The locals were looking their way now, wondering why someone was hanging around the periphery watching them.
“Then last week, when he had his business community meetings, he called me. Said he’d just met with Jenkins and was steaming mad. I tried to get some detail out of him but he said he’d tell me more after he got home.”
“And…”
“And he never made it. He was shot about a block away from their offices.”
At the edge of the lot, near the trailer park, a child had wandered in their direction, curious. He was blond and deeply tanned, with a mullet, in cutoff jean shorts and a baseball shirt, maybe seven or eight years old and barefoot. He got within about twenty feet before tentatively holding up a hand, like he was in class.
“Can we help you, son?” Sharmila asked.
He wandered closer. He looked sheepish, blushing. “You were here with Dr. Hap?”
“I was, about a month ago.”
“I heard about that,” he said. “He come up and visit us. I’m… real sorry he’s dead.”
“You liked him?” Bob asked.
The boy nodded. “He… He was nice to me and my sister. That’s Zadie. I mean… my sister. She’s got comic bronchitis.”
“Chronic bronchitis,” Sharmila whispered.
“So he helped you guys out?”
“And he gave me twenty dollars. He…” The boy frowned. “He said he owed it to my pa, but not to tell him ‘cos pa would feel bad.”
“Ah,” Bob nodded knowingly.
The boy frowned again. “My father’s dead. Died when I was little.” He looked down grimly. “My mom said he was just trying to help. He was nice, Dr. Hap.” Then he looked up at them nervously. “I’m sorry. I…” He lowered his gaze again and shuffled off quickly.
Bob looked over at Sharmila. She bore a bleak expression, like someone watching a friend drive away for the last time. “There are stories about Dad like that all over the county,” she said. “In the end, all those grateful souls, all those friends, his family… none of us saved him.”
13
They were halfway to downtown when the truck reappeared, pulling out of an alley and falling in behind Sharmila’s ten-year-old BMW. Bob spotted it in the rearview mirror, watching as its back end fishtailed slightly, rubber peeling out onto the road.
“We have a problem,” he said calmly.
Sharmila took her eyes off traffic for a moment and checked their six. “Is that…?”
“Our Dixie-loving twins? The odds are solid.” He gestured to the side of the road. “The gas station up ahead, on the corner of Nineteenth. Get us there quick, buy us a second of lead time. When we reach it, swing into the parking lot, hit the brakes and bail out.”
“Why?” Sharmila demanded. “What are you going to do?”
“If they were after you, they could have done so at any time, long before I got here, after they first swung by your house. That was for your pa. They came after me at the motel. This is probably an extension of that.”
“And you’re… what, just going to lead them away?” Sharmila said. “That’s crazy.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s at least two of them and one of you. I’m going to call the police.” She took out her phone.
“Put it away,” Bob said. “I can’t involve them right now.”
“Why? I mean, it’s not like I’d even trust them to show but—”
“Because I’m not really an attorney, but I’m registered as my friend’s counsel of record. If they dig, they’ll arrest me on a false impersonation charge. Anyway, no time to argue. The station’s right here.”
“You’re not a lawyer…” Sharmila began to say, bewildered.
“Long story. I needed to make sure he was okay and it was the only way to see him.”
She swung the car into the Mobil lot, pulling over immediately, adjacent to the road and sidewalk. Sharmila clambered out quickly. Bob slid over to the driver’s seat. He checked the rearview mirror.
The truck swung into the gas station lot at speed.
He threw the BMW into drive and stepped on the gas, spinning the tires slightly, a shudder as it found traction and shot ahead. He ignored the curb and sidewalk, driving onto Nineteenth Street, the car thudding, bouncing and shaking as the tires found asphalt again.
The truck’s wheels squealed as it slid out onto the road behind him. It had a big engine, based on its acceleration, Bob realized. He wasn’t going to beat it for speed.
He checked the rear view. The truck surged forward, filling up the mirror until it slammed into the car’s rear end, the BMW jerking forward and bouncing, Bob’s head narrowly avoiding the steering wheel.
The truck veered slightly to the right, then shot forward again, this time crashing into the back right corner of the BMW. Bob swung the wheel to the right to counter any slide.
Traffic on Nineteenth Steet was heavy, Bob realized, as he swerved into the other lane and around the red sports car ahead of him. They wanted him off the busy road, away from prying eyes.
That means they’re serious. They want to finish this now, where they can use weapons, not worry too much about witnesses.
