A Dark and Lonely Place (48 page)

She asked for another whiskey to help her sleep. When he brought it, her eyes looked huge and haunted in the lantern’s glow. He turned the light down when she finally dozed. But she woke, in a nightmare, before dawn.

The thick night closed in on her, alive with snarls, savage cries, and something slithering in the walls.
Oh God, we’re really here. It’s real, not a nightmare. How long is this night? Will the sun ever rise?

He rocked her. “I know what’s wrong,” he murmured. He kissed her and folded her into his arms. “The problem is all of it. Eagle, Summer, and Cheryl. Strangers stalking you. The shooting in your room. Then I got shot. Lonstein killed. Robby gone. And last night would unnerve anybody.”

He rubbed her back, kissed her shoulders, turned her over, and ran his tongue around her nipples. “Those things never happen to most
people. The lucky ones don’t face even one of them in a lifetime. But we can survive this together.”

He gasped as she clutched his hair and roughly pulled his mouth to hers.

The sun rose as always. Her neck felt stiff, her head throbbed, even her teeth ached. What’s wrong with me? she wondered.

She had prayed her spirits would rise with the sun, that its forgiving rays would burn away her fears, but what she saw in its first weak, pale light multiplied her misgivings. Before any details in the room around her—such as the rusted, old nail on which John’s shirt now hung—were visible, she knew exactly where they were and what they looked like. Panic overtook her.

Who was that pale, distorted face in the old shaving mirror? She scarcely recognized it as her own. She fought a morbid fascination with the ancient straight razor that seemed to await her on a dusty shelf. Old boots stood in a corner. Who had worn them? And when? Why were they so important?

The pantry was exactly where she knew it would be. She found a few supplies: Pringles, pickles, pork rinds, and peanut butter, catsup, canned stew, and coffee, along with dried fruit and several ancient, dust-covered mason jars.

She did not unpack or stock the shelves with the few supplies they’d brought. That would send a false signal, that she was willing to stay, when all she desperately wanted was to leave now.

She found a well-stocked first-aid kit. A rifle, several boxes of ammo, several yards of rope, which strangely fascinated her, and enough whiskey to numb herself if needed. She had always tried to remain alert, senses acute, a single swimmer in a sea of sharks, a drinker who nursed a single margarita or apple martini for an entire evening. But here, in this place, she felt the need to numb the pain of heartbreak, loneliness, and death. She was grateful for the whiskey despite how it burned her throat. Physical pain, she thought, is so much easier to bear.

John was all that kept her there. Since they’d met, she had dreamed of short nights, full of music, love, and laughter. Where had the dream gone? What was happening to her now?

His voice startled her. He was still there.

“See, not so bad in daylight, is it?” He towered naked in the doorway, flashing the grin she loved. When had she first seen it?

“Let’s leave. I hate it here.”

He was startled. “It’s the safest place to be now, darlin’. On the radio last night, they said they think we’re still in Miami, but the manhunt’s now nationwide. We can stay here while I try to reach that FBI contact, call Joel, and keep in touch with our Miami friends.”

She shook her head. “Trust me. Please. We can’t stay here.”

“Just for a few days, darlin’.”

“Not even a few minutes.” Her voice shook. “Let’s go up home to my gram’s. I want to go home.”

He pulled on his painter’s clothes. “What would you like me to bring back for your breakfast?”

“Bring back? I won’t stay here alone.”

“They’re looking for us together. Our faces are all over the news. I have to make some calls, buy gas, and pick up the newspapers, more Sterno, and groceries. Look how cranky you get when I don’t feed you.” He winked.

“Don’t leave me.” She threw her arms around him.

“I won’t,” he said. “Be right back. I promise.”

“I’m afraid I’ll never see you again.” She began to weep.

“You will. Don’t cry, Laura.” He sighed. “I can’t stand it. I’ll be back in an hour or two at the most.”

“What if something happens to you?”

“If it did, I wouldn’t want you there.”

“We’re safer together.” Her voice kept rising as the room and all its secrets overwhelmed her. “What if I hadn’t gone with you to meet Lonstein? Or wasn’t at the top of that exit ramp?”

“You saved my ass both times. But right now, I need to find a cell signal, a gas station, and a store. People will be in all those places. Some read newspapers or watch TV. I want us to survive long enough to have a life together.”

Despair in her eyes, she turned away.

“Kiss me goodbye.”

She ignored him, her profile etched in stone.

He left.

When she heard the car start, she rushed out, raced after him. He stopped and lowered his window. She leaned in and kissed him hard and hungrily on the mouth. “Please?” The word resonated between them like an echo.

“I’ll be back quick as I can,” he said. “Stay inside, and don’t worry.” He drove away.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

S
he steeled herself to step back inside.

If he doesn’t come back? she thought. What will I do? Where can I go? I’d be better off dead.

The day was bright but it was shadowy inside. She tried to nap but found it impossible, then caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She was not alone. Something—someone—was in the kitchen. She heard a moan. “Who’s there?” she cried out.

She stepped quickly into the room. A woman was hanging by her neck, her body gently swaying above the big kitchen table. Laura heard the creak of the rope, gasped and stepped closer. The light changed as a low-hanging cloud blocked the sun, and the half-naked figure vanished. But if the angle, the movement of the sun, the drift of cloud and shadow had created an illusion, why did the woman she saw, dead eyes staring, look like her? Is this how it feels to be insane? she wondered.

She suddenly heard Katie pounding on the old wooden door, calling her name. Laura rushed to the door and threw it open. But no one was there.

She tried to pray but choked on the words.
If there is a God
, she wondered,
how did He let this happen?

She felt weak, frail, and foolish and sipped some whiskey to allay her fears. What did they call it? Liquid courage.

John sat with the car door open, just off a main road. He’d finally found a phone signal and the man he wanted to reach.

“John, for God’s sake! What the hell’s going on?”

“Finally tracked you down, Doug. So you’re the top man in Atlanta. Always knew you’d go places.”

“John, where are you?”

“I need your help.”

“No way I can help you now, John. If you don’t arrange a safe surrender, you stand a good chance of being killed when they catch up to you. I can make some calls right now to arrange your surrender to agents in Miami if that’s where you are.”

“That would increase my chances of being killed to a hundred percent. They will kill me, Doug. It’s complicated. But somebody with the Bureau, somebody I trust, and that’s you, has to know what really happened, what’s going on. You know me. We played ball in school, served together in the military, had each other’s backs, worked cases together in Miami. You know who I am, man. All I need is a few minutes to give you the
Reader’s Digest
version.”

In the silence after he finished his story, John added, “There are documents, photos, witnesses, the works, to back it all up. Which is why they have to kill me. Do you know Joel Hirschhorn?”

“Sure. Who doesn’t?”

“He’s my lawyer. Call him. Make that one call. That’s all I ask. It’s huge, major corruption involving two big law enforcement agencies—homicides, cover-ups, big bucks, drugs, money laundering, civil rights violations, and more. It’s yours, if you want it. If you don’t, I’m screwed, and you’re not the man I always believed you were.”

“John, you know what I’m legally bound to say. Surrender.”

“Sorry, Doug, you’re my last hope. Call Hirschhorn.”

John returned after two and a half hours. He brought Sterno, news from home, and food, including warm fish chowder and freshly made roast beef sandwiches. Shocked by Laura’s state of mind, he reluctantly agreed to leave. He believed it was a mistake, but she was intractable, at the point of hysteria.

“You said my gut instincts were good,” she reminded him, her face pale. “You told me I should never ignore them. Right now they are screaming at me to get away from this place. So I am, even if I need to walk all the way to Gram’s alone.”

He insisted she sip some warm soup and eat something before they left. They ate in the car after she adamantly refused, eyes red, to eat inside, at the big wooden kitchen table.

He filled her in on the news as he drove. His family was about to be
released on bond and seemed close to having all the charges dropped. The children, released to their aunt Katie, were enjoying the beach and the pool at the Sea Spray until they could go home. They—and Françoise, still hoarse from barking—would spend nights at her town house, which had an extra bedroom and a daybed in the den. So far, Katie, the dog, and the children, all the siblings and cousins, were fine and excited about the big sleepover at Aunt Katie’s.

“Kids are so resilient,” Laura said, as she drank in the sunshine and scenery. “They bounce back faster than we do.”

The adults, still humiliated, and furious, mourned Robby and feared for John.

Jeff Burnside’s story on the treatment of John’s family by police had gone viral on the Internet, infuriated viewers and enraged editorial writers. In their “clumsy, heavy-handed attempts” to find John, police had smashed down doors at a nearly empty condo complex, trashed his parents’ home, and seized time sheets, logs, and records from cab companies, all to no avail, after unconfirmed sightings.

Miami police swore they had missed Ashley by minutes at an expensive steakhouse after he and his entourage fled through a restroom window, a Victoria’s Secret lingerie store at the Dolphin Mall, and at the downtown Miami Public Library, where he had been seen perusing books on explosives. He was still in South Florida, they believed, possibly accompanied by Laura, also a fugitive, and other unidentified accomplices in his escape.

“That,” the police chief announced at a press conference, “was no one-man operation. Ashley’s escape from custody was clearly engineered and carefully choreographed by his brother and a number of dangerous criminals directly responsible, along with Ashley, for the shooting death of veteran police officer Frank Miguel, who was outgunned and outnumbered by Ashley’s gang.”

“Steakhouse? Victoria’s Secret? Gang?” Laura lifted her eyebrows as she read the news stories aloud.

John looked sheepish. “Two women, a homeless man, and my brother,” he said. “That’s my gang of dangerous criminals.”

“Never underestimate a woman, or Leon,” Laura said.

Leon had called to tell John that police, under increasing pressure
to make an arrest, were using outrageous tactics, stepping farther and farther out of bounds.

“They’re gonna step in it, big time, if they don’t watch it,” Leon had said. “You know how quick things blow up down here, Johnny.” The split in the department had widened, he said, with scores of disillusioned and dedicated young officers now saying openly that John was framed.

Several times, John reached for his phone to tell Robby. Each time he remembered that his brother would never answer shocked him anew with the stark reality and permanence of loss. Death is so final.

“I can’t wait for you to meet Gram,” Laura said, taking his hand. “She’s wonderful. She’ll love you.”

Laura drove for a time, while he dozed. “Remember . . .” he said, before pulling the painter’s cap down over his face.

“I know, I know. Stay in the middle of the pack, don’t tailgate, and be courteous.”

“If there is no pack, find a rabbit,” he said, “a lone car traveling at the speed you want. Follow discreetly from a hundred yards back. If there’s a speed trap ahead, the rabbit trips the trap and he’s caught, not you. When you see his brakelights flash, that’s your clue. Stay sharp.”

“Yes, sir.” She winked. “Relax and rest your eyes, darlin’. We’re almost there.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

W
hen they were twenty miles away, they stopped at the side of the road. Laura’s hands trembled as she punched in the number. The phone rang, then rang some more.

“She’s not home,” John said.

“It takes her a little bit of time,” Laura said. “She claims to be ninety-eight but lies about her age. I think she’s actually a hundred and one.”

Three more rings and Gram answered. Laura squealed in excitement. “Gram!” she shouted. “It’s me. Coming home, at last.”

“About time! Where you been, girl?”

“Busy working. You okay? Had any company? Anybody been poking around, calling, or asking for me?”

Gram was fine, she said, and home alone. The young woman who helped with housekeeping and cooking had left for the day, and Gram had seen no one else since Sunday.

“Put the water on for tea. We’ll be there before it boils. Bye, Grammy.” She turned to John and lowered the volume. “You need to speak up when you talk to Gram. She’s a little bit hard of hearing.”

The golden afternoon sun slanted through the pines and huge live oaks as Laura dropped John off, then drove slowly down the wooded lane to the house. When first built, the place stood alone and remote in the wilderness. The house was still relatively isolated, but civilization and urban sprawl had crept constantly closer, and now one could find a strip mall, a McDonald’s, or a Burger King only a few miles away. When she saw no sign of intruders or strange cars, she drove back to the end of the lane. John stepped out from the trees when he heard the car. He’d changed out of his spattered house-painter clothes.