30

 

Wes stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, outside the yellow tape, waiting for the officer controlling the entrance into the crime scene to get Agent Carr’s attention. He could kick himself for not thinking to ask sooner where Meshach and the woman had gone in the boat.

His phone chirped. A text from Tony—stacy and i starving. something close????

Stacy? First name? Looked like Tony and his new FBI computer-guru friend were getting along well.

He was right too. Meshach fouled up their plans for breakfast that morning. They had not eaten since.

The last orange of the sunset lingered on the horizon. Soon he’d need a flashlight to find his way to the car. Bubba and Cole talked and drifted back toward what had been a parking lot for patrol cars all day. The two parish cruisers remained at the entrance.

Dark stains dotted the deck near the door. The hum of flies drew his attention to a larger spot a few feet away. More than likely where the officer fell. If not for the gaps between the two-by-six decking, he had no doubt the bloodstain would have been much bigger.

Before long, a Hazmat team would move in behind the FBI and clean up the blood and other human waste, if any. Sad to think people made a living performing such tasks.

The half-closed screen door blocked his view into the house. From the looks of the kitchen area, the place where Tony worked mirrored this one. He focused in on three small holes at chest level in the screen itself. The pattern looked familiar, like the close grouping in a paper target at the pistol range.

How many rounds were fired? Just three, or did one or more streak through existing holes? How many came from Meshach? No other damage to the screen or surrounding woodwork stood out. The kitchen window remained intact.

A man’s natural reactions made him duck or crouch, even when he stood in the open with nothing to hide behind. Meshach inside, the cop outside, each man looking down the barrel of his weapon at the other, squeezing off rounds until they were either wounded and unable to continue, saw their opponent fall, or ran out of ammo. This firefight happened fast. Bang, bang, bang. No time for thought. Surprised, both men exposed to the other’s gunfire, with no time to take cover or run. Otherwise, the holes would have been scattered over a larger area as each shooter ducked and dodged looking for cover.

No way a man could shoot such a tight group when running for his life.

The officer took one in the neck early in the engagement. Like most cops anymore, the man carried a high-capacity semi-automatic. Wes bet money Meshach wielded a similar weapon. Only three holes, so neither man had emptied their handgun.

Why hadn’t Meshach finished off the cop? He’d used a knife on his childhood friend. Maybe the officer had his own friends in heavenly places.

Agent Carr said evidence indicated Meshach had been hit, so at least one Meshach-seeking bullet passed through the screen. He stopped a chunk of lead high in the torso or outer shoulder area, maybe the face.

One could always hope.

Wasn’t often a barrier between the shooters helped trace the path of each bullet for the investigators.

Agent Carr eased through the door wearing blue shoe covers and sidestepped around the blood splatter. “Wes, we’re just about finished.”

“I’m not here to pester you about getting a tour. I’m wondering about the lady who spent the day offshore with Meshach.”

“Miss Shanteel.”

“That’s her. Did she say where they went?”

Trent removed his pad from his hip pocket and flipped through the pages. “A platform.”

“What kind, where?”

“If you’ll remember her description of the suspect’s car, the ‘shiny black one,’ you’ll understand why I don’t have anything else written down. I’m sorry.”

Wes tried to think. Why an offshore structure? “She left you a number where she could be reached, of course.”

“She did, but…here.” He held out his pad for Wes to see the numerals. “I have a feeling she’s at the hospital with the wounded officer.”

Wes punched in the numbers on his phone then glanced at Trent. “They related?”

The agent canted his head, raised his eyebrows, and rolled his eyes.

Wes thought of himself as naive and slow to understand people, but not this time. “You’re kidding me? Meshach, this Shanteel woman, and the cop, a lover’s triangle?”

“Looks like it.”

Wes listened to the ringtone and said, “The cop a rookie?” Trent quickly raised his eyebrows again, indicating a negative. Then he looked away.

“Hello. This is Stacy Collins. May I help you?”

“Stacy Collins? As in FBI Stacy?”

“Yes, this is Agent Collins.”

“Unbelievable. This is Wes. I’ll be over in a minute.” He hung up. “The woman gave you the number for that place.” Wes pointed. “It’s a long shot, but what does platform mean to Shanteel? Some are huge and fitted with self-contained living quarters. Maybe Meshach found an abandoned site and took Jess there. Could you have someone at the hospital check, and if Shanteel is there, get a uniform to ask her some more pointed questions?”

“Will do.”

“Any headway with the Coast Guard members who met him?”

Trent shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

“We need to know what Meshach did to draw their attention. I’m going for something to eat. I remember seeing a Subway not far from here. You have a preference?”

“Anything would be welcomed, thanks.”

Wes bounded down the stairs, trotted across the dock, and up the steps to talk to Tony. He and Agent Collins looked up when Wes entered. “The Shanteel woman gave this number as a contact. We didn’t realize she actually lived here. Find anything on Meshach’s machine we can use?”

“No, sir. Sorry it’s taken so long. I’m, we’re, Stacy and I—”

“It’s OK. I’ll be on my cell. Going to Subway. I’ll get one of everything.” The last statement would give Tony the warm and fuzzies.

He met Bubba and Cole at the bottom of the steps and shook their hands in turn. “You two want to ride with me?” They changed direction. “Cole, I’m surprised to see you so soon. News travels fast.”

“I wanted to make sure you have all the help you need to find Jessica. I’ve taken the liberty of hiring three helicopters. I got one from Bristow and two from PHI, all I could find at present. We can make them available to the FBI to use as they see fit, or you can line them out. They’ll be spooled up and ready at sunup.”

Bubba placed his huge mitt on Wes’s shoulder. “In case you’re wondering, I called him.”

“That’s good,” Wes said. “I should have called you this morning. Thanks, Mr. Blackwell.” Wes offered his hand again, and they shook as they walked.

“No worries,” Cole said. “You’ve done an unbelievable job finding the guy. Now we need to concentrate on your girl. I’m here to help.”

His girl? Yeah, his girl.

Wes unlocked the doors to the Chrysler 300. He didn’t know why, but he felt the urge to apologize for the car Tony had rented, effectively using Cole’s money. It was a car, and roomy, but the yellow paint job didn’t look the part. He let it go.

Cole crawled into the backseat, Bubba into the front.

Wes started up and sped down the gravel road to the exit.

Bubba said, “Where are we headed, brother?”

“Oh, my bad. Sandwich shop a few blocks over. It’s the only place I know of. Everyone is starved. I thought we could talk along the way. It’s not far. Get this, and I don’t know all the details, but looks like jealousy got the officer shot. A woman named Shanteel who spent time with Meshach offshore is connected to the wounded cop.”

He steered across the two southbound lanes, over the grass median, and headed north. He pushed the gas pedal to the floor then eased up as the needle closed in on seventy miles an hour. He pulled the turning signal lever one time to dim the lights.

“I’ll be the last man on earth to question his motives,” Cole said from the backseat.

Wes knew he liked Cole. He empathized with the wounded officer’s reasons for confronting a killer alone, however shortsighted they may have been.

Wes flashed the high beams at an oncoming car. The car flashed back twice. I get it. Your lights are already on low, but they need adjusting. Wes stepped on the brakes and stopped in the middle of the left lane. What had he just seen illuminated in the lights of the oncoming car, on the other side of the highway next to a brown trailer house? Just a white parked car. But there was something about it…

“Hey, bro, you OK?” Bubba asked. “There’s a car coming up fast behind us.”

Wes looked at his friend then back at Cole. What was it? Think.

“Oh Jess! The red mud on your shoes! Red mud on the car!” Wes spun the wheel and floored it. The backend of the Chrysler skidded around and they shot across the grass median onto the blacktop, traveling the opposite direction. He hit the brakes again, punched the unlock button, and opened his door before the car stopped twenty feet from an Altima.

He palmed the automatic, chambered a round, then sidestepped in a semicircle, ten feet away. He leveled his pistol at the driver’s window. Bright lights from the Chrysler outside made it impossible to see through tinted glass inside. He moved around to the front of the car and peered through the cracked windshield. Nothing.

Cole stood next to the rental car, forearms resting on top of the open door. Bubba moved between the Altima and the trailer house and scanned the night. Always a Marine, covering his teammate’s back, even when unarmed.

As Wes stared at the front window, his dim reflection shook. He didn’t move but the car did. “The trunk, Bubba, Cole. The trunk!” Wes moved to the driver’s side and checked both doors.

Bubba checked the other side and shook his head.

Wes struck the driver’s window with the butt of the Springfield and shattered the glass. The alarm went off. He reached inside and opened the door. Trunk release button—dashboard, glove box, driver’s door, floor next to the seat—come on. The dash. He pushed and pulled at the button until the lid popped up.

Cole found his legs and ran to look inside the trunk. He yelled, “Glory! She’s here.”

Wes yelled, “Don’t move her,” and quickly shuffled to the rear of the Nissan. “Cole, would you turn on the emergency flashers on my car then do something with the alarm. Jerk the wires off the battery, something?

“Bubba, here, take this .45. Just in case. There’s a round in the chute.” He passed over the automatic to his friend.

She laid on her right side, across the back, head to the right, facing the dark emptiness behind the backseat. Her shoulders shook. Oh, Jess. He cupped her head in his hands. She was soaked with sweat, hair and clothes, through and through. He leaned over, kissed the tape covering her ear and spoke over the blaring alarm. “I’m so sorry. Don’t cry. It’s me. You’re safe. Let’s get this tape off your mouth, so you can breathe. Then we’ll get your hands and feet. You ready?”

She nodded.

He worked at the wraps of gray duct tape. “Bubba, Cole, someone get an ambulance on the way? Get some water. Somewhere. Check around that old trailer for a working faucet. The house across the road.”

“Bubba is on the phone right now.” Cole put a hand on Wes’s shoulder as he walked toward the front of the car. “I’ll get the alarm and check for water.”

Jess was in good shape, but the color of the car helped, white wasn’t as hot in direct sunlight. A little longer or another day, one with the temperature in the 90s, he’d be putting her in a body bag.

Three layers of tape stuck to tape came off with little effort. The last wraps would have to wait, or hair and skin would come off with it. “Jess, I’m going to tear the tape just beside your mouth. Then we’ll get some water in you. Can you turn your head? There you go. You ready?” He worked his fingers in next to her cheek, tore the tape and peeled it off her lips.

The alarm went silent.

She took two big breaths and coughed. “The water can wait until you get me out of here. That maniac said he’d be back to get me.”