“I’m going home. She’ll probably wake up in a while. If she does, find out what she knows…without killing her. We don’t need any more bodies.”
“Sure thing. What if she dies anyway?”
Yonkers paused. “You were supposed to keep Dix from—I told you I needed her alive. Preferably able to talk.”
“You know how Dix gets. He was always that way, even in high school.”
“I know. But this time…we can’t do this kind of thing. It’s going to get out. Talk to him, will you?”
“Okay, Yonk.”
“And if something happens…I don’t know. Cover her with mulch and we’ll figure something out.”
Yonkers left, but Casey could feel Westing still with her in the room. He came close, and she concentrated on relaxing, as if she were unconscious.
He poked her with the toe of his shoe. “I don’t know who you are, lady, but I’m telling you–you give us what we want, or you’ll be sorry. So will those precious kids you found. Dix and Mifflin get a little crazy when they get mad. And when they want their money.” He gave her another little shove with his foot, then left the room, closing the door solidly behind him.
Chapter Thirty-One
After Sandy Greene’s truck drove away, it was quiet. Too quiet. Where had all of the men gone? Casey couldn’t imagine they’d left. In fact, Yonkers had told Westing to stay. Casey yearned for some more water, but Mifflin hadn’t left any extra. She worked her mouth, trying to summon up a little saliva, but there was nothing.
What had she been in the process of doing?
Escaping. Right. She looked around the room. There was no way she was leaving through the door. Even as quiet as they were, she knew the men had to be just outside, waiting for her.
It would have to be the window. She took a deep breath, biting her lips together so she wouldn’t cry out, and once again eased herself into a sitting position. She looked around. Death had deserted her. She was completely alone. Gripping the side of the chair, she gradually placed her weight on her feet and pushed herself up from the chair. Her head filled with white noise and she fell forward against the desk, knocking several pens to the floor. She perched there, waiting for running footsteps. No one came.
Once her head cleared she could feel every injury her body had suffered. Her ribs ached with a vengeance, and her head felt as if it were being squashed between two rocks, but at least her joints were moving, and she was starting to get used to the taste of the blood in her mouth from where Dixon has smashed her face against the bricks. Keeping her hands on the desk for support she worked her way around it, toward the window. By the time she reached the other side, she was exhausted, and leaned heavily on the desk. The white noise was coming again.
She eased down into Yonkers’ chair and let her eyes roam across the room. There was nothing much of interest. The wall was filled with photos of Yonkers with celebrities and their purchases—some of the same pictures she’d seen on the Internet. A few plants sat around in the corners, and draped over the tops of file cabinets. The desk had photos, too, and she studied them blankly. His daughter Tara’s senior picture. His son’s graduation. A football team. She laid her head on her arms, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When it did, she raised her head. A football team?
She picked up the picture and looked at it more closely. It was the same photo she’d seen on Pat Parnell’s counter, in a place of honor, along with the shots of his kids. As her eyes focused on the individuals, something connected in her foggy brain. There was Yonkers, in the middle, holding the football. Surrounding him were other familiar faces: Westing, Dixon, Parnell. All of the men she’d dealt with during the past week. She laughed to herself. Evan had given her the clue long ago, when he’d referred to this group as The Team. This was no masterminded gang. No global conspiracy. This was a high school football squad gone bad. And Yonkers was the quarterback.
She looked down at the papers she’d been resting her head on. Smears of her own blood covered up what was printed there—numbers and words. What exactly did they say? She squinted, trying to make them clear. When she succeeded, she saw these were unpaid orders for plants and flowers—seemingly legitimate invoices for Exotic Blooms. No other papers were on the desk, but there were several drawers, two of them large enough for file folders. She pulled one drawer out, the effort causing sweat to pop out on her scalp. There was nothing but information about Exotic Blooms. Shipment after shipment of plants, flowers, seeds, bulbs, trees…all of which would have to pass rigorous tests before being transported from another country, or even across state lines. The Department of Agriculture wasn’t about to let foreign flora bring disease which could wipe out the region’s own crops or plants. So these loads would have to be Class A’s legitimate shipments. The paperwork the authorities would actually see.
Casey pushed a key on the computer keyboard, and the monitor came to life. You’d think with all Yonkers had to hide he’d be a little more careful. She blinked hard, trying to stop the dizziness. Her vision cleared and she looked at the screen, clicking on all the different folders. Again, all about Exotic Blooms, but this time everything she saw pointed to one thing: Exotic Blooms was going under. All of those celebrity customers? Gone. All she could find for the past year and a half were piddley orders from locals. She found a couple invoices dealing with importing a few exotic palm trees to south Florida, but the star athletes, the TV personalities, the politicians—all had apparently decided that expensive flowers were something they could do without. Or should at least be seen to be doing without.
Yonkers had just about lost his shirt.
So was that what the trucking thing was all about? Had he slapped together this slate of bad drivers and aging football players to make a few extra bucks and save his business? That’s not what she’d heard the night before. Owen Dixon, at least, was expecting a huge payoff sometime soon. It looked like he was going to receive a huge disappointment, instead. Casey wondered how hotheaded Dix would deal with that.
There was nothing on the computer about Class A trucking. No truckers, or false IDs, or fake manifests. So if the information wasn’t there tying Willie Yonkers and his buddies to the death of Evan Tague, where would it be? What had Yonkers’ daughter said? Tara? He hardly ever leaves home, can you believe it? Spends all day locked away in his precious office, eating popcorn and watching porn for all I know. It’s not like he ever lets me in there.
So that’s where the information would be, if it existed. And no one would ever find it if Casey died in this smelly greenhouse. No one would find her stash underneath that rock out in the grove of trees. No one would believe Evan Tague died because he trusted the wrong man. And no one would know they had to protect the little band of teenagers who had offered her shelter.
Casey had already spent too long sitting at the desk. Westing would be coming to check on her any minute. At least he had orders not to kill her—not that it would stop Dixon or Mifflin, if he left her alone with them.
Spinning the chair toward the window, Casey reached the string at the end of the blinds and pulled. When it was all the way up, she grabbed the windowsill, pulled herself up, and almost fell down when she looked out the window.
Someone else was looking in.
It was a familiar face—black and white, pale skin with dark hair. Bailey? The girl’s eyes went wide, and she jerked back, falling against Johnny, who stood behind her. He set her aside and placed his hands on the window, pushing upward. It didn’t budge.
He was mouthing something to Casey. She wavered where she stood and tried to read his lips. What was he saying? He was pointing at the middle of the window and gesturing with his hand. Up? Under?