“Yeah.”
“You didn’t say ‘gun.’ ”
Styles studied me. “What did I say?”
“You said he put the ‘gunk’ or something in his mouth.”
“The Glock.”
“What is a Glock?”
“A nine-millimeter pistol. It was a Glock on the floor. Model 26, I think.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve been around guns.”
“And a Glock isn’t a Smith and Wesson?”
He gave me a surprised look. “Two different animals. Why?”
“Because James was here earlier, in Stan’s camper, and Stan’s gun was a Smith and Wesson.”
“Maybe he’s got a couple of guns.”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t believe that Glock was Stan’s gun. He told James that his Smith and Wesson was the only real friend that he had.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
T hey were waiting for us as we trudged back to the truck.
“We were about ready to add you to the list, amigo.” James threw his arm around my shoulder.
“So here’s the guy who ran out on us.” Em gave Styles a look that could kill.
“There was a good reason.”
“First of all, what’s up with Crayer?” James was anxious.
“No sign of him. At all.”
“Dude, we need to find him. Em and I’ve been talking. He’s the only one who can seriously implicate us in this whole mess, and that’s only because Em acted in self-defense. Where would he go?”
“Self-defense?” Daron was puzzled. It struck me that I’d never asked him why he was in Crayer’s tent in the first place.
“He was threatening us with a gun. Em hit him in the face with a frying pan. And I mean, she hit him. We put him in his donut wagon, but when we got back he was gone.”
Styles pushed the brim back. “That’s two we’ve taken out of commission. Dusty and Crayer.”
“And — ” I coaxed him.
“And three that are out of commission. One, permanently.”
“Who?” James needed to know.
“Stan. We found him in his trailer, the back of his head blown off.”
Em grabbed my hand and looked in my eyes for confirmation. “Oh my God. Who killed him? I’ll bet it was the bodyguard. He must have shot him before he tried to shoot Cashdollar.”
“Appears to be a suicide.” Styles sat on the wooden bench and lit up a cigarette. He shook another out of the pack and offered it to James. “Gun was on the floor where he dropped it.”
James took the cigarette and leaned against the truck. “Man, I talked to him not more than three hours ago. In that trailer.”
“Skipper told me.”
“I even saw the gun. He was proud of it.”
“The Smith and Wesson.”
“Yeah.”
I jumped in. “Daron says this one’s a Glock.”
James turned his hands palms up. “A gun is a gun. It still can kill people, right?”
The commotion was centered around the office/trailer. They’d pulled the ambulance around back and I assumed that Cashdollar had first dibs. After all, he was still alive. Two detectives in sport coats and bad haircuts talked to a handful of people who were milling around the scene, but no one claimed knowledge of anything.
Em was still holding my hand and I liked it. “Skip, how much trouble are we in if we don’t say anything?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure LeRoy and Cashdollar will tell the story. I mean, the guy tried to kill Cashdollar.”
“And that gave LeRoy the right to walk up and shoot Walter in the head?”
I rolled my eyes. “Em, how do I know? I’m still not sure of exactly what we saw.”
The news had hit radio and television because there was a line of traffic that backed up to the causeway and beyond. The worse the news, the better the attendance. We’d heard it on the truck radio. It was brief and incomplete, but the basics were in place. Preston Cashdollar had been shot early Sunday morning at Oleta State Park. He was in good condition. One of his bodyguards was found dead outside his office trailer. As an aside, the story stated simply that a worker at the campground was found dead in his trailer. A worker. That’s what we were too. Workers.
The press was salivating. You can never have too much bad news. I was just glad that we — Em, James, and myself — were being left out of it.
James sat on the driver’s side, Em sat on the passenger side, and Styles and I stood on the ground as the newscaster finished his report.
“And finally, on a related note — ” I think we all held our breath, “- radio talk-show host, Barry Romans, died early this morning of gunshot wounds he suffered yesterday morning while walking not far from Ocean Drive. Reverend Preston Cashdollar had been highly critical of Romans’ political stands, and there were rumors that the shooting may have been related to Cashdollar’s criticism of the radio celebrity. Again, talk show host Barry Romans, forty-eight years of age, dead of gunshot wounds.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
W e’d gone in early and still were relegated to the rear of the tent. They were packed in and hundreds of people were left outside to listen to the speakers. The morning service was delayed until nine thirty and I found out later the park had to shut off attendance due to the overflow crowd.
The morning ministry was conducted by a young black guy who lacked the power and the punch of Cashdollar. He opened with prayer, and given all that had gone on, given the fact that we were still relatively unscathed, except for my forehead, I closed my eyes and said thank you. I didn’t know what else to do. He then read scripture. I looked it up later and it came from the book of Matthew. The message didn’t surprise me.
God greatly rewards those who trust in him fully, often beyond what they could imagine.
The three of us sat in the tightly packed tent, noticing the police officers stationed at the end of several aisles. I don’t know if they thought there might be more gunplay or what, but I was hoping we’d seen all the dead bodies we were going to see for a long, long time.
The first collection was taken, and I couldn’t even fathom how much money was put in the plates. The worse things got, the more money Cashdollar and crew seemed to collect.
The minister thanked the congregation, and moved behind the center podium.
“My friends, we are gathered to worship the Lord. To thank him for our bountiful blessings and to ask him to help us build more followers from this foundation. Most of you are here because you are believers. You are followers. You understand the need to give so that you may receive. However,” he paused, taking a long time to switch gears, “however, many of you came today to see what all the commotion is about.”
There was a rumble in the enclosed area. Murmuring, some nervous laughter.
“Last night, there was,” and he paused again, as if he was searching for the right word, “there was a lot of activity on our campgrounds. We feel you should know what happened, and we have asked someone involved in that activity to talk to you. On behalf of Reverend Cashdollar and our collective family, let me introduce Deacon Thomas LeRoy.”
LeRoy stepped out from the side of the big stage and walked to the center. From any distance, the man cut an imposing figure. From his closely cropped hair to the brilliant shine on his shoes, the man moved with style and grace. Maybe even more than Cashdollar, Thomas LeRoy was in charge. Confident to the point of being cocky, he surveyed the assembled masses. The minister handed him a wireless microphone and LeRoy stepped to the edge of the sixty-foot structure.
“Early this morning, as you have undoubtedly heard, Reverend Preston Cashdollar was shot behind this tent.”
The murmuring grew in intensity, the assembled people talking to each other, acknowledging their ignorance of the shooting.
“Please, let me continue.” He waited, letting the voices die down. When he was in total control again, he continued. “The Reverend is in good condition, and was not seriously wounded.”