Shady Cross (22 page)

“And what happens if nobody shows at two thirty?”

Carl hesitated. “Same thing that would have happened even if Jenkins did show, only they won’t be able to kill him, too, like we planned. Well, we thought we were gonna kill Jenkins. Guess it would’ve been you. But Chet figured that even if the father didn’t show for some reason, the big picture plan would still work. We wouldn’t get the money or extra evidence on Grote, but Grote would still go down for the kidnapping.”

“So Chet’s definitely gonna kill the girl?” Stokes asked.

Carl nodded. “After Chet saw the money, he was gonna shoot the father, then Grote’s guys, then the kid. Make it look like Grote’s guys killed the father and the kid, then got into it with each other over the fifty K, leaving both of them dead.”

“And if nobody shows,” Frank said, “the shooting starts?”

“Jenkins was supposed to show at two thirty, but if he’s not there by quarter to three, Chet kills the kid and the other guys. Either way, the cops will find the evidence DeMarco planted in Grote’s house and Iron Mike’s place. It’ll still look like a kidnapping gone to shit, one ordered by Grote.”

Jesus Christ.
Stokes said, “And you had no plan for calling things off—the girl’s murder or killing Grote’s guys—after they get up there.”

“We didn’t think we needed one. Things had gone fine all day . . . well, we thought they had.”

Neither Stokes nor Carl saw Frank’s next blow coming, though it didn’t much matter that Stokes didn’t see it, given that it was Carl, not him, on the receiving end. Frank had pushed off the desk where he’d been leaning, and with his body’s momentum behind it, his fat fist slammed squarely into his Carl’s already-crushed nose. The wet, crunching sound was terrible. Carl’s strangled cry of pain was nearly as bad. Frank stood back with his fist raised, apparently contemplating throwing yet another punch. Carl’s bloody chin dropped to his chest. He was out. Maybe dead. But no, Stokes could hear low, liquid, ragged breathing.

“Idiot,” Frank said.

He sat on the corner of the desk again. He looked at his son, slumped unconscious in the chair. A look of sadness touched his face. Stokes didn’t know whether he was sorry for what he’d done to his son, or sorry that his sons were such morons. Maybe it was a little of both.

Nah, Stokes thought, it was probably just that his sons were morons.

They sat for a moment in silence—silence but for Carl’s wet wheezing—until Stokes finally said, “What now?”

Frank looked over at him. He sighed. “I think I have to kill you,” he said.

Well, that sure as hell wasn’t what Stokes had been hoping to hear.

“Why?”

Frank shrugged.“Because you broke in here. Because you came to steal from me. Because you beat the hell out of my son,” which sounded a little hypocritical to Stokes. “Because you know too much about what my stupid boys have done.”

“Why don’t we stop this? Killing the girl, I mean?”

“You heard Carl. Can’t reach him on the phone.”

“How about if we went up there?”

Frank frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you and I drive up there. You tell Chet not to kill the girl.”

Frank pursed his thick lips again. He shook his head.

“No, I can’t get anywhere near this.”

Stokes blew out an exasperated breath. “But you said you wanted to stop this. You said it could get messy if Chet goes through with it. You might be implicated somehow.”

“True, but I will definitely be implicated if things go wrong and I’m found at the scene. Or stopped on the drive there with a wanted man, as you said you are. Or on the drive home with you and Chet after he’s killed Grote’s men, which I would still want him to do.” He paused, thinking again. “No, I definitely cannot be a part of this.”

“I’ll go by myself then.”

Frank laughed.

Stokes looked at his watch.

“It’s two minutes before two. That gives me thirty-two minutes before Jenkins is supposed to show up, plus the extra fifteen minutes Chet’s supposed to wait before the killing starts if Jenkins doesn’t show. Forty-seven minutes. If I drive a little over the speed limit, but not fast enough to get pulled over, I can make it up there just in time. It’ll be past two thirty, but I should get there before two forty-five, when Chet’s gonna start shooting people. Maybe I can stop him.”

Frank narrowed his eyes. “I’m supposed to let you go and simply believe that you’ll go up to Paradise Park and try to stop my son?”

“That’s right.”

“Forget it. You’ll just take off and leave town. We’ll still have this mess on our hands while you’re out there somewhere knowing way too much about it all.”

Stokes stared hard at Frank. “I could have just walked away a rich man hours ago. Instead, I chose to save that kid. I’ve been through a
lot
of shit today trying to do that. The cops are already looking for me for breaking and entering and murder. Soon they’re gonna want me on kidnapping charges—kidnapping a cop, no less. I’ve had plenty of chances to walk away from this since it all started, but I didn’t. I stayed, risking everything, because I want to save that kid. And don’t ask me why because it’s none of your business. But that’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna save her.” He paused. “If you let me go, I mean.”

Frank thought for a moment. “How will you stop him?”

“I’ll tell him what you said. That you don’t want him to kill the girl.”

“You won’t hurt him? I mean, I doubt you could, if he saw you coming—you probably surprised Carl here, that’s how you beat him—but Chet’s different from Carl. He’s tougher. And while he’s certainly no genius, he’s smarter than his brother. He’s also not a bad shot. No, if he knew you were there, he’d get you.” Frank eyed Stokes. “But maybe you were thinking of sneaking around up there and shooting him in the back, something like that.”

Stokes shook his head. “I’m not. I won’t have to. I’ll just tell him everything you said. He’ll recognize your words, right?”

Frank considered this. “You could tell him I said he either listens to you or he goes into the lockbox.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That’s none of
your
business. But Chet will know I sent you.”

“OK, lockbox, got it.”

“What about Grote’s guys?” Frank asked.

“I don’t give a shit what he does with Grote’s guys. I’ll take the girl and get the hell out of there. He can do whatever he wants after that. So what do you say?”

Frank rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know . . .”

“The clock’s ticking, Frank.”

Frank opened his eyes and stared hard at Stokes. “I think you mean Mr. Nickerson.”

“Yeah, of course, that’s what I mean. But the clock’s still ticking.”

Frank scratched his neck.

“OK,” he said. “I’ll let you go. Do what you can to stop this. I don’t want my son killing that girl. He may be smarter than his brother, but he’s still not always the best thinker. He could make a mistake, leave evidence behind. Like I said, no one’s gonna worry too much about a couple of thugs like Grote’s men, but they’ll work hard to find the killer of a little girl. I don’t want Chet taking that chance.” He nodded to himself. “You go, Mr. Stokes, and stop him from killing the girl. Just the girl. You understand?”

Stokes nodded.

“And when you drop her off somewhere safe, do so in such a way that neither my sons nor I will be implicated. Are we clear on this?”

Stokes nodded again.

“After this is over,” Frank continued, “I think it would be best if you found another place to live.”

“I’m not all that attached to the trailer I live in.”

“I meant another city, preferably one very far away.”

“I know what you meant. I agree. When this is over, you’ll never see me again.”

Frank nodded. Stokes stood up, wincing as he did. He’d forgotten how hard Carl had fought before the head butt took him down. He ached everywhere. He walked over and picked his guns up off the floor. He tucked one into his waistband at his back, the other into his front pocket. Frank watched. Despite Stokes’s promise not to hurt his son, Frank watched him take the guns and said nothing.

Stokes was ready to go. He didn’t need the $100,000 he’d tried so hard to collect, seeing as it was never actually about the money for Chet anyway. No, all Stokes needed was time, which he was rapidly losing. And as powerful as Frank Nickerson was, that was something even he couldn’t provide.

Stokes nodded to Frank and walked out of the office. He wound his way through the mansion, finally reaching the front door. He’d originally planned to leave by the back door, through which he’d entered the house, but there was no need now. He opened the door and stepped out into the night.

As he trotted down the driveway toward Charlie Daniels’s car on the street, it occurred to him for the first time—hit him with the force of one of Carl’s punches to his face, actually—that he wasn’t going to have to give up the money after all. It was right there, in the Camry’s trunk, waiting for him. Frank hadn’t demanded that he hand it over. And if Chet listened to Stokes and believed that Frank wanted the whole thing called off, Chet wouldn’t be expecting any money. And if he
didn’t
listen to Stokes and started shooting the moment he realized Stokes wasn’t Paul Jenkins, then Stokes was going to have to try to kill him, despite his promise to Frank Nickerson. And Grote’s guys, too, if Chet hadn’t already done it. Either way, if Stokes survived, he kept the money. And he’d save Amanda, too. All he had to do was get to Paradise Park before Chet killed the girl.

Stokes was almost to the end of the drive, walking in the shadows of the big trees lining it, just thirty feet from his car, when a police cruiser pulled to a slow stop a few yards behind the Camry.

TWENTY-NINE

2:06 A.M.

AS SOON AS STOKES SAW
the police car, he stepped off the driveway and ducked behind one of the huge trees beside it. He peered around and watched a cop step out of the cruiser, hand on his gun, while his partner stayed in the car and spoke into a radio mic. The first cop, a big blond bastard who looked to Stokes like he was probably named Randy or maybe Todd, approached the Camry slowly. Stokes saw him unsnap his holster and draw his gun.

“If there’s anyone in the vehicle, show yourself,” Officer Randy-Todd said. “Show your hands.”

No one answered.

“This is your last warning.”

The empty Camry was silent.

Randy-Todd touched his shoulder mic and said something too low for Stokes to hear. The cop in the car, who had dark hair and seemed to have a darker complexion, and who looked like maybe a Tony to Stokes, touched his own shoulder-mic and responded.

Stokes knew what must have happened. Good old Charlie Daniels, everyone’s buddy at the trailer park, happy to help whoever was in need, had broken his promise to Stokes and called the cops. He no doubt told them that someone had stolen his car, but almost certainly left out that Stokes had given him a thousand bucks for the key. To top it off, he probably said that he’d gotten a look at the guy as he drove away and he looked a hell of a lot like Stokes. That son of a bitch.

Officer Randy-Todd took a wide arc around to the side of the car, where he could see in through the window. He inched closer, gun at the ready. Stokes took a last, longing look at the closed trunk of the car, where his money was, and hurried as quietly as he could back toward Nickerson’s house. He kept to the shadows, finally breaking into a full run as he neared the mansion. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Officer Randy-Todd and Officer Tony were both by the Camry now. They were looking around for him. Any second they’d look his way, but before they did, he slipped around the side of Nickerson’s house and out of their view. He sprinted to the back door, which he’d left unlocked and ajar earlier, and hurried inside.

He ran through the house, retracing his route to Frank’s office. As he did, he stole a glance at his watch: 2:10. Only thirty-five minutes to get to Paradise Park before Chet killed Amanda.

I’m not going to make it
.

He pushed that thought aside and ran faster down the hall, through the dining room, to the office, where he found Frank sitting in his leather desk chair, his slippered feet up on the desktop, his ankles crossed. He was watching CNN on the big TV on the wall opposite his desk, eating one of the cookies Carl had carried in on a plate earlier. Carl was still slumped unconscious in his chair, squeezing out ragged breaths. When Frank saw Stokes, mild surprise touched his jowly face. Stokes saw that he had a milk mustache.

“Shouldn’t you be speeding toward Paradise Park right now? You’re running out of time.”

“We both are, remember? And yeah, I should be on my way up there, and I would be if it weren’t for the cops standing by my car.”

Frank frowned and dropped his feet to the floor. The chair beneath him groaned in protest—or perhaps exhaled with relief—as Frank heaved his bulk out of it and moved over to a window behind the desk. Without moving the drapes—which were hanging nearly closed since Stokes had used their ropes to tie up Carl—Frank peered through the crack between them. He nodded.

“They’ve probably called for backup,” Frank said. “And if by some chance they found the police officer you kidnapped and hid somewhere, the backup will be here very soon.”

“There’s also a sergeant who’s got a hard-on for me about this guy they think I killed last night during a break-in.”

“They think?”

Stokes shrugged. “That’s what they say.”

“Are they right?”

“Do you really care?”

“You’ve been a busy man lately, Mr. Stokes.”

“Yeah well, I need to get busy again, and real fast, or Chet’s gonna kill that kid, which you said you don’t want to happen any more than I do.”

Frank shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“So distract the cops for me.”

“I’ve told you how reluctant I am to involve myself in this matter.”

“You’re already involved, like it or not. And you’ll be a hell of a lot more involved, and in something a hell of a lot more serious, if Chet kills the girl and either leaves evidence behind, or gets nailed by something someone saw or overheard as he and Grote’s idiots planned this thing.”

Frank considered this.

“How would I help you?” Frank finally asked.

“Open the door, start yelling.”

“What would I be yelling?”

“Whatever. Just get them away from my car. Hell, tell them I broke into your house looking for money. They’ll believe that.”

Frank pondered that. “They’ll want to come in. They’ll see Carl here.”

Stokes looked over at Carl, unconscious and bloody, his arms and legs spilling out of the chair like those of a doll some kid had tossed there.

“Tell them you heard noises, came down, and found him like this,” Stokes said. “They know I was driving the Camry out there. They’ll think I broke in and beat him up for some reason.”

“Which is true,” Frank said.

“Yeah, whatever. Listen, I have to get going.”

He looked through the curtains at the cops standing by their car, clearly waiting for their backup to arrive before beginning a more thorough search of the area.

“So you’ll do it?” Stokes asked.

“Yes, but think about it. There are two ways events could unfold. When I open my front door and call to them, both officers might come up here, either on foot or in their car, or alternatively, one will come alone while the other stays with your car. If they both come, you’re all set. But if only one does, the one who stays behind will be on high alert. He’ll either shoot you or capture you. He’s trained for this kind of thing. You’re not.”

Stokes nodded. He thought quickly. “OK then. Give me the keys to one of your cars. You must have half a dozen or so in the garage.”

“Four.”

“OK, give me the keys to one of them, the fastest one—”

“The Porsche,” Frank interjected.

“—and I’ll wait by the garage. If both cops come, I’ll drop the keys and run through the shadows to my car and drive away, get a nice head start and lose them in the city streets. If only one comes, though, I’ll ‘steal’ your car, which you’ll realize at the same time the cops do, and I’ll drive away, only a hell of a lot faster because I’ll be in a Porsche instead of a Camry.”

Which would mean leaving his money behind, Stokes knew, which would absolutely break his heart. He prayed both cops would come running.

Frank was thinking the plan through. Stokes looked at his watch: 2:13. Goddamn it.

I’m gonna be too late
, he thought.
I’m still gonna try like hell, but I’m just not gonna make it.

“Come on, Frank,” Stokes said sharply, more sharply than Frank was likely accustomed to. But Frank just nodded.

“OK,” he said. “Go down that hall, past the billiard room, to the garage on the other side of the house. There are keys hanging just inside the door, each clearly marked. There’s a garage door opener in the Porsche.”

“Got it. Give me a thirty-second head start.”

Stokes started for the doorway.

“Mr. Stokes,” Frank said, and Stokes stopped. “When this is all over, if you succeed and survive . . .”

“Yeah?” Stokes said impatiently.

“Before you leave town for that faraway city where I’ll never see you again, leave my car somewhere I can find it. Lock the key inside. I have a spare.”

Stokes merely waved a hand over his shoulder as he took off at a run. He flew down the hallway and opened the door at the end. It was fairly dark in the garage, but Stokes couldn’t risk turning on a light and having it seen from the street. He could see the Porsche, looking sleek and fast, gleaming silver even in the faint light bleeding in through the windows in the garage doors. He squinted at the keys hanging on little hooks by the door and found one with a label on the wall above it reading, “Porsche.” He grabbed the key just as he heard Frank start screaming bloody murder on the other side of the house, yelling that his house had been broken into, that his son was badly hurt.

Stokes hurried over to the window and saw one of the cops—just
one
of the goddamn cops—sprinting up the long drive. It was Randy-Todd. Down on the street, Tony rushed back to the cruiser and leaned inside. Stokes knew he was calling in to report this new development.

Shit
. Stokes’s goddamn money was in the Camry. He had no choice now. He had to leave it behind.

Forever.

Shit
.

He hurried over to the Porsche, opened the door, and sank into a leather seat so smooth and comfortable and perfect for driving, and so unlike anything he’d ever experienced in a seat of any kind, that he almost wanted just to sit for a while and enjoy it. But he jammed the key into the ignition and brought the engine roaring to life as he stabbed at the button on the garage door opener clipped to the passenger-side sun visor. He didn’t want to use his mangled hand, so he reached across his body with his right hand and pulled the car door shut. The garage door rose and Stokes was backing out even before it had risen all the way. He shot under it with mere inches of clearance and continued a few yards, cutting the wheel left as he did, before screeching to a stop, spinning the wheel right, and rocketing forward down the drive. He thought he was doing pretty well driving mostly one-handed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Randy-Todd at the open front door with Nickerson. They both turned his way as he screeched off.

The Porsche’s engine growled deep in its throat, and the car thrummed with power as Stokes sped down the drive, toward the road. Officer Tony was standing by the police cruiser, radio mic in hand, watching in openmouthed surprise. He scrambled into the car as Stokes shot out of the drive and banged a hard right, the high-performance tires gripping the road with confidence. He was lucky he needed to go in that direction anyway, as it forced Tony to have to turn his car around, costing him valuable time while Stokes raced off in a machine built for speed.

As Stokes poured on as much gas as he could without risking a violent wreck, he heard Tony’s siren begin to wail behind him. Soon, a few more joined the chorus. Backup had arrived and entered the chase.

This was nuts
, Stokes thought. This was reckless and stupid and had very little chance of succeeding, and everything he’d done that day had been leading toward this stupid, stupid end. It was over for him. He was going to spend the rest of his life in prison. All for a kid he’d never even met.

He was a goddamn idiot.

But still he drove. Not toward the highway out of town, toward a life somewhere far away, but toward the road leading up into the hills, where he hoped he’d find a little girl in a defunct amusement park.

He shook his head and asked himself why he’d done this, and he told himself to just shut up and drive.

The cops were back there but didn’t seem to be gaining on him as he tore through the streets. They might even have been losing ground. He figured more cops would pull in front of him up ahead somewhere. Not a roadblock. They hadn’t had enough time to set something like that up. But there was probably a cruiser or two patrolling the area he was driving through, especially because the route he had to take brought him through one of the rougher parts of town, and the cops inside those cruisers would be aware of what was happening and would have been instructed to cut him off. But they hadn’t appeared yet, and the cops following him weren’t in sight, so when Stokes saw a group of seedy-looking guys in muscle shirts and tattoos hanging around outside a dive bar—maybe gang members, maybe just gangbanger wannabes—gathered around a dark and dented SUV of some kind, a Ford Explorer maybe, Stokes jerked the wheel and screeched the Porsche into an alley just past the bar. He leaped from the car and ran the half block back toward the group. They watched him come, eight or nine of them, some impassively, some with open curiosity. As he neared them, he pulled one of his guns while at the same time speaking rapidly.

“I don’t wanna hurt anyone, but I don’t have time for bullshit.” He imagined how he looked to them: covered in blood and bruises. “The cops are after me. I want your truck, but I’d rather not have to steal it from you. You can have my Porsche, though you’ll probably wanna wait a while before taking it out of that alley. So who owns this truck?”

They were all a little too surprised to answer, though a few heads turned toward a wiry guy, maybe twenty-five years old, who must have been the truck’s owner. Stokes could sense a few of the young men thinking about pulling weapons of their own. He looked at the wiry guy, raised his gun a little in as nonthreatening a threat as he could make, and held up the key to the Porsche.

“Like I said, I don’t have time for bullshit. We have a deal?”

One of the tough guys said, “What’d you do, man?”

Stokes ignored him and focused on the owner of the truck. He could see the guy running through his options. Turn the deal down, maybe get shot, and lose the truck anyway. Accept the deal, lose his truck, but in return receive a Porsche, which he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep but which he could no doubt sell to the right person or maybe a chop shop for a hefty profit. Of course, he had no idea the car belonged to Frank Nickerson. When he found that out, he’d be insane to do anything but leave the car the hell alone, or maybe even return it with a sincere apology. But he wouldn’t find that out until he looked in the glove box and found the registration, which would be after Stokes was long gone with the truck.

A chorus of sirens wailed in the not-too-distant distance.

Stokes pointed the gun at the wiry guy and tossed his key at the guy’s feet. Negotiations were closed. Done deal. The other guy nodded, dug a key ring out of his pocket, removed one key, and threw it to Stokes. Stokes couldn’t catch it with his busted fingers so he let it hit the ground. With the gun still held firmly in his good hand, he carefully picked up the key with just the thumb and index finger of his injured hand.