“Twist his fingers,” Vick told the woman.
The soccer mom looked at Vick in confusion.
“His fingers are broken. Grab his hand, and twist them!”
“Right,” the soccer mom gasped.
She grabbed Mr. Clean’s forefinger and pulled it straight back. Mr. Clean screamed in pain, and released her. The soccer mom started to beat and kick him. Her kids yelled their approval.
“Get in your vehicle, and lock your door,” Vick said.
The soccer mom backed off. Mr. Clean staggered to the guard rail, clutching his hand. Down below, southbound traffic on Interstate 95 was backed up, the vehicles’ noxious fumes polluting the air.
“Don’t you dare move,” Vick shouted.
Mr. Clean glanced at her. In his face she saw a decision being made. He flipped over the railing and disappeared.
“God damn it,” Vick swore.
She ran to the guard rail and looked straight down. Mr. Clean had landed atop a flat-roofed, eighteen-wheel truck. His legs were moving and his eyes looked clear. The chopper appeared overhead and bathed him in harsh yellow light.
“Stand up and put your arms in the air,” Vick shouted.
Mr. Clean rose uncertainly to his feet. His clothes were torn and the side of his head was bleeding. He’d twisted his ankle, forcing him to hop on one foot. He placed his hands behind his head and squinted at her.
“I surrender,” Mr. Clean called back.
“Don’t move,” Vick shouted back.
“I will not move. You have my word.”
The ground beneath Vic.’s feet rumbled gently. Down below on Interstate 95, the vehicles inched forward in unison. Traffic was starting to move. A slight smile spread across Mr. Clean’s lips. The breath caught in Vick’s throat.
“Jump down from there!” Vick shouted.
“But I will be run over,” Mr. Clean shouted back.
“Do it!” Vick said.
“No!”
“I’m ordering you.”
“I am hurt. I can’t jump,” he shouted back.
The eighteen-wheeler had shifted into drive, and was moving forward with the flow of traffic. Mr. Clean was getting a free ride to Miami, where he’d slip into the vast Cuban community, and resume his killing ways.
“I’m ordering you to jump down!” Vick repeated.
Mr. Clean mocked her with his eyes.
“I won’t tell you again,” she said.
“Goodbye, little girl,” he called back.
She emptied the.45 into her suspect. Mr. Clean dropped to his knees, then fell onto his back, his hands clutching at the bullet holes in his chest. He seemed surprised but not shocked, as if he’d known this was his fate. He died staring at the sky.
She watched the eighteen-wheeler rumble away. The driver was going to be in for a real surprise when he reached his destination.
Linderman appeared, covered in black soot. Her boss looked like he’d been to hell and back.
“Nice shooting,” he said.
Chapter 56
Wayne saw the Audi pull into the parking area in a cloud of dust, and park beside a pick-up truck loaded with hay. Behind the wheel sat Rachel Vick. Vick appraised herself in the mirror before getting out.
Wayne brushed the mare tied in the cross-ties. The stable had eight horses, and this mare was his favorite. She was a quarter horse, which was the fastest horse in the world over a short distance. He’d gotten on her several times and gone galloping across the pasture. It had been like riding a rocket.
Vick came up the path. She still hadn’t spotted him. Or maybe she had, and assumed he was a hired hand. Wayne wore blue jeans and a stiff denim shirt, and could have easily been an employee.
Vick had been on his mind a lot. They’re never really had a chance to talk. He’d considered calling the FBI’s office in North Miami and asking for her, just to see how she was doing. Seeing her now constricted his heart with a strange, purposeless urgency he didn’t quite understand.
“Hey,” he called out.
Vick stopped with a start, and brought her hand up to her heart.
“I didn’t recognize you,” she said.
He started to brush the horse’s tail. “I’ve got a new career.”
“She’s a beauty.”
“You like horses?”
Wayne already knew the answer to his own question. All women liked horses.
“I’ve only ridden once,” she admitted.
“Bet you got thrown.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Most people who’ve only ridden once get thrown and never get back on. I learned that from my riding instructor.”
“You’re taking lessons. That’s great.”
“It’s part of the deal. I work with the horses and also get to ride them. It’s called equine therapy. My doctor says that if I can relate to horses, I won’t go shoot up my highschool after they let me out.”
“Your doctor didn’t say that,” Vick said, growing serious.
“No, but that’s what he’s thinking.”
“That’s not funny, Wayne.”
“Crap. I pulled out a hair.” He pulled a long hair from his brush, and displayed it to Vick. “I’m not supposed to pull out any hairs when I brush their tails. It takes a horse several years to grow their tails. About an inch a month.”
“The same as a human,” Vick said. “Is there someplace we can speak in private?”
“We can use the office. It’s air-conditioned.”
Wayne led the mare into its stall where a flake of hay was waiting in the corner, then closed the sliding door and latched it. “She’s a smart one,” he said. “If I don’t latch the door, she’ll let herself out.”
“Do you like the horses?” Vick asked.
“Yeah. They’re cool.”
The office was a small room across with framed photos of horses and ribbons from shows adorning the walls, the cold air a welcome relief. Wayne sat in a chair while Vick leaned against the desk. From her purse, she removed a handful of papers.
“Do you know what these are?” she asked.
Wayne flipped through the papers. It was a copy of the statement that he’d given to the detective who’d interviewed him.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“Why did you lie?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You left out the fact that you and I had sex. Why did you do that?”
“Why should I tell the police about that?”
“It’s the truth Wayne, it’s part of what happened. By leaving it out, you’re contradicting what I told them.”
“You told them we had sex?”
“Yes.”
“You should have lied. It’s nobody’s business but ours.”
“Are you trying to protect me?”
“Yes. Didn’t that guy hurt you enough?”
Vick took the confession back and tossed it on the desk. She looked disgusted with him. Like she’d expected more out of Wayne, and he’d come up short.
“There’s something else that I told them,” Vick said.
“What’s that?”
“That I’m ninety-nine percent certain that your brother Adam stabbed your mother’s boyfriend to death.”
The teenager abruptly stood up, the chair making a harsh scraping sound. Vick stiffened and pointed at his chair.
“Sit down, Wayne. Right now.”
He came forward instead. His hands shot out, and grabbed her arms.
“Why did you tell the police that?” he asked angrily.
“Sit down, Wayne.”
“You had no right doing that.”
“Sit…”
“It will kill her if that comes out.”
“What are you talking about. Kill who?”
“My mother. Adam was her favorite. Did you see how she drinks? She started doing that after my father died. What do you think will happen if the police tell her that Adam was a murderer? It will throw her over the edge. You had no right to do that.”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry.”
Wayne lowered his arms. He returned to the chair and dropped his head, his eyes glued to the floor. “How did you find out?” he asked.
“I never believed you were a killer,” she said. “I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body. That meant someone else killed your mother’s boyfriend. Since it was Adam’s bayonet, I started with him. I contacted the national Armed Services web site, and requested Adam’s army record. Sure enough, your older brother got a ten-day leave the Christmas your mother’s boyfriend was murdered.”