Picture Me Dead (44 page)

“So do I,” Jake said.

Nick glared at him. “Sharon gave me the addresses Ashley had asked her about. Where did you get them?”

“Ashley left them for me,” he said. He looked at Nick. “We're not going straight there.”

“She's in danger!”

“A head-on assault will put her in greater danger,” Jake said. Nick stared at him, and, after a moment, slowly nodded.

“You haven't called in what you know, have you?” Nick asked.

“Not to Miami-Dade.”

“So who's dirty?” Nick asked after a moment.

“I think I know, but I'm not certain. And I think we have more than just a rogue cop to deal with. I think someone else, someone we see around here all the time, is involved.”

Nick digested that as well.

“Want to tell me the battle plan?”

 

There was a scream; Ashley heard a thud as someone fell. John rushed forward. “Wait!” she warned.

Too late. She heard shots, then a grunt escaped John Mast. She saw his body fall limply, as if he were a rag doll. She winced. She had cried out and given away her location. There was only one escape. The kitchen door.

She ran out of the house, trying to gain her bearings in the darkness. There were trees everywhere. Rows between the trees, the fence to her right…to the rear, the swamp and the water.

She couldn't head to the front. She would run right into an ambush. She tore along the rows of trees. She wasn't certain, but she thought that whoever had shot John Mast was alone. She
was
certain that he would come after her. At least that would leave Mary and Stuart safe. For a while. As long as she could lead the killer on a merry chase through the groves and into the Everglades.

She could hear the footsteps thrashing after her in pursuit. She kept moving. She reached the end of the groves, and the grass almost immediately grew higher. She gritted her teeth, praying it wasn't sawgrass or she would be cut to ribbons before she could move another few feet.

Not sawgrass, not yet. She was still on solid ground, trees ranging ahead of her. She kept moving. A massive spiderweb suddenly tangled around her. She nearly screamed. She held back, berating herself. Terrific. Would-be cop done in by a spiderweb. Clawing at the shreds that were still clinging to her, she kept going.

Suddenly she could hear voices. They were coming from ahead of her. Past a copse of trees, the terrain suddenly changed. The earth sloped down to the canal.

There were men there, men talking quietly, unloading plastic cartons from two small canoes pulled up on the muddy embankment.

They were clad in black, entirely in black. They blended with the night.

She slowed her gait but was still running. The men were ahead of her, a man with a gun was behind her.

Suddenly she heard one of the men carrying the cartons give a little shriek. She strained to see what was happening.

It was then that she hit the trip wire.

It had been strung low between the trees that marked the property line. She hadn't seen it, hadn't had a clue of its existence, until she went sailing through the air and landed hard in the muck.

She kept herself from crying out, but her foot was still tangled in the wire. Silently, she struggled up and started to free herself.

She was suddenly aware of a shadow looming over her. The man who pursued her was also clad in black. She looked up slowly, aware that she couldn't be more vulnerable.

“Hello, Ashley,” the man said softly.

L
ife was ebbing away. John felt it seeping from him. He wasn't dead. Not yet. But if he didn't get help soon, he would be.

He'd forced himself not to scream with the pain of the bullet that had torn through his flesh. He prayed that no vital organs had been hit. He prayed for the strength to find the gun that had slipped from his fingers as the bullet hit.

Reaching…inching, his blood leaving a slimy trail behind him as if he were a worm. He needed the gun. The man would be back.

After he found Ashley.

He paused, gasping in pain, his agony as much for what he thought he had done to her as it was for the pain that raged through him like a brush fire. She would die, and it would be his fault. And if he didn't get the gun…

Then Stuart and Mary might die, as well, and all their efforts would have been in vain. Their killer knew how to fix a crime scene. It would look as if Ashley had fought them, killed them…but not before they had killed her in return. And the murder of Cassie Sewell would be credited to him.

The gun…just an inch away now.

 

“Hello, Marty,” Ashley replied. She wondered whether to try to fake it out or not and decided to give it a shot. “Thank God you're here. Is Jake with you?”

“Well done, Ms. Montague. If you hadn't been so gung-ho on being a cop, you could have tried out for the silver screen.”

She nodded. Well, she'd had to try. “If you're going to shoot me, this looks like as good a time as any.”

“It would be. Except that you're going to get me into that room where Stuart Fresia is lying. I could try to shoot through the door, of course. But they've got the place barricaded, don't they?”

“Yup.” She was amazed that she sounded so calm. Her heart was thundering with terror, with remorse. This was it. Any minute now, he would fire. His aim would be true. She knew what a bullet looked like once it had exited the human body. Now she would know what it felt like entering.

“Come on, Ashley. Up.”

He caught her by the arm. She gritted her teeth. He was powerful, far more powerful than his laid-back act had made her expect. His fingers bit into the flesh of her upper arm. Since her foot was still caught, it felt as if he had dislocated her shoulder.

“The wire, Marty,” she said. “Sorry, but I can't go anywhere with you while I'm still caught.”

He bent down to undo the wire and gave her the only chance she was going to get.

He still had the gun. She had nothing but desperation.

She brought her knee up, slamming it against his groin with all her strength. The blow had the desired effect. He wheezed out a cry of pain, falling forward.

And she moved. Like lightning. She somehow tore her foot free, and she ran.

The first bullet must have missed her head by inches. She heard the whine as it passed her by and went thudding into a tree. In agony or not, he was up. More shots came flying into the trees. He was on the move. And she had no idea where she was running, except into the darkness.

She surged forward and discovered that the trees were beginning to thin, the ground turning soft and boggy under her feet. With every step, her feet sank deeper. She was grateful for her jeans and sneakers—she had entered an area with sporadic patches of sawgrass. And here, as the water rose around her, she could come across all kinds of creatures that were no longer common in the city, driven away by concrete and civilization.

Water moccasins dwelt in these waters. Alligators. And the darkness…

She stumbled upward. Ground, solid ground beneath her feet. A little hammock stretching stalwartly into the canal.

Another bullet sped by her, only the sound telling her that he was still close, too close, behind.

Then, out of the darkness, something reached for her. Terror leapt into her throat. She opened her mouth to scream.

“Shush!” A hand closed over her mouth; strong arms embraced her. Filthy, soaked, covered in mud, she blinked and stared at a man who was as filthy as she was.

The hand loosened on her mouth.

“Jake?” She mouthed the word incredulously.

“Get behind me. Behind those trees.”

She pulled back, shaking her head. “Jake, it's—it's Marty,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Then, to her amazement, he stepped forward. “Marty!”

There was silence for a moment. Ashley swallowed hard. Jake had given away his position. Marty could shoot him easily.

“Jake?”

In the almost pitch darkness, she made out Marty's form as he moved forward. He'd shed the black he'd been wearing. He was in his typical work suit.

It was oddly lacking in mud stains. “Jake, man, I'm sorry. It's Nick's niece. She must have gotten into drugs or something. She helped pull off the kidnapping at the hospital. She's in on this whole thing.”

“I'm going to give you one warning, Marty,” Jake said softly. “I wanted to just haul off and shoot you, but…well, truthfully, I haven't figured out yet who your partner is. You're not the one who's been on the
Gwendolyn,
and I want to know who was. When I realized you'd killed Nancy, I wanted to shoot you in both kneecaps, then rip your heart out. But…”

“But what?” Marty said. “But I have a gun, maybe? Maybe you're the big hotshot detective, Jake, but I do just fine on the target range, and now I've got the drop on you. Everyone admires Jake, respects him. He's the guy with the instincts, the one who can sift through the garbage, and find the golden clue. I can't tell you what it's been like, watching you day after day,
working with you,
watching you eat your heart out over Nancy Lassiter. But you didn't figure it out, Jake.”

“Well, Marty, actually, I did. A little late, I grant you, but—here I am. Will it make you feel better to hear it? I do feel like an idiot. Bordon did give me something the first time out, without really saying anything. Smoke and mirrors. The cult meant nothing. And then, when he was dying, he kept saying ‘your partner.' At first I thought he meant Nancy, of course. But then I began to realize he might have meant someone else. So I went home, pulled up a few records. The thing that cinched it was the newspaper report on the day Nancy was found and her car was pulled from the canal. You were the first cop on the scene. You were a vice cop back then, so I had to ask myself what you were doing there. Are you the one who actually killed the women, Marty, or your partner?”

Marty grinned and shrugged. “You still don't know who that is, do you, Jake?”

“I have a hunch.”

“You don't
know.
”

“Did you kill the women, Marty?”

“Yeah, Jake, I killed them. Nosy women. Their own fault. They shouldn't have been snooping around.”

“The last victim…she showed up at the commune next door and saw something she shouldn't have, right?”

“Jake, you're just brilliant,” Marty said sarcastically.

“And Nancy? You killed her, too, didn't you?”

“You should have seen her face when she saw me in that house, Jake. She was stunned. Smart girl. She caught on quick. Too bad for her. I killed her. And when I finish with you, I'm going after your little redhead. Now, she's a problem. Those drawings of hers…I had to get her out of the way whether you came into the picture or not. That picture of Cassie Sewell was…hell, it was scary. And who the hell would have thought she'd be a friend of that idiot reporter I drugged up and threw on the road? Go figure,” he said casually.

“I hate to say it, Marty,” Jake said, his voice extremely quiet. “I hope they give you the death penalty.”

“They haven't got me yet, Lone Ranger.”

“You're under arrest, Marty. And you will go to trial.”

“You've got a gun, Jake. I've got a gun. Let's count to three. But what if you shoot me? What happens when I'm dead? You'll still be searching, Jake. Because there's still someone else out there.”

“I'm not going to kill you, Marty.”

“Right.
I'm
going to kill
you.
” He laughed bitterly. “Look at you, Jake. Out here alone again. Blake gets pissed at you all the time, you know. Hell, I think he feels sorry for me, working with you. ‘That Jake,' he'll say. ‘He was such a loner. We had a whole task force, but Jake thought he could solve it all himself.' Well, guess what, Jake? Dumb move this time.”

“Marty, put the gun down.”

“Jake, you're going down. I think I can take you, and if I can't, well, see you in hell.”

“Drop your weapon.”

“What, no warning shot?”

“Drop your weapon. You're under arrest. You have the right—” Jake began.

Marty pulled his .38. He was fast. Jake was faster. The shots were deafening. For long seconds Ashley grasped the tree in a death grip. Long seconds that seemed an eternity of smoke and left both men still standing.

Then Marty fell, face first, into the muck.

The world seemed frozen. Ashley wanted to run to Jake but she heard movement in the brush behind her and started to swing around instead. A man was standing there, with ink-dark long hair, his face smeared with muck, just as Jake's had been. Hazel eyes, the only brightness about his face, peered steadily at her. Panic seared through her. An arm fell on her shoulder. She tensed, ready to fight.

“It's all right, Ms. Montague,” he said, his voice as soft as a whisper on the breeze. “Leave him be. Just for a minute. There's someone to see you.”

She looked past him. For a moment she thought she had stepped into a horror movie.
Night of the Swamp Men.
Other figures were moving toward her. They seemed completely confident and at home, moving silently through the water and along the embankment. Amazingly, she recognized one of them.

“Uncle Nick?”

“You bet, Ash.”

She ran, or rather, stumbled to him and found herself caught up in his arms. He held her closely. Neither spoke. The others—five, she counted—hovered in back, silent. And then she heard a noise and turned.

Jake was walking toward the body of his fallen partner. He knelt down, placing his fingers against the man's throat. He stayed down for several seconds; then he rose. “He's dead,” he said wearily, walking back toward them.

Ashley wanted to scream. She wanted him to realize it was better that Marty was dead than he was.

“
He's
dead,” she managed to say quietly instead. “But there are drug smugglers. I saw them. I—”

“It's all right, Ashley,” Jake said. His voice still sounded as dead as Marty was. “Marty was wrong about one thing. I knew I couldn't be the Lone Ranger. That's Jesse Crane behind you. And some of his men, Miccosukee police.”

The hazel-eyed man gravely nodded an acknowledgment. Something about his solemn demeanor reassured Ashley, and suddenly her mind started working again.

“We need an ambulance. David—John Mast has been shot. He may be dead. I don't know. And Stuart Fresia and a woman named Mary are barricaded in the house.”

“I'll radio in, get an ambulance out immediately,” Jesse Crane said.

Jake had already started moving, running hard despite the foliage. Ashley took off in his wake, Nick and a number of the others behind her.

When she reached the rear of the house, the kitchen door was standing open. Jake had already gone tearing in. She raced after him, reaching the entry just behind him.

“John, no!” Ashley cried quickly. “It's me! And Jake Dilessio. And more cops. Good cops.”

Bloody fingers eased off the gun as John Mast struggled to stay upright. Jake hunkered down at his side. John looked up, groaning.

“Dilessio. It's you. Oh, Jesus. Ashley will tell you. I kidnapped her and Stuart, but I swear to you, I was trying to protect him.”

“Shut up, kid,” Jake said. “Save your strength.” John winced as Jake tore at his shirt, looking for the wound, trying to stanch the flow of blood.

“What are you going to do to me this time?” John said.

“Nothing, except get you an ambulance. And maybe take you out for one hell of a night on the town—assuming you survive, of course.”

John stared at Jake, then slowly smiled. “I'll survive, Detective. I'll survive—just to take you up on that invitation.”

“I thought you might say that.”

John frowned suddenly. “Are you sure I'm not dead already? I hear music. A hymn, I think.”

Ashley listened, then smiled.

“It's the sing-along next door,” she said, shaking her head.

The people of the commune were keeping their covenant, singing away at the appointed time.

They would see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Maybe they had sensed it was the only way to stay alive.