Выбрать главу

Hot damn!

He tripped the siren and lights. Gravel flew and the engine roared as his car gripped the shoulder and tore onto the interstate. In seconds, he was in hot pursuit, but the target only accelerated. Trooper Stratton radioed in the information, but he didn't have much to say. He had no license plate number, no make or model of the vehicle. It had been a blur in the night flying past him.

In two minutes he was closing in. The speeding car hit the exit at over ninety miles per hour, ran a red light at the bottom of the ramp, and continued down the highway. Trooper Stratton gave chase, lights and siren blaring. It was a lonely road, just a gas station on one side and a fast-food joint on the other. The car was three miles beyond any sign of civilization when it made a quick right turn down a dirt road.

The car had disappeared from sight, but barbed-wire fences lined the road and prevented escape. Trooper Stratton continued in pursuit, his car jumping down the bumpy dirt road like a dune buggy. Then he stopped short, skidding to a stop.

The car was dead ahead, parked – stuck in a rut or ravine, he presumed.

The trooper switched on his spotlight and keyed his public address system.

"Remain in your vehicle," he said.

He reached for his radio transmitter to call in the information, but the license plate was too dirty to read. All he could say for sure was that it was a Florida tag. And that it was a red car. With some kind of gang symbol etched onto the rear window.

It looked like an upright knife.

His pulse quickened; he'd seen the statewide BOLO for a red car with the O-Town Posse gang symbol.

The last sound he heard was a deafening pop and the shattering of glass, as the windshield exploded into a thousand pellets that showered his face and landed in his lap.

Some were clear as diamonds; others, red as rubies.

THE BUZZER SOUNDED. The announcement over the PA system informed the entire prison population that the lockdown was over. The cell doors opened, and a stream of towel-wrapped inmates moved from their cells to the showers.

Theo exited his cell ahead of his cell mate and walked briskly across the cell block, trying to put some distance between himself and Charger. One man after another hung his towel on a hook and went straight into the community showers. Theo stayed by the sinks, still wrapped in his towel. The only mirror was the dome-shaped security mirror mounted on the ceiling. It was for the guards' benefit, not the inmates'. Theo used it as best he could to check his stitches. The doctor was supposed to remove all of them in a few days. There would definitely be a scar, especially if it was a prison doctor.

The shower area was directly behind him, and the security mirror offered Theo a panoramic view. Lots of naked bodies, lots of tattoos. Surely the inmate-by-inmate search during lockdown had turned up the O-Town Posse tattoo, but Theo was a skeptic when it came to authority, particularly in prisons. Maybe the guards had missed it. Maybe they'd found one, quit the search, and missed a second or a third inmate with the same tattoo. Or maybe a cool bribe had persuaded some guard to overlook it altogether. Theo couldn't trust corrections officers – not when it appeared that at least one of them had helped Isaac Reems escape. He had to check for himself.

Theo remained under the dome mirror, pretending to examine his stitches. He used the mirror to search for the tattoo. It was more difficult that way, but less risky than prowling through crowded showers and eyeing the backs of naked inmates. He shifted strategically from left to right, working the reflection to his full advantage. No matter how he maneuvered, however, he couldn't quite get a direct view into the deepest recesses of the shower area, where he seemed to recall seeing that O-Town Posse tattoo the other night. He tried standing on the balls of his feet, closer to the ceiling mirror and farther to his right – so far that he almost lost his balance.

"You're doing a lot of looking around tonight," said Charger, as he stopped at the sink beside Theo.

Theo caught himself and quickly resumed the pretense of examining the stitches in his head.

Charger leaned over the basin and splashed water on his face – delicately, the way a personal trainer might spritz a client's face with Evian. Then he removed his towel and said, "You know what they say: The ass is always greener…"

Theo ignored him as he sauntered away.

Steam from the hot showers was soon fogging the mirror. Theo's search was turning up nothing anyway, so he abandoned it and took a quick shower, looking at no one. He was on his way back to his cell before 9:00 p.m., but he didn't feel like dealing with Charger. Lights-out was still more than an hour away, so he decided to pay Moses a visit. The cell door was open, and Moses' cell mate was reclining in the lower bunk, alone in the cell when Theo arrived.

"Where's Moses?"

"Gone/' he said, never looking up from his magazine.

"TV room?" said Theo.

"Uh-uh. He's outta here."

Theo glanced at the top bunk, and only then did he notice that the bedding had been removed. An image flashed through his mind – the O-Town Posse tattoo on the muscular back of a black man, his identity obscured in the crowded, steamy shower.

"Are you saying they took him away during the lockdown search?"

"Uh-uh. He left this morning."

"So he got reassigned to another cell?"

He lowered his magazine, as if Theo's interrogation was getting on his nerves. "Moses had a court hearing to reduce his bail a week or so ago. Judge's decision came down this morning. He's a free man, dude. Outta here. Get it?"

It took a moment for the words to register. Theo looked away, speaking more to himself than to Moses' old cell mate. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I think maybe I do."

Chapter 29

The orange and yellow swirl of police beacons led Andie Henning through the darkness. Rural crime scenes tended to be large, and this one stretched almost the entire length of dirt road that jutted from the main highway Andie flashed her credentials to the deputies working perimeter control, ducked under the yellow tape, and headed up the dusty road for a closer look. It was one of those lonely trails to nowhere in the middle of a pasture. On the other side of the barbed-wire fence a herd of cattle slept while standing, which made Andie think of high school and late-night adventures in "cow tipping" back in her home state of Washington. Little mental diversions like that helped her cope with the grim side of her job.

Homicides were always a priority, but even off-duty law enforcement volunteered their services when a state trooper was murdered. Andie also noticed more gray hair than usual, a sign that a few retired officers were kicking in their time as well. They worked in the glow of portable vapor lights that all but turned night into day. A long line of uniformed officers and volunteers paced across the surrounding prairie, searching methodically for a murder weapon or other evidence that the shooter might have tossed or dropped. The suspect's vehicle was long gone, but investigators were making a cast of tire tracks that had been left: behind. The center of activity was the Florida Highway Patrol vehicle. The driver's-side door was open, and Trooper Stratton's body was still in the front seat, slumped over the steering wheel. His face happened to be turned away from Andie, which was just as well. Blood was everywhere, telling of a grievous wound, and glass pellets from the shattered windshield glistened beneath the spotlights. An investigator was snapping photographs as Andie approached. The lead homicide detective stopped her before she got too close, introducing himself as Lieutenant Peter Malloy. They had already met by telephone, so he dispensed with the pleasantries.

"You should see the videotape," said Malloy.

All FHP vehicles were equipped with dashboard video cameras, and Andie was eager to see the tape. "Do you have a copy for me?"

"Techies will have some extras ready in thirty minutes or so. You can watch mine."