It seemed her eyes had just closed when the phone jerked her awake. Tyler, already up watching the news, grabbed it. “I guess you’ve heard the latest,” Harvey sighed, his voice ragged with grief.
“I’m sorry,” Tyler offered their condolences. “So you couldn’t persuade him to leave?”
“I thought I had. Still, I called back to confirm he was taking the necessary steps. After getting his voice mail a half-dozen times, I figured something was up.”
“Did you give the cops that anonymous tip?”
“Yeah, that was me.”
“What about Swanson’s family?”
“I tried reaching Jean at her family’s farm but she’d already left. Then I called Gus’s sister to explain that his death was no suicide and the truth would come out eventually; when it’s safe I’ll call Jean again.”
“How do you think it happened?”
“Leopold. He was likely at Gus’s home when I left those messages. I’ve tried like hell to recall what I said, but who can remember every word they use on the phone? Anyway I’m sure Leopold or whoever is thoroughly scrubbing those recordings. So how’s the weather this morning?”
“The courthouse is open. That’s the main thing.”
“Did you get my package?”
“Yesterday. The pictures are a good match.”
“Listen, Corelli’s either been unveiled or will be soon. They must know the Queens shipment was for me. And I ruffled more than a few feathers by letting her board that plane Friday. That little State prick who recognized her is still blowing smoke over the blond Georgian, with the Brooklyn accent. Chapman’s surely gotten wind of the incident by now.”
“There’s been nothing so far about a change in Mayson’s description,” Tyler said.
“So what? How long does it take to alter a picture with computer graphics — five minutes, maybe?”
“But they can’t be on to you. You’re still on the planet.”
“Not anymore. I’ve been underground now for eighteen hours. Let me give you my new number.”
He took it down as Mayson grabbed her purse. “Where is this?” He squinted at the area code.
“Trust me, kid, you don’t want to know. Now tell me your plans.”
Tyler explained what they’d come up with. “We’ll be moving within the hour.” As Mayson gave him the scrawled note found at Morris’s apartment, he relayed the information.
Harvey quickly jotted it down. “Any idea who Robert Hunter is?”
“No clue. We’ve called every area code in the country. Maybe it’s not even a phone number.”
“You want me to nose around and see what I come up with?”
“That’s the idea — unless you have something better to do.”
“Being cooped up is making you cranky,” Harvey laughed. “Get used to it; the alternative’s not so great.”
“Listen, we have to move. We’ll call when we can.” As he hung up, Mayson looked up from the phone book. “Based on this area code, Harvey’s in western Pennsylvania. And how do you know the courthouse is open — did you call?”
He nodded, “Our ambulance chaser’s office is, too.”
The next hour passed quickly as showers were taken, the suitcase packed and the room scoured for traces of their presence. “You’ll need a great performance this morning,” he said. “I’m afraid there won’t be a second show.”
She sighed. “I wish we knew the volume of court records. What if it’s more than I can carry?”
“I’ll pick you up as close to the office as possible.”
“But I won’t even know what kind of car you’re driving.”
He smiled. “Just look for the dickhead with the cap and shades. That’ll be me.”
“If you’re trying to calm me, it’s not working,” she fretted. “And you’re not a dickhead. Just a thickhead with a face, unfortunately, that’s anything but common.” Reaching up, she fluffed his thick, golden locks. “At the very moment our lives depend upon blending, you would have to be the most handsome man in town.” What if he was caught? Killed? What if she never saw him again?
As her eyes now filled with tears, he embraced her. “Hey, there’s no need for that.”
“Tyler, what if something happens to you?”
“It won’t.”
“Don’t say things you have no way of knowing.”
“Mayson, it’s a good plan. And it’ll work, but only if you believe in it. Can you do that?”
She nodded slowly. If it meant saving his life, she imagined she could do just about anything.
“Good. Now wash your face and let’s get out of here.”
Seconds later, they slipped down the stairs and out to the parking lot. Debris left by the storm littered the hotel grounds. “You’re sure you know the way?” he asked.
She nodded. Three blocks south, two, east.
“After getting the car, I’ll return for the suitcase, then get as close to the courthouse as possible,” he recited the plan. “If you don’t see me right away, don’t panic. Just start back to the hotel. I’ll find you.”
With an anxious glance, she started off and he hurried away in the opposite direction. Covering two blocks, he entered a convenience store, empty except for the clerk slouched against the register. Her curious gaze followed him back to the cooler, where he grabbed a jug of water then a pair of dark glasses off a corner rack. Putting on the shades he moved quickly up and down the aisles, grabbing items off the shelves. Reaching the last, he asked, “Do you have fishing caps?”
“The large barrel over by the glass.” She pointed.
He found it just as a patrol car rolled up. Donning a navy cap, he headed for the counter as the two troopers entered. A cigarette dangling from the clerk’s lips, she rang up his purchases: water, flashlight, map, pens, Jordan Almonds and those items he was wearing. “Need bait?” she asked.
He looked puzzled. “What?”
“You said you were going fishing. We have crawlers in back if you need ‘em.”
“No thanks.” He reached for his wallet as the troopers approached. He sensed their attention behind him as she bagged his merchandise. Were they studying the gold hair beneath his cap? Agonizing seconds passed until she finally gave him his change. Grabbing the bag, he started out.
“Hey, wait a minute.”
He turned slowly.
“The cap,” the trooper nodded. “Take it off.”
Reluctantly, he obeyed, his thick hair spilling out. Grabbing the cap, the trooper sliced the price tag off and returned it. “You’d look awful silly walking around all day with that in your hair.”
“Thanks,” he smiled. Relieved, he put the cap back on and left. Four blocks and a half-dozen patrol cars later, his heart still pounded. Was his pace too fast, his stride too jerky? Were the glancing troopers curious about his bag? As he reached the Gulf Shores Agency, a passing unit made a sudden U-turn and streaked back towards the courthouse, lights flashing. Had Mayson been caught?
As he entered the Agency, a young man popped up from behind the counter. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
“My wife and I are leaving on a skiing trip this morning, but our car was damaged by the flooding. My cousin Jerry’s a mechanic but he can’t have the car ready until Wednesday.”
“The storm’s victimized a lot of people,” the man nodded geekishly. “A real doozie. So where do you ski?”
“Snowshoe. We have one of those time-sharing deals.”
“Are you carrying skis?”
He glanced at the game show on the counter TV. “We’re renting them up there. So can you help us out?”
“Sure, sure. You want a four-wheel drive?”
They needed a trunk more. “What else do you have?”
“A Honda Prelude - fully equipped, in excellent condition.”
“Sounds like a winner.” He reached for his wallet.
The man whipped out an application. “I’ll need a valid driver’s license and major credit card.”
Laying the required ID on the counter, Tyler quickly filled out the application. “Orlando, huh?” The man studied the cards. “Where’d you go to school, Mr. Cartwright?”
“Shreveport. My company just transferred me to Orlando. Nice town.”
“Yeah, I grew up there.” As Tyler slipped the application back across the counter, the man studied it carefully. “You live on Bridlewood. That’s south Orlando, right? Near the new mall?”
“Just a few blocks from there,” he nodded.
The man returned his ID. “Four twenty-five will cover a week and deposit, plus the tank of gas.”
As he retrieved his wallet, the TV game show ended, followed by an update on the Naples manhunt. Grabbing the Prelude’s keys, the man glanced at the screen flashing Tyler’s picture. “You been following this manhunt?”
“The pair from New York? Yeah it’s something, huh?”
“What would draw them to Naples, of all places? Not that I’m an expert, but it seems even if they’d been here, they’d be gone by now. What fugitive in his right mind hangs around a city crawling with cops?”
“Beats the hell out of me.” Tyler scooped up the keys.
“I’d say they headed north, maybe to the mountains, like you. What do you think?”
Me? I’m just glad to be wearing this cap and shades, Tyler thought as he grabbed his bag. “The mountains, like you said.” Smiling, he started out, “The next time you’re in Orlando, look us up. The Cartwrights. Bridlewood Lane.”
Leopold squirmed irritably in the Escort’s bucket seat. Had large men been completely forgotten in this age of compacts? Why couldn’t you find a decent Cadillac or Town Car to lease anymore? Just these cramped little boxes on wheels. There’d been nothing but complications since leaving D.C. yesterday. First, they’d arrived in Atlanta to learn a tropical storm had cancelled their Naples connection. Six hours they’d waited for the weather to clear and another available flight. Then a screw-up at the Naples airport had landed them in this sardine can. And if that weren’t enough, flooded streets had turned a ten-minute drive to the hotel into an hour of detours and traffic jams.
Now after a restless night at the Gulf Sands, his leg was cramping in a bucket seat designed for midgets. And Frankie, slouched behind the wheel, was popping gum in his ear. An hour across from the courthouse, and already his dim-witted associate had gone through a pack of Juicy Fruit. How much more could he take? “Cut the gum-popping before I go nuts,” he growled.
“Come on, Arch,” Frankie whined. “Don’t you remember the old days? You smacked it louder than anybody.”
“That’s when I had teeth. Now either chew quietly or spit it out.” They needed to put these kids away quickly. It wasn’t helping anyone’s nerves to have them running around. Who knew what they might stumble on? And what about Harvey, who’d quickly vanished after Swanson’s suicide? They’d missed him by minutes, Chapman had said. Minutes, hours, days; what difference did it make? A miss was a miss. The prudent course would’ve been to eliminate Swanson two years ago, when he’d first made noise over the Rogers investigation. Now they were being haunted by a tactical error that never should’ve happened.
“Come on!” Frankie rapped the wheel impatiently. “You kids ain’t gonna make us sit here all day, are you?”
He checked his watch as activity increased across the street. Briefcase-toting lawyers trickled into the courthouse; cops clustered on the granite steps with their coffee and tall tales. All the metered spaces along the curb were filled. Carefully he scanned the block again: the Florida American Bank on the distant corner, then moving south, the parking garage, courthouse, and on the near corner, a professional office building.
The courthouse had three entrances: the front they now monitored, and the side and rear, inconspicuously watched by Feds in casual beach attire. George was posted in the Clerk’s office where record requests were made. His identity, like Crenshaw, was known only by the handful of agents on Chapman’s payroll. The others knew only that a reliable lead placed the kids in Naples, the courthouse their suspected destination.
The Florida troopers were present to seal off the city and satisfy the manpower needed to search the hotels along the coast. If the kids delayed their courthouse trip long enough, they’d be nabbed. Still, the massive convoy of patrol cars was a concern. Waddill and Corelli, if they were here, knew their presence was no secret. What if the gray units had scared them off or were keeping them away now? Only time would tell.
“You think maybe they skipped out?” Frankie echoed Leopold’s fear. “Or with the heat, went to Tennessee first?”
Leopold winced with another painful shift of his leg. Damn compact cars! “They’re here, Frankie. Just be patient for once in your life. And throw that gum out.”
“You said chew quietly. I’m chewing quietly.”
“Get rid of the gum!”
End of discussion. Frankie knew that tone all right. Rolling the window down, he spit the gum out as another patrol car drifted by. “Arch, do you really think those kids are dumb enough to come down here with the entire Florida police force circling the place?”
“They’re not circling, stupid. They’re patrolling.”
“Circling, patrolling,” he shrugged. “What difference does it make? The kids know we’re here and... Wow!” His eyes snagged on the slender blond, striding down the street. “Would you look at that cute little tail!”
Leopold watched her pass the courthouse and enter the corner office building. She was a beauty, all right. But why cut her hair so short and wear those awful glasses? “Probably a secretary to some big shot lawyer in that fancy building.”
An edge returned to the silence as the morning dragged on. Finally, Leopold squeezed from the car to stretch his cramping leg. Overhead, the sun burned off the last storm clouds. Soon the courthouse would bake in the afternoon heat. Would they have the kids by then? As he returned to the car, Frankie said, “Assuming they are here, who’s to say they’ll come to the courthouse together?”
It was a good point. “That’s possible. But have you seen anyone remotely resembling either?”
Frankie sighed. “I haven’t seen anyone remotely interesting except that gorgeous blond. Hey, you don’t...” He watched Leopold grab the beeping phone, nod gravely then hang up. “What’s up, Arch?”
“That was Nicholas. One of his agents, who worked with Harvey at La Guardia this past Friday, claims he stopped some pretty blond that a State guy swears was Corelli. Only Harvey, after checking her ID, said she was some simple Atlanta housewife and let her go.”
“A pretty blond?”
“No doubt with a nice butt and granny glasses. Ring a bell?”
“Arch, that was her — the one who went in the building!”
Probably. But was she still there? The phone beeped again. He was drawn into another quick, agitated conversation. Frankie watched him hang up. “Now what?”
“Reardon, the Naples Agent-in-Charge, has located the kids’ room at a Holiday Inn five blocks from here. He’s sealing off the area between the hotel and courthouse.”
“Arch, we’ve got’em! Praise the Lord!”
Wincing, Leopold again crawled from the car. “Frankie, wait in the lobby of that office building until either Walters or McCormack joins you. If Corelli’s still there, I want her.”
Bernie Deveraux had just slumped back with his morning coffee when his secretary buzzed him. “What is it, Janice?”
He had a major hangover after the half-dozen martinis at Tribello’s last night. He didn’t go there usually, but with the storm it had been the only decent bar open on Gulf Shore Drive.
“There’s a woman out here,” Janice explained. “She doesn’t have an appointment but says it’s urgent she speak with you.”
The grounded stewardess from Tribello’s? They’d ended up at his condo. Sheila... or was it Sherry? Oh God, he hadn’t promised her anything, had he? “Auburn hair?” He cringed. “Green eyes?”
“No, Bernie. Can you see her or not?”
Relief settled over him now. “Show her in.”
Dropping the phone, he stood at the window to wait. Maybe it was the first storm victim. There should be many promising walk-ins if today was like others that followed disasters. Specifically, that plane crash in the Gulf two summers ago: a settlement bonanza that had fallen in his lap, simply by being in his office the next morning. Isn’t that why he was here now, instead of home in bed nursing this awful hangover? His gaze followed another patrol car down the street. Were the Tallahassee Boys here for the storm or the two fugitives supposedly in town? The glum-faced men in the Escort parked across from the courthouse looked as if they could give a shit either way. His sentiments exactly. He turned now as a beautiful young woman appeared. “Mrs. Marcia Cartwright,” Janice introduced her.
“How about some coffee, Mrs. Cartwright?” He sprung around to seat her.
“No, thank you,” she declined as Janice left. “I’m in a hurry and I’m sure you’re busy.”
“How were you referred to me?” He sat behind the desk. This was always his first question. Lawyers were no different from salesmen. They needed to know which marketing strategies were working best.
“I caught your TV commercial over the weekend,” she explained. “And I must say, Mr. Deveraux, the message certainly hit home. A catastrophic injury really does tumble a person into a bewildering nightmare of hospitals, doctors, pushy insurance people and endless forms filled with incomprehensible medical and legal jargon - a ‘Jungle of Jibberish that won’t victimize those smart enough to hire Bernard Devereaux and Associates, the Lions of Jungle Law.’ Madonna mia, what a compelling message!”
“What was that — ‘Madonna’ something? Is that Italian?”
A stupid slip, she scolded herself. “My girlfriend uses that expression all the time. I guess I’ve picked it up. But to be honest, I’m not sure what it means.”
Nor did it matter. So then the new commercial really was a hit, maybe even worth the hefty bill Channel Three had stuck him with. “I hope your family survived the storm without serious injury or property damage.”
“Oh yes,” she nodded, marveling at how quickly two simple words could flatten a smile. “We survived quite well.”
“Then this isn’t... I mean, it has nothing to do with yesterday’s storm?”
“Oh no; but wasn’t it frightening? Barbara, my cousin we’ve been visiting, says it’s the worst she’s ever seen.”
“Then you’re not from Naples?”
“Orlando.” Taking her purse out, she showed him the Cartwright family picture, including their three children.
“That’s your husband?” Bernie pointed.
“Before the accident,” she nodded.
“Accident?” he snagged on the key word.
“Jonathan was in a car accident three weeks ago, while returning from our store. You know, groceries, fishing supplies, boat accessories. We even have a lunch counter. Our little store rakes in a bundle. A real cash cow, Barbara calls it. Until...”
As her delicate hand fluttered, her face crinkling, a kaleidoscope of impressions flashed across his mind — beautiful, sweet, fragile. What an impact she’d have on an Orlando jury! “Please go on.” He passed her a box of tissues. “The store was a cash cow until what — Jonathan’s accident?”
The crumpled tissue over her eyes, she nodded. “As I said, Jonathan was on his way home. It was late, dark, that time when we’re most vulnerable to those monsters.”
“What monsters?” he asked.
“Drunk drivers, like the one who ran the red light and plowed into Jonathan. Not only was he drunk, he was speeding — according to the witnesses, anyway.”
His eyes widened. “There were witnesses?”
“A preacher and his family,” she nodded. “They were on their front porch, eating ice cream. They saw the whole thing.”
Bernie was salivating now as he absorbed this stunning scenario. Drunk driver plows into family man on his way home from work - the witnesses, a preacher and his ice cream-eating family. Had he died and gone to Heaven? “Is Jonathan...?”
“Dead? No, but his injuries are permanent. He’ll never be able to...”
His heart quaked as she collapsed again. She was so fragile, so huggable. “Never be able to what? Run the store?”
“Run the store? He won’t even be able to feed himself. He’ll need nurses and expensive medical equipment for the rest of his life.”
Bernie tingled as the damages mounted in his head. They were talking about millions!
“We’ll lose the store,” she sighed. “Jonathan ran it by himself. I don’t have his head for numbers. And there are the children to care for and the house, which I guess we’ll lose along with the store.”
“Have you consulted any lawyers in Orlando?” he asked.
“Oh no, I never even considered that.”
“Why not?”
“Because they can’t be trusted.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Well you would if you knew who the drunk driver was.” Her eyes gleamed viciously. “Jason Spillwood, the richest, most despicable man in Orlando. He, no doubt, has every lawyer there in his hip pocket.”
Spillwood? He drew a blank on that one. “And how did he acquire his wealth?”
“By cheating people stupid enough to buy his cars - those expensive foreign jobs, like the Lamborghini he was driving the night he hit Jonathan. He smashed it to pieces but why should he care? He has a lot full of them and millions of dollars in the bank.” Her eyes hardened.
Bernie nodded solemnly, already thinking two or possibly three million for the Cartwrights and one for himself. “I’m quite confident I can help you.” He slid a retainer agreement across the desk.
Scanning it, she took the offered pen and signed. “These last weeks have been so difficult. It’s such a relief to turn this mess over to you, Mr. Deveraux.”
“It should be.” His smile dripped with compassion. “You’ve just retained the Lion of Jungle Law.”
“And your fee will come out of the settlement?”
He nodded. “You’ll just be responsible for my expenses. I require two hundred dollars to begin.”
She promptly withdrew the amount and laid it on the desk. “Now,” he reached for a legal pad. “Let’s review the facts. I’ll need... What’s wrong?” He watched her frown.
“I just remembered what Barbara asked me to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Get a copy of the estate records for the old man she cared for. Barbara’s a nurse. Isn’t that the courthouse next door?”
He nodded. “Why does she want the probate records?”
“Probate. Yes, that’s the word she used. She said the rich old codger left her a bequest, but it’s tied up in probate. She needs the records because she’s thinking about hiring a lawyer. Say, Mr. Deveraux, do you handle probate cases, too?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” he said. But he was thinking, Lady, if money’s involved, I handle it.
“Great.” She rose. “I’ll make sure Barbara knows. Now, I really must get to the courthouse. She wants a complete copy of the records. And who knows how thick... Oh no.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to hurry. After dropping the records off, I have to pick up the kids and get back to Orlando for a meeting with Jonathan’s doctors.”
He gaped at the sweet, fragile thing. She was trying to be brave, but there was just too much to cope with. “Please.” He coaxed her back into the chair. “I’ll get the records. We can review the case until they’re ready. Then you can leave.”
“But it may cost a lot to copy them.” She watched him grab the phone.
“Don’t worry,” he winked. “There’s a young clerk who’ll not only put a rush on our order, but won’t charge either. Now what’s the name of that estate?”
Tyler grabbed a parking space near the courthouse as another patrol car drifted past. They were everywhere, unlike Mayson, who’d yet to appear on the dangerous streets.
Meter-hopping was the only way to dodge the troopers’ endless parade. Park, wait, then move, again. At least this space offered a clear view of the office building. Was Mayson still inside? Had the shyster agreed to get the records? Had there been a delay, or had he simply missed her on the street? Another gray unit drifted south. Pulling out, he headed north, back to the hotel. He’d covered these blocks so many times that by now, everything was familiar. Had Mayson been forced to take another route? Was she possibly trapped in an alley somewhere?
He covered the five blocks, then the adjacent streets before parking again, a block north of the courthouse this time. Almost instantly, another gray unit drifted by, and again he pulled out, heading in the opposite direction.
As he passed the courthouse, a huge man squeezed from a tiny car and limped off. The giant’s face was hideous. Leopold! He fit Harvey’s description perfectly.
As he continued south, another unit loomed in his mirror. Instantly its lights flashed. As he pulled over, it streaked past, then fishtailed into the Holiday Inn.
He saw the fleet of gray units converge at the hotel office. Clerks, in their navy jackets, mingled with troopers and Feds, fingers pointed, eyes gazing in the same direction: to their fourth floor room.
He cringed as several Feds dashed for the stairwell. Was Mayson up there? Starting back towards the courthouse, his desperate eyes scraped up every face along the familiar streets.
Stopping for the last light, he again inventoried the scene: Deveraux’s building, the courthouse, garage, bank, and Leopold’s still-parked Escort.
As the light changed, he moved again, eyes darting. Reaching the courthouse, the Escort’s doors suddenly flew open and the driver, a medium-sized man with blond hair, dashed for Deveraux’s building. Leopold hesitated, then without warning, limped into the street.
As he hit the brakes, the giant swung around. Did he see anything more than an annoying schmuck with cap and shades behind the Prelude’s wheel? The suspense ended as he spun and limped furiously into the courthouse.
Finding McCormack, Leopold sent him to join Frankie. “Search the entire building. And don’t leave until you have Corelli, or can swear on your mother’s life she’s not there.”
As he limped to the Clerk’s office, George sprung up from his seat near the counter. “Get Walters,” he ordered.
George quickly returned with the agent. Confirming that they hadn’t seen anyone fitting the fugitives’ descriptions, Leopold asked, “The front counter here is where a person comes to inspect the probate records?”
Walters nodded. “The case name is given to the clerk, who then either brings the records out, or puts the person in one of the viewing rooms. There’s a copier back there, too. You want to see the area?”
He nodded. “George, keep an eye on things out here.”
As he followed McCormack down the hall, two agents looked up from an open office. It was dangerous to get this close to the Fed’s operation. Only a handful, like Walters, McCormack, and Reardon, knew his identity. Hopefully, this morning’s exception wouldn’t have to be repeated.
“Don’t worry about Dillon and Casey,” Walters said. “If they ask, I’ve been told to say you’re a private eye retained by Lieber Allen. And you sure don’t need to worry about him,” he nodded at the cadaverous, old man snoozing in the corner office. “Chief Clerk Courtney, two weeks from retirement.”
They found Courtney’s senior deputy, a bright, competent redhead, who escorted them into one of the record rooms. “Probate cases are maintained in here,” she explained. “Is there one you’d like to see?”
“The Jasper Crenshaw Estate,” Walters replied.
Rummaging through the cabinet’s top drawer, she quickly nodded. “Yep, that’s the one.”
He glanced at an equally concerned Leopold. “The one?”
“Follow me,” she led them down to another office. “Crenshaw,” she pointed at the files stacked on the desk.
“Why are they in here?” Walters asked.
“Because Susan Peebles, one of my junior deputies, pulled them this morning. Tied up the copier for an hour. Obviously, she also failed to re-file them. She’s done this before, but I assure you it won’t happen again. Two warnings are enough. She’ll be placed on corrective discussion this time.”
Corrective discussion. He cringed at Leopold’s angry face. What would he get for letting this happen? Castration?
“Where is Ms. Peebles now?” Leopold asked.
“She took an early lunch, then had a doctor’s appointment.”
“Do you know who she made the copies for?”
“No, I’m sorry.” Grabbing the phone, she buzzed another deputy, a thin, solemn-faced woman who quickly appeared. “Ramona, did Susan say anything before leaving?”
“Not much. She was in a hurry to drop those records off.”
“Do you know where?” Leopold asked.
“Sure. Bernie Deveraux’s office next door.”
Leopold’s urgency haunted Tyler as he searched for Mayson on streets growing more dangerous by the minute. What had sent the giant limping into the courthouse, his companion dashing into the building next door? Did they know about Mayson’s altered appearance and her visit to Deveraux’s office? Finding the hotel still jammed with gray units, he started back to the courthouse. Two blocks later, he finally spotted Mayson hurrying along the sidewalk. A blue bandana covered her head, shades having replaced the grannies. She lugged what appeared to be a box of blankets but her grimace suggested much heavier baggage.
Pulling over, he rolled the window down, “I see you’ve finished your shopping.” Like a frightened squirrel, she froze, her head turning in his direction. “Let’s go home, Marcia, what do you say?”
Her slender arms screaming from her burden, she peered through the window. His cap and shades were commonplace; the feathered gold hair and magnificent jaw were uniquely Tyler. She wanted to pummel and hug him at the same time as she hurried over. “I couldn’t have carried it another ten feet.” She dropped the box in back then joined him up front.
“Bullshit,” he grinned. “You could’ve carried it to Georgia, if you had to.”
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
“Where the hell do you think?” Whipping around, he started north. “You got them all?”
“Every page.”
“Nice bandana,” he nodded. “The shades, too. You couldn’t have timed them any better. They’ve updated your description.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
He sighed. “I’m sorry it took so long to find you. You must’ve been scared shitless.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” she shrugged. “And I’m sure it was no picnic for you either, out on these shark-infested streets.”
They soon confronted a roadblock. “They’ve sealed us off. Now what?”
“Look for a crack in the seal,” he said, turning sharply.
They found the east road blocked, too. Certainly the south and west were, as well. Moving into the operation’s next phase, he ducked into the closest alley. She’d hated this part from the beginning. “Tyler, it’s ninety degrees. And it’ll be a hundred-and-ninety in the trunk. You might suffocate.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t say things you can’t possibly predict!”
“Look, Mayson, in their minds we’re a pair. That means one draws less suspicion. One disguised draws even less.”
“But you’re as much disguised as me now. So, it doesn’t matter who rides in the trunk, except that I’m smaller, which means I’ll fit more comfortably.”
“That wasn’t part of the plan.” He glanced down the alley. It’d take just one curious unit to end the show.
“Tyler, I won’t have you die from heat stroke because of some stupid plan.”
Climbing out, he scowled as she stayed in her seat. “Come on, quit screwing around!”
Stubbornly, she folded her arms.
“Maybe you’re right,” he sighed. “Maybe we should just turn ourselves in. That way, no one will have to ride in the trunk.”
She glared at him through the window. “How many times do I have to say it? You’re not clever.”
“That’s right, I’m mad. Now get your ass out of the goddamned car.”
“Don’t talk to me like that!”
“Talk, hell! I’m ready to take you across my knee!”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
“You’re damn right. Now get out of the car.”
“Tyler... No!” Jerking the door open, he scooped her up as she squealed, flailed and clutching his neck, surrendering finally to tears.
“Now, the map’s in the glove compartment.” His anger quickly faded. “The course is charted, but just stick to I-75 for now, all right?” When she nodded, he set her down. “There’s still plenty of gas, enough to reach the Georgia line, anyway.”
“That’s where I’ll stop to bury you,” she fretted. “You’ll be dead by then.”
God knows, she never quit, just paused long enough to catch her breath. The man she loved one day — a miracle he could now envision — would be the luckiest bastard alive. More than a beautiful mate, he’d have the most fiercely loyal ally alive.
“Tyler, if you die, I’ll haunt your grave.”
“I’ve no doubt.” He grabbed the records and, stuffing them in the trunk, crawled in with the water jug.
“I suppose you think this stupid prank makes you noble or something,” she worried, as she loomed over him.
“Just shut up and close the trunk, all right?”
“This redneck gallantry doesn’t impress me at all.”
“Close the goddamned trunk!”
She did him one better and slammed it viciously. Storming around the car, she quickly returned. “Tyler, I hate you for making me do this... Are you all right in there?”
“Drive the goddamned car!”
Slipping behind the wheel, her eyes brushed over the equipment. Taking a deep breath, she started off, joining the traffic north along the route to I-75. Short blocks later she confronted a roadblock. She crept over the baked pavement, imagining Tyler sweating like a pig in the trunk. What if he ran out of water or lost consciousness? Finally, she spotted the cluster of gray units ahead. Stern-faced troopers ducked into cars and snapped up IDs, their gestures crisp as one car was dismissed and the next waved forward. Anxiously, she studied her bandana-covered head and the shades that hid her eyes. She was still Mayson Corelli. Wouldn’t they know?
She crept forward again. Four cars remained between her and the checkpoint. Why was the trunk so quiet behind her? If she could just hear a bump, anything to confirm he was all right. The jeep in front of her finally reached the checkpoint, the trooper taking up the blond boy’s license. Others threw open the doors. Quickly the inspection was completed and the boy waved on. Her heart in her throat, she drove forward. “Good day,” the trooper greeted. “May I please see some identification?”
As she grabbed her purse, the doors flew open. Hands pounded cushions, swept under seats, sifted through the glove compart ment. Struggling to free her license from the plastic, she finally passed it out the window. The trooper studied the photo, then her face. “Would you please remove your glasses?”
The search stopped now, solemn eyes watching her as she removed the glasses. Apparently satisfied, the trooper asked, “You have a registration for this vehicle?”
“Here,” the trooper beside her grabbed it from the glove compartment and passed it out the window.
The trooper at the window studied it, then the car lease. “Jonathan Cartwright is your husband?”
She nodded. “We’ve been visiting family here in Naples. Jonathan leased the car this morning so I could return to Orlando on business.”
“Orlando’s south,” the trooper beside her said. “This map charts a northerly route...” Radio staccato intruded suddenly, then another trooper loped up. “We just got a report that Corelli was in Bernie Deveraux’s office this morning.”
“That confirms she’s inside our little quadrangle,” the trooper at the window said. The one inside the car added, “We know the fugitives planned to visit the courthouse and that their next move would likely be north. This map charts a northern route.”
“It came with the car,” she shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere but to my job in Orlando – assuming I still have it when I get back.”
The trooper at the window studied the lengthening traffic, then her license again. “This is a genuine Florida permit. God knows, I’ve seen enough of them.” He peered inside at his companion. “Anything else in the glove compartment, Doug?”
“It’s clean, Leo. But maybe we should check the trunk.” A fourth trooper approached, quickly spotting him. “Reynolds wants to see you at HQ, Doug. He says it’s urgent.”
“Everything is with him.” Doug climbed out.
The trooper at the window returned her license. “That DMV photo hardly does you justice, Mrs. Cartwright. But they rarely do. I-75 is two blocks east. You’re sure you’re not taking it?” When she firmly shook her head, he backed away from the car. “Then proceed. And my apologies for the delay.”
She was floating suddenly, disconnected from her waving hand and her shrill voice that cried, “Happy Thanksgiving!”
She coasted past the cluster of patrol cars, then two blocks later the I-75 ramp. Behind her the trunk remained quiet, yet Tyler must know they’d dodged another bullet. Why wasn’t he shouting, knocking, something? The gray units thinned as she reached the outskirts of Naples. Ducking into a car wash, she grabbed the last bay and hurried back to open the trunk. Tyler was curled around the water jug, his face flushed and glistening from the intense heat. “Look at you! You’re soaking wet!”
“I’m fine.” He squinted against the harsh light.
“Boiling like beef in a pot isn’t fine. Now get out.”
“You handled those troopers brilliantly.” He lolled in the cool draft.
“Tyler, you’ll have heat stroke, then suffocate and die, all because you’re a pigheaded gavonne!”
“Goddamnit, will you listen...”
The spraying water died suddenly in the adjoining bay. Holding the hose, a man appeared. “Need some help, lady? You sounded a little upset muttering that way.”
Peering at him over the trunk, she smiled sheepishly. “I get like that when I’m in a hurry. No, thank you, I’m just getting my soap and rags out.” Her eyes closed as the water sprayed once again in the next bay.
“I-75 is out,” Tyler whispered. “All the primary roads north will be smothered. And they’ll soon realize they screwed up by letting this Prelude slip through. I didn’t chart an alternate course but at least considered one. Which way have you been traveling?”
“East,” she replied.
“Then we must be close to Route 953. Take it north to... 82, I think. Then 31. You’ll run into them sooner or later. If not, just pull over and we’ll check it out.”
“But how am I supposed to...” Quickly she slipped around the bay corner to find the man wiping his brown Taurus. “Could you tell me how to get to Route 953?”
He pointed out the bay. “Three blocks east, turn left and you’re on it.”
“Thank you.” She slipped back around the corner.
“Let’s go,” Tyler urged.
“I’ll stop every twenty-five miles to check on you.”
“Seventy-five,” he impatiently countered. “Now let’s go.”
“Twenty-five!” She slammed the trunk.