The Grim Reaper's Dance

exotic palm trees to south Florida, but the star athletes, the TV personalities, the politicians—all had apparently decided that expensive flowers were something they could do without. Or should at least be seen to be doing without.

Yonkers had just about lost his shirt.

So was that what the trucking thing was all about? Had he slapped together this slate of bad drivers and aging football players to make a few extra bucks and save his business? That’s not what she’d heard the night before. Owen Dixon, at least, was expecting a huge payoff sometime soon. It looked like he was going to receive a huge disappointment, instead. Casey wondered how hotheaded Dix would deal with that.

There was nothing on the computer about Class A trucking. No truckers, or false IDs, or fake manifests. So if the information wasn’t there tying Willie Yonkers and his buddies to the death of Evan Tague, where would it be? What had Yonkers’ daughter said? Tara? He hardly ever leaves home, can you believe it? Spends all day locked away in his precious office, eating popcorn and watching porn for all I know. It’s not like he ever lets me in there.

So that’s where the information would be, if it existed. And no one would ever find it if Casey died in this smelly greenhouse. No one would find her stash underneath that rock out in the grove of trees. No one would believe Evan Tague died because he trusted the wrong man. And no one would know they had to protect the little band of teenagers who had offered her shelter.

Casey had already spent too long sitting at the desk. Westing would be coming to check on her any minute. At least he had orders not to kill her—not that it would stop Dixon or Mifflin, if he left her alone with them.

Spinning the chair toward the window, Casey reached the string at the end of the blinds and pulled. When it was all the way up, she grabbed the windowsill, pulled herself up, and almost fell down when she looked out the window.

Someone else was looking in.

It was a familiar face—black and white, pale skin with dark hair. Bailey? The girl’s eyes went wide, and she jerked back, falling against Johnny, who stood behind her. He set her aside and placed his hands on the window, pushing upward. It didn’t budge.

He was mouthing something to Casey. She wavered where she stood and tried to read his lips. What was he saying? He was pointing at the middle of the window and gesturing with his hand. Up? Under?

And then there was another face, but it didn’t belong. Older. Grayer. Concerned. He was saying something, too. The same thing. Above? Allowed?

Unlock. They wanted her to unlock something. The window. Casey found the metal clasp in the center of the pane and twisted it. Johnny was doing something outside. Taking something off. A screen. And then Davey Wainwright—how could it be that he was there with the kids?—was pushing the large window to the side, reaching in, grabbing her.

Casey groaned, and Davey froze. She listened. Was someone coming?

“Mr. Wainwright, we have to get her out.” Johnny again, whispering.

Then they were lifting her out, holding her under the arms, easing their hands under her legs. There were more of them, not just Bailey and Johnny and Davey, but others, looking down at her, eyes wide, and scared.

“Come on, over here, this way. Somebody put that screen back. Close the window.” Who was that? Someone else talking quietly, so quietly Casey almost couldn’t hear it.

Around the old wooden trailer they carried her, lit only by the lights from the front parking lot. Faces anxious, jaws clenched as they hurried next door, through the loading dock for the big box store, toward Old Navy, to a covered pickup truck, onto the bed, under a cap, where blankets lined the floor, and people lined the sides of the truck.

The tailgate squealed as someone pulled it up, and Davey knocked gently on the truck’s back window. They started to move. Casey looked up into another kid’s face. What was her name? The girl held a cool cloth to Casey’s swollen face.

“We’ve got you, Casey. We’ve got you now. Everything’s okay.”

Casey did her best to believe her.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“I think she’s waking up.”

Casey blinked up into Bailey’s face. Bailey’s bloodshot eyes were ringed black with smeared mascara and eyeliner, and her hair stuck up in all directions. “Casey, it’s me. Bailey. We got you out. You’re okay.”

Okay was a relative term. She knew she was okay in that she was alive—for the moment. The fact that she hadn’t died of internal bleeding yet gave her hope that she wasn’t going to. But she knew they all weren’t okay in that Yonkers and the rest of those men would be hunting them down. If that band of dangerous dimwits could find her.

“Who got me out?” Casey managed to say.

“The five of us. Well, and a couple more people. Davey and Wendell.”

The two men stood so she could she them. “But how…?”

“My phone.” Terry stood at her feet. “It was Sheryl’s idea. We looked at everybody you’d called, or who’d called you. We found Mr. Wainwright, and he called Mr. Harmon.”

“What about…cops?”

Everyone shuffled their feet and looked around at each other. “You didn’t seem real keen on cops,” Davey said. “The kids called them to the pizza shop, but then the men took you away, and when it came down to finding you, we figured we’d do it ourselves without involving police. Thought you’d want it that way.”

Casey gave a little laugh. She’d risked all of their lives, and here they were, risking their lives again. For her. “But how did you find me? I didn’t tell any of you where I was going.”

Davey frowned. “Wish you would’ve. But I called Tom. He said you’d been asking about somebody named Willie Yonkers, so we looked him up. Figured you might be with him. We checked his house first, but it was completely dark. Went to his business next. We just got lucky.”

She was the one who’d gotten lucky. But the kids… “He didn’t see you at his house?”

“No.” Wendell. “We staked it out from down the road.”

“And Terry and Sheryl went for a walk past it.” Bailey smiled. “They look the most normal of any of us.”

“Hey!” Martin said.

“The house was totally dark,” Sheryl said. “Kinda creepy, like nobody lives there.”

“His office,” Casey said. “The information is there.”

“What information?” Davey sounded exasperated. “You won’t tell anybody what information!”

“About the trucks.”

“The trucks. You mean the truck? The one Evan died in? Or trucks as in the ones you were asking Tom about?”

“Those. Tom’s.”

“Class A Trucking?”

“No. That’s legit. For the flower place.”

“Class A is legit?” Davey sounded surprised.

“But he uses them. The truckers. They do other jobs. Makes it look like they’re from other companies. Falsifies paperwork.”

“But for what?”

“Stealing loads and reselling them. He thinks he’s going to make enough money to save his business. The rest of the guys think they’re making money to get rich.” Casey was tired of talking up at faces and tried to sit up. Martin and Bailey rushed to help, pulling her arms, and Sheryl shoved something soft behind her back. When the waves of pain passed, Casey asked, “Where are we?”