“Randy,” Yonkers pleaded. “You’ve got to trust me.”
“I have trusted you.” He dialed the number.
Dixon struggled again to break free, but Casey held him fast. It was almost boring, how easy it was.
“Randy, don’t,” Yonkers said.
“Miff,” Westing said into the phone. He gave instructions on where to go and what to look for. They all waited, Dixon breathing heavily, Yonkers white as the papers Mifflin would be seeing on the desk.
Westing slowly looked over at Yonkers, his eyes hard. “I see. That’s very interesting. No, I’m not sure what it means, but I’m going to find out here in a minute.” He quietly closed his phone, staring at Yonkers.
“What is it?” Dixon said. “What did he say?”
Yonkers looked at the ground, not making a sound.
“Sounds like your patience might not pay off, after all, Dix.”
Dixon let out a growl and tried to yank away from Casey. She held him tight.
“Ah, perfect timing.” Casey cocked her head. “Here comes the cavalry.”
The sirens were distant, but on their way. It sounded like more than just a couple.
Casey glanced at Death, who was blowing into Westing’s ear, making him jerk around, like a bug was bothering him. What if her plan hadn’t worked? What if the cops coming up the road were the wrong ones? What if the kids insisted on showing up and got hurt? What if the gun in Wendell’s hand went off? What if, what if, what if… This was why she preferred doing things on her own, when she didn’t have her own posse who insisted on being involved.
She glanced at the desk, where Wendell had dumped the contents of Evan’s bag. “Interesting paperwork there on your desk, Mr. Yonkers. You might want to have a look at it before the cops arrive.”
Yonkers jumped up from the chair and limped around his desk. All of the remaining blood drained from his face. “Where did you get these? All of this? This is…this is…” He looked up at her. “This is Evan’s information.”
Dixon growled again, and Westing closed his eyes, muttering something under his breath.
Yonkers shuffled through the papers, growing more and more frantic. “This is…but a lot of this…”
The sirens grew louder and stopped outside. Yonkers began shoving the papers into his top drawer.
“Police!” The front door banged open, and footsteps sounded in the front hallway. Just as they approached the door Wendell tossed the gun to Westing and crouched on the floor, hands in front of his face. Westing caught the gun automatically in his right hand.
Casey let go of Dixon and fell at his feet, arms over her head. “Stop him! Please! Stop him!”
“What?” Dixon stood over her, hands out.
Cops streamed into the room, weapons drawn, pointed at the three men who stood. “Hands up!” the lead yelled. “Now!”
Dixon’s mouth dropped open, “But—”
“Now, mister!” One of the cops held a gun on Dixon, while another disarmed Westing.
“Is this the information?” The lead cop stood at the desk, his gun on Yonkers.
Yonkers looked at him, his eyes wide. “But you aren’t Sedgwick police. Where’s Chief Swinton? Where’s…”
“Over here!” the cop said to his team. “Start documenting this paperwork.”
“No!” Yonkers screamed. “She planted it! She brought it in here!”
The cop, who just happened to be married to Tom’s friend Nadine Williams, from Deerfield Trucking, glanced at Casey. “I don’t think she’s in a condition to be planting anything, sir. And these things on the walls? She planted those, too? Just how long did you give her in here before your men began beating the crap out of her?”
“No!” Yonkers said. “It wasn’t like that!”
“Yeah, well, you can tell us the whole story once we get to Blue Lake.”
“Blue Lake? Why Blue Lake?”
Matt Williams glared at him. “Because that’s where this is going to end. Right where you and your men killed Evan Tague.”
Yonkers’ eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell, only just getting caught by Williams and another cop. “Get him out of here,” Williams said.
Dixon and Westing were already being hustled out, and a man knelt over Casey. “Ms. Jones?”
She blinked up at him. “Dr. Cross?”
He smiled grimly. “Seems you and my son have been getting to know each other.”
Casey sighed, letting her eyes close.
“Let’s get you taken care of, shall we?”
With the doctor’s and Wendell’s help, Casey stood, wincing at the pull on her ribcage.
Death tsked. “And here I thought you were in bad shape last week.”
“It’s good cops can’t tell cleaned up wounds from fresh ones,” Johnny’s father said. “At least not at first glance, when they’re rushing in to save the damsel in distress.”
Wendell snorted. “Some damsel.”
Casey would have elbowed him, had she the strength.
An ambulance sat in Yonkers’ drive, and the men steered her toward it.
“The kids?” Casey asked. “Are they all right? They’re safe?”
Without a word Dr. Cross opened the back door of the ambulance and he and Wendell lifted her in, although there wasn’t much room, seeing as it was entirely filled with smiling teenagers.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“They’re squealing like little girls,” Death said. “Or little boys, depending on your point of view.”
“Glad to hear it.” Casey sat on the edge of the hospital bed in the private room, now empty of doctors, nurses, orderlies, and teenagers. The cops had been kept at bay so long they’d finally given up and gone home, saying they would return in the morning. Only Death remained.
“Yeah, they’re ratting each other out right and left. They’re especially fingering Yonkers. Guess the whole image of him as the quarterback has gotten tarnished after all this time—and after the loss of the money they thought they were getting. But none of them will be able to outrun Evan’s death. They’re toast for that.”
Casey eased off the mattress and exhaled through her teeth. The narcotics had helped a lot, but couldn’t take away all the pain. At least she knew she wasn’t dying from a perforated colon or some other internal damage. She’d kept up her part of the bargain with Johnny and had allowed his dad—along with the ever-thorough Dr. Shinnob—to run tests and poke her and look so deep in her eyes she thought they could probably see China. They’d returned with a diagnosis she could live with—beat up but healing.
Casey hoped Johnny would keep up his end of the bargain and forgive himself. It would help if the other kids would forgive him, first.
“The drivers are getting hauled in as we speak,” Death said. “Except for Parnell, who’s apparently disappeared from the face of the earth. I could find him, if you want.”
Casey shook her head, then regretted it, her head spinning. “No. Let him go. He’s suffered enough. Is my shirt in that little closet?”
“You mean your darling pink one?”
“Yes. The pink one. The only one I have.”
“I’m not sure which is better. That shirt or your hospital gown. Why don’t you wear the scrubs? The kids left them, along with your make-up.”
The kids. She wished…
“You can’t stay here,” Death said. “You know that.”
She shuffled to the closet and pulled out the scrubs. Still clean. And much more comfortable than jeans would be while she healed. She pulled on the pants, tying them loosely around her waist, and painfully pulled the top over her head, dropping the gown onto the floor.
“Wow,” Death said, “you must be feeling like crap. You didn’t ask me to avert my innocent eyes from your nakedness.”
Casey stuffed her jeans and the awful pink shirt into the backpack, along with whatever she could scrounge up from the room—soap, tissues, the toothbrush they gave her.
It was the middle of the night. Way past the time she should have left. She spent too long putting on her shoes, then eased the bag over her shoulder.