He darted back to the garage, and sat in the darkness between a corner and the Spitfire. He could see the empty street. A small black car eased around the bend in front of the house, and was gone. No other traffic. Through the hedge, he could see the outline of the Ballantine house. Nothing moved. The only sounds were the muffled chippings of concrete from the grave of Boyd Boyette.
Clint’s accord stopped near the tennis courts. A red Cadillac was parked near the street. Reggie turned off the lights and the engine.
They sat in silence and stared through the windshield at the dark soccer field. This is a wonderful place to get mugged, she thought to herself, but didn’t mention it. There was plenty to fear without thinking of muggers.
Mark hadn’t said much since dark. They had napped, together on one bed, for an hour after the pizza had been delivered to their motel room. They had watched television. He had asked her repeatedly about the time, as if he had an appointment with a firing squad. At ten, she was convinced he would chicken out. At eleven, he was pacing around the room, and going back and forth to the bathroom.
But here they were at eleven-forty, sitting in a hot car on a dark night, planning an impossible mission that neither really wanted.
“Do you think anybody knows we’re here?” he asked softly.
She looked at him. His gaze was lost somewhere beyond the soccer field. “You mean, here in New Orleans?”
“Yeah. Do you think anyone knows we’re in New Orleans?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
This seemed to satisfy him. She’d talked to Clint around seven. A Memphis TV station had reported that she was missing as well, but things appeared to be quiet. Clint hadn’t left his bedroom in twelve hours, he said, so would they please hurry up and do whatever the hell they were planning. He’d called Momma Love. She was worried, but doing okay under the circumstances.
They left the car and walked along the bike trail.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked, looking around nervously. The trail was pitch black, and in places only the asphalt beneath their feet kept them from wandering into the trees. They walked slowly, side by side, and held hands.
As she took one uncertain step after another, Reggie asked herself what she was doing here on this trail, in these woods of this city, at this moment, with this kid whom she loved dearly but was not willing to die for. She clutched his hand and tried to be brave. Surely, she prayed, something would happen very soon and they would dash back to the car and leave New Orleans.
“I’ve been thinking,” Mark said.
“Why am I not surprised?”
“It might be too hard to actually find the body, you know. So, this is what I’ve decided. You’ll stay in the trees close to the ditch, you see, and I’ll sneak through the backyard and into the garage. I’ll look under the boat, you know, just to make sure it’s there, then we’ll get out of here.”
“You think you can just look under the boat and see the body?”
“Maybe I can see where it is, you know?”
She squeezed his hand tighter. “Listen to me, Mark. We’re sticking together, okay. If you go to the garage, then I’m going too.” Her voice was remarkably firm. Surely, they wouldn’t make it to the garage.
There was a break in the trees. A light on a pole revealed the picnic pavilion to their left. The footpath started to the right. Mark pressed a switch, and the beam from a small flashlight hit the ground in front of them. “Follow me,” he said. “Nobody can see us out here.”
He moved deftly through the woods without a sound. Back in the motel room, he had recounted many stories of his late night walks through the woods around the trailer park, and of the games the boys played in the darkness. Jungle games, he called them. With the light in his hand, he moved faster now, brushing past limbs and dodging saplings.
“Slow down, Mark,” she said more than once.
He held her hand and helped her down the ditch bank. They climbed to the other side, and crept through the woods and underbrush until they found the mysterious trail that had surprised them hours earlier. The fences started. They moved slowly, quietly, and Mark turned off the flashlight.
They were in the dense trees directly behind Clifford’s house. They knelt and caught their breath. Through the brush and weeds they could see the outline of the rear of the garage.
“What if we don’t see the body?” she asked. “What then?”
“We’ll worry about that when it happens.”
This was not the moment for another long discussion about his options. On all fours, he crawled to the edge of the thick underbrush. She followed. They stopped twenty feet from the gate in thick, wet weeds. The backyard was dark and still. Not a light or sound or movement. The entire street was sound asleep.
“Reggie, I want you to stay here. Keep your head down. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“No sir!” she whispered loudly. “You can’t do this, Mark!”
He was already moving. This was a game to him, just another jungle game with his little buddies giving chase and shooting guns with colored water. He slid through the grass like a lizard, and opened the gate just wide enough to slide through.
Reggie followed on all fours through the weeds, then stopped. He was already out of sight. He stopped behind the first tree, and listened. He crawled to the next one, and heard something. Chink! Chink! He froze on his hands and knees. The sounds were coming from the garage. Chink! Chink! Very slowly, he peeked around the tree and stared at the rear door. Chink! Chink! He glanced back at Reggie, but the woods and underbrush were black. She was nowhere in sight. He looked at the door again. Something was different. He crawled to the next tree, ten feet closer. The sounds were louder. The door was open slightly, and a windowpane was missing.
Somebody was in there! Chink! Chink! Chink! Somebody was hiding in there with the lights off, and he was digging! Mark breathed deeply, and crawled behind a pile of debris less than ten feet from the rear door. He hadn’t made a sound, and he knew it. The grass was taller around the debris, and he crawled through it like a chameleon, very slowly. Chink! Chink!
He crouched low, and started for the rear door. The ragged end of a rotted two-by-four caught his ankle and he tripped. The pile of debris rattled and an empty paint bucket fell to the ground.
Leo bounced to his feet and darted to the rear of the garage. He yanked a.38 with a silencer from his waist, and scooted in the darkness until he was at the corner, where he squatted and listened. The chiseling had stopped inside. Ionucci peeked through the rear door.
Reggie heard the racket behind the garage, and fell to her stomach in the wet grass. She closed her eyes and said a prayer. What the hell was she doing here?
Leo sneaked to the pile of debris, then cut around it with the gun drawn and ready to fire. He squatted again, and patiently studied the darkness. The fence was barely visible. Nothing moved. He slid next to a tree fifteen feet behind the garage, and waited. Ionucci watched him closely. Long seconds passed without a sound. Leo stood upright and crept slowly toward the gate. A twig snapped under his foot, freezing him in place for a second.
He moved around the backyard, bolder now but with the gun still ready, and leaned against a tree, a thick oak with limbs hanging low near the Ballantine property line. In the unkempt hedgerow less than twelve feet away, Mark crouched on all fours and held his breath. He watched the dark figure move between the trees in the darkness, and he knew if he kept still he would not be found. He exhaled slowly, his eyes glued to the silhouette of the man by the tree.