55

Billy Capp is heading for the side door of the house—flinging aside an umbrella blown inside out the second he stepped out of the garage, his fine suit soaked before he’s gone ten paces, his head hunched against the wind and rain—when the bolt hits the lightning rod. He flinches and looks up to see the spray of sparks and the drainpipe angling awkwardly from the corner of the house and shaking in the wind. Directly below it a man is getting to his feet and gawking upward, his face starkly illuminated by the verandah lights.

And even at this distance, even after all this time, he recognizes him. Even if he hadn’t seen the recent prison pictures of him in the papers and on television, he would have recognized him. He grabs under his coat for the .45, but, without having looked in his direction, Axel Wolfe is already sprinting out of sight into the rainy gloom.

Billy runs after him, pistol in hand, squinting against the wind-slung rain, now unable to see more than a few feet ahead but feeling he has an advantage in that Axel didn’t see him. He runs and runs down the lane—sporadically pausing for a moment to listen for him, try to figure which way he’s gone—and then it strikes him that he has to be heading for the back gate and will climb out the same way he climbed in, then hop in a waiting vehicle and be gone before he can even catch sight of him. He whirls around and runs all the way back to the garage, heaving for breath, and gets in the SUV, a 4Runner. He guns it in reverse down the driveway and onto the lane, turns on the lights and windshield wipers, and heads for the front gate, calling the guard on his cell, telling him to open the gate right now.

Anita Flor sees the 4Runner speed rearward past a window and says, “What in the world? Where’s Daddy going?”

He supposes Axel was climbing up the pipe when it gave way. Wanted to avoid having to deal with anybody he might run into on the lower floor. Who the fuck knows and what difference does it make? Goddamnit, he knew he’d be coming. He’d read about his capture, about his trial and conviction for some robbery they didn’t do, and he’d known that if Axel didn’t die in prison he would one day be released and find out where he was and come for him. And then all these years later came the news of his escape, and the first thing he thought was, He’s coming. He drowned, they’d said, him and the other convict. But they didn’t find either body, did they? Since last month he’s been on guard, always alert, going armed all the time, even on the estate, putting up a good front for Rocky and the girls but feeling as jumpy as he had for weeks after the Dallas thing. He’d been sure Axel would rat them for cutting out on him, leaving him for dead, which is the only way he woulda seen it. But it was leave him or go down with him.

Axel for damn sure woulda done the same thing in their shoes. He’d never worried about Duro looking for him. The guy didn’t know anything about him except he’d been a pal of Axel’s. Never a word about Duro in the news. Had thought maybe the cops nailed him at the rest stop. Hadn’t had any choice about the rest stop, either. All bloody like Duro was, if they’d been pulled over for any reason—roadblock, faulty taillight, whatever—they’da been had.

God damn it, Billy thinks, if all he wanted was his cut, all right, no problem, he had it coming, I’d give it to him quick. But if the cut was what he wanted, all he had to do is get the word to me, let me know, even be hardnose about it if it made him feel better … my cut or else.

“Oh hell, Ax, no need for ‘or else,’ here’s your money.”

Could’ve been that easy. But no.

Because the money’s not what he wants.

What he wants is to kill me.

Came for me in my home! My family right here!

He curses the poor visibility and the narrow winding lane that forces him to hold down his speed, though he nevertheless goes too fast and slews off the pavement twice, once almost miring but for the four-wheel drive, the second time scraping the right side of the 4Runner against a tree. The gate attendant is standing by the open gate when Billy’s headlights swing around the curving lane and fix on him. The man hops into the guard shack just before Billy tears by.

He cuts off his lights, the flanking ground-lights sufficiently outlining the road. His intention is to get to the trailhead before Axel does, then pull over, jump out, and start shooting as soon as Axel comes wheeling off the trail. Just shoot and shoot till the magazine’s empty and he’s crashed into the trees, then slap in another mag and shoot it all up too, just to make sure. Then call his service people to come and take away the wreckage and the body and dispose of them utterly. End of problem.

Too late. As he comes out of a curve, he sees Axel’s headlight beams swing out of the side trail and onto the road up ahead, sees the bulky silhouette of his vehicle against them, and then his brake lights flash and he goes into a curve and out of sight.

Billy passes through the curve and spies him again and slows down. No way Axel can spot him this far back in the dark and the rain and running without lights. He anyhow doesn’t have any reason to think anybody’s chasing him, just wants to get the hell out of here. He notes the horizontal row of small red lights along the rear of Axel’s vehicle. Tailgate strip lights. A pickup. Those lights’ll make it easy as pie to keep a fix on him, even in rainy traffic.

Axel’s brake lights brighten before each curve and again when he reaches the main highway, where he turns west. Billy halts at the junction and sees a lone set of headlights coming fast from the east. He waits until the car goes by and then pulls out behind it, using it as a visual buffer against Axel, and turns on his lights. Traffic is sparse. When they come to a long curve farther down the highway, he can see past the car ahead and spies Axel’s strip lights. He’s holding to the speed limit. Because he thinks he’s all clear now. Probably already planning his next try at him.

Only there ain’t gonna be no next try, old buddy. Not gonna happen.

He moves his hand to the comforting feel of the .45 beside him on the seat. Play the thing by ear. If he stops at a traffic light and there’s no one around, just pull up alongside and toot the horn and when he looks over … boom! If he turns in somewhere—gas station, plaza, bar parking lot—ease in there too and when he gets out stop next to him and give the little toot and … boom! Do it however it presents itself, but get his attention first. So he can see who it’s coming from.