Gideon (41 page)

“Talk away.”

“You were set up for the other murders, right? But in the story about the LaRues, nothing. No hint that you might be involved. And we’d be easy patsies. I mean, our fingerprints must be all over the place, we’re still in the area …”

“Maybe. But everything else broke instantly. They’ve been reporting suspicions and rumors all along, jumping to conclusions. It’s just not consistent.”

“There still hasn’t been a thing in the news about Harry’s murder either,” he pointed out. “Someone wants to keep that one a secret, too.”

“Add that to the list of whys.”

“And here’s another one,” he said. “There hasn’t been a car behind us since we left the restaurant. We could have turned off this road two or three times already and no one would have seen us. Which means no one’s following us right now. Why would they follow us to the LaRues’ and then stop there?”

“Maybe they don’t
have
to follow us,” she said after a long silence.

“Explain.”

“Maybe they know where we’re going.”

“Amanda,
we
don’t know where we’re going.”

“
They
know what we’re looking for,” she said, starting to sound excited. “They’ve got to. And if they know
what
it is, they’ve got to know
where
it is.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that, but why kill the LaRues?”

“Because they knew where we were going. Don’t you see what that means? We’re getting close!”

“Well, if we’re getting so close, why not just go ahead and kill
us
?”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she shook her head. “Add it to the list of whys,” she said.

“I’ve got a new list now. A what list.” Something on the dashboard had caught his eye and was making him nervous. “As in, what’s this light for?”

“Which one?” She peered over at his side of the dashboard, at a red warning light that was flashing. “Forget about it. That’s nothing—just the oil pressure.”

“
Just
the oil pressure? That’s a red light. Red means emergency, as in pull over and stop immediately.”

“Trust me, Carl. It’s not a big deal. Just keep going.”

He shook his head at her. “Amanda, you aren’t supposed to drive a car when the oil pressure light goes on. That’s basic Car One-oh-one.”

“I don’t need one of your he-man lectures, okay? It does that all the time. It’s just saying it wants a quart of oil.”

“It could also be saying that it’s
out
of oil.”

“It’s my car, for God’s sake,” she said peevishly.” It wants a quart of oil, period. It has a tendency to burn oil in hot weather, that’s all.”

Now he gaped at her, aghast. “That’s
all
?”

“What’s the big deal?”

“We’ve just driven over a thousand miles nonstop through blistering heat, that’s what. We should have been checking it every time we filled up.”

“We
have
had other things on our minds.”

“I’m pulling over,” he announced firmly. “We have to check the dipstick.”

“Carl, you’re overreacting. We’ll hit a gas station soon, and we’ll stop and get a quart of oil. We can’t afford to stop now and—”

“Amanda,” he warned, “if the engine seizes up, we’ll have to hitchhike the rest of the way to Clarksdale. Which, considering out situation, is probably a really bad idea.”

She rolled her eyes at him with weary resignation. “Fine. Do whatever you want.”

So he did. Or at least he tried to. He started to ease the Subaru over onto the dirt shoulder of the road and bring it to a gradual stop. Only now the engine was starting to sound extremely unhappy—somewhat like a washing machine that had a load of boulders in it. He immediately shut it off and then coasted to a stop. But the clanking and rumbling under the hood did not cease right away. It was a gradual thing. And loud. And painful. Until, finally, Amanda’s little gray Subaru putt-putted and shuddered and died there by the side of the road.

They sat there in brittle silence until Amanda snapped. “Don’t say anything. Not one word.”

He didn’t. He popped the hood and got out, glancing distractedly at his watch.

It was 1:12.

They were in the middle of nowhere. To the left of the two-lane road were woods and farmland. To the right was the sprawling Sardis Lake, the water glistening in the sunlight. Straight ahead of them was scorching blacktop and, so it appeared, little else for at least ten or twelve miles, until they reached Oxford. He raised the hood, which provided some shade from the midday sun. Although the heat radiating from the engine more than compensated for it. He found the dipstick and pulled it out. Bone dry. He pushed it back down and pulled it out again. It was still dry. There was no oil in the Subaru’s engine. Not one drop.

Amanda got out and stood next to him, looking warily down at the engine. “What do you think?”

“I think we’re screwed.”

“Even if we put oil on it?”

“Once it seizes up, it’s too late,” he replied. “At least I think so. But look, I’m not a mechanic. I don’t know what the hell I am, but I know I’m not a mechanic.” He looked back down the highway, where they had come from. “There’s nothing back that way until Abbeville.” Now he nodded in the direction of Oxford, straight ahead. “Let’s hoof it this way and see if we can find a gas station. “We’ll see what happens.” He smiled at her tightly. “Deal?”

She forced a smile back at him. “Deal.”

It was 1:15.

They removed their scant few belongings from the back-seat of the car and started to lock it. Then Amanda stopped and said, “Maybe I should wait here, stay with the car.”

Carl considered this, thumbing his jaw thoughtfully. “What if someone stops to help?”

“Then we’ll have help.”

“What if it’s a cop?”

That settled that. “Let’s start walking,” she said.

They were fifty feet from the car when she turned to say something to him. “Carl—” he heard, and then he saw her lips move and no sound come out. That was when the blast swept over them.

It was deafening. Carl flattened himself over Amanda as the Subaru was instantly transformed from a ton and a half of steel, rubber, and plastic into an exploding fireball. Pieces of metal went soaring into the air, landing in the trees and in the fields next to the highway, skittering and skimming along the road as if riding a monster wave.

The air in front of Carl was a blur of gasoline fumes, distorting everything around them. He looked up at what he thought was the sun, a bright, fiery ball, but as it came hurtling down toward them he grabbed Amanda, shoved her with all his might, and rolled her into a ditch. The smoking chunk of twisted metal came crashing down right in front of them, embedding itself two feet into the ground. The dry brush along the side of the road immediately caught fire and began to crackle.

He tried shaking her. She didn’t move. He screamed at her to wake up but couldn’t hear his own voice. His ears were ringing and he pounded his head, trying to drive the ringing away. He saw a passing car swerve at the sight of the flaming wreck, then pulled over to the road’s shoulder. Amanda stirred now. She said something, but he still couldn’t hear her. He pointed toward the woods and she nodded weakly. He stood up into a crouch; she lingered there on the ground, unable to make her body obey her mind’s commands. He grabbed for her hand, pulled her to her feet.

Unsteadily at first, then quickly gathering speed, they hurried into the woods, farther and farther away from the approaching police sirens and the cars that were now bunching up on the road. When their wobbly legs and the pain in their sides and their burning throats wouldn’t let them go any farther, they fell back to the dry, caked ground.

Carl stared at Amanda’s dirt-streaking face, at her scorched shirtsleeve, at her face, red from the heat of the explosion. He swallowed hard and suddenly realized he could hear again. Still breathing hard, he put his hand on Amanda’s trembling shoulder.

“Car,” she gasped, “is that typical of what happens when an engine seizes up?”

“Next time maybe you’ll listen to me about the oil.”

She nodded and took a deep breath of air into her lungs. “I loved that car,” she told him. “God
damn
them.”

“Yeah,” was all he said. It was all he had to say.

Then they struggled to their feet, dashed deeper into the woods, emerged into a cotton field, and ran as fast as their legs would take them.

* * *

There were three things in life that the Closer felt very negatively about—bottled salad dressing, the films of Meg Ryan, and failure.

The Closer could not tolerate failure. It was a product of poor planning and shoddy work habits. Failure was an unacceptable option in a business where the elements of surprise was critical, second chances were scarce, and lethal rivals were forever waiting to get their hands around one’s throat. It was not just that the Closer did not like to fail.

The Closer could not afford to fail.

It had all seemed to be going according to plan. Following the targets on Route 6 at a leisurely pace. There was no need to get within a mile of the rickety Subaru. The only need was to keep an eye on the dashboard clock. The Closer counted the minutes, savored the anticipation of the delicious explosion that was to come. There were but a scant few minutes left when suddenly, there was the dented little rust bucket, pulled over onto the shoulder of the road and stopped. The Closer couldn’t stop, had to speed on by. When the Suburban was half a mile away, safely out of sight, the Closer slammed on the brakes, lunged for the high-powered binoculars in the glove compartment. Then watched as the two targets went rooting under the hood. Watching as they started to remove their things from the car … pausing there … lingering there … the clock ticking … ticking … Watching as they—
Damn them
, damn
them
—started to walk safely away.

When the explosion came, the Closer spun the Suburban around, sped back toward the targets.

There they were, sprinting away from the scene. Unharmed.

Failure such as this made the Closer physically ill. There was only one thing worse—having to admit such a failure out loud to a client. As it was now so painfully necessary to do.

“I assume you are calling me with good news,” came Lord Lindsay Augmon’s voice from the other end of the phone.

“I am not.” The Closer could barely hear over the noise of the onrushing fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances. “There was …”

“There was
what
?” The voice was chilling. Even the Closer was startled and unsettled at the unforgiving tone.

“There was an unforeseen circumstance.”

Now there was only silence from the other end. “Where are they?” he said, after a moment.

“They’re on foot. Not an immediate threat. And they’ll be dead by dawn, you have my word on that.”

“I appreciate your professionalism, my young friend. Pride in one’s work has gone the way of so many other warm, fuzzy American myths, has it not? But I’m removing you from this assignment.”

The Closer’s chest tightened. The pain reverberated as cramps in the stomach, electric stabs through the temples.

The Closer was never removed from a case. Never. This was incomprehensible. This was humiliating. This was intolerable.

“I don’t feel comfortable with that at all,” the Closer said, hoping the words came out calmly, hoping they didn’t convey the agony.

“I’m not paying you to feel comfortable. I’m paying you to do what I tell you to do.”

“I’m not done here,” the Closer stated insistently. “I like to finish what I start.”

“I’m sure you do,” Augmon conceded. “Nonetheless, you are moving on—effective immediately. Something urgent has come up. Something that requires the degree of finesse and skill that you”—and here Augmon’s voice bristled with sarcasm—“Are
supposed
to bring to the table.”

A white light went through the Closer’s head. “I can’t be pulled. I will not fail. Just give me twelve more hours here—”

“Not possible,” Augmon said brusquely. “My jet will be landing at the Oxford airport in one hour and twenty minutes. Payton will be on it.”
Payton
. Just the thought of that slob finishing the job filled the Closer with such anger and revulsion that it was almost impossible to speak. “He will get off, you will get on. Your instructions will be on board. Understand?”

Heart pounding, the Closer gripped the phone in tight silence.

“Understood?” he repeated, a hard edge creeping into his voice.

“Understood.” The Closer bit off the word as if it hurt. Because it did hurt. Deeply and penetratingly.

“That’s the spirit,” Augmon said airily. “There’s absolutely no need to let personal feelings enter into this. We’re all team players, you know. We all pitch in. Your end of the job is over, that’s all. It’s a mop-up job now, nothing more. And if there’s one thing Payton knows how to do, it’s wield a mop.”

When the phone clicked off, it took several long minutes for the rage to pass. The Closer had to stay parked by the side of the road, channeling it, breathing in and out, fists clenching and unclenching, visualizing something happy, something good and calming: Toby, the little stray kitten who had wandered into their yard on Christmas morning when the Closer was seven … Cabo, drifting on that raft out in the warm, clear, blue water last winter, the sun hot on tanned, hard shoulders, floating, floating … the blonde and how the slickness between her long, smooth, scrumptious legs had tasted and smelled and felt to the lips and tongue in those giddy, heady moments before the Closer had blown her face off …

The pain began to ease, the light stopped flashing. Feeling somewhat calmer now, the Closer started up the Suburban, made a U-turn, and eased out into the single lane that was crawling past the exploded car. A trooper was directing traffic. A fire truck was still hosing down the scene with foam.

The Oxford airport wasn’t much. A small cinder-block terminal on the northern outskirts of town. A handful of airstrips. One of those cut-rate commuter airlines used it to connect the university town up with the state capital in Jackson, with Nashville, with Memphis and Atlanta. Private pilots flew in and out of there as well. The Closer parked the Suburban in the lot and got out, leaving everything behind with exception of the SIG-Sauer and the Dick Dale tape. The closer could not bear to leave that slob Payton the Dick Dale tape.