactic didn't work on Jordie Bennett. Neither did flexcuffs and a blindfold. Thirty-six hours with her, and you got zip.”

Shaw rested his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes. “She didn't have anything to tell.”

“Unless you count her tropical vacation with Billy Panella.”

Shaw opened his eyes and raised his head only high enough to meet Hickam's smug gaze in the mirror, and it made him terribly uneasy. “Wiley?” The other agent turned his head and looked at him. “What's Quick-Draw talking about?” He listened for five straight minutes, liking none of what Wiley told him.

Wiley finished by saying, “She can't deny being with him down there, but claims not to know anything about the money her brother deposited or Panella's plans to return for it.”

“So you see,” Hickam said, “by relocating her, we're not sure what we're preventing. Another attempt on her life? Or a romantic rendezvous with Billy Panella?”

In Shaw's mind, he was shouting,
Fuck me!

But he didn't respond to Hickam's goading. He didn't say a word, only returned his head to the back of the seat and closed his eyes.

Joe Wiley called Gwen Saunders from the hotel lobby to tell her that they were on their way up, so Jordie was seated on the living area sofa when Gwen unbolted the door and they filed in. Wiley was in the lead, then Hickam.

Behind him came Shaw, whom she hadn't expected to see.

When their eyes met, the connection was electric, anger and hostility arcing hotly between them. But for all the ferocity of his gaze, Shaw looked ghoulish, his eyes alight with fever, shoulders slumped, tread unsteady.

Joe Wiley pointed him into a chair, saying, “Sit down before you fall down.” Then to Jordie and Gwen, “We've got some disturbing news.”

“We heard about it,” Gwen said. “Jordie was in her bedroom resting and saw the story about Royce Sherman's murder on TV.”

“It's dreadful,” Jordie said, “but I don't believe it had anything to do with me.”