SIXTY-SIX

 

 

As soon as Floyd was out of sight, Miles ran to Luke Gruden's brand-new REO Speedwagon truck parked just around the corner, found the keys where Gruden promised they'd be, fired up the engine, and raced out Cattle Point Road to find a spot where he could watch Floyd pass by. Knowing that Floyd wouldn't recognize Gruden's truck, Miles parked in the driveway of a random cottage fronting the main road and waited. Less than a minute later, Floyd came rolling by, looking solemn, oblivious to Miles's presence. After waiting half a minute, Miles backed out onto Cattle Point Road and, keeping a healthy distance, began following Floyd down to Grandma's Cove.

His plan was simple. If Floyd was working for whoever hijacked the Lucky Lena, then he'd surely have been instructed to kill the girl—the only living witness—if the opportunity presented itself. Floyd's actions here would either incriminate or absolve him, once and for all.

 

*****

 

Once he got within half a mile of the cove, Miles slowed to a crawl, watching for his own parked truck. He found it, empty, exactly where he'd told Floyd to leave it. Floyd was nowhere to be seen, meaning he'd probably already walked on down the fishing trail that led to the cove. Taking to the trail himself, Miles paused at each bend, doing his best to peek further down the way to make sure he wasn't going to overrun or be spotted by Floyd. Eventually, the trail opened up at the head of the cove. The waves of a high tide were churning against the rocks below, drowning out most sound. The tiny fishing shack was in view a few dozen yards to his right, around the length of the cove. Miles began to crouch as he went, ducking behind bushes and trees wherever he could, getting closer and closer to the shack. When he was no more than 50 feet away, he heard a single gunshot from inside.

What the hell?

He sprinted forward, drew his gun, threw open the plank that served as a front door, and, his eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness within, sprang forward and tripped, falling face down onto Floyd. He jumped to his feet as if burned by fire, then scrambled backward, his gun all the while trained on Floyd.

"What—what in the hell!" Miles shouted. "Explain yourself!"

Floyd, who was flat on his back, said nothing. Instead, he held a hand flat against his upper chest as a bloodstain quickly grew beneath it. He was wide-eyed and appeared to be gasping for air. The canteen, fruit, and vegetables he'd brought were strewn about the floor of the otherwise empty shack.

Miles knelt at Floyd's side. Floyd looked up at him, his face a painting of shock and suffering. "Floyd, can you hear me? Floyd? What happened? Who shot you?"

Floyd shook his head weakly, leaving the question unanswered.

His gun up and his finger on the trigger, Miles crossed the floor of the shack, threw the back door open, and raced outside. A dense thicket of brush and small trees began a few feet from the back door, providing perfect cover for anyone fleeing the area. Aside from that, the surrounding land was vacant. Whoever shot Floyd was gone.