Chapter thirty-four

When Sam came to, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be conscious. Not a place on his body felt right. Through swollen eyes, he could barely see around the gallery. He could listen, though. Listen for the floor creaking under the weight of someone. Listen for Jenny crying. Listen for Molly offering up a blessing or a curse. Sam heard nothing but the distant rushing of traffic outside the gallery’s closed front door.

He slowly rolled onto one side and assumed the fetal position. He’d been left for dead. Again.

Only this time, he knew who did it to him. He felt for keys in his pocket.

Sam slowly managed to scoot his knees under him, resting his throbbing head on the floor. Child’s pose. He fleetingly saw a memory of Frank sleeping like this, content. Safe.

Sam reached for a table leg, no doubt an art piece given its silky feel and contrasting end caps on the tapered legs. He gingerly raised himself until he was nearly upright. His hunch made him appreciate how his mother must feel as she managed around the kitchen in the early morning hours before his retired father woke up. She has osteoporosis, he thought. She’s had it for years. But she’s safe in Raleigh. Far enough away from here. Safe. It’s where Jenny and Molly should have gone. Then they’d be safe, too.

Sam shuffled slowly to the gallery’s office, peeking around the wall, separating it from the gallery space. An overturned chair, the desk, plus the usual office accouterments. No suitcases. No police. And no Tripp. No massive quantities of blood splattered all over the pale green walls, so Sam assumed everyone walked out on his own two feet. Or hers.

Lisa and Chuck had looked mad at each other during their confrontation, but Sam was getting the idea that it was all a show for his benefit. If good ol’ true blue Chuck was in on it, there wasn’t a straight brother on the force. There would be no backup, no one to help. Sam was on his own.

Sam leaned heavily on the back door leading to the alley. He couldn’t hear car engines, voices, or guns firing. Through the fish-eye peephole, he saw nothing but the backside of another building.

Slowly, Sam opened the door and looked out in both directions. Clear. Using the building’s wall for support, he crept toward the alley’s entrance. Still no cars he recognized. No guns firing at him. Surely, Toothless and Sidekick wouldn’t be so stupid to try something now in the bright light, would they?

Continuing around the building, Sam saw Lee’s Mustang still in one piece. Sam cautiously slid in, hurting with every bend and turn as he got into the bucket seat and seatbelt.

Think. Think. Jenny and Molly in one car. Chuck in another, possibly with Lisa. Mike, Andy, Tripp, and the Scuz Brothers. Jenny’s Jeep was still in front of the Mustang. Not seeing Lisa’s Ford Taurus in front of the gallery, Sam assumed it was one of the vehicles underway. It could comfortably hold four, but if Lisa wasn’t worried about comfort, maybe five. That left four people.

If Mike and Chuck came in their white Carolina Beach Police SUV, he’d look for that. The SUVs were an upgrade from the old Crown Victorias the force used to use. The small police force somehow had managed to convince the powers that be that SUVs were necessary at a beach town. Something about having to drive out on the dunes, though that rarely happened. So, no more Andy Taylor squad cars or Crown Vics.

Sam smirked at the thought of riding around with Barney Fife as he reached for the ignition. His lips were the only thing that didn’t hurt. Sam’s vision was not clear, but his focus was.