The Grim Reaper's Dance (22 page)

“I hid them way in the front, no one would’ve checked in— Hey, who’s that?”

Casey knew he was talking about her. She held down her fear. Dixon had wanted to let Greene have a crack at her. Would Yonkers allow it? She thought about the pencil hidden in her shirt and wondered how much damage she could do with it before the rest of the guys stopped her.

“That,” Yonkers said, “is someone who
crossed
me.”

The statement hung in the air.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Greene finally said. “It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

“And your word is
so
good. Get out of here. And keep your hands off things that aren’t on the orders.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“
Go
.”

Footsteps shuffled, and left.

“Tell me why we hired him, again?” Yonkers, sounding irritated.

“Friend of Dix’s,” Westing said. “Got into trouble for hitting his wife and needed to go underground. Wasn’t a driver, but Dix said the man could learn, and he’s been doing okay.”

“Until tonight. If he does it again we’ll have to cut him loose.”

“I’ll warn him.”

Westing left, and Casey allowed her eyes to open a crack. Yonkers sat behind his desk, shaking his head. All this time she’d been thinking of him as some mysterious, evil man behind a vast trucking conspiracy. Looking at him now, in his suit, surrounded by greenery, it was hard to think of him as being behind anything more evil than killing plants. It was his buddies she had to worry about. They were the loose cannons.

Yonkers closed his eyes and clenched a pen in his hand for several moments before standing suddenly and walking around the desk. Casey closed her eyes and concentrated on being limp.

Yonkers sat in the other lawn chair—Casey could hear it creak—and she felt his breath as he leaned toward her. He grabbed her face in his hand and turned it this way and that before tossing it back toward the chair. “Westing!”

Casey hoped he didn’t see her jump.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going home. She’ll probably wake up in a while. If she does, find out what she knows…
without
killing her. We don’t need any more bodies.”

“Sure thing. What if she dies anyway?”

Yonkers paused. “You were supposed to keep Dix from—I
told
you I needed her alive. Preferably able to
talk
.”

“You know how Dix gets. He was always that way, even in high school.”

“I know. But this time…we can’t
do
this kind of thing. It’s going to get out. Talk to him, will you?”

“Okay, Yonk.”

“And if something happens…I don’t know. Cover her with mulch and we’ll figure something out.”

Yonkers left, but Casey could feel Westing still with her in the room. He came close, and she concentrated on relaxing, as if she were unconscious.

He poked her with the toe of his shoe. “I don’t know who you are, lady, but I’m telling you–you give us what we want, or you’ll be sorry. So will those precious kids you found. Dix and Mifflin get a little crazy when they get mad. And when they want their
money
.” He gave her another little shove with his foot, then left the room, closing the door solidly behind him.

Chapter Thirty-one

After Sandy Greene’s truck drove away, it was quiet. Too quiet. Where had all of the men gone? Casey couldn’t imagine they’d left. In fact, Yonkers had told Westing to stay. Casey yearned for some more water, but Mifflin hadn’t left any extra. She worked her mouth, trying to summon up a little saliva, but there was nothing.

What had she been in the process of doing?

Escaping. Right. She looked around the room. There was no way she was leaving through the door. Even as quiet as they were, she knew the men had to be just outside, waiting for her.

It would have to be the window. She took a deep breath, biting her lips together so she wouldn’t cry out, and once again eased herself into a sitting position. She looked around. Death had deserted her. She was completely alone. Gripping the side of the chair, she gradually placed her weight on her feet and pushed herself up from the chair. Her head filled with white noise and she fell forward against the desk, knocking several pens to the floor. She perched there, waiting for running footsteps. No one came.

Once her head cleared she could feel every injury her body had suffered. Her ribs ached with a vengeance, and her head felt as if it were being squashed between two rocks, but at least her joints were moving, and she was starting to get used to the taste of the blood in her mouth from where Dixon has smashed her face against the bricks. Keeping her hands on the desk for support she worked her way around it, toward the window. By the time she reached the other side, she was exhausted, and leaned heavily on the desk. The white noise was coming again.

She eased down into Yonkers’ chair and let her eyes roam across the room. There was nothing much of interest. The wall was filled with photos of Yonkers with celebrities and their purchases—some of the same pictures she’d seen on the Internet. A few plants sat around in the corners, and draped over the tops of file cabinets. The desk had photos, too, and she studied them blankly. His daughter Tara’s senior picture. His son’s graduation. A football team. She laid her head on her arms, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When it did, she raised her head. A
football
team?

She picked up the picture and looked at it more closely. It was the same photo she’d seen on Pat Parnell’s counter, in a place of honor, along with the shots of his kids. As her eyes focused on the individuals, something connected in her foggy brain. There was Yonkers, in the middle, holding the football. Surrounding him were other familiar faces: Westing, Dixon, Parnell. All of the men she’d dealt with during the past week. She laughed to herself. Evan had given her the clue long ago, when he’d referred to this group as The Team. This was no masterminded gang. No global conspiracy. This was a high school football squad gone bad. And Yonkers was the quarterback.

She looked down at the papers she’d been resting her head on. Smears of her own blood covered up what was printed there—numbers and words. What exactly did they say? She squinted, trying to make them clear. When she succeeded, she saw these were unpaid orders for plants and flowers—seemingly legitimate invoices for Exotic Blooms. No other papers were on the desk, but there were several drawers, two of them large enough for file folders. She pulled one drawer out, the effort causing sweat to pop out on her scalp. There was nothing but information about Exotic Blooms. Shipment after shipment of plants, flowers, seeds, bulbs, trees…all of which would have to pass rigorous tests before being transported from another country, or even across state lines. The Department of Agriculture wasn’t about to let foreign flora bring disease which could wipe out the region’s own crops or plants. So these loads would have to be Class A’s legitimate shipments. The paperwork the authorities would actually see.

Casey pushed a key on the computer keyboard, and the monitor came to life. You’d think with all Yonkers had to hide he’d be a little more careful. She blinked hard, trying to stop the dizziness. Her vision cleared and she looked at the screen, clicking on all the different folders. Again, all about Exotic Blooms, but this time everything she saw pointed to one thing: Exotic Blooms was going under. All of those celebrity customers? Gone. All she could find for the past year and a half were piddley orders from locals. She found a couple invoices dealing with importing a few exotic palm trees to south Florida, but the star athletes, the TV personalities, the politicians—all had apparently decided that expensive flowers were something they could do without. Or should at least be
seen
to be doing without.

Yonkers had just about lost his shirt.

So was that what the trucking thing was all about? Had he slapped together this slate of bad drivers and aging football players to make a few extra bucks and save his business? That’s not what she’d heard the night before. Owen Dixon, at least, was expecting a huge payoff sometime soon. It looked like he was going to receive a huge disappointment, instead. Casey wondered how hotheaded Dix would deal with
that
.

There was nothing on the computer about Class A trucking. No truckers, or false IDs, or fake manifests. So if the information wasn’t there tying Willie Yonkers and his buddies to the death of Evan Tague, where would it be? What had Yonkers’ daughter said? Tara?
He hardly ever leaves home, can you believe it? Spends all day locked away in his precious office, eating popcorn and watching porn for all I know. It’s not like he ever lets me in there.

So that’s where the information would be, if it existed. And no one would ever find it if Casey died in this smelly greenhouse. No one would find her stash underneath that rock out in the grove of trees. No one would believe Evan Tague died because he trusted the wrong man. And no one would know they had to protect the little band of teenagers who had offered her shelter.

Casey had already spent too long sitting at the desk. Westing would be coming to check on her any minute. At least he had orders not to kill her—not that it would stop Dixon or Mifflin, if he left her alone with them.

Spinning the chair toward the window, Casey reached the string at the end of the blinds and pulled. When it was all the way up, she grabbed the windowsill, pulled herself up, and almost fell down when she looked out the window.

Someone else was looking in.

It was a familiar face—black and white, pale skin with dark hair. Bailey? The girl’s eyes went wide, and she jerked back, falling against Johnny, who stood behind her. He set her aside and placed his hands on the window, pushing upward. It didn’t budge.

He was mouthing something to Casey. She wavered where she stood and tried to read his lips. What was he saying? He was pointing at the middle of the window and gesturing with his hand. Up? Under?

And then there was another face, but it didn’t belong. Older. Grayer. Concerned. He was saying something, too. The same thing. Above? Allowed?

Unlock
. They wanted her to unlock something. The window. Casey found the metal clasp in the center of the pane and twisted it. Johnny was doing something outside. Taking something off. A screen. And then Davey Wainwright—how could it be that he was there with the kids?—was pushing the large window to the side, reaching in, grabbing her.

Casey groaned, and Davey froze. She listened. Was someone coming?

“Mr. Wainwright, we have to get her out.” Johnny again, whispering.

Then they were lifting her out, holding her under the arms, easing their hands under her legs. There were more of them, not just Bailey and Johnny and Davey, but others, looking down at her, eyes wide, and scared.

“Come on, over here, this way. Somebody put that screen back. Close the window.” Who was that? Someone else talking quietly, so quietly Casey almost couldn’t hear it.

Around the old wooden trailer they carried her, lit only by the lights from the front parking lot. Faces anxious, jaws clenched as they hurried next door, through the loading dock for the big box store, toward Old Navy, to a covered pickup truck, onto the bed, under a cap, where blankets lined the floor, and people lined the sides of the truck.

The tailgate squealed as someone pulled it up, and Davey knocked gently on the truck’s back window. They started to move. Casey looked up into another kid’s face. What was her name? The girl held a cool cloth to Casey’s swollen face.

“We’ve got you, Casey. We’ve got you now. Everything’s okay.”

Casey did her best to believe her.

Chapter Thirty-two

“I think she’s waking up.”

Casey blinked up into Bailey’s face. Bailey’s bloodshot eyes were ringed black with smeared mascara and eyeliner, and her hair stuck up in all directions. “Casey, it’s me. Bailey. We got you out. You’re okay.”

Okay was a relative term. She knew she was okay in that she was alive—for the moment. The fact that she hadn’t died of internal bleeding yet gave her hope that she wasn’t going to. But she knew they all
weren’t
okay in that Yonkers and the rest of those men would be hunting them down. If that band of dangerous dimwits could find her.

“Who got me out?” Casey managed to say.

“The five of us. Well, and a couple more people. Davey and Wendell.”

The two men stood so she could she them. “But how…?”

“My phone.” Terry stood at her feet. “It was Sheryl’s idea. We looked at everybody you’d called, or who’d called you. We found Mr. Wainwright, and he called Mr. Harmon.”

“What about…cops?”

Everyone shuffled their feet and looked around at each other. “You didn’t seem real keen on cops,” Davey said. “The kids called them to the pizza shop, but then the men took you away, and when it came down to finding you, we figured we’d do it ourselves without involving police. Thought you’d want it that way.”

Casey gave a little laugh. She’d risked all of their lives, and here they were, risking their lives again. For
her
. “But how did you find me? I didn’t tell any of you where I was going.”

Davey frowned. “Wish you would’ve. But I called Tom. He said you’d been asking about somebody named Willie Yonkers, so we looked him up. Figured you might be with him. We checked his house first, but it was completely dark. Went to his business next. We just got lucky.”

She
was the one who’d gotten lucky. But the kids… “He didn’t see you at his house?”

“No.” Wendell. “We staked it out from down the road.”

“And Terry and Sheryl went for a walk past it.” Bailey smiled. “They look the most normal of any of us.”

“Hey!” Martin said.

“The house was totally dark,” Sheryl said. “Kinda creepy, like nobody lives there.”

“His office,” Casey said. “The information is there.”

“What information?” Davey sounded exasperated. “You won’t tell anybody
what
information!”

“About the trucks.”

“The trucks. You mean
the
truck? The one Evan died in? Or
trucks
as in the ones you were asking Tom about?”

“Those. Tom’s.”

“Class A Trucking?”

“No. That’s legit. For the flower place.”

“Class A is legit?” Davey sounded surprised.

“But he uses them. The truckers. They do other jobs. Makes it look like they’re from other companies. Falsifies paperwork.”

“But for what?”

“Stealing loads and reselling them. He thinks he’s going to make enough money to save his business. The rest of the guys think they’re making money to get rich.” Casey was tired of talking up at faces and tried to sit up. Martin and Bailey rushed to help, pulling her arms, and Sheryl shoved something soft behind her back. When the waves of pain passed, Casey asked, “Where are we?”

Davey grinned. “Work.”

Casey looked around. Of course. The trailer at his scrap yard. “But they
know
about this place.”

Bailey frowned. “Where else could we go? They’ve been to the shed, my parents are home…”

Casey closed her eyes and let her head fall forward. “I need…painkillers.”

Sheryl rifled around in her purse and thrust two pills under Casey’s face, along with a glass of water. “Tylenol with codeine. I took them when I got my wisdom teeth out.”

“I told them you need a doctor.” Johnny spoke from behind everyone else, and he shoved through to see her. “You don’t look…well, you look bad. My dad could…it’s my fault.” He ducked his head.

Casey declined the pills, taking two Extra-Strength Tylenol Davey found in his first aid kit, instead. “I’ll make you a deal, Johnny.”

He looked up.

“You stop blaming yourself. That’s the first thing.”

His mouth twitched.

“The second is that if we can get Yonkers…if we know you all are safe…I’ll go see your dad.”

His lips tightened. “We could just take you there.”

“You could
try
.”

His mouth fell open slightly, and his eyebrows rose. “You mean you would fight us—”

“I’m going to get you safe, Johnny. Whatever it takes.”

Bailey pushed Johnny to the side to get in-between him and Casey. “She’s not going to fight us, Johnny. Don’t be an idiot.”

His face clouded.

“Oh, good
grief
,” Bailey said. “I didn’t mean it. It’s just the way we talk to each other. Friends do that.”

He looked at her, clearly not sure what to believe.

Martin punched his shoulder. “Come on, man. Lighten up. She called me a moron just yesterday.”

Sheryl grunted. “And she called me a—”

“We need to get out of here,” Casey said. “Before they show up.”

“And go where?” Bailey seemed relieved to change the subject.

Casey clenched her jaw. “To get Yonkers, where else?”

“I don’t know…” She heard the doubt in Bailey’s voice.

“Give me a minute,” Casey said. “ A few minutes. Okay?”

Gradually the pain medication went into effect, morphing the shooting pains into dull aches, but Casey’s head felt like it was wrapped in a huge transparent cotton ball. Her hearing was still off, and everything moved just a bit in slow motion. Bailey and Sheryl gently swabbed her face with cool cloths and alcohol—a can of beer they’d found in the back of the office fridge. The beer stung like everything, and stank, but at least it cleaned out the wounds. Casey held an ice pack over her eye and the left side of her face, and tried to stay present in the room.

Wendell didn’t like any part of the plan, vague as it was. “You really shouldn’t be going anywhere, least of all to confront a criminal. Look at you.”

“I’d rather not. Look at myself, I mean. As for going anywhere—I’m not sending you folks out to do my dirty work.”

“But why is it yours?” Martin got up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of Davey’s desk. “This isn’t really your problem, is it?”

“Told you so.” Death was back, leaning against the doorway. “You always get into messes that aren’t your problem.”

“I’ve made it my problem,” Casey said. “And dragged you all into it. I need to end it—to bring Willie Yonkers and his guys into the open. Otherwise we’re all in danger. They’re not criminal geniuses, but they’re greedy. That’s what makes them dangerous.”

“Yonkers doesn’t know me,” Wendell said. “I’m the only one, right?”

“He doesn’t know us, either,” Bailey said.

“But his buddies do.” Casey looked at each of the teenagers. “They’ve seen every one of your faces.”

“So what do we do?” Terry had been quiet until now. “We can’t exactly go marching into his house and steal his papers.”

“Why not?” Bailey asked. “
He’s
certainly not playing by the rules.”

“Terry’s right,” Casey said. “If we take things out of his office, they might not hold up in court.”

“Who cares about court?”

“I do. And you should. It’s how he’s going to get stopped and put away. And it’s how these truckers will get taken off the road for good, where they can’t hurt anyone any more.”

“So,” Terry said again, “what’s the
plan
?”

“We have to get the cops into his house.”

They all stared at her.

“
You
want to call the
cops
?” Martin said.

“No. You do.”

He jerked backward. “I do?”

“Aren’t you the one who’s got a girl inside the police department?”

His ears went red. “She gave me those reports. I don’t think I can get her to do anything else.”

“
Martin
.” Bailey tweaked his arm. “She is so in love with you she’ll do anything.”

“Ow! She’s not—she doesn’t work for them, you know. Her
mom
does.”

“But she knows all the cops and can steal you reports and stuff without getting caught.”

“She doesn’t have to take anything this time,” Casey said. “She just has to make a phone call. Think she’d do it?”

“A phone call?” Martin shrugged. “Probably.”

Bailey rolled her eyes. “Of course she would.”

“Davey,” Casey said, “do you think Tom would help us a little more, too?”

“Wouldn’t know why not. He was bummed you left him with no explanation.”

“Well, he should soon be happy then, because he’s about to understand it all.”