I had almost enough information now. There was only one more person I had to see. I paid the waitress, who said, “He’s a fantastic basketball player. Jumps like a black guy. You know where he’s going to college?”
“Yes,” I said and went around the tables and through the door.
I was careful. I could have been more careful. Ann Hurwitz would know why I didn’t exercise more caution. Pellets might fly. I might catch one in the eye like Augustine. I was reasonably sure of who the shooter would be, but Augustine was the person who could make it a certainty.
The shot didn’t come until I opened the door to get into the Saturn, which was wedged between two SUVs at the far end of the lot, a few spaces from the exit on Webber.
The shot didn’t come from a pellet gun.
The first bullet shattered the driver side window showering shards on the seat. I turned to look in the direction from which I thought the bullet had been fired.
Something came at me from around one of the SUVs. It hit me, knocked me backward to the ground, and landed on me. I panted for breath. A second shot came but I didn’t hear it hit the ground or my car or the pavement.
I lay there for a beat, the weight on my chest and stomach, an arm covering my chest, and looked up to see, inches from my nose, Victor Woo.
“You all right?” he asked.
I tried to answer but couldn’t speak. He understood and rolled off to the side. I started to get up but he held a hand out to keep me down. He listened, watched for about half a minute, and then helped me up.
“He’s gone,” he said.
The shooter wasn’t trying to frighten me off anymore. We had gone beyond that, to murder.
“I followed you,” Victor said at my side.
“Thanks,” I said trying to catch my breath.
“That last shot might have killed you,” he said.
“Might have, yes,” I acknowledged.
“It would have hit you.”
He was trying to make a point, but I wasn’t sure what it was. He turned around so I could see where the bullet had entered his right arm through the red Florida State University sweatshirt he was wearing, the arm he had draped over my chest. There was remarkably little blood.
“It ricocheted off the ground before it hit me,” he said.
“I’ll drive you to the ER.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll stop somewhere, clean it, put on a bandage and some tape. The bullet just scratched my arm. It’s not inside me.”
Cliches abound from old movies. “It’s just a flesh wound.” “I’ve had worse bites from a Louisiana mosquito.”
“Suit yourself,” I said.
“I want to go home,” he said. “I saved your life. It is all I can do. It doesn’t make up for killing your wife, but it’s all I can do.”
“I forgave you for killing Catherine.”
“But when you said it before, you didn’t mean it,” he said. “This time you do. I’ve been away from home too long.”
I reached out to shake his hand. He winced as he briefly held my grip.
“My bedroll is in my car,” he added. “I’m leaving from here. If I can ever be of any service…”
“I know where to find you,” I said, but we both knew I would never call.
“You know who’s trying to kill you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Stop them,” he said.
And he was gone. I held up my hands. I felt calm, but my hands were both shaking. Can the body be afraid when the mind isn’t? I knew the mind could be afraid when the body of a policeman went through the door of an apartment where a crazed father held a gun to his ten-year-old daughter’s head, or when a fireman made a dash into a burning building where he heard the cry of a cat. It was a question for Ann.
When I opened the car door, I saw the folded sheet of paper with the words:
I whisper your name in the book of one more tomorrow knowing your yesterdays were filled with sorrow.
Migrating birds soar South then North again.
North into night flying over your solitary den.
Luck will not last.
Move fast.
Move past.
Thou hast
No more tomorrows.
I cleaned up as much of the glass on the seat and the floor as I could and got in my car. Once I was seated I saw more shining shards on the passenger seat. I swept them on the floor with my hand and called Ames.
“Real bullets this time,” I said.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
“Same shooter?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure. Where are you?”
“The office.”
“I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. A weapon would be in order.”
“Got one,” he said.
When I got to the house, Ames was coming down the steps. The day was cool enough that his lightweight leather jacket wouldn’t draw attention and whatever weapon he was carrying would remain hidden.
“Watch out for the glass,” I said as he started to get in the car.
“I’ll fix that window when we’re done,” he said swiping away at some of the glass bits I had missed.
He sat, looked at me and said, “Let’s do it.”
18
"Took you a while,” Corkle said, opening the door. “Come in.”
He was wearing tan slacks, a dark lightweight sweater and a blue blazer. Well dressed for a man who never left his house.
Ames and I followed him as he led the way to the rear of the house and onto a tiled, screen-covered lanai. The kidney shaped pool was filled with clear blue-green water.
A glass pitcher of something with ice and slices of lemon in it sat on a dark wooden table. There were five glasses.
Behind the table stood Jeffrey Augustine, black eye patch and all.
“It’s just lemonade,” said Corkle. “Mr. Augustine will pour you both a glass, and we can sit and talk.”
Both Ames and I took a glass of lemonade from Augustine. I took off my Cubs cap and put it in my back pocket.
“I feel like one of those rich bad guys in a fifties movie,” said Corkle, glass in hand, sitting on a wooden lawn chair that matched the table. “Like what’s his name, Fred…”
“Clark?” I said, sitting next to him.
Ames stood where he could watch Augustine, who was also standing. Augustine wasn’t drinking.
“Yeah, that’s the guy,” said Corkle. “Bald, heavyset sometimes, a little mustache. That’s the guy. Fonesca, D. Elliot Corkle is not the bad guy here, Fonesca.”
“You kidnapped Rachel Horvecki,” I said.
“Mr. Augustine brought her here to protect her,” said Corkle, looking at the lemonade after taking a long drink. “She came willingly, and you two executed a flawless rescue.”
“Protect her from what?”
“She’s rich now,” he said. “Someone might be inclined to take a shot at her or drop a safe on her in the hope and expectation of getting her money.”
“Ronnie.”
“Ronnie Gerall, otherwise known as Dwight Torcelli,” he said. “I’ve known Rachel since she was a baby. Always been a little bit in outer space. Her father put her there. Good kid. She deserves better than Torcelli. So does my daughter.”
“Someone tried to kill me about an hour ago in the parking lot at Beneva and Webber.”
“With a pellet gun?” he asked looking at Augustine whose fingers automatically reached for his eye patch.
“With a rifle.”
“You know why?” he asked, drinking more lemonade.
“Because I’ve been talking to people.”
“People?”
“People who told me who killed Philip Horvecki and Blue Berrigan.”
Corkle held up his lemonade and said, “Pure lemonade with small pieces of lemon evenly distributed throughout. Good, huh?”
“Very good,” I said.
“Made with the Corkle Mini-Multi Mixer Dispenser. Put in the water, the ice, lemons, push a button. It works almost silently; you just place the individual glass under the spout, and it fills automatically. Same perfect taste every time. Works with lemons, oranges, berries, any fruit or vegetable. Cleans with one easy rinse. I like orange-banana.”