A Dead Issue (30 page)

I simply said, “I'm not going anywhere until I get my hands on that gun.”

Dusty looked at me squarely. “Then you're going to have to kill him.”

His statement struck me like a concussion—the horrific impact of truth against reason. I could only stare at him in return, speechless with revulsion at the thought, yet strangely intrigued and enticed by its simplicity.

The phone rang, shocking me back to reality. I picked up the phone, expecting ADT again checking on the second window—the one with a drop of blood on a shard of glass. Instead, a sandy voice greeted me in monotone.

“There's something down at the Farmhouse for you.”

The line went dead.

Dusty watched as I put down the phone in slow motion. “What's wrong? Who was it?”

“I don't know. There's something for me down at the Farmhouse.”

“Stomp. Was it Stomp?”

I shook my head. “I don't know who it was, but it didn't sound good.”

I raced downstairs with Dusty close behind. I stopped in my room, scooped up the magnum, the keys to the Beamer and headed for the door. Dusty grabbed my arm, swinging me to a halt.

“I need a gun,” he said.

I shook my head, sound judgment telling me that more guns meant more trouble.

“Stomp is on the loose. Cash is nuts, and you want my help. Your choice. Give me a gun or you're on your own.”

Sound judgment suddenly told me that facing Stomp or Cash alone wasn't such a good idea either. “OK.”

I led Dusty back to my father's office, and he stood obediently in the doorway as I opened the vault. Entering it, I thought of my mother and the strange twists of fate that placed us here. Her search for happiness destroyed a marriage and dropped Dusty into my life. Now we needed guns. I grabbed another revolver, heeding my father's advice to keep it simple, and then changed my mind—to satisfy my curiosity. I switched to a 9mm Beretta and a box of ammunition. I closed the vault and returned to Dusty, pausing long enough to give him the pistol and the shells. A quick nod and we continued our race to the BMW.

The telescope had severely dented the roof. Dusty swept it off and it clattered across the driveway. I slid into the driver's seat, ignoring the inward bulge of the headliner. As soon as Dusty was settled, he loaded the gun, popping out the clip and slipping the bullets into it one after another and I knew that he had done this before. Son-of-a-bitch.

As I pulled onto Cameron Drive toward the Farmhouse, I looked over at Dusty. He studied the pistol. He seemed mesmerized by its potential for destruction.

“Shitbird,” he said and gave me that wise-assed smirk of his.

CHAPTER 51

We drove in silence down the lane, and my thoughts turned to Jonah's gun and fingerprints. I tried to think like Devereaux. If Jonah shot up his own living room like Devereaux had guessed, then Jonah's fingerprints should have been all over it—but they weren't. Dusty had wiped them off getting rid of his own. My prints were on the gun, placing me at the scene. Liza's prints would tell Devereaux that she had handled the gun later. Her disappearance could mean she ran away—or was killed before she could report it to the police. Cash's prints would not be found. He knew the value of my prints being there and would have handled the gun like a crime scene investigator.

I cut the lights as we neared the house and coasted to a stop in the driveway that wound around to the back of the house to the garage and barn. Dusty and I slid out of the car and approached the front door quietly, glancing at each other as we went for reassurance. There was an unsettling familiarity about creeping up on a farmhouse in the night. At the door, I stopped to flip through my keys, searching for the one with a plastic cover.

The Dusty nudged me. “It's open.” He gave the door a shove.

Moe slithered out and darted across the porch and into the shadows. Someone had been in the house.

I turned to Dusty. “Cover the driveway.” I said it so softly he would not have heard me if he had been another foot away. My eyes scanned through the darkness, barely picking up shapes among the shadows. Dusty was so quiet in his exit that I had to reach back to feel his absence with a sweep of my hand. After a moment of silence, I moved my way through the house to the kitchen, heart pounding, anticipating an ambush. I ran my fingers along the wall and flipped on the light.

“Mark?” Dusty had made it to the veranda. “Don't shoot. It's clear.”

Dusty came in and looked around. “What are we looking for?”

“I don't know.”

Dusty looked around. “You have a message,” he said, staring at the answering machine on the roll top desk against the far wall. As we approached the desk, a pile of coins near the phone caught my eye. With a closer look, the pile took shape. I reached out, hooking part of it with my fingers. It was Liza's crucifix.

CHAPTER 52

The links rose in a steady stream until the chain was taut and the crucifix swung from my finger. I was surprised by its weight and puzzled by its presence. The crucifix was ever-present in our relationship—from the first night I saw her face floating above it in my headlights to the last time we made love, the links sticking to our skin. I promised not to ask her to take it off.
Not until I'm ready.

“How did that get here?”

“Tony put it here—her husband.” I explained. “It's some kind of message.” I looked at the answering machine.

“He's going to kill you—you slept with his wife. That crucifix is a warning—you're next.”

Next? The thought tore through me like jagged glass. I hadn't considered the possibility, but there it was—Dusty's thoughtless ramblings hitting upon the truth: Liza might already be dead.

“Maybe it's time to call Devereaux,” Dusty continued.

“Not yet. Let's see what the bastard wants. I pushed the play button.

“Wednesday, 2:37 AM.” Minutes ago. There was a pause followed by the message: “Call me.” The voice was cold and unflinching—its whispery high pitch in eerie contrast to the tone which underscored the veiled threat. “Now.”

I played the message twice more—three words infested with the promise of danger. Liza was still alive. He wanted to talk, make some kind of deal.

Dusty looked up from the answering machine. “You going to call, or what?”

I opened caller ID. “Here goes,” I said and punched
Dial
.

After two rings I heard a click followed by heavy and forceful breathing intended to let me know that there was someone on the other end. I listened for a few moments,
Dusty watching and waiting intently at my side. I raised a
finger to my lips and pushed the speaker button.

“Anthony Lovell?”

There was another breath or two and the whispery voice countered with, “Mark Cameron?”

“Yes.”

“You call me Tony.” This was clearly not a gesture of friendship, but a preference. “We have a mutual interest,” he continued. “I have a certain property for sale, and I understand you might want to buy it.” There was a pause designed to make me think and consider.

Property? Was he talking about Liza or Jonah's farm?

“I think you're confusing me with my father . . .”

“I'm not confusing you with nobody,” he cut me off. “I got property. You got money. We trade. It's a sale.”

“Where's Liza?”

“Liza? Liza Lovell?” He paused. “You mean my wife?” There was an edge to his voice that told me there was another issue lurking in the shadows. “She's here,” he said casually.

“Let me talk to her.” I had tried to keep the desperation from my voice but it was there in unmistakable tones.

“She can't come to the phone right now . . . she's all tied up.”

The son-of-a-bitch. I pictured her bound to a chair with heavy ropes, maybe a strip of duct tape over her mouth with a sock stuffed in it.

“What I'm thinking,” he continued, “is we should have an informal sale—do this off the books. You know how this stuff works—all the complications, divorce papers, deeds, property transfers. You know what I'm talking about?” He paused, and the threatening edge was back in his voice. “You never know what's going to happen.”

“I think so,” I said softly.

“I'm glad we can agree on that.” Tony's voice had taken on a new quality—a treacherous familiarity. “Now, I also understand you have ready cash at your disposal . . .”

Liza told him about the drawers filled with bills, and I had no doubt she used the promise of quick money to keep Tony from killing her. I couldn't risk denial.

“I have some money,” I offered cautiously.

“That's good,” Tony said. “Real good.” There was a pause while he shifted gears. “Now, I don't know the value of that property—might be millions. Should be appraised, but I don't have time for that—I got a business to run. All I know is what that property is worth to me. I get that—I'm gone. You understand?”

“I understand.”

“Later on, all that paperwork bullshit—you know, the will, settling estates—all that can happen down the road. I'll be gone.”

There was a long pause. Tony was about to throw out his figure and the suspense unnerved me. I had to break the silence.

“How much?”

Tony answered immediately. “Two hundred and fifty.”

A quarter of a million dollars. Did my father's vault hold that much? Maybe. My resolve not to use my father's money crumbled under this new development. For Liza, I would take it all.

“We got to do this quick,” Tony continued without giving me time to object. “I'm leaving tomorrow night. In the meantime, I've got some details to work out.”

“Can I talk to Liza?” I thought my willingness to pay would change his mind, but I was wrong.

“No. She's going to be tied up for some time. You can talk to her after we make our little exchange.”

The line went silent.

CHAPTER 53

I dropped the phone and looked at Dusty.

“What was that all about?” he asked. “Is he holding his own wife for ransom?” He shook his head at the irony of it.

I sorted out the message—the subtext of our conversation.

“It's the only thing he can do,” I explained, voicing the details as they shaped in my mind, “Their marriage isn't on the books—no divorce settlement. If she dies, there's no will. The only way he can get money is through me. Liza can repay me after she sells the land.”

Dusty let out a roar of explosive laughter. “Shitbird. You are an asshole.” He chuckled some more and continued. “Here's a better one. You give Tony a quarter of a million, and he serves as best man at your wedding. Then you and Liza both own the property. When your father comes home, you sign it over to him to cover the quarter million you borrowed. He's so happy he makes you a partner and you all live happily ever after—with Stomp as your butler. What kind of fairytale world do you live in for Chrissake?”

Dusty smiled, shaking his head, and then he went on. “Here's what's going to happen. You pay Sleazeball a quarter of a million. He takes Liza away—beats her into a marriage. Then the property becomes his and he sells it for another million. That leaves you in jail and your father out a quarter million while Sleazeball sits under a palm tree drinking out of a coconut. Maybe he hires someone to teach you a lesson.”

That was possible. It made sense. There had to be a way out. My mind boiled with anger, fear, and confusion, but no ideas bubbled their way to the surface. And Dusty wasn't finished stirring the pot.

“You want another thought? One word—Gypsy. How about this—Liza is working you. You're being scammed by
both of them. In the end, both of them will be under a palm
tree sipping drinks out of a

”

I punched him. My fist flew out and caught him on the jaw. It wasn't much, but his head snapped to the side and he staggered backward. I think he was more surprised than anything. Regret flooded through me.

“Dusty,” I reached out and touched his shoulder. “I'm sorry.” He jerked away.

“Fuckin' shitbird asshole.” He took a few steps away, rubbing his jaw.

“Dusty. I'm sorry. I lost it.” I paused, looking at him, waiting for a response, but he would not make eye contact. “You don't understand. She's a victim in all this—because of us. Don't you understand that? We have to help her.”

I paused again and Dusty's eyes, filled with mistrust, flicked up at me.

“She wouldn't scam me,” I said, filling the silence.

She had placed my fingers on her heart. My hand rose to my chest. “I know it. I felt her . . .” I paused, searching for a way to express our trust.

“Her titties! You know she's a good person because you felt her titties? Jesus!”

“Her heart,” I continued, “I felt her heart.”

“You want to feel something?” Dusty grabbed his crotch and gave himself a shake. “Feel these. Then give me five thousand so I can get the fuck out of here—go to Brazil. Maybe I can find a good person by feeling titties.”

I froze as Dusty's words faded around me into silence.

Why not? If I was about to give Tony Lovell a quarter of a million dollars, what was a mere five thousand for Dusty? And as that thought came to me, a plan started to form. It was vague and shapeless, but the first step was dealing with Cash and his plans to send Dusty off to Brazil. When it came to scams, Cash was a master and Dusty's promised trip to Brazil might be best for everyone.

“OK,” I said.

Dusty froze, the look on his face was uncertain—like my next move was to reach out and grab a handful of balls.

“OK, what?” he asked.

“OK, I'm going to give you five thousand dollars to go to Brazil.”