The few customers who were still in the diner were paying their checks, so I expected the waitress would be along to take my order soon. In all probability, the pie I'd be served in St. Alban's would have crumbs mixed into the filling and topping, which is the southern version. And that would be no problem, since that's the one I prefer.
Only I didn't get my pie.
By the time the last customer left, the waitress and cook were gone as well.
And I was alone in the diner.
Two minutes later I saw them: the gangster wannabes from the car that first night, when Rachel and I were headed back to The Seaside after our fight. I'd seen one of them, to be precise, but I knew the others would be hiding nearby. Finding myself in this situation, out of the blue, told me that Mayor Bradford was not only in on it, he was trying to protect it.
I put the menu back in its original spot, unraveled my rope, and walked to the next booth and tied one end to the metal post that held the table in place. Then I threaded the rope around the outside of the booth and kept it tucked against the floor. I reclaimed my seat and tied the other end to my right ankle. When they came for me I'd maintain eye contact, and keep my hands on the table. Entering the booth, they'd be studying my face or hands and weren't likely to notice the rope. Now all that was left to do was remove my switchblade from my boot, tuck it under my right knee, and wait for the dance to start.
There's a rhythm to these things, and I don't care if you're in Waco, LA, South Jersey or St. Alban's, it all goes down pretty much the same way. There are always two goons, tough guys. One comes at you from the front, the other hides in the kitchen or bathroom. The first goon forces you into the kitchen or bathroom so his buddy can hit you over the head as you enter, or pin your arms behind you while the first guy roughs you up. If there are three of them, one keeps watch while the others do their thing.
In this case there'd be four goons, though the pot head driver and the kid with the piece-of-shit pistol were basically worthless. The guy riding shotgun would have some enforcement experience, and the dead-eyed guy in the back, the leader, would be dangerous. These two would provide the muscle. Working in my favor was the fact that I'd already disrespected them to their faces. They knew I wasn't afraid of them, so that would give them pause. Since I was either crazy or dangerous, they'd want to work up some courage before making their move. The two tough guys would come to my table and sit across from me while the others guarded the entrance and exit. We'd chat a minute at my booth while they made threats and showed me how tough they were. They'd pretend it was just a warning, but when I tried to get up from the table, they'd attack. They'd come at me savagely, inside the restaurant, because the place was deserted and my ability to move around would be hampered by the close quarters.
They had no reason to know I prefer fighting in close quarters.
On the other hand, this type of situation could go south in a hurry if I became distracted, and there was one unknown, one random element of the equation that could turn the whole encounter upside down.
Rachel.
Rachel was out there somewhere. She'd claimed to be on her way, but I suspected that whatever she was up to, it was going to be a while before she showed up. I hoped I was right, because these guys were moving so slow I was starting to get annoyed.
Okay, decision time. I had two options: stay or leave. If I hurried, I could still get out the front door before they had time to take up their positions. They weren't likely to attack me on Main Street in the middle of the day, so I could leave and avoid being attacked, protect Rachel by keeping her safely out of the line of fire, and deal with the gang bangers another time.
That option sounded good except for one thing: if I ran away I wouldn't learn what they're hoping to gain. I already knew who sent them (the Mayor) and I knew why (I'd threatened to check out the church). I suspected Libby Vail was being held prisoner in the church, or had been at one time. But I didn't know who was involved, or why. Usually when an elected official relies on gang bangers, there are drugs involved. But I hadn't threatened anyone's drug trade.
I'd mentioned the local economy being boosted by the monthly celebrations honoring Libby Vail. Even The Seaside was thriving now-maybe it was because of me, but maybe I was part of something bigger, and if that was the case, I wanted to know what it was. While the rest of the nation struggled with business closings and high unemployment, St. Alban's seemed to be growing. Indeed, the whole town seemed to be riding a Kool-Aid high. So this encounter at the diner with the gang bangers wasn't about drugs. It was about Libby Vail. Were they here to chase me out of town? Beat me up for asking questions? Force me to stay away from the old church records? Kill me in cold blood?
I had to know.
But I was getting tired of waiting.
Chapter 24
IT DIDN'T GO down the way I thought it would.
I figured the two tough guys would overlook the rope, climb in the booth, and start threatening me. While they talked, I'd work my right hand down to the rope around my ankle, get it into my lap, switch hands, loop the rope around the highest part of the base of my table, and, when I stood to leave, I'd pull the rope tight with my left arm to trap them in the booth. By then the switch blade in my right hand would be open and I'd slit their throats before they had time to react. I'd go in the kitchen, avoid the pot head's attack, and kill him quietly. Then I'd decide whether to kill the kid out front or just make my escape. I'd probably just go, unless he spotted me and tried to stop me.
That was the plan, and I thought it was a good one.
Only like I said, it didn't go down that way.
I was right in thinking the gang bangers would come in the diner. But I didn't realize they'd come in the diner with the Sheriff and three deputies, all of whom held shotguns aimed at my face. They fanned out to give themselves a clean shot and limit any damage I might be able to do.
"Keep your hands on the table," the Sheriff said, "and without moving them from the table, get slowly to your feet."
I did as he said, and the shotguns moved to within five feet of me.
"He's got a blade on the seat," a deputy said.
The Sheriff moved in for a closer look.
"Why'd you tie yourself up?" he said.
The gang bangers and two of the deputies started laughing, the rest of us kept still. The Sheriff got to one knee and slowly reached for my switchblade. Once he had it, he backed away, stood, and tossed a pair of handcuffs on the table.
"Put these on your wrists, but keep your elbows on the table the whole time," he said.
When I'd done that, he told me to stand and ease my way out of the booth slowly. Then, with the shotguns surrounding me, the Sheriff fitted me with leg cuffs, and secured them to my handcuffs with a chain.
They shuffled me out to a police van and closed the door. The deputy who hadn't laughed at me in the diner climbed behind the wheel, and the Sheriff rode shotgun.
Literally.
They took me south on A1A, a few miles past Amelia Island Plantation, and turned into the scrub area surrounding a gravel road that had been virtually invisible from the highway. The car slowed and dipped and I noticed a sign that said, "Site of the Little River Crossing, 1684 – 1758." Just as quickly, the front of the car raised and I guessed we'd crossed the river that used to be there.
No one was talking, but I wanted to plant a seed in their heads. I said, "Killing me might prove harder than you think."
They remained silent and stared straight ahead as they drove through the thickets and pine knobs. When they got to the base of a huge sand dune, the deputy put the wagon in park and the Sheriff turned around in his seat and looked at me.