Authors: James W. Hall
Ladarius appeared behind the girl.
“Leo’s dizzy, Papa.” The girl swung the giraffe in a wide circle, bumping it against the floor. “See. He’s dizzy.”
“You got your car. What you want now?”
Thorn said, “I’ve got a cell phone. If you hear anything might be helpful in my search, maybe you could call me.”
The man’s eyes were stony and distant.
“Why would I do that?”
“Kindness of your heart. Or I could pay you handsomely.”
“How handsomely is that?”
“Very,” Thorn said.
“You throwing around money like you didn’t earn it honest.”
Thorn gave Ladarius the number for Tina’s cell and recited it again.
“Leo’s dizzy, Papa. See how dizzy.”
With a gentle touch, Ladarius Washington steered his daughter aside and shut the door in Thorn’s face.
On the drive back toward Pine Haven, he pulled onto a road he’d spotted earlier. An asphalt street that ran straight into a wooded area for at least two hundred yards then ended. The concrete slabs and foundations of five houses had been laid out, but the development had failed, and weeds had overgrown the slabs and broken through splits in the asphalt and were thriving.
The green-and-gold sign out front said,
DOBBINS COURT
.
The street halted in a cul-de-sac, where he found the largest foundation. A monster house had been planned, a palace that would preside over the lesser homes of Dobbins Court. Beside the foundation a yellow Port-O-Let had tumbled onto its side and had been sprayed with layers of graffiti.
He parked, took the shovel and duffel from the trunk. He removed a few hundred dollars of the cash for incidentals that might arise and left the rest of it along with the automatic weapons inside the duffel and hauled it over to the Port-O-Let.
He pried open its door, startling a family of field mice. After taking out the three cartons of ammo packaged in a heavy Ziploc bag, Thorn zipped up the duffel and propped it upright against the edge of the toilet seat.
At the western edge of the palace’s foundation slab, he picked an open area at the base of some slash pines, cleared away the layer of pine needles, and dug a hole and buried the Ziploc bag of ammo. He scuffed up the dirt then scattered the pine needles over the hole. Even if someone stumbled on the shotguns, they’d be useless without the exotic ammunition.
He was no pacifist, but until he understood exactly what danger he was facing and had a plan to combat it, he’d rather keep the big guns in reserve.
Back at the car, he hauled out the luggage. He started with X-88’s fake leather case. Its contents were minimal. A man traveling light. T-shirts, underwear, a shaving kit with a single throwaway razor, a toothbrush, a motel-size tube of toothpaste and a travel-size deodorant stick. Nothing else. He wasn’t planning a long voyage. A night or two.
He looked at Pixie’s pink roll-on, thought of his rearview mirror glimpse of her as he was fleeing the gas station. Not Cruz’s nitwit black sheep daughter blathering about her bawdy history for the last few hundred miles. But an active player in Cruz’s crew.
He lay her suitcase on the ground at his feet and unsnapped it. Clothes neatly organized. Jeans, shirts, basic undies, a pair of plain leather walking shoes, no cosmetics in her toiletry bag, not even lipstick. Organized, methodical. No crotchless panties, lacy bras. Nothing to indicate the floozy she’d made herself out to be.
Cruz’s backpack was a fancy model with straps to wear the usual way and an extension handle and wheels to roll through airports. He unzipped the main compartment and found a couple of changes of casual clothes, gray jeans, two identical black long-sleeved T-shirts, pajamas, underwear, a small cosmetics bag, some wires to recharge her cell phone, a pair of running shoes with socks stuffed inside. The outer zippered compartments were empty.
As he was tucking her clothes back in place, his hand bumped a bulge where the retractable handle was anchored. It might have been a part of the assembly, but something about it seemed out of place.
He emptied the bag again and ran his finger around the inner edges of the pack, tugging on the seams until he discovered a Velcro strip, an access point for servicing the retractable handle. He peeled open the slit and slid his hand under the lining, felt around till he came upon a plastic bag held in place by duct tape.
He peeled the tape loose, drew out the object, and held it up to the winter sunshine. Inside the plastic bag was a bright orange T-shirt. Thorn didn’t open the bag. He didn’t need to. Whoever folded it to fit inside the plastic container had left a large portion of the front exposed. There was a logo in white, a round sun halfway buried into the waterline, and printed in bold white letters:
CARIBBEAN CLUB, KEY LARGO, FLA.
Thorn had given Flynn a shirt exactly like this one as a silly gift the day he and his mother had come down for a visit. The day when Flynn was cool and distant and acting disinterested in Thorn’s house, his boat, his lagoon, and most of all his presence. A gift the boy took reluctantly and without comment, then set on the fish-cleaning table as he wandered aimlessly around Thorn’s property.
But when he left later that afternoon, Flynn had walked over to the fish table and picked up the shirt and carried it to his mother’s car. It was the same T-shirt Flynn had changed into the last night Thorn saw him a little more than a year ago as he climbed into the Ford van and drove away with Cassandra.
How had Cruz come by the shirt? Why had she taken such care to protect it and to secrete it in her luggage?
He set the backpack on the ground and stood at the open trunk trying to piece this mess together. Lies jumbled with more lies. Were they all lies or was there truth blended in? The Snitches Web site? The red
X
s across their faces, the story of Cruz’s own daughter. The postcard with no postmark, Sugarman’s address printed in block letters that were different from Flynn’s handwriting. Tina’s emergency bathroom stop, directing them to a particular Shell station and fleeing in that conveniently available car. If it was all as choreographed as it appeared, and Tina been part of the scheme from the start, why had she been locked in the trunk?
He slowed down, then walked through it again.
For some reason Cruz had lured Thorn to Pine Haven, summoning Sugarman in order for Tina to join the party, then discarding both of them along the way. If true, it was an absurdly elaborate ploy to get Thorn engaged. Why hadn’t she simply shown up at his house, laid out the scenario one-on-one? Flynn was in danger and in hiding. Then explain her plan to use Thorn as bait to convince Flynn to reveal himself. Why the convoluted scheme with so many moving parts?
Maybe it was all a magician’s trick. Misdirecting his attention with shiny objects, the duffel and the shotguns and the cash, then distracting him again with Tina’s flight and with the Snitches Web site, the red
X
s. All to confuse him, keep him off balance, moving forward. Because if he’d stopped to question her, stopped to do due diligence, he might’ve balked. Might’ve suspected she was hunting down Flynn to capture him and throw him in jail, and simply using Thorn to accomplish that objective.
The more he considered it, the more muddled he got. Where was the proof of a single thing she’d said? If she’d been lying about the real reason behind this journey, then perhaps she was lying about Flynn’s wounds as well.
God, how he wanted to believe that.
But the sad truth was, logical reasoning had never been Thorn’s strong suit. Puzzles confounded him. Riddles left him irritated and bewildered. His customary method for solving problems was simply to trust his gut, and if his instincts failed, his next reflex was to start kicking down doors, a monkey wrench in each hand.
He returned the T-shirt in its plastic bag to the slot in her backpack and retaped it in place, then he repacked her clothes as neatly as he’d found them. He set X-88’s bag back in the trunk in exactly the same position. He shut the trunk and took a deep breath, then took another. He looked off at the clear blue December sky and tried to read some message there. But as usual, the sky was keeping its advice to itself.
So on his own he decided.
For Flynn’s sake he would keep the monkey wrenches holstered for now. He would calm down. He would drive to town, present himself politely to the fine folks of Pine Haven, spread around his name and his Florida charm, and he would watch with great attention to see whose hackles began to twitch.
EIGHTEEN
THE HAPPY BISCUIT CAFÉ WAS
a modest white storefront with a picture window that stretched from the front door to its far wall. A smiling caricature on its sign showed a biscuit with flaky layers shaped into a pair of smiling lips surrounding a neat row of teeth. A weird and unappetizing logo.
He wasn’t hungry, but decided to make it his first stop. He’d save the pool halls and bars in case things got desperate. Over the years Thorn had found that diners and luncheonettes had far more reliable local intelligence than bars and pool halls, where, in addition to an inebriated and hence less trustworthy clientele, an outsider could easily ask one question too many and find himself departing the premises headfirst.
He parked Eddie’s immaculate Taurus across the street from the diner and tried calling Sugar’s cell phone. Again the call failed. Only one signal bar was flickering. Either Tina had chosen a cut-rate phone plan that didn’t have coverage beyond South Florida or else Thorn had chanced upon yet another dead zone.
The only customer in the Happy Biscuit, Thorn chose what he considered the premier spot, a backless counter stool of fake red leather in the exact center of the counter. He tried it out, swiveling to his left then his right. It squeaked harshly, which drew the attention of the blond waitress who was cleaning the coffee machine. She looked up at the clock over the coffee station. Three fifteen.
“A little early for dinner,” she said, coming over with a menu.
Her tag read
MILLIE
, a name more suited to her grandmother’s generation. She was in her midthirties with a tired smile. No rings on her fingers, a barrette in her hair that was hand-painted by a kid.
EMMA
spelled out in awkward yellow letters.
Millie was a pretty woman, maybe a decade past her innocent years, with the battle-weary look of a single mom who’d survived the worst that men could do. She’d heard all their small-town lies. Experienced every disillusionment and betrayal. Weathered the slow erosion of her reputation when one ex after another spread poisonous libels about her. At least that’s how it worked for certain women Thorn knew in Key Largo.
“What’s the worst thing on the menu?” Thorn said.
She wiped the counter in front of him, keeping her eyes down.
“Well, there’s a line I haven’t heard before.”
“I like to start at the bottom, work my way up.”
“And what’s that accomplish?”
“If I’m expecting the worst, I’m rarely disappointed.”
“Lucky you.”
“I’m looking for somebody,” he said.
“Now that,” she said, and met his eyes, “I’ve heard more than once.”
Thorn smiled.
“He’s a young man, a much better-looking, less battered, and far more idealistic version of me.”
She gave him a closer look, and whatever she saw made her flinch and clutch her rag and take a half step back from the counter.
“The pulled pork sandwich,” she said. “It’s dry and tasteless.”
“I thought this was hog country.”
“They’re dry and tasteless hogs.”
“That’s the worst you can do? Pulled pork sandwich.”
“It’s stringy and tough.”
“Okay then,” Thorn said. “I’ll start with that.”
“Fries or cole slaw?”
“His name is Flynn Moss. He probably showed up a week or two ago. He’s an environmentalist. Cares more about the woods and rivers and birds and all that than he does about himself. Trying to do good for mankind.”
The light had begun to twitch in her eyes, her mouth trying on and discarding various moods. Unskilled at concealing her emotions.
She ducked her eyes and said, “Coleslaw is homemade. Got raisins in it, a little on the sweet side.”
“I’ll go with the fries.”
“Limp and greasy, cooked in oil that turned black three days ago.”
“Sounds perfect,” Thorn said.
She braced herself and looked directly at him again.
“Anything to drink?”
“How’s the water?”
“Go with the root beer. Water’s got a metal taste. Myself, I’m used to it, but people from out of town, well, they can have a hard time.”
“How hard?”
“Very,” she said. “A very hard time.”
“Then I’ll take the water,” Thorn said.
“Of course you will,” she said with a faint smile. “Of course.”
She was right about the pulled pork. But Thorn slathered it with sauce and wolfed it down, discovering he was more hungry than he’d thought. The fries, however, were as gummy and far removed from the world of food as candle wax. The water tasted of copper and iron and something else he couldn’t identify but that reminded him of the fumes released from paper mills.
Finished, he pushed the plate aside and waited for Millie to return.
Beyond the pass-through opening he could see a dark-haired heavyset man scraping the griddle with a spatula. Another man, Hispanic, was chopping vegetables, a phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear. Both had their backs to Thorn and there was no sign of Millie.
While he waited he flipped open Tina’s phone. On the screen was a
NO SERVICE
message. He set the phone on the counter and waited some more.
The vegetable chopper stopped for a moment, cut a look at Thorn, then spoke to the man at the griddle, who also turned his head and appraised their sole customer. Thorn waggled his fingers at the men, but neither waved back.
He opened the phone and tried again but it was as useless as before. At home in the Keys, Thorn didn’t have a landline and he didn’t own a cell phone. He’d never been comfortable conversing electronically. Ready to hang up as soon as the connection was made. Phones were unreliable. They flattened out voices, pared away the highs and lows of emotional content. People got away with lying on phones more easily than in person, no facial clues, no telling gestures, and sometimes Thorn had spoken on phones to people who were obviously doing three other things while speaking to him, a rudeness that would rarely happen face-to-face. He’d happily toss Tina’s phone in the nearest waste can except he had to speak to Sugar, needed to tell him what he’d learned about Tina, get Sugar to alert the proper authorities, start things moving.