Moon Underfoot (37 page)

Jake’s cell phone rang, causing him to jump. He quickly disconnected the call from his office and placed the phone on silent. He didn’t move for several minutes in case Moon Pie or whoever was loading the Bronco had heard it. Jake said a silent prayer of thanks when there was no reaction to his turkey-gobbling ringtone.

Moon Pie’s trailer appeared to be deserted. Jake tried to listen for any sounds coming from inside, but he couldn’t distinguish any noise because of the constant drone of training flights overhead from the nearby Columbus Air Force Base. He had to look in the open window. Jake hurried across the dirt patch between the trailers and pressed flat against Moon Pie’s. Instinctively, Jake touched the pistol in his back pocket. It comforted him. Jake looked at the trailers on the opposite side of the park but couldn’t see anyone, so he turned to look in the window.

The inside of the trailer was a mess. Jake didn’t notice anything of importance. He really didn’t know what he was expecting to see, but he wanted a closer look. He eased to the next window. It too was open. He peered in and didn’t see or hear anyone or anything. The trailer appeared to be empty. Jake knew that if someone were walking around, he’d hear footsteps.

Jake slid down the side of the trailer. His heart raced. After quickly looking around to see if anyone was watching, he tried the handle. It was unlocked. He quickly drew his pistol, slowly
opened the door, and quietly stepped inside. His body raced with a mixture of fear and the dump of adrenaline.
How in the hell do the police do this shit every day?
he wondered.

The trailer looked as if it had just been ransacked. It smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. Jake couldn’t hear anyone or anything. The place looked like it had never been cleaned. Hunting magazines, beer cans, and empty ammo boxes were strewn about. There were several antlers on the walls and the worst flying-turkey mount Jake had ever seen. As he looked around the living room, the smell of cigarette smoke was almost overwhelming, and then he realized that there was a cloud of smoke in the room. He wheeled around toward the kitchen and saw an almost completely burned cigarette, long with ashes, resting in a clear ashtray. He instantly knew that Moon Pie was in the trailer. His hands were shaking as he quietly eased the pistol’s safety into the off position. Jake’s logical, rational side was being blocked by a primitive emotion—the one that desired to kill the person haunting and tormenting his family.

As Jake started across the tiny den, he caught a blur out of the corner of his eye and spun around just in time to face his attacker. The adrenaline coursing through him significantly impaired his fine motor skills, causing his attempted shot to be off its mark. The attacker pistol-whipped him before he could squeeze the trigger again. Jake’s gun hit the floor an instant before he did.

Moon Pie kicked Jake’s pistol out of reach and then stood over him. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room. Moon Pie put his free hand on his burning side. His fingers were wet and warm. He knew he had been hit but felt no pain. That would come later, when the adrenaline subsided. He pulled up his shirt and saw where the bullet had struck him. Another two inches and it would have missed.
Dammit
, Moon Pie thought as he lightly touched the wound.

He walked over to the front door to see if anyone was coming after hearing the gunshot. When he was satisfied that no one
either had heard the shot or cared enough to investigate, he closed the door and locked it. He walked over to Jake’s gun, picked it up, and then put it into the back waistband of his pants. Moon Pie, breathing heavily, had a wild look in his eyes as he stood over Jake, trying to decide what he would do next. He looked again at his wound and knew that he would live but that Jake Crosby wouldn’t.

A
FTER DRIVING BY
the police station four times, the Tennessee Mexicans were convinced that the money bag was inside. The GPS tracking program installed on the laptop showed the bag’s location in the middle of the municipal police station. The Mexicans were pissed. They turned their attention to the ankle bracelet on Moon Pie.

According to the tracking program, the Chocolate City Club was their next stop. They closed the computer when they pulled through the packed parking lot of the juke joint. By the types of vehicles in the lot, they knew that they would not be welcome. Neither one wanted to go inside to look for Moon Pie, so they quickly decided to wait and follow Moon Pie to a more private location. No matter how well armed they were, this was not the place to make a scene. The Mexicans drove back to West Point and parked downtown by the granite memorial to Delta-blues legend Howlin’ Wolf.

“Why he was named Howlin’ Wolf?” Guillermo asked in broken English, shutting his car door.

“Who knows? Why would somebody be named Moon Pie? This Southern rural culture fascinates me,” Julio said, as he lit a long cigar.

“Americanos locos.”

Julio walked closer to the monument and carefully read the inscription. “Guillermo, take my picture. Señor Wolf is famous.”

Guillermo snapped a quick picture of his boss with his camera phone. He marveled at how Julio acclimated himself to the area before a confrontation. Guillermo knew this wisdom was the result of years working the streets. It provided Julio with the confidence to move slowly and precisely when the situation warranted. Julio made it a point to understand his quarry.

“What now,
señor
?” Guillermo asked, anxious to do something of value.

“I want to go back by the old hotel where the money bag stayed for a day and see what we can learn. We may have missed something,” Julio said, pointing with his cigar.

“Tengo hambre. ¿Desea comer?”

“We will eat soon.
Paciencia
,” Julio replied, checking his holstered weapon hidden under his camel-hair jacket.

I
T HAD BEEN
a long Sunday for Levi, hanging out at the Gold Mine, waiting. Since he and Moon Pie had exchanged clothes, the local cop watching the store had him pinned down until Levi was sure that Moon Pie was safely out of the state. He was growing more concerned about the Tennessee Mexicans finding him or mistaking him for Moon Pie. Levi finally called a friend to give him a ride to Moon Pie’s trailer. As expected, the police officer followed, and when Levi got out at the trailer park, he waved the police car over.

When the police officer pulled up and rolled down his window, Levi leaned in and asked, “Afternoon, Officer. Is there anythin’ I can do for ya?”

The confused policeman stared at Levi for a few seconds, processing the incongruity of the person asking the question wearing Moon Pie’s clothes. He grunted and drove off.

Once inside Moon Pie’s trailer, Levi grabbed a cold beer from the refrigerator and started to look around. The place appeared to be messier than when he had left. The first thing Levi thought was that the Mexicans had found the place and trashed it, looking for their money. Levi quickly glanced into his small bedroom. Since it looked exactly as he had left it, he assumed that Moon Pie
must have left in a hurry. Levi changed out of Moon Pie’s clothes into his own, packed a bag, and left to go find Bailey, driving an old, uninsured pickup truck that Levi hated.

When Bailey wasn’t at her apartment, Levi went straight to the Henry Clay Hotel and found himself standing out front, waving at her grandmother inside.

Lucille didn’t really like that Walter and Sebastian were so anxious to talk to Levi, but she too wanted to know about Bailey, so she motioned for him to come inside.

After Lucille made the initial introductions, she offered Levi a seat at the table. She smiled at him as he sat down. “Levi, have you heard from Bailey?”

“No, ma’am. That’s why I came by here. I was hopin’ to find her.”

“When’s the last time you talked to her?” Sebastian asked.

“Late Saturday night, or actually Sunday morning when I dropped her off here. Wait a minute—so y’all don’t know where she’s at either?” Levi asked.

“No, we don’t. We thought you might.”

Levi quickly stood, almost knocking over his chair. The expression on his face was one of anger mixed with concern. He yelled, “Woody!”

Lucille quickly glanced at the old men, who shrugged, and then at Levi and said, “I doubt it. She hasn’t mentioned him in a few days.”

“We have to find out. He ain’t no good, Miss Lucille.”

Walter looked at Sebastian. They hadn’t considered Woody, since they assumed that they had scared him sufficiently enough to stay clear of Bailey. It was possible that she had reached out to him; if so, that would be enough encouragement for him to ignore Sebastian’s .357 Magnum warning. They now had to consider that Bailey, with or without help from Woody, had stolen the money and that they had run off together.

Bernard noticed the silent exchange between Walter and Sebastian, and wanting to participate, he said, “Never trust a guy who has a monogrammed can of tobacco.”

Sebastian and Walter looked nervously at each other. They did not want Bernard talking.

Levi didn’t respond.
Yes! That’s it. It was a
W
and not an
M.
Woody stole the money
, he thought.

Everyone noticed Levi’s eyes light up. Walter asked, “Levi? Levi? Levi, what’s wrong? What are you thinkin’?”

Levi didn’t respond. He quickly pulled out his cell phone as he headed for the door. The third “Levi” finally broke through, and he said, “I gotta find Woody.”

“I’m goin’ with ya,” Sebastian said as he began to rise from his chair.

“No, sir! I gotta do this alone.”

Levi was out the door and in his truck before Sebastian was fully standing.

I
T WAS 8:00 P.M.
Morgan was in her bedroom pacing, worried about Jake. Since the Dummy Line incident, it was extremely unusual, even when he was hunting, for him not to respond to calls or texts. Jake never went anywhere—not even the toilet—without his BlackBerry. If he couldn’t take a call, he would at least text a reply. Morgan always received some type of response within a few minutes. She sensed that something was very wrong.

Katy was sitting at the kitchen table, diagramming sentences for her English class, but she couldn’t concentrate. Plus, she could hear her mom on the telephone in the bedroom, calling people, looking for her dad. The more people Morgan talked to, the more upset Katy became.

As she walked back into the kitchen, Morgan saw Katy quietly crying. She realized that Katy had heard her frantic conversations. “Katy, honey, don’t cry. Dad’s probably at a meeting and forgot to tell me about it, that’s all.”

“Why won’t he answer his phone?”

Morgan squatted in front of Katy and put her hands on her arms. “Maybe he forgot to charge the battery. You know how forgetful Dad is. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Katy wanted to believe what Morgan was saying. She took several deep breaths and began to calm. Morgan knew too well that the last several days had taken a toll on Katy and brought up all of the memories of the killings a year and a half earlier.