CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
I lay on my bed and did ceiling patrol for a few hours, thinking about Jed. His father was about to be executed, his little boy had been kidnapped, and he was being hunted by the FBI. I needed to get him out of harm’s way, and figure out who was behind these crimes. And I needed to do it fast.
At six a.m. I dragged myself out of bed, and took a long, hot shower. It woke me up, and I threw my clothes on while listening to the rain.
I drove over the short steel drawbridge to the mainland with a cup of coffee in my hand and Jimmy Buffett’s Songs You Know by Heart album playing on the pickup’s tape deck. The roads were treacherous, and I crawled through town and headed north to the interstate.
As I drove, I visualized the convenience store in LeAnn Grimes’s neighborhood. It sat on the corner of a busy intersection and had two gas pumps. I didn’t like meeting people in places that weren’t out in the open, not even people that I knew. Call it my survival instinct. I decided that the store was a good meeting place.
As I exited the interstate, I called Heather.
“It’s Jack Carpenter,” I said. “I’m five minutes away.”
“Let me call you back,” she said.
“Is something wrong?”
The line went dead. It was the second time she’d hung up on me. It gave me a bad feeling, and I glanced at Buster, who sat at stiff attention in the passenger seat.
I navigated my way down the flooded streets to the convenience store. When I was a block away, I pulled off, and put my blinkers on. Then Heather called me back.
“We’re on,” she said.
“Good,” I said.
“I’m going to need about ten minutes.”
“I’ll be there.”
Ten minutes later I arrived at the store. The parking lot was a lake, and contained no cars. Parking so I faced the front door, I grabbed the Marlins’ baseball cap off the backseat and stuck it on my head. I hadn’t followed the Marlins until they’d won the World Series. Now they were my favorite team.
Out of habit I touched the Colt resting in my pants pocket. It gave me a sense of security that only a gun can. Then I glanced at Buster. His ears were pinned straight back.
“I’ll be right back, partner.”
I dodged raindrops going inside. The store was empty, save for the Cuban manager eating breakfast behind the counter. I coughed and he looked up.
“I’m looking for a girl,” I said. “She’s supposed to be meeting me here.”
He nodded toward the bathroom. “She’s in there. You want something?”
“No, thanks.”
He pointed at the sign on the counter. It said “No Loitering.” I pretended to fill out a Lotto ticket while waiting for Heather to emerge. The bathroom door opened, and a barefoot woman who looked like a street person sauntered out.
“Hey, big boy,” the woman said.
“Sorry, I thought you were someone else,” I said.
“Sure you did.”
She cackled like a witch and left the store. I went to the front window, and pressed my face to the glass. I didn’t see Heather.
“You want something?” the manager asked.
“Give me a cup of coffee,” I said.
“Cuban coffee?”
“Why not?”
The coffee was strong enough to wake the dead. Sipping it, I went to the door. Two black SUVs had pulled into the lot, and I watched eight shotgun-wielding FBI agents climb out. I knew they were FBI because it was printed in bold letters across their baseball caps. Nothing like free advertising, I thought. They surrounded the pickup and aimed their weapons at Buster, who was sitting behind the wheel. At the same time, a black helicopter swooped out of the sky, and I saw a door open, and a man clutching a high-powered rifle aim at the roof of the pickup.
I burst out of the store. “Don’t shoot!”
It was the wrong move. Two of the agents spun around, and aimed their weapons at my chest. I froze, and they threw me to the ground. I dropped my coffee and banged my head. A shotgun found my rib cage.
“Don’t move,” one of them said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.
The other agent knelt down, and ripped off my Marlins’ cap. “It’s Carpenter.”
“Jesus Christ,” the first agent said.
I got to my feet. My clothes were covered in dirt and spilled coffee, and I was seeing double. I waited for my vision to return, and stared into their faces. It was Burrell and Whitley. Burrell wore a baseball cap that said Broward Police, and looked ready to kill me.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Getting breakfast,” I said.
“Don’t push me, Jack.”
“You should try their coffee. It’s really good.”
“Is Jed here? Or Heather?”
“They never showed.”
“Get in your car and follow us,” she said.
Whitley shouted a command, and the agents lowered their weapons, and got back into the SUVs, while the chopper lifted into the clouds. I got into the pickup and hugged Buster. I didn’t know who I was angrier at: Heather for setting me up, or myself for letting it happen. I turned the key in the ignition so hard it made the engine scream.
One of the SUVs got in front of me, the other behind, and we drove to LeAnn Grimes’s neighborhood. At the entrance to RichJo Lane, we came to a roadblock manned by six heavily armed FBI agents, and were waved through.
We drove to a house directly across the street from LeAnn’s. The grass was knee-high, and partially obscured the “For Sale” sign on the lawn. I followed Burrell inside.
The house was old and musty, and had creaky hardwood floors. There was no furniture except for the sophisticated monitoring equipment the FBI had installed in the living room. Two FBI techs were staring at a bank of flickering video monitors showing LeAnn’s house as we came inside.
Burrell led me to a back bedroom, and shut the door with her foot. Yanking off her cap, she shook out her hair. She was still livid with me.
“You two make a nice couple,” I said.
“I should arrest you,” she said.
“On what charge?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Do you want me to tell you what happened back there?” I asked.
“Be my guest.”
“Heather gave you the slip. Check your surveillance tapes if you don’t believe me.”
“Stay here.”
Burrell hurried to the front of the house. She came back to the bedroom with an angry look on her face.
“How did you know Heather ran out on us?” she demanded.
“Can I see the tape?” I asked.
“Explain yourself first.”