Denton - 03 - Way Past Dead (40 page)

Mac Ford’s eyes lit up. “Damn you!” He raised the pistol. I closed my eyes.

It was only a
pop
, really, not like the explosion I’d always imagined.

Behind me, Alvy Barnes screamed, then started a continuous wailing. My gut clenched for a split second. My brain sent runners all over my body, collecting damage reports.

Nothing.

Then there was a clatter. I opened my eyes. Mac Ford had dropped the pistol and was staring down at his right hand in amazement, like he’d just seen dawn coming up at the exact peak of a cocaine rush. At the end of his shirtsleeve, a sloppy blob of red grew ever wider.

He looked up at me, then over at Faye. I looked at Faye. Her mouth hung open; her hand shook. There were tears in her eyes.

“Ow,” Mac Ford said weakly over the high-pitched
siren coming from Alvy’s throat. He brought his left hand up to cradle his right wrist. “That hurt.”

I jumped straight at him.

“So as it turned out,” I said, “Faye Morgan was the only decent human being involved.”

“Present company excepted,” Lonnie said from inside the kitchen.

I put my feet up on his coffee table and stretched out. “I’m not too proud of myself on this one,” I said. “I blackmailed somebody into helping me, and then was stupid enough to trust her. I’ve lied, cheated, blackmailed not only Alvy Barnes, but basically blackmailed the insurance company into paying me the money they owed me. My kharmic portfolio has taken a big hit this week.”

“My, oh my,” he said, settling into the chair across from me and parking a couple of tall glasses of Coke on the table. “Aren’t we into self-flagellation today?”

I raised my head. “What, no beer?”

He pointed to the glass of Coke. “Sun’s not over the yardarm.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “It’s after eight o’clock. I’ve just spent the better part of five hours giving statements to a not-too-cordial group of police officers. The sun is definitely over my yardarm. I want a beer.”

“Well, hold off for a while. I want to hear how the rest of this played out.”

I sat up and took a long sip of the iced-down Coke. I had to admit it was probably better than a beer, given that a beer would have put me to sleep within five minutes.

“Faye Morgan knew that Mac had beaten Rebecca Gibson to death, but she genuinely believed that Rebecca had pushed him over the edge. She told me she never thought he intended to kill Rebecca. It was only when she saw that he was going to kill me and Alvy Barnes that she knew how far gone he was. She had to stop him. The whole thing was eating away at Faye so badly, I think she ultimately would have talked him into confessing anyway. Especially if she saw that somebody else was about to do hard time for it.”

“You think the district attorney’ll let him plead down?”

I ran my hand around the condensation on the glass, the icy coldness of it soothing and pleasant.

“If he’s willing to cop a plea, my guess is they will. Who knows, maybe they would have offered Slim a deal as well.…”

“Speaking of Slim,” Lonnie said.

I let loose with a weary, lazy yawn that bent my jaws to the limit. I set the glass down on the coffee table and stretched.

“I phoned Ray from the police station, and he called Herman Reid, the attorney,” I said. “Reid contacted E. D. Fouch at the Homicide Squad and verified that Mac Ford was going to be charged with Rebecca Gibson’s murder. So they’ll start the process to get Slim released.”

“Can they do that on a Saturday night?”

“Yeah. The next step will be to go before the night-court magistrate and get a release order. It’ll probably take a few hours, but Slim should sleep in his own bed tonight.”

Lonnie cradled his hands behind his head and stretched. “What about the tootsie?” he said, yawning himself.

“Alvy Barnes?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s no tootsie,” I said. “She’s a pretty damn smart
lady. The only mistake she made was trying to blackmail Ford without sufficiently covering her ass.”

“She’ll know better next time,” Lonnie said.

“And you know what?” I added. “I don’t doubt there’ll be a next time. This day would’ve scared some ethics into a normal person, but I don’t think Alvy’s normal.”

“She going to be charged with anything?”

“I doubt it. As long as she cooperates with the DA and testifies for the state, she’ll probably walk.”

“So it’s over,” he said.

“Yeah, I just wish it was the last crisis in my life I had to deal with.”

Lonnie grinned. “Oh, yeah. That.”

“Oh yeah,” I mimicked.
“That.”

“You know something, Harry. You’re gettin’ awful damn touchy these days.”

I stood up. “I’m tired, Lon-man. I’m going home, try once again to call Marsha, then I’m going to sleep for about twenty hours.”

“Sit down,” he said.

“I don’t want to sit down. I’m tired. I want to go home.”

“Sit down anyway.” Something in his voice made me do it. “Listen, how long have we known each other?”

“A long time, I guess,” I said, caution in my voice. Where was this going?

“We’ve always been straight with each other, right?”

“Yes, we’ve always been straight with each other. Why do I get the feeling this is going to be a difficult conversation?”

He ignored my question. “I’ve been listening to you bitch and moan for the past week about missing your main squeeze. Truth is, buddy, it’s getting tiresome.”

Anger filled the inside of my chest to the point of bursting. I hammered it down, though, to keep from going off on him. “Maybe you just don’t understand,” I
said through gritted teeth, “what it’s like to miss somebody that much.”

“Oh, I do understand, Harry. I do. More than you know. Twenty years ago, my first wife was missing for four days before they found her.”

“Found her?”

“Yeah. On the backside of a dump. Raped. Strangled. Buried in garbage. She was nineteen years old.” His voice remained steady, a numb monotone. I sat there for a few seconds, unable to speak.

“Well,” I said, staring down at the floor, “don’t I feel like a genuine asshole.…”

“I sat in my apartment for four days, surrounded by my in-laws and my family and my friends, all of us crying and frustrated and helpless. We all sat there, waiting for the police to take care of it for us. And the only thing the cops took care of was notifying us she was dead. I always felt bad that I just sat there.”

“Lonnie, there was nothing you could have done.”

He raised his head and looked me straight in the eye. “Yeah, but I’d have felt a fuck of a lot better if I’d tried.”

“So what are you saying?” I asked after a moment.

“Sit there,” he said. “Let me show you something.”

He disappeared into the back room and emerged seconds later with a stack of papers and a manila envelope. He sat down on the couch next to me, then scooted the glasses aside and laid the stack of papers down.

“Look.” He opened the manila envelope and took out a stack of eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs. “I’ve been doing a little surveillance of my own.”

He pulled the top shot off and set it in front of us.

“I stopped on the Silliman Evans Bridge over the Cumberland and took these.”

“You stopped in the middle of an interstate highway bridge over a river
to take pictures?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, why not? It was the only way I could get what I needed.”

He pointed to the middle of the photo. “Here’s the morgue, and if you look real closely, you can see—there, through the trees—the line of Winnebagos. The back of the morgue is actually open. There’s no one back there.”

“Yeah, there’s not enough room. That’s a bluff that goes straight down to the river. Nobody could get out that way. They’re trapped.”

“Ah.” He raised an index finger. “Wait, Kemo Sabe.”

He shuffled the photographs and came up with another one. “I had to blow this one up so much it’s grainy as all hell, but you can see well enough if you try.”

I squinted. “Looks like one of those spy-satellite photos.”

“Yeah, but look.” He pointed. “Here’s the back of the morgue. The back wall is actually fenced off by a high chain-link fence. That protects the air-conditioning units and the generator. There’s probably concertina around the top.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And here are the two tiny slit windows in the back of the building. Those are the only two windows back there.”

“Yeah, I remember that. There’s only a few windows in the whole building. They’re just slits and they’re bulletproof.”

“Now you see why, right? And here.” He pointed again. “Look closely.”

I picked up the picture and held it close to my face. “What is it?”

“What’s it look like?”

I turned to Lonnie. “A door?”

He grinned. “An access door to the fenced-in area. So maintenance men can get to the units from inside the building. That door’s probably in the basement.”

“Great,” I said. “So Marsha and everybody else could
get out if they had to. But to their immediate right and left, they’re surrounded by the Looney Tunes Brigade.”

“Okay, fair enough. Now look at these.”

He pulled a few more photos out and spread them in front of me. “I crossed the river on the Woodland Street Bridge into East Nashville, then drove around all over hell and back following the river. The metal scrapyards are down there, along with a couple of manufacturing plants, warehouses, and the bridge company. Not exactly Belle Meade.”

“Okay, so you got to tour scenic East Nashville.”

“Yeah, and I talked the security guard at the Leggett and Platt warehouse into letting me past the gates. If you go to the back of their parking lot, you’re right on the riverbank, directly across the river from the morgue. On the East Nashville side, there aren’t any bluffs. You’re right on the water.”

I stared at the photos. Black-and-white shots of the river and the bank on the opposite side. The bluff coming out of the water was sheer mud for about twenty feet, then a tangle of undergrowth, trees sprouting at bizarre angles, and jungle that went straight up and appeared to be impenetrable.

“Great, you got shots of a bluff,” I said.

“The photos are misleading,” Lonnie said. “Actually, that’s a climb, but it’s not straight up. Our biggest problem will be cutting through the undergrowth, but we can use the vines and trees to pull ourselves up.”

My mouth fell open. No, I was too tired. I couldn’t have heard him right. “Ourselves? Pull ourselves
what?”

“Up,” he said. “Pull ourselves up.”

“I thought this was some kind of academic exercise,” I said. “You actually want to
go in there and get them?”

He set his jaw and gazed at me stone-faced. “You got it, big guy.…”

I jumped up, agitated. “You’re—you’re out of your
fucking mind. For one thing, if that could be done, the police would have already done it.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” he said. “Their whole aim is to negotiate and avoid bloodshed. They’re not into clandestine, deep-cover ops.”

“Deep-cover ops?
You’ve been reading way too many Tom Clancy novels,” I said. “We are
not
the freaking Green Berets.”

“Number one, I hate Tom Clancy. Bob Mayer’s a much better writer. And number two, stop being such a wuss. A couple pair of bolt cutters, a machete apiece, some dark clothing, rope, a couple grappling hooks. We’re in there, we’re out of there, twenty minutes tops.”

“You’re crazy,” I said, stupefied.

“Just call her on the cell phone and tell her to get everybody ready.”

“The cops are monitoring the cellular frequencies. I’m sure of it.”

“So what? It’s a risk we’ve got to take. Besides, how they gonna stop us? It’s no crime to take a midnight boat ride. It’s your call. In or out? You want your girlfriend back or what?”

“You’re crazy,” I said again.

He shrugged his shoulders. “How ’bout it?”

I let out a long breath of tired air. “One thing,” I said. “No guns.”

His face screwed up.
“No guns?”

“I’m serious,” I said. “No shit here. I’m not going to get her or anybody else killed.”

Lonnie pursed his lips. “Well, can I take some of my other toys?”

It may not be a crime to take a midnight boat ride, but it’s sure as hell a crime to do it from the dock at Shelby Park. The park closes at eleven, and now here we were at one in the morning, coasting through the back of the park in a coal-black pickup truck with the
lights turned off pulling a twenty-foot bass boat with a huge Mercury outboard mounted on the back.

We rounded the hill coming off the golf course from the Riverside Drive side of the park. Down the hill, on the other side of the small lake in the middle of the park, the green-and-white cruiser of a Metro park ranger pulled slowly away.

“Jesus, Lonnie!” I hissed.

“Be cool,” he said. “He’s headed away from us.”

“How can you see anything?”

“I can’t. That’s why we’re going slow.”

There’s a hairpin curve coming off the hill that doubles back on itself before splitting off in two directions near the ball fields. Lonnie managed to roll the truck through the turn without going off the side, then put the truck back in gear and cut to the left away from the lake and the park ranger. Above us, the spidery metal trusses of a railroad bridge over the river rose ghostlike and creepy. We drove through the parking lot under the bridge, then turned right.