Acoustic Shadows (15 page)

The bottle stung for a second as it broke against the back of his head. He felt something warm and liquid ooze down his scalp and onto his neck. His vision began to pulsate, not from the injury, but from the unfettered anger that instantly swelled. Thiery stood up and turned, trembling from rage.

‘Eeeyooou,’ said the thin man. ‘We got us a scrapper here, Jerry.’

Jerry, the fat one, squinted his eyes and approached the bar. Thiery couldn’t tell if he was trying to look mean or just couldn’t see well.

‘Hey, man,’ the fat guy started, ‘I’m sorry about my friend here smashin’ you in the head. You okay? Can I get you a towel or something? Oh, man, wait, are you …’ The man paused to search for a name, then turned to his friend. ‘Ben,’ he grabbed the thin man by the arm and pointed at Thiery, ‘don’t you know who this is? It’s Justin Thiery, the Magic Man from UF’s Gators from, what, about twenty-five years ago? Where the hell you been man?’ He was talking to Thiery again. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’

Thiery said nothing. He finished the last of his drink, letting the ice clink against his teeth, the blood trickle down his neck.
Try to cool off, man
, he said to himself.
You might be off the clock, but you’re never off the job.

‘You don’t say,’ said Ben, his baritone voice dripping sarcasm. ‘I didn’t know we had a rich celebrity right here!’

‘Yeah, he was that quarterback, doncha ’member? He won The Heisman and the college pennant that year, but, when he went to the NFL, he couldn’t cut it.’

‘Yeah, I ’member now,’ said Ben. ‘They traded him off to the Jets, where he sucked like all those fuckers from New York do. Then after that it was … ’

‘The Patriots!’ the fat man interrupted with excitement. ‘But, he never got past the preseason. Didn’t have what it takes. Just couldn’t cut it.’

He took a swallow of beer, and his tongue worked its way out of his mouth, across his tarter encrusted teeth and over his purple lips.

Thiery put down the plastic cup and turned his full attention toward the two drunks. It dawned on him that he’d been set up, possibly by the man who suggested he come in the first place:
Conroy
. Thiery didn’t care. He’d grown weary of the local redneck mentality, including the one shared by Conroy and his minions. Their dumb-ass philosophies and backwoods way of doing business, none of which was helping the investigation, but hampering it. He’d grown up around people like this, who liked to think of themselves as simple country folk, but in truth, were ignorant opportunists whose only allegiance was to whoever bought their last beer.

‘You’ve got a good memory, Jerry,’ said Thiery. ‘For a fat ass with a tiny head full of booze, you got most of it right. Guess you didn’t remember the shoulder injury, but what the hell, at least you haven’t forgotten your way to the trough.’

Ben’s eyes went wide in surprise, his mouth a perfect ‘O.’ He acted as if he might turn away even as his hand dropped to his side and onto the handle of his knife.

Thiery did not hesitate. He reached forward and grabbed Ben’s hand, his own grip like the jaws of an alligator. He squeezed until he felt something crunch, then angled the wrist up until the man went to his knees.

The fat one wiggled to a standing position, his porcine arms darting around his back. But, he was not quick or flexible enough. Thiery pushed Ben forward and let him fall face first to the floor, then grabbed a barstool by the seat and swung the legs into the unguarded face of the man’s friend. The blow tore Jerry’s cheek and snapped his head around, but he remained standing and, now, Ben was trying to rise from the floor and get back into the fray.

Thiery stepped forward, kicking Ben in the ribs, eliciting a scream that was high pitched compared to his booming speaking voice. Then, without missing a stride, Thiery continued his forward movement and spun, jutting his elbow up and into the face of Jerry, feeling the nose break like a cracker. Thiery spun him around and took the weapon from his belt. As suspected, it was a revolver. He opened it, took the bullets out, dumping them into his hand and putting them in his pocket. He walked around the end of the bar and tossed the gun into a sink filled with grey dish-water.

Gabby stood, staring at him, her mouth hanging open.

Thiery showed her his badge and said, ‘I’m leaving, but you might want to call the police. These guys are apt to be a little pissed.’

‘But
you’re
a cop,’ she said.

At that, he shrugged, straightened his jacket, and started to leave. He stopped, noticing Ben’s attempts to regain his footing.

‘Don’t get up until I’m gone,’ Thiery warned and walked out of the bar, past tables of people who had grown as silent as children in Sunday School.

He was just getting into his car when his phone rang. It was Chief Dunham again.

‘Agent Thiery,’ he greeted, ‘something popped up on my radio before I could get home, and I knew you’d want to know.’

‘What is it, Chief?’ asked Thiery, cupping his hand around his phone to keep the sound of passing cars and the bar’s country music from seeping in. He sat behind the wheel trying to think straight, brush off the bottle-to-the head assault, but the laceration was stinging like a bee sting.

‘One of the guys looking for the car is also a friend of mine from church. He thought he was just helping out, but now he’s had some second thoughts, so he called me. Says a bunch of the guys are carrying guns and drinking and whooping it up.’

‘That doesn’t sound like a good combination,’ said Thiery. He found napkins from a fast food joint in the glove box and dabbed at the back of his head.

‘He also said they think they’ve found that black Camaro up in Lake Wales. Are you still up that way?’

Thiery almost choked as he pushed the keys into the ignition. ‘Yeah. Do you have an address?’

‘I do. It’s 10909 Guava Lane. It’s in a residential area between Lake Rosalie and Lake Tiger.’

Thiery found his iPad in the glove box and made a note of the address. Wrote it down on his iPad. ‘Are you coming up?’

Dunham was silent for a moment, then said, almost woefully, ‘No. I better not. I got a call from the city manager tonight. He reminded me the Sebring taxpayers pay my salary, and I’ve got responsibilities here.’

‘No shit,’ said Thiery. ‘I’ll give him a call as soon as … ’

‘Thanks, Agent Thiery,’ the Chief interrupted. ‘But, don’t bother. He’s already talked to the governor, who indicated he had issues with the investigation, too. Said the lead was going to be reassigned to Sheriff Conroy. Thought you might like to know that, too. They’ll make a press statement tomorrow morning. Something about giving authority back to local law enforcement with jurisdiction over the school and putting the FDLE into an advisement capacity.’

Thiery felt his blood begin to boil. Again. He felt embarrassed, as if he’d done something wrong – or was it that old feeling of ineptitude creeping back in? He wasn’t sure what to say to Dunham. ‘Well, uh, thanks for letting me know first, Chief. I haven’t been recalled as of yet, so you and I didn’t have this conversation, okay?’

‘What conversation, sir?’

Thiery smiled. Dunham was a good man, but in the wrong place. ‘Thanks for everything, Chief. You’ve been a big help.’

‘Not so much, but, if you need me, don’t hesitate to call. I’d like to know why Miss Weisz ran. And, I’d like to shake her hand one day, too, just for keeping those kids safe.’

‘You got it,’ said Thiery. On his tablet, he tapped the map app and punched in the address Dunham gave him. It read: 16.6 miles, 24 minutes. He was sure he could make it in ten.

When the Lopez brothers got to Guava Lane, there were so many vehicles there they had to check the address again. There were only a few houses on the street to the left and a wide, open lake to the right. But, in front of one of the tiny cinder-block homes were about a dozen pickup trucks. In their rented, metallic green Chrysler 300, they felt out of place on the shell rock road dotted with potholes.

‘Must be someone having a party,’ said Eduardo, referring to all the pickups lining one side of the road.

They drove by the parked trucks, slowly, saw the address, 10909, but kept going. They found a cross street, hung a left, turned out the lights, then backed onto Guava Lane, so they could watch the house.

‘What the fuck?’ said Alejandro. ‘These rednecks her friends?’

‘I don’t think so’ answered his brother. ‘Why would they all still be standing around outside?’

‘Maybe they’re undercover cops?’

Eduardo watched them through the streaky, lovebug spattered windshield. He could make out a group of men talking outside, leaning against their trucks. A few of them cracked open beers, and he saw them spitting long, brown squirts of chewing tobacco. ‘I don’t think so,
hermano
,’ he said. ‘These guys just rolled out of the turnip fields.’

Alejandro was the older brother, the thinker. Quiet compared to Eduardo, and more patient. He considered their options. They could go back to the hotel, but if they lost the target doing so, there would be hell to pay with the Esperanzas. They could do a full frontal attack, but he sensed these rednecks likely all had guns in their trucks; he’d seen some framed in the windows as they drove by. They might not be accustomed to using them on people, and he was sure he could mow half them down in minutes, but that was risky, too, and would draw unwanted attention.

As if reading his brother’s mind, Eduardo said, ‘I can sneak around back and take a look inside. If it’s too dicey, we don’t go in. If the woman is just sitting in there watching TV, we slip her out the back or take her down while these guys are out here finishing their beers.’

It was a waning moon, still bright, but clouds took turns blotting it out and plunging the scene into blackness. Except for the occasional glowing cigarette. Both brothers removed their sport jackets, tossed them into the back seat where the guns were stored. Alejandro still wore his tie. Eduardo kept his wide lapelled shirts open to nipple level, showing off his considerable bling and curly, black chest hair.

‘What the fuck are they waiting for?’ said Alejandro, just as one of the men stepped away from the others and began to move toward the house.

Sensing they were losing their moment, Eduardo said, ‘I’m going around back. See what’s up.’

Alejandro nodded. ‘Check your weapon.’

Eduardo glanced at his gun, a 9 mm, sixteen-shot, Sig Sauer, with Night Sights and a Ti-Rant silencer on its muzzle that his brother had equipped for him. He patted his pocket and assured himself his other weapon of choice was still there – the ten-inch stiletto purchased in Italy where they still made them as true switchblades, unlike the knockoffs made in China and sold to gangbangers in America.

Alejandro looked at his brother, noting the scar on his ear he’d given him from one of their many fights as young, quarrelling siblings. In one melee, he’d slammed him into the corner of a heavy table and scarred his ear. But, Eduardo never told on him; he’d said he’d fallen down. That’s what they both used to tell their parents when asked about their new wounds: they fell down. Now, though their killing styles were vastly different, they were the closest friends in the world, still covering each other’s asses.

‘Be careful,
mi hermano
,’ Alejandro cautioned.

Eduardo smiled, slipped out of the car and darted across the road, skirting the shadows like a panther, crouching low, silent, and lethal.

Alejandro checked his weapons as well. He carried the same Sig as a backup, so he and Eduardo could easily trade ammo, but he didn’t go anywhere without the semi-automatic Drako AK-47, with thirty-round clips aplenty. The Drako was small, like a pistol, really. If fired singly, it could have the accuracy of a sniper’s rifle, or serve as a machine gun on auto. The gun was like an extension of Alejandro’s arm. He checked the clip, slid the bolt back and forth, smelled the oily scent of the well-maintained gun. He checked the Sig, too, and the gargantuan, Ruger .44 Magnum Super Blackhawk with a ten and a half-inch barrel he liked to bring along. It wasn’t practical. The weapon only held six shots and was heavy and cumbersome. But, if you needed some extra stopping power and a pistol that had more range, there was no equal.

Alejandro loved his guns almost as much as his
hermano
.

Ellis Coody told his buddies to wait by their trucks. He felt it was his duty to bring the woman out, seeing how it was his son that she shot.
Besides,
he thought,
these clowns would probably piss themselves if anything DID go down.
He made a show of checking the slide on his Colt .45 Double Eagle before shoving it into the holster on his belt. No one argued with him. He sucked in his gut, pulled up his pants a notch, and strode toward the house like a sheriff from an old John Ford western.

The house was dark.

Coody approached the front door and banged on it with the edge of his fist, rattling the jalousie windows across the front of the house.

Eduardo Lopez moved through the backyard, mixing with the shadows, a panther moving quietly in the shadows, taking advantage of the cloud coverage. He saw the back door and wondered if he could get inside, kill the woman, and slip back out before the rednecks knew he was there. He was going to try.

In the corner of the dark bedroom, Erica could hear her own breath and tried to hold it, so she wouldn’t give herself away. She had seen the posse gathering across the road out front, heard their twangy exultations about ‘Florida Cracker justice,’ and cursed Moral, again, for taking her gun. Who was it that said, ‘Never bring a knife to a gunfight?’ Here she was, facing a makeshift militia with a dull kitchen knife. She thought of calling the police, just turn herself in and hope for the best, but, when she checked her purse, the phone was gone.
Moral had taken the fucking cell, too!
She was screwed.

She heard someone enter the house. Boots scraped on the terrazzo floor.

A light in the small living room came on, removing any shadows she might have hidden in.

‘Erica Weisz!’ he hollered.

She recognized Coody’s voice from the news coverage.