'See?' I said.
Marta giggled.
'Shit,' said the man, and put the gun on the floor.
The door burst open, and Logan dove into the room, his nine millimeter in his hand. Another man wearing a bulletproof vest was right behind him, a shotgun pointing into the room.
'Hell of an entrance, Logan,' I said.
He rolled to his feet. 'I thought you'd like that. Learned it in the Army.'
The man on the bed had his hands in the air. His face was impassive. Marta was crying softly, tears running down her pretty cheeks. Their lives had just taken a big detour.
Two Orlando police officers came into the room, handcuffed Marta and the gunman, and took them out. I went to the door of the room and saw other cops leading more women down the stairs.
Logan said, 'They'll be searching the place with explosive sniffing dogs. Let's go to the command post.'
A pickup truck was parked in the street in front of the house, a large box trailer attached to it. Truck and trailer sported the logos of the Orlando Police Department. Cops and their handcuffed prisoners were milling around, waiting for transportation to the county jail.
The FBI agent we'd met in Parrish's office was in the trailer talking to the police commander. He invited us in and introduced us to the cops on duty. A radio receiver sat on a table attached to one wall of the trailer. It was crackling with information from the officers and agents inside the house.
We sat, sipping cups of coffee poured from a large thermos, listening to the radio reports. They were all negative.
After about ten minutes, the FBI agent said, 'That's the last one. No explosives.'
'What about the people in the house?' I asked. Any other men?'
'I'll check.' He went outside to talk to one of the officers.
Logan asked, 'What do we do if we don't get anything out of this?'
'I don't know. We may have a bunch of dead people on our hands tomorrow.'
'Shouldn't the authorities warn people not to go to church in the morning? Wouldn't that at least stop the carnage?'
'I would think so. Let's see what happens.'
The FBI agent returned. 'Other than the guy holding the gun on you, we found two other bouncer types. Both are in their thirties. They don't fit the profile of the young men Simmermon has brainwashed.'
'No,' I said, 'they don't.'
A uniformed police officer came into the trailer. 'Mr. Royal?' he asked.
'I'm Royal.'
'I'm with die bomb squad, sir. We didn't find any explosives, but my dog did get a little crazy at one point in a room on the third floor.'
'What do you think that was all about?'
'We searched the room completely. I think the dog may have smelled explosives that had been there and were moved. I can't prove that, but my boss said I should let you know.'
'Thank you, Officer,' I said.
I turned to the FBI agent. 'Will you find out how the gunman got here from Key West?'
'Sure,' he said, and left the trailer.
'What are you thinking?' asked Logan.
'I'm not sure, but the explosives may have come from Key West with the idiot I shot.'
The agent returned and brought the gunman with him. 'He won't talk,' the agent said. 'Wants a lawyer.'
The prisoner's hands were cuffed behind his back. His face was an impassive mask, but his darting eyes gave away a level of nervousness about his surroundings.
I directed the agent to let the man sit in a chair, and asked him and the officer manning the radios to leave. It was just Logan, the gunman, and me.
Logan went to the door and locked it. I brought my chair over to the handcuffed man and sat facing him. 'You know we're not cops,' I said.
He nodded his head.
'Then you know we don't have to play by the same rules the cops do.'
His mask cracked a little, his mouth twitched, he blinked twice, rapidly.
'Okay,' he said. 'So what?'
'I'm going to ask you some questions, and, if I don't get honest answers, I'm going to hurt you. Understand?' 'Oka Y'
'What's your name?'
He grinned. 'John Smith.'
I punched him in the stomach. He screamed. Blood began to seep from his bullet wound and a flower of red took shape on the bandage.
The door rattled, and then a knock. Logan opened it slightly, said something to the person outside, and shut it again. He turned the lock and nodded at me.
'See?' I said. 'Nobody's going to save you. What's your name?'
'Peter Johnson.'
'Okay, Peter. That's better. Where do you live?'
'In Key West. At the spa.'
'What's your job?'
'I'm security.'
'Ever been to Blood Island?'
'Yes, to pick up the girls sometimes.'
'How did you get to Orlando with a bullet wound?'
He hesitated. I drew back my hand, a threatening gesture.
'Okay,' he said, 'okay. Michelle got a private plane to bring me here. She said it wasn't wise for me to stay in Key West.'
'Was anybody with you?'
'Just the pilot.'
'Did you bring anything with you?'
'Just some clothes, and a suitcase for the Rev.'
'Did Michelle give you the suitcase?'
'No. The pilot had it. Said one of the guys from the island brought it to the plane and told him to send it here.'
'What was in the suitcase?'
'I don't know It was locked.'
'What did you do with it when you got here?'
'I gave it to Ms. Young.'
'The receptionist?'
'Yeah. She runs the place.'
'Did you ever see it again?'
'No. Man, I'm bleeding bad.'
The bandage was getting redder. I was finished. Logan opened the door and the FBI agent came back inside.
'He needs a doctor,' I said.
'On it,' said the agent, and grabbed Peter by the arm, lifting him out of the chair.
'His name's Peter Johnson,' I said.
'Come on, Peter,' said the agent. 'We'll get you fixed up.
'Can you find Ms. Young and bring her to me?' I asked.
'Sure thing,' the agent said and led Peter Johnson out the door.
The agent came back with Ms. Young. She was still in her business suit, dark hair in a bun, subtle makeup on
