Hanover’s only reply was an unflinching glare.
“And don’t think that taking me out sometime will solve your problems, Hell. I had a lot of help moving those weapons. If I’m ever harmed, the ATF will have the location of the cache within half an hour. You’re a free man only so long as no one else ever sees that photograph or any copies of it or any similar evidence of indiscretion you might have stashed somewhere. Understand?”
Hanover took a few ragged breaths before he was able to reply. “Yeah, I understand.”
“Good. Now get out.”
Cork moved back, but Hanover didn’t rise. “I’m not sure I can walk.”
“Here.” Cork handed him the Louisville Slugger. “Use it as a cane. But I’ll keep the thirty-two for now.” He lifted the handgun from the floor.
Hell Hanover struggled to his feet, leaned heavily on the wooden bat, and slowly thumped his way outside. He eased into his Taurus, grunting painfully as he did so.
“Leave the bat,” Cork called.
Hanover dropped the Louisville Slugger on the ground, closed the door, and started the engine. Without glancing once in Cork’s direction, he left.
Cork stood in the doorway of the Quonset hut, his body quivering as it dealt with all the adrenaline that had been pumped into it in the last fifteen minutes. He’d been ready to kill Hanover in cold blood if the man had given him any indication he had anything to do with the kidnapping of Jo and Stevie. Although he hated Hanover and everything he stood for, Cork believed that in this instance, he was innocent.
He stared at the empty parking area. The grass at the edges was brown from drought. The grasshoppers were legion, feeding everywhere, the sound of their brittle wings buzzing in the heat. But Cork wasn’t seeing or hearing them. He was deep in thought, wondering desperately, If not Hell, then who?
37
WESLEY BRIDGER SHOWED UP LATE in the morning. He parked his van next to LePere’s small house and went inside.
“What the hell happened, Chief?”
John LePere sat at the little dining table, a cup of coffee in his hand. He was pretty tired, but he didn’t want to sleep, not until he’d dealt with Bridger. He leaned his elbows on the tabletop and gave the man a long, steady look. “Something in all your careful planning you never counted on,” he replied. “Fire. Nearly killed us all.”
“The others? They’re okay?”
“They’re okay.”
“Well, hey, Chief, where’s the damage? You did a good job.” He walked to LePere and gave him a hearty slap on the back. “Mind if I pour me a cup of that java there? Been a long night for me, too.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Preparing, Chief. Getting things ready. They’ve got the money.” Bridger poured himself some coffee and let out a rebel yell. “They’ve got the fucking money.”
“The Fitzgerald woman wasn’t sure her husband could get it.”
“Unless he’s lying his ass off, he’s got it. And we’ll have it tonight.” Bridger lifted his cup in a brief toast. “Time to start celebrating. Start imagining what it’s going to feel like being a millionaire.”
LePere put his cup down. “There’s something we need to talk about.”
Bridger pulled out a chair, turned it backward, and plopped himself down. He drank his coffee and addressed LePere over the chair back. “Yeah? And what’s that?”
“I’m not taking any of the money.”
Bridger laughed. “That’s a good one.”
“I’m serious.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I don’t want the money.”
“You sure took a hell of a risk for nothing, then.”
“They saw my face, Wes.”
Bridger stared at him and blinked. Then he threw his cup against the wall. “Fuck me.” He stood up and kicked over the chair. “God damn it. How the hell-”
“The fire. It happened while I was getting them away from the fire. It couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t their fault.”
“Shit.” Bridger kicked the floral sofa. He closed his eyes and thought a moment, shaking his head angrily, as if all he could see were blind alleys. “So, how does this translate into you not taking any money?”
“You take the money. I take the rap.”
Bridger snorted ruefully. “You started drinking again?”
“It’s the only way.”
“No.” Bridger glared at him. “It’s not the only way.”
LePere understood what he meant. “These people are going back to their families, Wes.”
“They go to their families. You go to jail. And what about me? I just slip off into the sunset with two million dollars?”
“That’s it.”
“You think they’re going to let it go at that? These are rich people, Chief. You fuck with rich people and they have all the resources available to fuck you right back, and better. And the cops? You think they’re not going to make your life a living hell until you tell them about me?”
“They’ll try. But I’ve been in hell a long time now. There’s nothing they can do that’ll make it any worse.”
Bridger walked back to the table, leaned close to LePere, and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s more to it than you’re telling me, am I right?”
“They’ve promised to investigate the wreck, to find the truth.”
Bridger stepped back in mock amazement. “And you believed them? Chief, you are one stupid half-breed.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Christ.” Bridger walked away in disgust. He headed to the door but didn’t go out. He just stood looking at the fish house. “I guess the die’s been cast, huh? You’ve crossed your own little Rubicon.” He took a breath and faced LePere. “But we go through with the drop tonight?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Your funeral.” He came back and offered his hand. “Sorry about the half-breed thing.”
LePere didn’t take his hand. “One more thing. Until this is over, you stay away from them.”
Bridger dropped his arm and gave LePere a quizzical look.
“You hurt the Fitzgerald woman.”
“I scared her a little.” Bridger shrugged, then smiled sheepishly. “All right, I scared her a lot. But, hey, she was trying to get away.”
“Just leave them alone.”
Bridger solemnly held up a hand. “You have my word.” He turned and started away. “I’ve got more arrangements to make for tonight. I’d best get moving.” He paused at the door. “You’re sure about all this?”
“I’m sure.”
Bridger made a gun of his thumb and forefinger and shot an imaginary round at LePere. “You’re some piece of work, you know that, Chief?” He stepped outside. A minute later, the van pulled away and headed up the narrow lane to the highway.
John LePere felt good. The hardest part was over-dealing with Bridger. He left the table and went into the kitchen. He put some bananas in a sack and filled a plastic jug with cold tap water. Outside, the air was warm and carried the smell of smoke. LePere crossed to the fish house and unlocked the door. The women looked up as he entered. The boys were asleep, chins resting on their chests.
“I thought you might be hungry, maybe could use a drink of water,” he said quietly. He put the sack on the floor. The jelly glasses were sitting on the table and he filled them. He offered a drink to Grace Fitzgerald. She nodded and he put the glass to her lips. “Your husband has the money,” he told her. A trickle ran down her chin and he wiped it away.
“I can’t imagine where he got it,” she said.
“If two million would have saved Billy, I’d have moved heaven and earth to get it.”
“Scott needs another injection,” the Fitzgerald woman said.
“I’ll get the stuff.” He looked at Jo O’Connor. “You want a drink before I go?”
“No, thanks.”
When LePere returned, Scott Fitzgerald was awake. “I’m going to cut your hands free so you can give him the shot,” LePere said to the boy’s mother. He severed the tape and pulled it off her wrists, then put the packaged syringe and the medicine into her hands. He stood back and watched. The boy took the shot without flinching. LePere reached out for the syringe so he could dispose of it.