One Lucky Cowboy (23 page)

   "What a lucky break. They said if I helped them find the woman, they'd give me a reward."

   Slade slipped his arm around Jane. "You ready, honey?"

   "Yeah, I think I'm about to change my mind. It's going to take a whole bottle of Jim Beam before I let them hit me that many times with a needle."

   The receptionist smiled. "It's really not that bad. We have pain-free now. But maybe you'd like to try a temporary, one that only lasts a few weeks; see how much fun it is and then come back for a permanent one."

   "I'll think on it," Jane said.

   When they reached the Psychedelic Shack, John and Ramona were sitting in the waiting area looking through magazines. They were the only two people in the room and both looked up when Slade and Jane walked inside. It didn't take them long to turn their attention back to their books.

   Slade whispered. "This isn't going to be easy. I was hoping for a whole crowd of people."

   "I'm getting hives and this wig is hotter'n hell," Jane whispered.

   He leaned down and whispered in her ear. "Well, here goes. Play along with me."

   She nodded and took a deep breath.

   "Honey, are you sure you want a rose on your hip? I think Tweety bird would be better, and right below your navel. Just think of all the times I could kiss his little beak," he said loudly.

   Jane didn't have to fake the stereotyped hooker giggle. She was so nervous it came out easily. "My Daddy will have your wild hide tacked to the barn door if he knows you're talkin' like that. He says only whores and white trash get tattoos and I wear a bikini when we go to the lake. So it's going to have to be a rose on my butt so he can't never see it."

   "If he knew what we been doin' in his barn for the past six months, he'd have my wild hide in the church sayin' weddin' vows," Slade said.

   He turned to John and Ramona. "Hey, y'all must be in here for a tat or a piercing. I bet you're about to get your belly button done, ain't you?" He looked right at Ramona trying to memorize every detail to tell Agent August if he didn't get a picture.

   She shrugged.

   "Come on. Y'all give us an opinion. A rose on her hip or a Tweety on her navel?"

   Ramona wore black slacks, a black shirt, a pissed-off look on her face, and Ray Ban sunglasses. John had on his signature dress slacks, a white polo shirt, and sunglasses that matched hers perfectly, his black hair combed back like a television preacher.

   They both lowered the glasses at the same time and looked at Jane.

   "The rose," John said.

   "I agree," Ramona said.

   "Hey, Pun'kin, come look at this picture," Jane said.

   "You find something else you like better? I'm willin' for about anything but them wild mushrooms you were talkin' about," he said.

   "No, the picture of this woman right here. Says there's a reward if these people at this number find her. Didn't we see her at the Pensacola Tattoo place this morning? Remember, that was the one where she come in with that bald-headed fellow and they were looking for a piercing?"

   Both John and Ramona whipped off the sunglasses in unison and tucked them in their pockets.

   "You saw her where?"

   "You the people we'd be calling?" Jane asked.

   "That's right," John cocked his head to one side and drew his eyes down. He remembered seeing that man somewhere before. Something about the way he stood and held his head looked familiar. "How long ago did you see them?"

   "That depends on how much the reward money is. I expect it ought to be worth a hundred dollars. That'd pay for most of my Tweety bird—or my mushrooms, if I can talk this old redneck into it."

   Slade laughed. That accent she used was part Mexican and part pure Ellen.

   John whipped out his billfold and handed Jane two fifties.

   "Ten minutes ago," she said.

   They took off so fast that he left the briefcase sitting beside the chair. She waited until they were at the silver gray van before she opened the door and whistled loudly. "Hey, y'all forgot something."

   Slade stepped up behind her, pretending that someone had called and holding the phone up to her ear, all the while shooting over her shoulder with his cell phone as fast as he could click the button. He managed to get several pictures of John coming back for the briefcase and three of Ramona waiting beside the locked van.

   Jane waited until they were in the truck to start humming and kept it up the whole time she removed the wig and wiped the excess makeup from her face.

   "I hope you got something you can use because I'm not doing that again. I can't believe he didn't recognize me and kill me on the spot," she said.

   "It's the eyes. A picture is worthless if the person is wearing sunglasses because the eyes are the windows to the soul," Slade said. "That's why I wanted a picture without them. Barely made it before Ramona stuck hers back on. I think I got several good ones of John. Next roadside rest or place where we can pull over for a few minutes, I'm sending them to Agent August."

   She tugged at the miniskirt. "How do we know he's not in on the deal, with a name like that?"

   He stared at her trying to cover her knees with barely enough material to keep her underpants from showing.

   "Gut instinct," he said hoarsely.

   "Don't look at my legs," she said.

   "Why not? They're good-looking legs and you're covered every bit as well as you were on the beach last night. I can't understand why a woman will parade around in a bikini and then feel naked in a miniskirt. Just don't make a bit of sense to me."

   "There's an exit with a McDonald's. You can get your job done there and I can change into jeans."

   "You wouldn't make a good hooker anyway," he said.

   "And you'd make a terrible John."

   They began to laugh at the same time at the obvious pun.

   He parked the truck as close to the door as he could and fetched her duffel bag from the backseat.

   "I expect we'd better be sure the hotel we stay in tonight has laundry facilities. This is lighter than your dirty clothes sack."

   "That would be a good idea—or else we could buy some new things and disguise ourselves as two execu tives from… let's see, maybe an oil company. I'd like to see you in an Italian suit and dress shoes," she said.

   He chuckled. "That's one thing you won't never see. I'm a boots and jeans man."

   "But as a disguise?"

   "I'd rather be a pimp," he said.

   She picked out her last clean pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals and carried them inside to the bathroom where she changed and finished cleaning her face. She left the miniskirt and tank top slung over the door of the bathroom stall. Maybe someone would be glad to find a free hooker outfit.

   She smelled fried apple pies when she got back inside the truck.

   "Coffee?" she asked.

   He nodded and passed a cup to her along with a pie in a small box. "Thought you might like something to put the butterflies to rest."

   "What butterflies?" she asked as she sipped.

   "Those that are still fluttering around in your stomach. You started humming when we left the tattoo place. That might help cure them."

   "Butterflies nothing. I've got buzzards the size of gorillas flying in my stomach. I've never been so damned scared in all my life," she said.

   "You were cold as snow in there, girl. I was proud of you and your Ellen impersonation. I swear you could have been a girl right off the farm dressing up in what you thought was pretty clothes."

   "You sayin' I was overdressed? Man, you sure know how to bust a girl's fashion bubble. God, this tastes good. Did you only buy us one each?"

   "No, I bought a dozen. Considering what we just did, I didn't want to ride with you very far without food. Oh, and there's a couple of those cheap little chicken sandwiches in there that you like so well, too."

   They hadn't driven an hour when his cell phone rang.

   "Hello," he said. "Well, I'll be damned. If that don't beat all. Thank you and please keep us informed."

   "What?" she asked.

   "They've never seen or heard of John or Jonathan. His picture didn't come up on anything they've got."

   "He must be very good then. This wasn't an amateur hit, was it? He's one of those horrible men who only do a job right and that's why he's still after me, because I'm the only one who got away and can identify him." Her voice had a hauntingly hollow sound.

   "Not at all. It's Ramona slash Amanda slash Lisa slash a whole bunch more names they were surprised to see. She's the good one. She's been in business for years and they've never gotten close to her. Got one picture from a surveillance camera when she assassinated a United States senator a few years ago. But Interpol and the FBI and every other agency are after her. It's their thinking that she has a new boyfriend slash protégé. She was hired and gave him the job to help him make his bones in the profession. Killing you was supposed to be a clean, easy job and he's botched it, so now she's got to clean it up."

   Jane felt as if someone had just flushed her veins with ice water. "What are they going to do?"

   "Catch her."

   "Today?"

   "Actually, we'll be making a few more calls to Granny if they don't get her in Pensacola."

   "I'm bait!" Her voice echoed in the truck as though it was a volcano she was yelling into.

   "Maybe you better start humming again. I'll stop at the next exit for more food."

   Jane consumed both chicken sandwiches, three pies, and all her coffee before she could trust herself to speak. She stared out the window at the scenery. They bypassed Mobile and she was still silent. They made it to Biloxi, Mississippi before she could find words.

"Are they calling you when they get them?"

"Yes."

   "It's my turn to decide where we stay. Why are we going west? I want to go to Savannah, Georgia."

   "Can't. I've been to Savannah."

   "Then New York City."

   "Been there."

   "What in the hell were you doing in New York City?"

   "Would you believe I was chasing women?"

   She ignored him and they kept going west.

   In the middle of the afternoon he took an exit into Baton Rouge. He stopped at a service station for gas and asked her where she wanted to stay for the night.

   "Right here. I'm tired of riding already. I want a shower, a few hours with my book, some time beside the pool, and a television movie tonight."

   "They don't offer all that in a service station. You could take a spit bath in the bathroom, read your book on the way, and maybe get the rest in St. Charles," he said.

   She shot him a go-to-hell look.

   "Okay, you win. I'm not riding in a truck with those looks all afternoon; a motel it is. I saw a sign back there for an Embassy Suites. Will that do for a minnow?"

   "A what?"

   "A minnow. Think Jane. Minnow. Bait."

   He got another look that should have left nothing but a greasy spot on the floor mats.

   "With a pool."

   "Yes, ma'am. I can almost guarantee it at the Embassy."

   "How do you know so much you can make that kind of guarantee?"

"Chasing women in my past wild days."

   She really didn't know Slade Luckadeau as well as she thought. There were as many layers to him as a good big Vidalia onion and she'd only gotten the first one peeled back. "Then take me there and book us for two nights. I'm tired of outrunning them. Send the FBI right to the hotel. Call Granny and tell her exactly where we are and I'll either walk out in two days or you can come to my funeral in three."

   "What makes you think I'd go to your funeral?" he remarked with a sly grin.

   "Drive," she demanded.

   "Dead or alive in two days, huh? Well, I got to admit that sounds like a winner. You want two rooms this time so when they do you in, I'm not included, or one so that when they
try
to do you in, their blood gets on the wall? Remember, I still think I can whip his sorry old ass. I might just do it for all the trouble he's put me through here in the middle of hay season."

   She let him park in front of the hotel before she answered. "One room or suite if they have it."

   He nodded.

   They were given a room on the seventh floor at the end of the hall in a suite that included a private bath and bedroom with two queen beds, and a small living area with a second television and seating arrangement. It also offered a desk with one of those ergo chairs Slade hated, but he'd manage for two days. Then the ordeal would be over and she could go her way and he'd go his. She could read her romance novel and he'd get caught up on his sleep. The FBI could lurk around reading papers—or whatever they did these days in an attempt to fit in with their surroundings—and catch the assassins. John would rat out Ramona, who would rat out the stepfather, and all would be solved.

   Jane would go home to her oil company and dude ranch. It couldn't be a real ranch, because no genuine rancher would leave his or her property on a whim with no one to run the cattle or make hay at this time of year. At least he had Marty, who was overseeing everything for him, and Nellie, who knew as much about ranching as anyone in the whole state of Texas. Jane probably didn't know squat about what her foreman was doing. He could be robbing her blind if her own stepfather could rinky-do her into thinking he was taking care of her business while he was putting out a contract on her.