“He forgets things,” Sean said. She gave Alexa Winter’s cell number. “Alexa, tell him to call me as soon as you talk to him?”
“Sean, don’t worry. Winter can take care of himself.”
“I know,” Sean said. “I’ve seen that firsthand.” She said good-bye, hung up, and looked across the room where Hank Trammel sat in an armchair, frowning. A wool blanket was over his shoulders.
“I haven’t seen that sour-ass Trammel look since the day I met you,” she told him. “God, you can be a scary fellow until a body gets to know what a pussycat you are.”
“Polecat, you mean.” Hank smiled. “I remember when I had you handcuffed. You looked like something out of Oliver Twist. Hell, I didn’t know whether to turn you loose or shoot you. What did Miss Alexa Keen say?”
“Alexa says he didn’t show on schedule.”
Hank said, “I have a feeling she’ll see him soon enough. He has a way of turning up when you least expect him to. Reckon I’d best get moving.” He tried to stand.
“Hank,” Sean said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “You’re going to stay here.”
“Bull,” he said. “Help me make it up. I’ll be fine once I get moving.”
“Let’s cut the crap,” she told him. “I’ll go see Judge Fondren.”
“No way. Winter would have my ass. He entrusted me with this errand.”
“Is it dangerous, knocking on a front door in Myers Park?”
“No, I don’t expect it is.”
“I walk up, ring the bell, deliver the message. Then I’ll get in my car and come back home.”
“I feel so dad-burned worthless.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I can’t call Judge Fondren,” he said. “Winter said the wrong people are tapping phones. He said he couldn’t call anybody who could help because the bad guys could be monitoring anybody he might turn to. I’m the only person he was sure they wouldn’t think he’d turn to.” Saying that hurt.
“No, Hank. The only thing to do is what Winter said to do.”
“It’s not a good idea,” Hank insisted. “He didn’t call you for a reason. Winter’ll freak out if you go into a dangerous situation. I’ll go. I know Fondren.”
“Come on, Hank. We’ve discussed this. You know I can take care of myself.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Faith Ann knows where Olivia’s bottles are. If the baby wakes and won’t go back to sleep, sing to her. She likes ‘Do you believe in life after love,’ that Cher tune.”
“She’ll have to settle for ‘Desperados Waiting for a Train.’ You be real careful. If you see anybody watching the judge’s house, keep going. Call me from a pay phone and I’ll call Shapiro. Agreed?”
Sean stood, slipped on a coat and a baseball cap, then kissed Hank. She knew Shapiro, the director of the U.S. Marshals, and he would do anything to help Hank or Winter.
“You be careful,” Hank called after her. “I’m about as experienced taking care of infants as I intend to be.”
58
The road Winter Massey had crashed his truck on wasn’t heavily traveled. It was Saturday night, and only a few people lived out that way, and it dead-ended into one of the few remaining farms that hadn’t been turned into a shopping center or a subdivision. The first driver down that road would spot his truck-rolled over like it was and lit up like a Christmas tree-and call the cops. Winter only hoped it wasn’t discovered until he was close enough to the Dockerys that it wouldn’t matter.
He was muddy and bruised from the dive he’d taken out of the truck’s cab when it left the road. He didn’t generally jump from moving vehicles, but he’d had little to lose by taking a chance that the ground would be soft enough to keep him from breaking his neck. Based on what the Tahoe’s driver said on his phone to Randall-if the wreck wasn’t found and broadcast over the police channels-Winter might have an hour before the men in black he’d killed didn’t show up wherever Max Randall expected them to meet him. Add maybe another half hour before Max got word to the bunch at the Westin. He might have additional time after that before anybody got word to the Smoots to tell them that Click might have ratted them out.
Clayton Able, who certainly knew Randall’s team was after Winter, would be monitoring local police radio channels for news of any incident. He would learn a wrecked truck had been found near the clinic, know it was Winter’s, and learn pretty quickly there were three bodies. That would set up the first alarm. Winter was counting on it taking some time for the bad guys to discover that none of the dead bodies was his. When they did, Clayton and company would know that Winter was responsible for the dead men, and they’d know it long before the cops put it all together. Police interest would be piqued when they discovered that one of the men in black battle dress uniforms without any insignia was packing an illegal automatic weapon. There would be a lot of explaining to do, and hopefully he could explain it with Fondren’s help and have the truth accepted over whatever cover story the military came up with.
It wouldn’t be the first whirlwind that had Winter Massey at its epicenter. If he had things figured correctly, Judge Fondren might not even be aware of Winter’s involvement. Once Hank Trammel got the message to the judge detailing what was really going down, maybe he could figure out some way to help Winter save his family.
59
Lucy Dockery heard Dixie close the bathroom door and sit heavily on the toilet. Through the uninsulated wall with cheap paneling nailed to both sides, Lucy could hear Dixie mumbling to herself just as clearly as if she were in the bathroom with her. Despite her father’s admonition, the woman sounded intoxicated. Lucy had read that the death camp guards during World War II stayed drunk or doped to the gills to better cope with the unpleasantness of their work.
Lucy went to the kitchen and lifted a ten-inch skillet from beneath the island made of two-by-fours topped with a slab of granite. In the TV’s uncertain light, she could see Elijah sprawled on his back in the playpen, motionless.
She slipped back into the bedroom and picked up the blanket she had vomited the chemical martini into. She lumped it on the bed and put the flashlight under the blanket so that the beam shone out and illuminated the wall. Then she picked up the skillet and moved to put her back against the wall beside the door. The iron utensil felt like the heaviest thing she had ever lifted, and she was sure it would crush Dixie’s skull like a bubble. How hard should she hit her? Too hard and it would kill her, too soft a blow and the musclewoman would take it away and beat her to death with it.
The toilet paper roll spun, the toilet flushed, and Lucy heard Dixie opening the door.
Lucy had never struck any living thing before, except a swipe on Walter’s arm when he beat her at Trivial Pursuit, a playful pat on his naked butt when her husband passed by on his way into the shower.
Raising the skillet over her head as far as the low ceiling allowed, Lucy moaned loudly and called out, “Come here, bitch!”
Dixie flung open the door. “Jeezuscryast,” she snarled, and stepped into the room, her gaze going from the lumpy blanket to the open window.
Lucy brought the frying pan down on the blond bouffant in an effort to drive the hairdo into Dixie’s neck. The large woman hit the mattress and lay there shivering like she’d chewed through a lamp cord. Then she stopped moving and was still. Lucy knew that she had killed her, but she couldn’t think about that until she was far away from this place.
Lucy ran into the den, grabbed up her unconscious child, clutched him to her to make sure he was breathing, then grabbed the thin blanket he had been lying on and ran. She passed the containers of gasoline as she made her way across the warehouse. Tenderly, she laid Elijah down on the blanket and tucked it around his tiny body. It was a sin to have drugged her baby, but she thanked God he was asleep. That way she could do this without worrying that he would make a racket.