Rough Draft (22 page)

Hannah waited. Let her silence do the work.

“I should really be the one to call her,” the realtor said.

“Listen, Anna. I'm looking at one other property, maybe I should just concentrate on that one and let this drop. Frankly, the realtor for the other listing was a lot more receptive.”

“Okay, all right then,” Anna said. “If you want to call her, I guess it wouldn't hurt.” And she gave her the number.

Hannah said, “The young woman told me her name, but I forget what it was. Judy, Margaret. I'm so bad with names.”

“Helen,” Anna said. “Helen Shane.”

Hannah thanked her again and promised to call back as soon as she'd met with Helen.

Behind the plateglass window the grandmother had turned back to her misbehaving girls. She was lecturing them sternly. One of the girls was crying, the other grinning at Hannah.

Hannah punched Helen Shane's number into her cell
phone. It rang once, then there were a series of clicks, some kind of elaborate forwarding system, then a woman's brusque voice said, “Go.”

“Helen?”

There was a second's hesitation.

“Who is this?”

“I think you've been trying to get in touch with me.”

Slipping into Erin Barkley mode, ballsy, fast talker, quick with the bullshit.

“I said, who is this?”

“I thought maybe we could just forget this Internet bullshit. You and I could just talk directly. Doesn't that make more sense? Woman to woman. Tell me where J. J. Fielding is hiding out. Maybe we could work out a deal.”

Hannah was fully prepared to offer a spectacular bribe, or threaten the woman with jail time for aiding and abetting, whatever it took. Winging it, rolling along in high gear.

But the connection clicked off.

Hannah dialed the number again but it was busy. She waited a second, redialed, still busy. Everyone hanging up on her today.

She'd probably been too direct, stayed too close to the truth. Probably should have given them an alias, a better cover story. A little out of practice, not as quick and nimble as Erin after all.

She snapped her phone shut and was turning away from the window when out of the edge of her vision she saw the grandmother lurch backward in her chair and tumble to the floor, and then inches from Hannah's face, the smeared pane of plateglass splintered into thousands of diamond sparkles. The glass hanging in place for a second, then collapsing in a sheet of glittery chaos. Beautiful and strange and so utterly surprising that Hannah simply froze before the shattered window trying to absorb the scene, standing there for several dizzy moments until a few inches from her head another slug blasted the wood siding and sprayed splinters onto the front of her blouse.

Then she was crouched behind the hood of a green
Lexus, old habits finally switching on. She had the .357 out and was tracking it slowly back and forth across the parking lot. Tires squealed on the asphalt, men stumbled out of shops up and down the plaza. Inside the restaurant there were shouts and shrieks, china broke, tables overturned. A UPS truck moved slowly across the lot.

Hannah squinted along the barrel of her pistol, inching it from left to right, then back again. But she heard no more shots, saw no one with a weapon, no one at all. Behind her, through the splintered glass, the two girls were huddled around their grandmother. One of them was staring at Hannah, her lips drawn back into a snarl of anguish and blame as if she believed this horror was somehow Hannah's fault. Which, almost certainly, it was.

“Stay right where you are, Sheffield.”

When the gunfire began Ackerman didn't hesitate. He marched directly to the rear of the van and took up his position, blocking the door. In his khakis and neatly pressed work shirt, his arms crossed over his chest, he looked like the bouncer at some preppy dance. Ackerman outweighed Frank by fifty pounds, and it looked like he meant to use every ounce of it to keep him from getting by.

“You can't go out there,” Helen said. “You'll blow the whole thing. This could be Hal testing to see if Hannah's got protection. We can't show ourselves. It's absolutely crucial.”

Frank was staring into the senator's hard brown eyes. The glower he used so often to frighten generals wasn't having much effect on Frank.

“Jesus Christ, she's pinned down, Shane. Your people aren't doing anything.”

“She's okay. She's not hit. The show's over.”

Helen was at the tinted window, scanning the lot with binoculars.

“You're just going to let this go down? Christ, you got a woman out there drawing fire, innocent civilians in harm's way, and you're more concerned about safeguarding your goddamn operation?”

“That's right, Frank,” Ackerman said, pointing a stubby finger at Sheffield's chest, then jabbing him once. “We have higher concerns. Now calm down and step back.”

“The police can handle this,” Helen said. “They're on their way.”

“The guy could still be out there, working his way in for a kill shot. You're just going to leave her hanging in the wind.”

“It may not even be about her,” Helen said. “It could be stray gunfire for all we can tell.”

“A white Chevrolet Caprice,” Andy called. “That's the shooter's car. We got a visual on the plates. It's left the scene, going west on Bird Road.”

“You see, Frank? There's nothing to worry about. Your precious Hannah is safe.”

“Rosie?” Frank gave him a fierce look.

“It's not my call, Frank.”

“They're on your turf.”

“I'm outranked.”

“Jesus Christ, you got fifteen people on the ground, all in this one-block area, and no one's going to try to stop this guy?”

“They have their orders,” Helen said. “We'll pass the ID onto the local cops, let them handle it.”

Frank took a step toward the door.

“Whatever the shooting was, it's over now, Frank.” Ackerman poked a stiff finger into Sheffield's chest. “I can't let you go out there. The integrity of the operation is our only concern.”

“Fuck the operation.”

Frank snatched Ackerman's right wrist and swiveled hard, wrenching the big man forward. And all that kayaking must've done something for his arms and shoulders, because the senator came sprawling toward him, a large, ungainly mass of machine-tightened muscle stumbling across the narrow space of the van.

Sheffield was dodging past him when Ackerman slashed a wild right hand toward Frank's face, trying for an eye-gouge.
Some ancient football cheap shot they must've taught at Notre Dame back in the old days.

Frank ducked away, but the senator's fingernails still clawed his neck. A scalding gash. Then purely out of reflex, with absolutely no malice, Frank swiveled and dug a right hand into the senator's gut. Not as muscled as it looked. A doughy inch or two before Frank's fist met any resistance.

Rosie Jackson, Special Agent in Charge, jumped forward, caught the senator by the shoulders, kept him from pitching headlong into the side wall, then settled him onto the floor where he sat gasping. Roosevelt shook his head.

“Not good, Frank. Not good at all.”

Frank swung back to the door, but now Shane was in his way. She'd drawn her weapon, aiming the Glock at his gut.

“Stay put, Sheffield. You step out that door and the whole thing comes crumbling down.”

“Come on, Helen. Don't give me an excuse to hurt you too.”

“If you want to go down in flames, fine. But I won't let you take the rest of us with you. You go out there, you put Hannah in serious jeopardy.”

“You already put her there. I'm going to try to get her out.”

“No, Frank. I can't let you do it.”

“You people aren't going to leave her alone till she's played this out every step of the way. So I'm going to be her escort from here on. Don't worry, I'll make sure she stays inside the dotted lines, plays out the rest of this bullshit scenario. Now get out of my way.”

Frank reached out and nudged the pistol aside, opened the door, and stepped past Helen Shane into the parking lot. He looked back at her.

“That was her on the phone, wasn't it? That was Hannah.”

Helen tried to keep her face empty. But Frank could see a twitch in the corner of her mouth.

“You guys need me more than you thought.”

“Do it the way it's written, Sheffield. You step outside the program, there's no guarantee we can protect you.”

Frank gave her the two-finger salute.

“I'll be out of radio contact, so don't bother trying to give me any orders. So long, kids.”

And he turned and sprinted through the cars and innocent civilians toward the spot where he'd seen Hannah drop.

When she saw Frank Sheffield coming across the parking lot, tan slacks, a black polo shirt, ambling along casually as if he were headed to Garcia's Café for lunch with nothing more serious on his mind than fried plantains and black beans and rice, Hannah closed her eyes and shook her head to clear the image, certain it was some kind of panic-induced mirage.

Then Frank was there, standing over her, giving off a faint whiff of cologne, a musky lime.

“Let's get out of here before the cops come and we're stuck all afternoon.”

“Jesus Christ, Frank. Get down.”

“The shooter's gone.”

She peered out at the lot. People hustling to their cars. Others ducking behind shelter.

“You're sure of that?”

“He was in a white Chevy Caprice. He's gone.”

“You saw him?”

“I saw the car. Called it in. Come on, Hannah, let's move.”

With a hand on her elbow, he helped her up from her crouch.

Sirens had begun to wail in the distance. The two girls in the pink frocks were both crying now, people bent over their grandmother.

“Where's your car parked?”

She motioned with her chin along the front row. He
steered her toward the Porsche amid the tire-squealing turmoil in the lot.

“You've been following me.”

He hesitated a moment, watching a skinny man on a big black Harley rumble past. Then took her elbow again and hustled her on toward the car.

“Okay, yes. I was tailing you.”

“You didn't trust me. You thought I'd manufactured this whole thing.”

“I was concerned,” he said. “Concerned for your safety.”

She gave him a disbelieving frown. They were at the car. She clicked the locks open.

“Can you drive?” he said. “Or should I?”

“What? You're going to leave your car here?”

“Don't worry about it, Hannah. Can you drive?”

“I can drive. Of course I can drive. You think I'm some fragile flower, a couple of bullets whizzing by my face is going to make me too weak to drive?”

“So drive,” he said.

She got in the car and he eased into the passenger seat.

They passed the EMS truck on their way out of the lot.

She swerved into traffic, headed east to the Palmetto Expressway, gunned it up the ramp faster than she needed to, burning some rubber. Frank looked over at her, tightened his seat belt, but said nothing. She jumped into the speed lane and stayed ahead of the traffic till the expressway ended and emptied out onto Dixie Highway.

“Okay, okay, so you're a tough cookie. I'm convinced.”

“Am I scaring you, Frank?”

“Scared isn't the word I would've chosen. I was thinking more along the lines of terrified.”

She slowed, cutting into the shady neighborhoods of Pinecrest, large ranch-style homes on acre lots, taking them south, then east, until they hit the flashing yellow lights of a school zone and she pulled off onto the shoulder amid a throng of vans and big SUVs. She parked, turned off the engine. They sat in silence for a moment.

Frank said, “You're the only Porsche.”

Hannah's pulse was still staggering. Breathing off the top of her lungs, unable to get a full breath.

“I'm not exactly the soccer-mom type. Thirty years in Miami, I haven't needed four-wheel drive yet.”

“So you buy a two-seater” Frank said. “No room for a third party.”

“Randall can squeeze into the jump seat.”

“But you see my point. You pay all this money for a car, it's a pretty blatant statement. Two seats, that's all I require. Just me and my boy, no room for anyone else.”

Hannah glanced at Frank. His smile was faltering around the edges.

“Suddenly you get serious.”

“Just making conversation,” he said. “Distracting you a little with my psychological acumen.”

“I like two-seaters, Frank. I like sports cars, always have, something I inherited from my father. He always wanted a Porsche, but he could never afford one. So now that I can, I decided to indulge myself. Nothing more complicated than that. It's not symbolic, it's not a statement to the world. It's just a car.”

“A nice car.”

“Yeah,” she said. “A damn nice car.”

“With only two seats.”

A Pinecrest police cruiser pulled up a half a block ahead, and switched on its flashing blue lights. The female officer got out and stood on the edge of the road watching the traffic pass slowly in front of the school. Going to let it flash for the next hour, slow down speeders.

“Was the guy in the white car shooting at me, Frank?”

“Hard to tell. But I doubt it.”

“Two shots, both of them close. I'd say it's a pretty safe bet.”

“In this town, who knows? He could've been signaling for a left turn.”

“Both shots missed me by less than a foot.”

“Yeah, well. Could be a coincidence.”

“You're a big believer in coincidences, are you?”

“We'll know something when the plates get back,”

“They'll be stolen,” Hannah said. “They always are.”

“Man, you're glum.”