I Want Candy (34 page)

She tried to scream. She twisted violently. She tried to free her arm to hit whoever had grabbed her. That’s when she stared right into Gerrall Spivey’s icy blue eyes and froze. He smiled at her. He released his grip on her waist, but immediately she heard the heavy click of the gun that he pressed into her temple.

Chapter 24

“Drive.”

Candy’s hands shook so badly she could barely control the wheel. She didn’t know what frightened her most—the gun that was now shoved into her side, the psycho glint in Gerrall’s eye, or what she’d just seen in the rearview mirror—Wainright Miller hog-tied in the backseat, screaming so violently behind his gag that his face was purple and the tendons in his neck looked like they were about to pop.

Candy was so scared that she didn’t even find it particularly interesting that Gerrall was dressed like a girl.

“Don’t look at him,” Gerrall snapped, nodding his blond wig in Miller’s direction. “He’s not worth it. He’s a piece of shit and I’m going to love seeing him squeal like a pig when I take him out in the field and shoot him.”

Miller’s muffled screams filled the car. His eyes pleaded for Candy to help him.

Gerrall smiled at her. “You like my disguise? Here we are, just two girls out for a drive. Pure genius, huh?”

Candy blinked rapidly in an attempt to see through her tears. Her mind was checking off escape options so quickly she couldn’t keep them straight.

She could try to crash the car and hope Gerrall wouldn’t shoot her, but she wasn’t wearing a seat belt and neither was Miller. She could try to wrestle the gun from Gerrall and somehow drive at the same time. Or she could try to distract Gerrall and stick her fingers in his eyes. None of these seemed like good bets.

Her cell phone! She could try to speed dial Turner without Gerrall noticing. But the phone was shoved down in her front pocket. And it was turned off.

Oh, God,
why
had she turned off her phone like that? What had she done? Ten minutes ago she had a wonderful man’s love, a best friend’s support, and her mother’s gift from the heart. And how had she responded to all that good fortune? She’d hung up on Turner, got all snarky with Cheri, and panicked at the thought of accepting her mother’s help. Ten minutes ago, she wanted to run away from all of it.

She would give anything to have the last ten minutes of her life back.

“If you slow down any more I’ll shoot you. Pay attention.” Gerrall rammed the gun against her ribs.

“Okay, okay.” Candy’s chest was so tight with anxiety that she was having trouble getting enough air. “Where are we going?” Maybe if she kept him talking she’d get a little more time to figure something out.

“Preston Valley. No more questions. Just shut up and drive. Where’s your cell phone?”

“I don’t think I have it with me.”

Gerrall laughed and shoved the gun so hard into her ribs that she gasped. “You are such a lying bitch,” he snarled, leaning close enough that the wig tickled the side of her face. “But that’s old news, ain’t it, Candy Carmichael?”

Gerrall came even closer and sniffed her neck and hair. She thought she might throw up.

“Turn right at the next light,” Gerrall snapped, suddenly angry. Candy knew she had to do a better job of hiding her revulsion if she were going to survive. She tried to smile at him.

“It’s too late for that shit, Candy. You’ll be driving on Preston Road until I tell you to turn, about five miles more. Now, I’m going to find your phone.”

Candy stifled a whimper as Gerall’s hands roamed over the front of her T-shirt and down across the zipper of her jeans. It took him about ten seconds to locate the phone and jam his hand down into her pocket. With the gun still poking into her side, he turned the phone on, and laughed.

“Ain’t you popular! You have eleven missed calls, all from lover boy Halliday. You think he might be worried about you? Oh, I bet he has no idea how worried he should be, since the cops around here are dumb as goats. Wanna listen to his messages?”

No!
Candy’s whole body stiffened. It was bad enough that she’d royally screwed up her own life, but if Turner had mentioned the task force in any of those voice mails, Gerrall would warn his father, and the drug dealers would clear out, or worse still, would be lying in wait for the task force. People would be killed. It would all be her fault.

She didn’t even pause to think. Simultaneously, Candy slapped her left hand down on the driver’s side window button and snatched the phone from Gerrall with her right. She threw it out of the car and grabbed the wheel, bracing herself for the sound of the gun.

Instead she felt a stinging slap to the side of her head, followed by the press of the gun barrel into her temple again.

“Bitch!” Gerrall screamed, jabbing at her head with the gun. “You’re going to
make
me shoot you! You
want
to be shot, don’t you?”

“Please, no. Don’t shoot anyone. Just listen to me.” Her thoughts raced. She could die without ever seeing Turner again, or hearing his voice. She might never see Cheri again. Or J.J. Or Jacinta. Or Lenny. Or Hugo. Or Tater Wayne. Or Reggie and Rosemary. Viv. Garland. Tanyalee. Gladys, even.

And she found it fascinating that at this moment, when it could very well be over for her, she didn’t care about the five-bedroom stucco with the Gulf of Mexico views or the Infiniti or her bank balance or the Birkin bags and the Louboutin platform pumps and the spa visits.

None of that meant anything. She knew what she wanted now.

What had Cheri said just before her wedding?
“One day you’ll wake up and know what to do—it’s that simple.”

Well, this must be that day, Candy thought. And
dammit,
she wasn’t going to die now, not after she’d just woken up!

“Can we pull over and just talk?” she asked Gerrall. “You don’t have to do this. I won’t press charges. Just let us go and—”

Gerrall’s loud burst of laughter cut her off. “You think I’m just some stupid country boy, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong about that, Miss Hot Ass. You have no idea who you’re dealing with. See, you could have had everything if you’d just given me a chance, but no, you were too good for me. Is that it?”

The gun pressed harder against her head. She saw Miller in the backseat, still purple and sweaty and straining against his gag.

Suddenly she found herself taking a turn a little too fast and hit the brakes. Something was wrong. She heard a metal-on-metal squealing sound and the car wasn’t slowing as it should. She didn’t know if she could handle the curve at this speed.

Oh, God. She’d tried her best. She really had. But she couldn’t keep it together anymore. As she wrestled with the wheel, she began to cry.

*   *   *

“Everything’s in place, Sheriff. We’re ready to roll. We’re waiting for your word.”

Turner stared at his phone, anger and fear roiling around in his gut. About twenty minutes earlier, she’d hung up on him. He’d called six times since and she hadn’t answered or called back, which meant she’d either turned off her phone or was intentionally making him sweat. None of those things were like her. Candy knew that her safety was everything to him. She’d said she understood. She
promised
him.

O’Connor cleared her throat, which made Turner glance up from his phone. That’s when he noticed that the rest of the task force had exited the conference room. When had that happened?

“Dante’s safely out,” O’Connor told him, and by the look on her face he imagined it was not the first time she was giving him this bit of news. “He’s got the little girl and they’re clear. We can move.”

Turner blinked at her. “I can’t find Candy,” was all he could say.

*   *   *

Turner was halfway down the hallway when Bitsy yelled out for him. “Sheriff! You better take this call!”

“I can’t,” he shouted, pulling his cap down tight and heading for the back door. He’d given the order—the bust was playing out at that very moment. And he was fairly certain that Gerall had Candy. Cheri said they’d parted ways twenty-five minutes earlier and Lenny said she hadn’t returned to her shift at the diner but her car was still in the lot. Sure, there was a slight chance Candy might be off by herself sulking, as Cheri suggested, but Turner knew in his bones that it was something far worse than a temper tantrum.

“You have to, Sheriff! Please!”

“Transfer it to my cell, Bitsy.”

He was in the SUV when his cell rang.

“Halliday,” he said.

“Sheriff, this is Louellen Lukins over at Cherokee Pines, Waintright Miller’s secretary. I thought you should know we think something might have happened to Mr. Miller.”

Turner flipped on his lights and his siren. He could see the federal agents speeding away just up ahead, traffic moving to the side of the road in their wake. He hit the gas even harder.

The hairs stood up on the back of Turner’s neck. “Go on.”

“Well, it just don’t make sense, is all. Mr. Miller was waiting for the tow truck to come get his car, because the brakes were shot to hell and it wasn’t safe to drive. But he got a call a few minutes later, told me he’d be right back, but never did. Then about fifteen minutes later the tow truck driver showed up and was pissed because he couldn’t find the car, so’s I went with him out back and found Mr. Miller’s car gone but his cell phone and wallet tossed on the asphalt, money and credit cards still in there. I called Bitsy right away.”

Turner thanked Louellen for her quick thinking and within seconds had an all-points bulletin out for Miller’s blue 2009 Buick Lucerne—with shot-to-hell brakes.

*   *   *

“You’re trying to kill us!” Gerrall screamed.

“No!” Candy spoke as loud as she could through the panicked sobs. “There’s something wrong with the brakes! I swear to God!” Miller’s wailing suddenly became louder than ever, and Candy glanced in the rearview mirror to see him furiously nodding and screeching into his gag. She made eye contact with him for a split second, still fighting to keep control of the car.

“Is there something wrong with the brakes?” she called out.

Miller nodded violently.

“Oh, shee-it,” she said.

Gerrall spun around in the seat, the gun still against Candy’s skull. “You fucker!” he screamed at Miller. “I should blow your brains out right now!”

The gun had suddenly become her second most pressing concern. She couldn’t find the car’s emergency brake, and unfortunately she had been on a steady decline for many long seconds, and the car continued to speed up. She was up to sixty-five miles per hour, a good twenty over the posted speed limit. The only good news was that as she’d groped around she’d located her seat belt, pulled it over her lap, and snapped it. When she spotted the hill up ahead she laughed with joy. It would be her salvation. If she could only make it …

“Turn now!” Gerrall screamed.

“What?”

“There! At the flag! Now!” He started waving the gun around and grabbed the steering wheel.

It was a blur. Candy knew she hit something when Gerrall tugged at the steering wheel but hadn’t had time to see what it was. The airbag had deployed and the car kept rolling. She couldn’t see. She knew Miller had been tossed around in the back. She’d also heard Gerrall scream and slam into the dashboard, but she had no idea how badly either were hurt because she didn’t have time to look. The car kept moving downhill. Peering over the airbag, she saw a trailer with men standing around out front. She thought she heard gunshots. Then there was another loud
bang
!

Then, only darkness.

*   *   *

Turner drove, his knuckles white on the wheel, one second following the next, one mile after another, as the bottom fell out of his soul.

He knew this feeling. It was the feeling he promised himself he’d never have again as long as he drew breath. Something horrible had happened to the woman he loved, and he was too late to stop it. Though he was coordinating this response and his radio was crackling with nonstop task force chatter, he felt split in two. One half of him was duty. The other half was Candy. And he knew he had only seconds left before he no longer gave a fuck about duty.

She was still missing. All of his day shift deputies were searching for her, along with everyone at the
Bugle
and half the general population of Bigler. Still nothing. No accident reports. No sightings. With each second that went by, Turner grew more certain that Gerrall had her, and probably Miller, as well. It made perfect sense. Miller had fired him. Candy had turned him down. They had to pay.

Turner radioed the task force one last reminder of how this would play out—half of the team would secure the meth lab while the other half would take the trailer, outbuildings, and property. If Miller’s car was spotted on the compound, they were to put Candy’s and Miller’s safety as priority one. If not, it was standard evidence protection protocol and getting the suspects in custody—alive if at all possible. To help with that, six ambulances were bringing up the rear of the convoy.

Turner slammed his fist on the steering wheel.

How the fuck had he let this happen to her? How could he have failed her so spectacularly?

He would not lose her. He would not lose that sweet laugh, those gentle lips, that velvet skin, that warmth and love and bliss. He would get to her in time. He had no choice. He’d just found her.

Turner’s whole body shook with rage and pent-up frustration.

He would not lose her.

He’d just found her.

*   *   *

Candy felt herself coming awake, but had a difficult time getting her eyelids to open. So much noise. Shouting. Such a horrible smell. Oh, and her head throbbed! She hurt from her toes to her hair. She probably was having a nightmare. She was …

Her eyes suddenly flew open.

She was tied to a chair and gagged. She was in a room with a half-dozen scuzzy men, one of them Gerrall, no longer dressed as a girl and staggering around smeared with blood and holding his left arm tight to his side like it was broken. He was screaming at someone. It didn’t take Candy long to figure out it was the infamous Bobby Ray Spivey.