location readout.”
“I’m on a cell phone. The woman is lying in the driveway.” Hickey looked at Karen as though asking if he’d done enough.
“Sir, I’m showing that we already received a call for this emergency.”
Hickey’s jaw clenched. “When was that?”
“About two minutes ago.”
“Who called it in?”
“I don’t have that information, sir. But we’ve already dispatched an ambulance to-”
Hickey hit END. “I think your husband has made a very big mistake. First we get a helicopter over the cabin. Now somebody’s at your house reporting a shooting.”
“You were outside when you shot her. A neighbor could have heard and run over.”
“Your neighbors aren’t that close.” Hickey rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. “Get your ass in there and move the money. And remember. .. one mistake will put you in a mourning dress that you’ll never really take off.”
Karen got out and walked toward the entrance, his last sentence hanging over her thoughts like a pall.
The Biloxi branch of the Magnolia Federal Bank was a two-story brick building of unprepossessing architecture. There were few cars in the parking lot, but drive-through business was brisk as Will pulled his rented Tempo into the lot and parked.
“What now?”
Cheryl shifted in the seat beside him and began tapping her fingers on the dash. She had popped two amphetamines before they left the hotel, and she was wired. Will had swallowed one, fearing that exhaustion might prevent him from making the right move if an opportunity to save Abby presented itself.
“Now we wait,” Cheryl replied. “Joey will call after the money’s on its way.”
Will took her cell phone from her lap and dialed Harley Ferris’s number.
“Ferris,” said a clipped voice.
“It’s Will. Anything?”
“The FBI already had a chopper in the air when I called them. It’s been over the woods at Hazlehurst for a while now, but the foliage is so thick, they’re probably missing buildings down there, much less a pickup truck.”
“What about the phone trace?”
“We’re almost there, Will. We just had a quick call to the subject’s number. Our crew is working its way down an overgrown logging road right now.”
“What will they do if they find the truck?”
“There’s an FBI SWAT team en route from Jackson. The SAC there says they can seal off the cabin without the subject’s knowledge.”
A chill of foreboding went through Will. “They’re not going to try an assault?”
“I think they’re going to play it safe,” Ferris replied. “But my guess is that with your little girl’s life on the line, if they get a clean shot at the guy holding her, they’ll take it.”
“Sweet Jesus.”
“They’re pros, Will. Just like you. They know their jobs.”
“I’ve got to clear this line.” Will couldn’t bring himself to hang up. “Harley… for God’s sake, tell them to be careful.”
“Have faith, brother.”
He hung up. Have faith? It took a supreme effort simply to sit in the parking lot while Abby’s future unfolded a hundred and forty miles to the north. But he had to play the hand Hickey had dealt him. Hickey had to believe until the last second that his plan was ticking along like a Swiss watch.
“What happened?” Cheryl asked. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he lied. “Nothing at all.”
Sending the wire was just like everything Karen had ever done at Klein Davidson: a matter of paperwork, signing on various lines while Gray Davidson led her through the pages and made chitchat about kids and schools. With men, he probably talked kids and sports. Or women. Karen didn’t know and didn’t care. She was functioning on autopilot, tormented by images of Stephanie Morgan’s chest blossoming red. The only thing that really registered was the receptionist handing her a receipt and saying, “The money’s on its way.”
“That’s it? That’s all we have to do?”
Gray Davidson patted her on the shoulder. “Scary how fast you can spend two hundred grand, isn’t it?”
He was wearing his trademark double-breasted English suit with a spread collar shirt and rugby tie. Five years older than Karen, Davidson hailed from Hot Coffee, Mississippi, but his pretensions rivaled those of the most dedicated Anglophiles on the eastern seaboard. Some clients made fun of his eccentricities, but nobody joked about his market acumen.
“Very scary,” Karen replied, wondering if Will was already in the bank in Biloxi, waiting to collect what she’d sent. “I now own a two-hundred-thousand-dollar chunk of wood.”
“You look like you’re going to faint,” Davidson said with genuine concern. “Why don’t you come into my office and sit down?”
“No. I’ve got to run.”
“May I get you some coffee?”
“No, thanks, Gray. Really.”
“Green tea? Espresso?”
Somehow Karen conjured a smile, a feat of magic under the circumstances. “It’s just a summer cold. I’ll be fine.”
The broker didn’t look convinced. She touched his arm above the elbow and squeezed with an intimate pressure. “I’m fine, Gray. Thanks for worrying.”
Davidson’s critical faculties melted. Men were so easy to manipulate. She gave the receptionist a wave and hurried toward the door.
“Go straight home and get some rest,” Davidson called after her.
She held up a hand in acknowledgment but did not turn, and she barely slowed when she went through the varnished rosewood door and down the steps to the parking lot.
The parking lot of the Magnolia Federal Bank in Biloxi was filling up fast. People were cashing pay-checks, hitting the ATM machines, and carrying in payroll bags. Will could see why Hickey had picked this branch. Cheryl sat beside him in tense silence, waiting for Hickey’s go-ahead call. The temperature was rising fast in the parked car, so Will started the engine and switched on the air conditioner.
When the cell phone rang, he snatched it up, but Cheryl put her hand on his wrist and took the phone from his hand.
“It’s me,” she said. “Right…Okay.” She hit END and looked at Will. “The money’s here. He said you should go in and get it.”
Will shut off the engine and looked at the double-glass doors of the bank. “Give me the phone.”
“Why?”
“I’m taking it in with me.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said I’m taking the phone.”
Cheryl snapped her head away from him, but she did not resist when he took the phone from her hand. He slipped it into his pocket along with the Tempo’s keys, then got out and started walking toward the bank.
SEVENTEEN
Hickey drove south along the interstate at fifty-five miles per hour, his face wet with sweat. His right thigh was thoroughly soaked in blood.
“I think some more stitches broke,” he said. “You aren’t much of a doctor. I think you’re going to have to do
