Life or Death (44 page)

Moss whistles through his teeth. ‘That’s got to be one precious child.’

‘Why?’

‘You didn’t see what they did to Audie in prison. He swam through an ocean of shit when most men would have happily drowned.’

Desiree ignores him for a moment, still developing the story in her mind. She and Moss had been working toward the same end but approaching the search from different angles. Together they had created a compelling story, but that didn’t make it true.

Audie Palmer saw the accident and shootout. He watched his wife die. There were seven million reasons to clean up and remove any witnesses, which meant killing Audie or silencing him. They tried both.

There were three deputies involved in the shooting. One is dead, another missing, and the third is Ryan Valdez. DA Edward Dowling is now a newly elected State Senator. Frank Senogles ran the original investigation and is now a Special Agent in Charge. Who else might be involved? The conspiracy relied upon Audie Palmer’s silence. They must have used the boy as leverage, which is why they kept him close … very close.

What about the other gang member? In the original statements the two deputies claimed a dark-coloured SUV was parked alongside the armoured truck and the bags of cash were being transferred. The SUV sped off and was later found burnt out near Lake Conroe. These elements of the story were only added after the shooting. The deputies could easily have searched the dispatcher’s log for reports of stolen and burned-out cars and chosen one to link to the robbery.

There was never a description of the missing gang member. Nobody claimed to have seen Carl Palmer. It was always an assumption, which the police helped foster by creating rumours, third-hand accounts and reports from unnamed sources. Somebody leaked Carl’s name to the media and the story took on a life of its own. Soon it became accepted as fact, backed up by periodic ‘sightings’ of Carl in places like Mexico and the Philippines. There were never any photographs or fingerprints. Each time Carl would mysteriously slip away before the FBI could confirm his identity. Somebody like Senogles could have planted the stories. By keeping this fictitious gang member alive it stopped anyone looking more closely at the robbery.

Desiree’s mind comes back to the present. The sun is a fading spark on the horizon and farms have given away to wetlands, canals and shallow lakes. Short grasses are bent by the wind and the air blooms with the smell of salt and rain. Big sky. Big land. Big sea.

66

‘Let me take the boy with me,’ says Tony, rubbing his hands over his head as though his whole scalp itches.

‘He’ll be safer here,’ says Audie, his voice sounding hollow and brittle. He takes a reflective vest from Tony’s bag. ‘You should wear this.’

Standing unsteadily, Tony slips it over his shoulders.

‘They won’t shoot you,’ says Max, looking at Audie for reassurance. ‘My dad is out there. He’s a sheriff.’

Tony looks at the teenager and smiles. ‘A braver man would offer to stay here.’

‘You’re brave enough,’ replies Max.

Audie wants to stop Tony, but he doesn’t have any arguments left. Staying is no safer than leaving. In the same breath he thinks of Scarlett and Cassie in the motel room and wonders if it would have made a difference had he stayed. Could he have protected them?

Tony motions to Audie’s shoulder where blood is leaking through the bandages and running down his forearm. There are droplets like beads of mercury on the polished wooden floorboards.

‘I’m a little confused about what you’re hoping to achieve here, son.’

Audie opens his palms and stares at them. ‘I’m trying to keep Max safe. And I’m trying to keep you safe. And I’m hoping to stay alive. Which bit confuses you?’

‘The third part, I guess. I’m seventy-two. Widowed. Retired. Unemployable. Ex-Navy. I got a dodgy ticker and it takes me an hour to pee. I don’t have a son, only daughters, but I’m not complaining. They’ve been good to me. I’ve seen you with Max and I know you’d never set out to hurt him.’

‘Thank you,’ says Audie.

‘No point thanking me.’ Tony glances back at Max. ‘Good luck, young ’un.’

Tony crosses the deck and walks slowly down the stairs, feeling for each step in the darkness. When he reaches his pickup, he pauses to examine the bullet holes and curses under his breath. He walks toward the road, the footing firmer, the pain in his chest getting worse.

Panic is the enemy. That’s what his old drill sergeant used to say. Panic is what takes over when fear renders your brain useless. Where are the police cars? Why haven’t they come out to get him?

In that instant, a blast of light almost knocks Tony backward. He raises his hands to shield his eyes but sees nothing but red circles burned onto the back of his lids.

‘Stop there,’ says a voice.

‘I’m not armed.’

‘Hands on your head.’

‘Hey, I’m going blind here. Can you turn down the lights?’

‘Kneel down.’

‘My knees aren’t what they were.’

‘Do it.’

‘I’m just the caretaker. You don’t have to bother with me. I’m no problem. The boy’s safe.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Tony Schroeder.’

‘How do you know Audie Palmer?’

‘I don’t know him. I just met him. I came to check on the house after the storm. You shot up my rig and the Halligans’ boat. I hope someone is going pay for that.’

‘You should have stayed out of this, old-timer.’

‘What do you mean?’

From a distance Audie hears a dull wet popping sound and sees the red mist of blood in the brightness of the headlights. Tony collapses to the asphalt, his head tilted sideways like a man in search of a pillow to lie upon.

Max watches it happen and screams. He bolts for the door and Audie has to throw out his good arm, catching the teenager in mid-flight, lifting him off his feet.

‘They shot him!’ screams Max, blinking at Audie incredulously. ‘They shot Tony!’

Audie doesn’t know what to say.

The teenager is sobbing. ‘Why? He didn’t hurt anybody. He was kneeling down. They shot him in the head.’

Audie knows they’re removing witnesses and finishing the job they botched eleven years ago. Max is kneeling on the floor, slumped over like a puppet with cut strings. Audie’s heart aches. He wants to run his thumb over the boy’s lower lip and wipe away the errant tear.

Outside the headlights have been turned off. They’ll be coming now. Audie sits beside Max, feeling empty inside, hollowed out. Despite the sense of urgency, his body is ready to give up. Blood loss. Hope lost. The quest over. Even if he managed to get to the beach, what then? Would they let Max live?

The teenager has stopped crying. He’s sitting, braced against the wall, knees bent, staring at the cell phone.

‘I remember,’ he whispers hoarsely. ‘You were kneeling down and someone was standing over you pointing a gun at your head. You were looking at me…’

‘You have to run, Max.’

‘He won’t shoot me.’

‘You don’t know that.’

There is someone on the stairs outside. Audie looks out the kitchen window and sees the outline of a head appear above the deck. Rising to one knee, he primes the shotgun and rests it on the sill.

‘I’ll try to draw their fire. Once I’m gone I want you to run.’

‘Where?’

‘You can swim across the canal. Stay hidden.’

‘You can’t go out there.’

‘I don’t have a choice.’

Moss crosses the swing bridge and eases the pickup onto Canal Drive, heading east past a handful of houses that are mostly closed up for the winter. Away from the brightness of the headlights, he can just make out the whitewashed shore and the darker shade of the sea.

The houses begin to thin out and disappear. The canal and coastline converge to create a narrow strip of land less than a hundred yards wide in places. Although only a few feet above sea level, there are still swales and humps that could hide a man if he was lying down. The air is laced with salt and woodsmoke and the stench of rotting seaweed. Perhaps someone has lit a campfire or teenagers are drinking on the beach.

Moss slows. Ahead, just visible past a bend, he notices the rear red reflectors of two vehicles blocking the road. He flicks off the headlights and rolls to a stop, turning off the engine. At that same instant Desiree turns her head.

‘Did you hear that?’

Gunfire.

They listen. The next shot is louder, followed by a short burst of semi-automatic gunfire that sounds like firecrackers exploding in an empty paint tin. Desiree opens her cell phone and calls for backup. It’s too dark for Moss to see her features, but he can hear the tremor in her voice.

He peers out of the windshield. Each time the wiper blade sweeps across the glass the scene comes into focus. A pair of binoculars would have been handy.

Desiree unzips her boots. ‘You stay here.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out there.’

‘Are you crazy?’

Desiree holds up her pistol. ‘I know how to use this.’

‘These guys aren’t going to swap phone numbers.’

‘Neither am I.’

Moss watches her move away. Reaching below the seat, he finds the big revolver wrapped in the oily rag. He unfolds it gently on his lap and weighs it in his hand, remembering when he first held a firearm, aged thirteen. He liked the way it made him feel – six inches taller and forty pounds heavier, no longer weak or insignificant. The gun gave him gravitas. The gun made him more articulate. The gun gave him courage. This was imaginary and fleeting, of course, but it took a lot of lean years in prison for him to realise that.

Desiree is thirty yards in front of him, moving further away. She looks twelve years old in her stockinged feet. Looking left and right, Moss scans the low shrubs and chooses to take the beach side, finding a path through the dunes.

Feeling too exposed, Desiree navigates the shallow ditch and climbs a hummock. Down on her belly, grasses tickling her chin, she slithers across the clumpy ground to within thirty feet of the two Ford Explorers. At first glance the vehicles had looked empty, but now she notices a figure sitting in the passenger seat with the door partially open, smoking a cigar. Lying flat, she digs her forearms into the sand and aims her pistol at the man’s head, her finger tightening on the trigger.

‘FBI! Hands on the dashboard.’

His head jerks around with an expression of amazement, as though the Virgin Mary had suddenly appeared before him. One hand rises, the other falls.

Moss is watching from the opposite side of the car. He can’t see the man’s face, but senses what’s coming next. This guy is going to roll the dice. Maybe he thinks Desiree won’t fire. Maybe he believes that he’s faster.

In one movement, the man raises a machine pistol above the level of the window. The weapon needs two hands to hold it steady, but he’s only using one. He presses the trigger and the pistol jumps, raking the grassy hummock with a staccato burst. Desiree fires twice, hitting him under the armpit and again in the neck. The man falls sideways, half in the car and half out, his face illuminated by the interior light.

Moss sprints from his hiding place and leaps over the ditch. When he reaches Desiree she’s bleeding onto her blouse.

‘It’s only a nick,’ she says, showing Moss her forearm. Slightly deafened by the noise, she doesn’t realise she’s shouting.

Moss looks at the body. ‘Who is it?’

‘A man called Victor Pilkington.’

More flashes pierce the darkness. The sounds arrive a moment later. Moss helps Desiree stand. She barely reaches his waist. She points to his .45. ‘You said you weren’t armed.’

‘I lied, ma’am.’

She shakes her head. ‘Come on.’

67

Audie can’t see the shadows outside any more. They’re probably braced against the walls, waiting to come through the windows and the door. His shotgun is resting on the windowsill, aiming at the top of the stairs.

‘Get ready to run.’

‘I’m scared,’ says Max.

‘I’m sorry I made such a mess of things. I should have left you alone.’

He hears a burst of gunfire in the distance. At the same time a dark shape appears on the deck. He pulls the trigger and hears someone grunt and collapse backward down the stairs. Audie doesn’t wait. He flings open the door and sprints across the deck, planting his good hand on the railing and swinging his legs over the top. The drop is about fifteen feet. He lands heavily, knees buckling into his stomach. Lying on his back, winded, he sucks in air.

Stencilled against the horizon he sees the silhouettes of two figures breaking cover and running toward the house. Another shooter stands on the beach, arm extended, preparing to fire. Audie scrambles up and starts to run. Fear hums in his sinews. Reaching the dunes, he throws himself over the top and tumbles down the other side. The ocean is eighty yards away, the beach deserted with seaweed clinging to the tideline. What’s across the water? Cuba, Mexico, Belize. Places he’ll never see. A world of countless millions of people, living in the heat and the light, while he is a universe of one, alone on the beach, a lighthouse whose light cannot be relit.

Looking up and down the sand, he’s filled with a desperate, almost suffocating sadness and sense of abandonment. Why does the world have so little need of him? What can’t it just be ambivalent?

He groans, climbs to his feet and starts running along the beach. Bullets are kicking up sand and whizzing past his ears. They’re not firing wildly. There is a gap between each burst. These aren’t nickel-and-dimers, they’re professionals who take aim. They’ve come to do a job.

He zigzags as he runs and falls into another swale, holding his useless arm, staring skyward, considering his choices or lack of them.

Give up.

No.

Get up.

Can’t.

Glancing back the way he’s come, he sees shadows hiding in the ragged clumps of grass where the insects have gone silent. Spectres. Ghosts. Furies. Impatient gods. The men are reloading. Waiting for him.

Moss and Desiree have reached the house and are crouching beneath the deck, smelling the cold mineral odour of cement and the tropical ferns. Someone is lying at the base of the stairs, holding his face. Moaning. There are voices above. Two people are coming down the stairs – a teenage boy and someone holding a machine pistol.