Big Trouble (24 page)

HENRY and Leonard were heading for the wall, not running, but walking briskly in the dark.

“You get him?” asked Leonard.

“I think so,” said Henry. “The dog ran into me, but I definitely saw our boy go down.”

“Cop went down, too,” said Leonard.

“Yeah,” said Henry. “I think he ducked when he heard the shot.”

“You got
any
idea why a cop would be helpin' our boy carry a big-ass shelf around the house?” asked Leonard.

“No,” said Henry. “Weirdsville Fuckin'USA,” said Leonard.

“WHAT kinda street name is Garbanzo?” asked Greer. He was reading the map; Seitz was driving. “Listen to these other streets they got here. Loquat. Kumquat. You believe that?
Kumquat
. Turn left here. You think they got our suitcase?”

“Sure sounds like it,” said Seitz. “I mean, we been wrong before on this, but I tend to believe old Ivan was telling the truth.”

“Me, too,” said Greer. “He definitely did not wanna get his other shoe ventilated. That's it there, 238 Garbanzo, on the . . . What happened to the gate?”

“Somebody left in a hurry,” said Seitz.

“Goin' where, I wonder,” said Greer.

“Let's hope somebody inside can help us with that,” said Seitz.

WALTER was crouched in a pile of shattered glass, struggling to right the entertainment unit. He was getting no help from Arthur, who was still prone on the other side, moaning and rubbing his burning face with his free hand.

“Come ON,” Walter said, shaking the shelving. “Get UP.”

“My face!” moaned Arthur. “It got my face!”

“Well, whatever it is,” said Walter, “we can get you some help if we get this thing . . .”

“GET AWAY!” Arthur screamed. “OHMIGOD GET AWAY FROM ME!”

Arthur was screaming at Roger, who was a few feet in front of him, enthusiastically snorking up a few pieces of kibble that had flown out of his dish when Arthur's face landed in it. Hearing the screams, Roger glanced up for a moment and wagged his tail to let Arthur know that he would be over to say hi just as soon as he had completed the important work at hand.

“For chrissakes,” said Walter. “It's a
dog
. It's
your
dog.”

Arthur turned to Walter, his face contorted by terror. “Can't you SEE?” he said. “You can't SEE her?”

“See
what?
” asked Walter. “What're you
talking
about?”

“HER!” said Arthur. “It's HER!!”

“Who?” asked Walter.

“THAT WOMAN!” said Arthur, pointing at the happily wagging Roger. “The one with the guy, you know . . . Bob Dole! His wife!”

Walter looked at Arthur, then at Roger, then back at Arthur. He said, “You think that's
Elizabeth Dole?
”

“YES!” said Arthur. “IT'S HER!” He was looking right at her, and she was definitely Elizabeth Dole, a woman he had always found vaguely scary, right in front of him, on his patio. But at the same time she was
not
Elizabeth Dole. She had Elizabeth Dole's face and highly disciplined hair, but her eyes were glowing red malevolent orbs, and she had huge, sharp teeth. Also she was eating kibble. Arthur knew—he
knew
—that she was a demon form of Elizabeth Dole, and she was here to take his soul.

“GO AWAY!” Arthur screamed at the demon Elizabeth Dole. She stared back at him, her eyes glowing, her demon tail wagging. She opened her fanged mouth and spoke to him, spoke his name in a terrible voice.

“Herk!” said Elizabeth Dole. “Herk! Herk!”

“NO!” said Arthur, jerking violently on his handcuffed arm, trying to crawl backward. “NO!”

“STOP IT!” said Walter. “That's a DOG, goddammit!” But he got no response from Arthur, who was staring at Roger, whimpering. He had also started foaming from the mouth. Walter, realizing that he was not going to get any help, grabbed the entertainment unit and started to lift it, and with it Arthur at the other end. Grunting, he raised it a foot, only to drop it again when he heard the voice behind him.

“You OK there, Officer?”

Walter twisted around and saw two men, one tall and one short, both wearing suits, standing in the gaping hole that had been the sliding door.

“Who're you?” he asked.

The tall one flipped open a badge wallet.

“FBI,” he said. “My name is Agent Pat Greer. This is Alan Seitz.”

“Thank God,” said Walter. “Listen, I need you to . . .”

“We're looking for an Arthur Herk,” said Greer.

“That's him over there,” said Walter, pointing toward Arthur. “But listen, I need you to . . .”

“Not now,” said Greer.

“But my partner is . . .”

“I said
not now,
” said Greer.

Walter almost lost it at that point, but he decided that, what with him being handcuffed, and this being an FBI agent, he'd shut up for the moment.

Greer moved over to Arthur, who was still staring at Roger, who, having snorked up the last subatomic particles of kibble, was reverently licking the place on the patio where it had once been.

“Mr.Herk,” said Greer.

Arthur slowly turned his head to look at Greer. His pupils were the size of dimes.

“Mr. Herk,” said Greer, “I'm with the FBI, and I need you to tell me where the suitcase is.”

Arthur opened his mouth, releasing a streamer of foamy drool, which dribbled down onto his collar.

“Mr. Herk,” said Greer, “did you hear me? This is very important.”

Arthur slowly closed his mouth, then opened it again and said, “She wants my soul. Don't let her take my soul.”

“Don't let
who
take your soul?” asked Greer.

“Her,” said Arthur, pointing at Roger. Roger wagged his tail.

“The
dog?
” asked Greer.

“He thinks the dog is Elizabeth Dole,” explained Walter.

“Jesus,” said Greer, rubbing his face. To Seitz, he said, “Whaddya think?”

Seitz peered into Herk's deranged eyes. “He's gone,” he said, “and I don't think he's coming back anytime soon.”

Greer said to Walter, “Listen, we have reason to believe that Mr. Herk had a suitcase, probably made out of metal, very heavy. Did you see that suitcase?”

Walter thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said, “they had a suitcase. They took it.”

“Who's they?” asked Greer, although he was pretty sure he knew, from what John had told him.

“Some scumbag, goes by ‘Snake,'” said Walter. “Him and another scumbag was here when we got here, me and my partner. He had a gun, which is how I got . . . I mean, they surprised us. They took this guy's daughter”—he gestured toward Arthur—“and some little guy with a beard. The little guy carried the suitcase. They took our car. My partner went after 'em with this guy's wife.”

“Where'd they go?” asked Greer.

“Airport,” said Walter. “MIA. The scumbag said he was gonna catch a plane.”

“He say where to?” asked Seitz.

“No,” said Walter. “Fact is, Monica, that's my partner, was just guessin' it was MIA.”

Greer and Seitz looked at each other.

“Whaddya think?” said Greer.

“I think we go to MIA,” said Seitz.

“Me, too,” said Greer. To Walter, he said, “Keep this man in custody for us, will you?” He turned to go.

“Hey!” said Walter. “You can't leave me here like this!”

“I'm sorry,” said Greer, “but we gotta go.”

“BUT I'M A POLICE OFFICER,” said Walter.

“I know that,” said Greer. “I know you're an
excellent
police officer, because I can't think of any other explanation for the fact that you're handcuffed to an entertainment unit that's handcuffed to a man who thinks a dog is Elizabeth Dole. But we really gotta go.” With that, he and Seitz went back into the house.

“COME BACK HERE GODDAMMIT!” yelled Walter.

Arthur was still watching Roger. “She's gonna get me,” he said. “I can feel it.” He turned to Walter. “She's gonna get you, too.”

“Herk! Herk!” said Elizabeth Dole.

“TURN right!” shouted Snake. “You can't see the fuckin' sign?”

The stolen police cruiser was northbound on Le Jeune, in the far left lane. Eddie, who had been too busy watching the road right in front of him to notice the Miami International Airport sign, yanked the wheel to the right, swerving across three lanes of traffic, cutting off a cab that braked, tires screaming, then spun sideways into the path of a battered 1963 Ford pickup truck carrying a large wooden crate. The truck hit the cab broadside and plowed it ahead a few feet, then came to a smoking stop. The impact caused the crate to topple out of the truck bed and onto Le Jeune, where it was sideswiped by a Toyota Tercel, breaking it open and releasing its occupants, eight goats. The goats had been destined for sale in Hialeah, for use in ritual sacrifices by practitioners of the Santeria religion, but for now they were free goats, wandering among the swerving, honking traffic.

Oblivious to the chaos he had caused behind him, Eddie veered onto the airport access road, where he was confronted by a parade of signs displaying information about parking, rental-car returns, terminals, and other matters Eddie knew nothing about.

“Which way?” he asked.

Snake, who was also not a frequent flyer, studied the signs, looking for some reference to the Bahamas, but seeing none.

“Just keep goin',” he said.

“OK,” said Eddie, “but up here we gotta pick a road, Arrivals or Departures.”

To Snake, it seemed like a trick question. On the one hand, he thought maybe they should go to Arrivals, because they were arriving at the airport. On the other hand, they wanted to depart from the airport, so maybe they should go to Departures. Snake thought about asking the girl, but he didn't want to admit that he didn't know, plus she looked pretty much zoned out. Finally, he decided just to take a stab at it.

“Departures,” he said.

“Departures it is,” said Eddie, swerving again.