The inside of the Corvette was stifling—like a coffin. Buddy’s eyelids drooped, then fluttered. He sat up, shook his head. He had to get out of the car and move around if he was going to stay alert—or else just give up and move on, as the cop driving the pickup had probably done fifteen minutes ago.
He was about to turn the key in the ignition when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. As he watched, a shadowy figure stepped out of the shrubbery bordering the side of the driveway where Conley Hawkins’s Subaru was parked.
The bill of a baseball cap obscured his face, and he now wore dark, wraparound sunglasses, but nothing could disguise his bulked-up physique. He was studying the house, where lights were blinking on, room by room, one after another.
“Shit,” Buddy muttered as the cop inched up the driveway. He had to do something. Shit or get off the pot. That girl, Conley, was in trouble. He scrabbled around in the Vette’s console, looking for his phone. He heard a dull thud as something bounced on the passenger-side floorboard, and he leaned over to grab for it.
He was still fumbling around in the dark when he heard the crack of wood, and when he sat up, he saw that the door of the house had been kicked in and the cop was inside.
“Shit, shit, shit!” He was frantic. The phone must have slid beneath the seat. He got out of the car and sped around to the passenger side, opening the door and kneeling on the cracked asphalt, groping around, trying to find the phone.
Finally, his fingers closed on it. He dialed 911 and waited.
“Come on, come on.” He was staring at the door waiting to see what happened next.
“Nine-one-one,” a male dispatcher said.
“I want to report a break-in at a house over here on Felicity Street,” Buddy said.
“What’s that street number?”
“Uh, I don’t know. It’s uh, between Liberty and, well, I can’t see the sign.”
“Can you describe the situation?”
“Hell yes,” Buddy said. “There’s a woman in that house, and a cop just kicked in the door.”
“Sir? That’s one of our officers. He was dispatched to that address after the resident called for assistance.”
“No,” Buddy insisted. “This guy, he’s been stalking this woman. I watched him—he’s been following her for the past week.”
“Okay,” the dispatcher said, sounding unconvinced. “I’ll let the officer on the way to the scene know about your concern.”
“So do you have a cop on the way?” Buddy asked. He sounded hysterical, he knew.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, where the hell is he? This guy just kicked in the door.”
“He’s en route,” the dispatcher said.
Conley stared up at the black-garbed figure who’d just forced his way into the house. She’d been knocked to the floor when the door flew open.
The cop. She knew him. Popps. He was Skelly’s friend, the deputy who’d been at the crash the night Symmes Robinette was killed.
He grabbed her by the forearm and jerked her upright, and she yelped. “What are you doing?”
He smiled, his perfect white teeth gleaming in contrast to his deeply tanned face.
“Hey. You wanna hang out now?”
It was the voice. The same voice on the phone.
“Why?” she managed, still in shock. “Why are you doing this?”
He squeezed her arm, and she yelped again in pain. “I asked you out. I asked nicely. You think you’re too good to date a cop?”
“No. Why are you doing this? I don’t even know you.” She looked around, wondering what had happened to her phone. She’d been about to tap Skelly’s number. Had the call gone through?
“What are you looking at?” He saw the phone on the floor and brought his boot down on it with full force. “Sorry, no phone-a-friend for you.” He laughed. “Why am I doing this?” he asked in a singsongy voice. “You got me fired, bitch.”
“I didn’t,” she protested.
He grabbed a handful of her hair and twisted it so hard she screamed in pain.
“You told Goggins I screwed up the Robinette investigation.”
“No,” she said.
“Not even a suspension. The sumbitch fired me. You know what that does to my career? I’m in the shitter. All because of you.”
“I didn’t get you fired,” she repeated.
“So maybe you do like me. Cool. Let’s hang out. Like at my place.” His eyes skimmed meaningfully down her body. “Or we could just stay right here. Bedroom’s upstairs, right?”
“I called 911,” Conley said, willing herself to stay calm. “Right after you called. There’s a patrol car on the way.”
He shrugged. “So we’ll go to my place.”
“No!” she yelled. “I’m not going anyplace.”
He looked around the living room with its polished antiques, thick carpets, and gilt-framed family portraits. “Nice house. You got a nice house out at the beach too. Is that where your grandma’s at?”
Conley felt a ripple of terror shoot up her spine. He’d been watching her. That night when she and Skelly were on the beach. Skelly had joked about G’mama peeking out the windows, but it was him. Walter Poppell.
“Come on,” he said, pulling her toward the door. “Let’s go for a ride. Maybe we’ll take a moonlight walk on the beach. Hey, why don’t we do it in the dunes?”
She knew with an absolute certainty if he got her out of the house, she was dead. She had to stall him, no matter what it took.
“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out and leave me alone!”
He slapped her with such force she was knocked off balance. Her ears were ringing, and she felt a warm trickle of blood slide down her cheek.
“Leave me alone,” she sobbed, kicking out at him.
Poppell yanked her to her feet. She screamed again, and he clamped a hand over her mouth and began dragging her toward the door.
Conley closed her eyes and opened her jaws and bit down on his hand, feeling his flesh tear, tasting the hot salt of his blood.
“Bitch!” He howled and slapped her, but she hung on, attacking him with the only weapon she had like a crazed, rabid dog.
Suddenly, she felt cold metal pressing against her temple. She opened her eyes. He had a gun to her head. She heard the click as the hammer was drawn back.
“I’ll fucking shoot you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’ll splatter your brains all over your grandma’s pretty house.”
With the gun to her head, he dragged her out the door and onto the porch.
“Oh shit,” Buddy muttered, seeing the cop emerge from the house. He saw the glint of metal. “Oh shit. Dude’s got a gun.”
He glanced wildly up and down the street. Quiet as a graveyard. Not a soul around. No flashing blue lights. It was the oldest joke in the world, and it was suddenly the unfunniest oldest joke in the world. Where were the cops when you needed them?
The girl was kicking and dragging her feet, but the cop seemed unfazed by her struggling. Where was he taking her? He must have parked his truck on the block behind the house and cut through the backyard. If he got her in his vehicle, no telling where he’d go or what he’d do to her.
Buddy didn’t stop to think. He gunned the motor and threw the Vette into reverse, backing out of the driveway with screeching tires. The cop looked up, surprised and maybe confused.
Suddenly, Gregg Allman’s ghostly verses popped into his head again.
Screw Daytona. Not gon’ let ’em catch the midnight rider, he vowed.
Buddy stomped on the accelerator, and the Corvette flew down the street. He flipped on his brights and steered the car toward the house, hurtling over the curb, plowing through the thick grass, aiming straight at the cop, who, in his surprise, had relinquished his hold on the girl.
On her hands and knees, the girl was frantically scrabbling backward. Good. Get away, Buddy thought grimly. Get. The. Fuck. Away.
The cop planted his feet apart, knees bent, both hands clutching the gun, which was aimed straight at the car.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Buddy muttered. He kept his foot on the accelerator, even as he heard the crack of the shot, saw the bright flash from the gun’s barrel, and—the very last thing he saw—the Vette’s windshield spiderwebbing.
The white Corvette kept moving straight at them. In desperation, Conley crawled as fast as she could away from the oncoming car.
Poppell saw it coming, but instead of running, he assumed the stance, holding the gun, straight-armed, in front of him.
She screamed. She screamed until she felt her throat was being ripped in two. She heard the gunshot and quickly looked away, curling herself into a tight ball, head tucked under her arms like a defenseless toddler.
At some point, she realized Poppell’s scream merged briefly with hers. And then it stopped. She heard the impact of the Corvette, slamming into the front porch of G’mama’s house, and the sharp crack of wood.
When she finally looked up, she saw that the thick plaster columns were split in half where the Corvette came to rest between them. A moment later, the porch roof began to sag and slowly tear loose from the old wood-frame house. As if in slow motion, it crumpled onto the top of the white Corvette, raining timber, shingles, and pieces of framing all around the car.
She was still numb, but she somehow managed to stagger to her feet and wobble over toward the house. When she saw the front of the Corvette, with the Working Press license tag and the shattered windshield, she gasped.
Averting her eyes past the broken body sprawled on the lawn, she made her way through the debris toward the porch, where she clambered over the bits of boards and plaster.
The driver was slumped sideways, his head covered in blood. She hesitated, then remembered that the driver had not hesitated but had sped up and barreled straight ahead into Walter Poppell and his bullet. She reached in through the open window and gingerly touched a finger to the driver’s neck. There was no pulse.
Conley heard the scream of police sirens approaching, and looking toward the street, saw three cruisers streaming toward the house.
“Conley!” The lights on the front of the house were so bright she had to squint, but she knew that voice and ran straight toward it now, throwing herself into Sean Kelly’s open arms.
He held her tightly against his chest, stroking her hair, whispering in her ear, “It’s over. You’re okay. It’s over, Conley.”
Her voice was muffled by his shirt. She looked up at him. “He’s dead, Skelly.”
“Poppell? Yeah, I saw.”
“Not him. Buddy Bright. He’s dead. He saved my life.” She shuddered violently. “Poppell would have killed me. He said he was going to. He was watching me, Skelly. I don’t know how Buddy knew, but he did. Poppell was dragging me out of the house. He said he’d take me out to the beach and—”
“Never mind,” Skelly said quickly. He touched the side of her face. “Your face is bleeding, and it’s starting to swell and bruise. I think we need to get you to the hospital.”
“No!” She shook her head. “I’m okay. Really. Poppell slapped me is all. I’m fine.”
“Ma’am?” A man’s voice cut through the far-off sound of more sirens. Two uniformed Silver Bay police officers approached. “Are you the person who called to report an intruder? We need to talk to you, ma’am.”
Skelly wrapped a protective arm around her waist.
“I know.” Her voice was shaky. “I’ll tell you everything. Can we … go someplace else to talk? This is my grandmother’s house. Maybe we could go around back and go in the kitchen?”
“Do you know who those men are?” the other officer asked, pointing toward the bodies.
“Yeah,” she said. “The driver of the Corvette’s name is Buddy Bright, and the one on the grass is a Bronson County sheriff’s deputy.”
“His name is Walter Poppell,” Skelly said.
Conley looked up at him again. “I’ve got to give these guys a statement. But could you do me a favor? Call Grayson. She must have slept at the paper tonight. Tell her what happened here and ask her to send Michael Torpy over. And tell her to tell him to bring the good camera.”