He checked the weapon a second time, a Glock 17. Then raced back to the department to pick up the. 380 in his locker, a little something to tuck down the back of his pants. Maybe he’d check out a shotgun as well.
I petted Puppy after he’d liberated me- Good dog, good dog- then told Freddy his pet needed a reward. Freddy wandered to the kitchen area to fix Puppy and himself a snack. I followed, drank a glass of milk and jammed a slice of pizza in my mouth, fuel, then started searching for a weapon and a way out.
I heard a rumble in the distance, and my heart froze. Crandell coming up the drive?
The rumble again, this time clearly thunder.
There was nothing equivalent to a weapon in the kitchen, only soft plastic implements. A closet by the door provided a pair of men’s painter pants and a woman’s dark blue raincoat-Miss Gracie’s, I assumed-better than the loose pajamas I had been dressed in upon arrival.
Shoeless, shirtless, the raincoat flapping in my wake, I set about finding my escape.
The windows were barred and wired: Breakage would trigger some form of alarm in the security detail’s offices, I assumed. All doors were steel and secured by electronic locks. No phones.
Everything seemed designed to keep Lucas inside if he ever breeched the confines of his two-room Zenda.
That left the second floor.
I found a staircase to the second floor: tiny windows, steel doors locked tight. The elevator was turned off. I searched closets and cupboards to locate a pry-bar, finally discovering a utility mop and bucket. The mop handle was hardwood, tipped with a steel attachment to fasten mop heads in place. I tossed the mop, kept the handle, jogged to the elevator. Passing a room off the kitchen, I saw Freddy eating from a bowl in his lap, raptly watching a videotaped cartoon, the volume louder than Miss Gracie would have allowed, I suspected.
The attachment on the mop handle slid between the brass-plated elevator doors, and I tried to jimmy the doors without breaking the handle. The doors opened several inches before the handle slipped and the door slammed closed. Sweat streamed down my forehead, burned into my eyes. I gripped the handle tighter, going for brute force.
The doors separated four inches and I jammed my bare right foot between them, laying my full weight into the task. With a sound like a gunshot, the mop handle snapped. I fell forward, my foot wedged between the doors. I heard a second gunshot from my ankle. Pain exploded up my leg and I fought my way to standing. I jammed my elbow between the doors, roared with agony. Pushed with everything I had. The doors widened until I tumbled into the elevator.
The doors closed behind me. My ankle was on fire.
A hard knocking at the door.
“Carson?”
I tried to still my breath. “What, Freddy?”
“I heard you yelling real loud. What are you doing?”
“Exploring. I’ll be back in a while.”
“What are you exploring?”
“The elevator.”
“Can I come in and explore, too?”
“Of course, but later.”
His slippered feet slapped away. I struggled upright, put weight on my leg. It answered with searing pain. Something had given way, a bone or ligament.
Feet returned to the elevator doors.
“You know that man, Carson? The one that was mean to Puppy?”
“Yes.”
“He’s outside with another man. He’s coming in, I think.”
I wanted to throw back my head and scream. Crandell would have keys to everything. All he had to do was open the elevator, pull once or twice on the trigger. My final hope was exploding outward on my one good leg, hoping Crandell would be directly outside the door. I might get my hands to his face, rip my nails across his eyes, blind the bastard…
Footsteps approached, slow and measured. I held my breath, ready to dive through if he could open the door.
What if he just fired through the door?
Footsteps, footsteps…I held my breath.
Bang! A hand smacked hard against the door. Again.
“Carson? He didn’t come inside. They drove away.”
I leaned against the door. My head swam. Each of my heartbeats sounded like a kettledrum.
“Are you sure, Freddy? Crandell’s really gone?”
“He drove away in that special truck, Carson.”
“What special truck, Freddy?”
“The one Uncle Buck uses to carry his cars around. Uncle Buck has lots of cars.”
CHAPTER 48
Trees whipped by the sides of Nautilus’s cruiser, the country lane tight. The meeting spot was one Nautilus was familiar with, an old strip center serving what had once been a rural community, now just a couple miles from the edge of the growing city. Nautilus figured Crandell lived nearby, the site like he and Carson had figured, out of the city, but still allowing fast access anywhere in Mobile.
The meeting location was a pizzeria in the center, A-Roma Pizza. The closer he came, the more he became convinced he should let the county cops in on his plan. This was Mobile County, and he knew several guys on the force, not a Cade Barlow in the bunch. Nautilus waited to pass a slow-moving trailer on the road ahead. He was about to accelerate when the trailer swerved erratically, slid from the road, ground to a hard stop.
Nautilus had dropped back a hundred yards, thinking the trailer or the truck pulling it had blown a tire. He passed the stopped rig slowly, checking. It was an extended-cab truck with a vehicle hauler behind it. The hauler was empty.
The cab of the pickup exploded open and a man dropped halfway to the ground, clawing at his chest, the seat belt trapping his body. Nautilus braked hard and stared in horror, his headlights framing the grisly scene.
Don’t get out of the car, a voice said from the back of his head. Call it in, but don’t get out. His hand reached for the radio, was stopped by the flashing red light in his rearview: a vehicle with an emergency flasher stuck atop the roof, volunteer fireman. Hopefully the guy had some medical training.
“I’m an EMT,” called a voice from the vehicle behind as the door opened, feet started his way. “What happened?”
“Looks like a heart attack,” Nautilus yelled back. “I’m a cop. I’ll call it in. You got a defibrillator?”
“No. But I have one of these.”
Nautilus felt something hard press his ear. Caught the smell of gun oil. The voice at his shoulder said, “How’s about you keep your hands off that mike and right up there where I can see them.”
The man hanging from the truck suddenly slipped to the ground, somersaulted to standing, brushed himself off. Nautilus saw a patch on the guy’s shoulder: PRIVATE SECURITY. He was a tall, raw-boned guy with tight eyes. He grinned at the Crown Vic, then ignited two road flares. He tossed one behind the Crown Vic, another in front. Anyone passing would think car trouble.
“All right, Rafe,” said the voice at Nautilus’s shoulder. “You earned yourself a double bonus tonight. Drop the ramps and let’s get this circus to another town.”
Nautilus said, “Crandell, right?”
“Stay relaxed and we’ll all go home tonight.”
Like hell, Nautilus thought.
Headlights filled the scene as another vehicle slowed, a couple teen guys in an old Camaro with a bad muffler.
“Sssssh,” Crandell said to Nautilus, leaning to hide the gun. “One word and the kiddies don’t get any older.”
“Y’all need some help?” the passenger in the Camaro said.
Private Security smiled, shook his head at the Crown Vic. “Thanks, man, but we got her. Tranny stripped out in second gear. We’ll get ’er up on the trailer, haul it to the garage. Hey, you guys want a beer?”
The guy in the Camaro waved it off. “Thanks, bud, but we’re set.” He held up a six-pack of Schlitz Malt Liquor, grinned stupidly, and the pair roared away.
Private Security hustled to the back of the hauler, dropped the ramp to the road. That was all the time it took for Crandell to have Harry Nautilus on the rear floor of the cruiser, handcuffed to a steel D-ring.