First Drop

Twenty-one

I sat in the rear of a huge Chevy Suburban with blacked-out glass as it barrelled north up A1A towards Daytona Beach. Alongside me, hunched as far away as she could manage so as to avoid possible contamination from contact, was Gerri Raybourn. She sat with her knees pressed tight together and her face stiff with outrage.

In the front passenger seat was Livingston Brown, acting like a kid on a big adventure. Mason, the security thug with the pencil moustache, was behind the wheel. Following, at a distance that made it look like they were attached by a short tow rope, was a Transit-sized Chevy van with another three heavies inside. The big black man with the Colt was driving but nobody had told me his name.

Half the reason for Gerri’s indignation was that we were making this journey at all. She had done everything possible to talk Brown out of it, even resorting to pointing out that he was too old for such a foolish and possibly dangerous escapade. That kind of comment had done little to bring him round to her way of thinking.

The other half of the reason was lying across my knees, squeezed with Walt’s clandestine tape recorder into the little flowered bag.

As soon as it had become clear that Brown was starting to come down on my side of the fence, I’d asked for the return of my gun. He’d given me a long hard stare. Eventually he’d quietly signalled Mason to hand over the SIG, ignoring the other woman’s strident objections.

The security man did so with obvious reluctance, as though he agreed with Gerri’s opinion of me. Nevertheless, he was well-trained enough not to voice such doubts. They all watched silently as I pointedly dropped the magazine out and checked he hadn’t palmed the remaining rounds while he was out fetching coffee. He hadn’t.

So I still had a whole two bullets to play with.

It wasn’t much, particularly when – if Whitmarsh turned up with both Chris and Lonnie – I potentially had four people to shoot at. My gaze skimmed over Gerri again. I hadn’t seen a gun on her and she’d made no moves to reach for one when I’d ram-raided the office.

If it came to it, I decided coldly, I’d leave her for last and take my chances hand-to-hand. I probably owed her a good smack in the face.

Besides, I now had half an army for back-up. Brown had seen our surprise when his professional-looking bunch met us at the front door to the clubhouse and he’d grinned. “I had a whole heap of trouble with people stealing machinery and materials during construction on this place,” he said over his shoulder as we rolled out. “They’re smart and they’re organised and it was costing me a small fortune. Since I took on Mason and the boys I haven’t lost a cent. It don’t do no harm to be prepared for the worst.”

And prepared for the worst they were. Although nothing was visible I could tell each man was carrying a sidearm of some description. Two of them had a shoulder holster leaving a telltale bulge under the armpit of their lightweight zip-up jackets. The black guy with the Colt appeared with a long gym bag that clanked metallically when he placed it in the back of the van.

We didn’t talk much on the drive up. Brown switched the radio on and tuned it to a station playing country and western music. He hummed along tunelessly to every song, his hands tapping out cheerfully bad time on his thighs.

I shut my ears to the sound, gazed sightlessly out of the window, and thought about Sean.

It was only then that it began to fully sink in that I faced a whole future without him. It was the prospect of this barren emptiness stretching out in front of me, of being permanently alone, that caused the most internal devastation. I felt something break inside me and begin to crumble.

There had been men before Sean. In spite of what had happened to me in the army, there had even been the occasional one since. The time we’d actually been together had been fleeting, little more than an instant. But nobody understood or accepted what I was, what I might be, the way Sean had.

He was a once-in-a-lifetime deal. I’d thought I’d missed my chance years ago and then, miraculously, a second had been presented to me. And now I’d missed that, too. There would not be another like him. He remained a bright hard diamond amid colourless glass and dull imitations.

The pain of the loss was intense, a deep and endless wound I couldn’t begin to imagine time healing.

***

Before I’d realised it, we were heading into Daytona. Without needing directions, Mason drove straight to the big open car park behind the Ocean Center that said Permit Holders Only next to it. An elderly guard was sitting on a camping chair under a sunshade next to the gate and he got to his feet as we drove up. Mason showed him some kind of ID. I don’t know what it was but after a moment’s consideration the guard waved both vehicles through without argument.

Mason pulled up at the front edge of the car park and the van slotted in alongside. I slipped the strap of the bag over my head as I climbed out, so it lay diagonally across my body. All Brown’s men, I noticed, had their jackets unfastened. One of them had retrieved the gym bag with its sinister contents.

By contrast, they were all dressed in light-coloured clothing and trainers or deck shoes. If it wasn’t for their combined muscle bulk, they could have been heading for a regatta.

There were more security guards on the way in to the Ocean Center itself, insisting on looking into all the larger bags. Mine escaped notice, but they were curious about the gym bag. Mason flashed his ID again and they, too, let him pass unhindered.

The noise hit us as soon as we were inside the entrance hall area, bleeding out from the main exhibition floor. The entrance way was where they were selling popcorn and giant pretzels and commemorative T-shirts and the crush was immense. For a second I was separated from Brown’s men and at that moment I felt a tug on my sleeve.

I turned and found Aimee smiling at me. Of Xander and Trey, thankfully, there was no sign.

“Meet me in the restroom, now,” I whispered urgently out of the corner of my mouth, and pushed past her.

The next hand on my shoulder was Mason’s, which was a damned sight heavier and rougher than Aimee’s had been. He glared at me, suspicious and I tried to look blandly innocent. I’m not entirely sure he was convinced.

“We need to stick together,” he said, loudly enough to be heard over the background roar.

“That might be difficult,” I said. “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

“You’ll have to wait.”

“I can’t wait,” I said, stubborn. “Either you let me go to the ladies’ or I piss here, but it’s going to stink.”

He never flickered at my deliberate crudeness. Instead his gaze settled on me for a moment, as though working through the permutations of what I might be trying to pull. Eventually he nodded slowly and jerked his head to one of his men. “Go with her and wait outside,” he ordered.

I threaded my way through the press towards the nearest ladies’ without waiting to see if the man Mason had tasked was behind me or not.

Inside there were two girls wearing minuscule bikinis and excruciating clear plastic high heels who were applying copious amounts of lipstick and mascara. One was blonde and one was dark haired but they both had identical tans. They looked up as I ambled in, gave me a fast inspection and a little smirk, and went back to their primping.

I washed my hands and took my time over drying them while I waited for them to totter out. Then I went along the line of cubicles, giving each door a gentle nudge. Aimee was lurking in the end one with her hands in her pockets.

“Wassup girl?” she demanded. “You look, like, way too stressed.”

I held my finger up to my lips and shushed her. There was no outer door and even with the general noise level I didn’t want to risk being overheard. I pushed her back into the cubicle and shut the door behind us.

“Look, I need you to tell Trey I’m here with Gerri Raybourn and Livingston Brown and his security men,” I said, keeping my voice low. “We’ve arranged a meet with Whitmarsh and he’s supposed to be bringing out Trey’s dad. If he does, Brown’s guys will grab him.”

“Cool,” she said. “What do we have to do?”

“Just keep Trey out of sight,” I said. “I’ll call you and let you know when it’s over.”

She nodded and started to go but as she reached for the door handle I had one last thought to add. “If it’s safe for him to come to me I’ll say something about his father, his dad,” I said. “But if anything goes wrong, when I call you I’ll mention Keith by name. In that case get him out of here as fast as you can and tell him to go to Walt’s place on the beach. You got that?”

“What about you?”

I brushed the question aside. “Have you got that?”

She hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Father is good. Keith is bad,” she said, like she was revising for an exam. “Go to Walt’s place. I gotcha.”

“OK,” I said. “Now give me a minute or so head start before you come out.” And I started to head for the exit.

“Oh – and Charlie?”

I turned.

“Good luck, girl,” she said.

I managed to raise a poor smile. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m going to need it.”

***

When we’d been at the Ocean Center before I’d automatically noticed the security guards covering all the staircases leading to the upper floors. Now I wondered if Mason’s magic ID card was going to work to get us to the upper level as well but in the event he didn’t need to show it.

The main stage was close to this entrance and it turned out that our arrival coincided with the buildup to the final of the weekend’s bikini contest. So that explained the two girls in the ladies’ room.

The guard on this particular set of stairs was about twenty-two and he’d deserted his post to leer round the corner at the half-naked leggy beauties who were gathering in the backstage area. The eight of us were able to slip past him, under the tape barrier and up the first flight before he’d got his eyeballs back into their sockets again.

The upper floor of the Ocean Center was painted neutral colours and buffed to an institutional shine. It consisted of a network of wide corridors with offices and meeting rooms round the outside of the building and doors leading to the terraces of seating on the inside.

There was another guard sitting reading a magazine between one of the offices and the glass exit doors that led down to the street. She was a fat middle-aged woman with ornate glasses on a chain round her neck and aggressively-dyed orange hair. She got to her feet as we approached, reaching for the walkie-talkie on her belt. I expected Mason to go through his ID rigmarole again but maybe he was getting bored with that approach. Instead he took a gun out from under his jacket and pointed it at her.

“In the office,” he said, twitching the end of the barrel in the direction of the nearest doorway. “Now.”

The guard jumped to her feet, scared, dropping the magazine to the floor. Mason picked the walkie-talkie out of her nerveless fingers and hustled her through the office door. When he returned a few minutes later he was alone. None of us asked him what he’d done with the woman.

“So, Charlie,” Brown said when his boys had checked the surrounding area and found it devoid of other life. “Where d’you reckon Whitmarsh will put in an appearance?”

“If he shows up,” Gerri put in sharply. “He could well have just called the cops.”

Brown regarded her with one eyebrow raised. “Well, let’s see if you’re right,” was all he said.

Mason came up by his shoulder. “We’d best get ourselves outta sight, sir,” he said. “Don’t want to scare this guy off.” His eyes flicked to Gerri and something happened to his mouth that might almost have been a sign of amusement. “If he shows up.”

Brown nodded and flashed me a quick smile. “Now don’t you worry none, Charlie,” he said, patting my shoulder. “Me and the boys’ll be close by.”

Most of the office doors were locked but that didn’t seem to be much of a problem. Mason produced a set of picks from his inside jacket pocket and within moments the doors were open and they were inside.

I was left standing in the centre of the polished floor, alone. Beyond the doorways to my left I could hear the thunder of the show coming up from the lower floor. The bikini contest was under way now, by the sound of it, the commentator trying to whip the crowd into an ever-greater fever of excitement as each girl took the stage.

“You gotta cheer for the girl you wanna win,” he yelled. “The louder you cheer, the better she’ll do. Let’s hear it now for Chastity, from Orlando. Come on out Chastity!”

I don’t know how good looking Chastity was. Or, more to the point, how little of her chest was covered by her bikini top, but the crowd went wild.

The noise was suddenly amplified as one of the doors from the balcony looking out over the auditorium further along the corridor was pushed open. I tensed, automatically reaching for the gun in my bag.

There was a pause, then Keith Pelzner stepped out into view.

He was shuffling, looking back nervously over his shoulder. His gaudy Hawaiian shirt was stained and crumpled and his hair was matted down onto his head. Wherever Whitmarsh had been keeping him for the last few days, it wasn’t anywhere with a bath and full room service, that was for sure. Keith looked round vaguely, like he’d no idea where he was and didn’t remember me either.

I called to him and started forwards but I hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps before Jim Whitmarsh moved out from behind the open door Keith had just come through. It swung closed behind him.

Whitmarsh pulled his lips back to show me a set of white, even teeth. The gesture came across as friendly as the greeting from a scrapyard dog. He was holding the same Beretta he’d had at Henry’s house and looked like he couldn’t wait to use it.

“If that hand comes out anything but empty,” he said pleasantly, “I’ll shoot you.”

I carefully let go of the SIG but as I withdrew my hand from the bag I brushed my thumb against the voice activation button on Walt’s tape recorder.

Whitmarsh nodded at my compliance. “Lose the bag,” he said.

I lifted the strap, ducking out from underneath it, and held the bag out at arm’s length beside me. I let it drop gently to the ground so as not to damage or spill the contents. It landed close to the wall and lay on its side.

Whitmarsh was looking in better nick than Keith. He was wearing a striped shirt with buttons that strained slightly over the expanse of his stomach. His weight was causing him to feel the heat and two circles of sweat stained the shirt’s armpits. Maybe he was just nervous.

From somewhere below us I heard the commentator shouting to the rabid mob, “And now, from right here in Daytona Beach, it’s Tameka. Let’s hear it for the lovely Tameka!” The screams and cheers and whistles grew louder.

“OK Charlie,” Whitmarsh said. “Where’s the kid?”

“Close.”

He shook his head. Not good enough. “Call him.”

I shrugged. “I don’t have my phone,” I said.

Whitmarsh eyed me for a moment, thinking through the moves like a chess player, trying to see if I was setting him up for checkmate further down the line. When he’d worked out that I had nowhere to go he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his own mobile.

“Here.” He put the phone on the floor and sent it skidding towards me. I stopped it with my foot, then bent to pick it up without dropping my gaze.

Keith, meanwhile, hadn’t moved apart from a gentle rocking motion backwards and forwards. He kept his head tilted away from both of us, his gaze averted. I wondered what, if anything, they’d given him to keep him so docile.

I began to key in Trey’s number but stopped before I’d got much further than the start of the code. I looked up. “How do I know you won’t just kill me and take off with both Keith and Trey?”

Whitmarsh grinned again. “You don’t.”

“So why exactly should I trust you?” I asked but I knew I was just stalling. Come on, Mason, what the hell are you waiting for?

Whitmarsh wiped the sweat from his forehead and studied me seriously. “Well, I could threaten to shoot Keith here if you don’t make that call,” he said, “but I don’t really think you give a damn about that one way or the other.”

For a moment he regarded his captive with the contempt for weakness that often befalls despotic jailers, drunk on their own power and total control. Then he was back concentrating on me.

“I could threaten to shoot you. In fact I could make things pretty damn intolerable without actually killing you,” he said reflectively and I forced myself not to react other than to remain politely interested, as though in someone important who’s telling you a long and pointless anecdote.

In the main hall, the commentator had reached the final bikini contestant. “Last up, all the way from Iowa, it’s Jephanie. Whaddya think, huh? Way to go, Jephanie!” The crowd couldn’t have shown more savage approval if they’d been watching a public execution.

“But somehow,” Whitmarsh went on, oblivious, “something tells me you don’t give much of a damn about that either.”

Still keeping the gun aimed at the centre of my body mass, he stepped back and glanced sideways towards the door he’d just come through, which was standing a little ajar.

“So as a last resort,” he said, “I could threaten to shoot somebody I know you do give a damn about.” He raised his voice slightly and called, “OK. Bring him out.”

Just for a second I feared that Whitmarsh’s men had somehow got hold of Trey. If they had, I was abruptly surplus to requirements. But if that had been the case, I realised, Whitmarsh would never have showed for this meeting.

And then the door opened again as Lonnie and Chris pushed through it. Lonnie was closest to me and I saw at once that in his right hand he was holding the Remington pump-action shotgun he’d used to such devastating effect in Henry’s garden. The length of the gun meant he held it awkwardly, angled upwards so that the end of the barrel was resting under the jaw of the figure he and Chris held pinioned between them.

As they turned him towards me and my eyes zeroed in on his face the sound of the roaring crowd below us shrank and vanished like a pinprick of light in space. All I heard was the sharp astounded intake of my own breath.

It was Sean.