Midnight Rambler

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The downpour turned to a light drizzle around the Vero Beach exit. The highway was humming with vehicles, the water flying up from their wheels in a dangerous but hypnotic ballet. I stayed in the right lane, my speedometer clocking a steady fifty. I wanted to go faster, but there was too much standing water on the road. Barring any delays, I would be home by five a.m.

I had driven this stretch of highway enough times to know its landmarks. One of the most significant was the service center eight miles south of Vero. Reaching it, I left the dead zone I'd been traveling in since Kissimmee, and my cell phone came to life.

A minute later my phone's message bell chimed. I dialed up voice mail and found two messages waiting for me.

The first message was from Rose. It had come in shortly after I hit the road. My wife was lying in bed, and called to say how much she loved me. I'd forgotten the powerful effect those three words had on me, and I listened to the message several times before erasing it.

The second message was from Jessie, and it came in right after my wife's. I could tell from the exuberance in my daughter's voice that she'd spoken to Rose and heard the news about our reconciliation. When Jessie was happy, she talked a mile a minute, and the voice mail cut her off in midsentence. I listened to her message a second time, then erased it as well.

As I neared the Stuart exit fifty minutes later I weighed calling my wife and daughter back. Both were early risers, and I couldn't think of anything I would have enjoyed more than hearing their cheerful voices to begin my day.

I decided against it. If I called them, my wife and daughter would hear the apprehension in my voice and know something was wrong. To be honest, I didn't want to hear it myself, for I just might realize how afraid I was of what lay ahead.

So I played Tom Petty amp; the Heartbreakers Damn the Torpedoeson my tape player. Normally, Petty's sardonic lyrics and hard-driving music cheered me up, and I would join the chorus while tapping my fingers on the wheel. But their magic was lost on me this time, and I stared at the rain-soaked highway and watched the miles clock by.

A few minutes after five I pulled into Tugboat Louie's. A beer delivery truck was parked by the front entrance, and I parked beside it. Kumar had once told me that he trusted his employees with everything but money and alcohol, which was a nice way of saying that he didn't trust them at all. I found him in the bar counting cases of beer.

“Good morning, Jack! How are you? Not used to seeing you up so early in the morning,” Kumar said. “How about a fresh cup of coffee?”

“That would be great,” I said.

“Can I interest you in something to eat?”

I shook my head. “I just came to pick something up.”

“Well, you have a good day.”

I went upstairs to my office. Taking out my keys, I unlocked the center drawer of my desk and opened it. The drawer contained my detective's badge, which the department had never asked me to return; a box of.380 copper-jacketed bullets; a pocket holster; and my favorite gun, a Colt 1908 Pocket Hammerless, the best concealment weapon in the world.

I took the gun out of the drawer and cleaned it. The Colt 1908 carried seven rounds and was magazine fed, with a European-style release at the back bottom corner of the grip. It sat easily in my right pants pocket without making a bulge. The gun had gone wherever I had for sixteen years. At times it had been the only thing standing between me and a killer. Not once had it let me down.

I fitted the Colt into the pocket holster, then slipped both into my right pants pocket. The holster had been handmade by an exLAPD detective named Robert Mika and was constructed of a moisture-resistant material that kept its interior bone-dry. As a result, the Colt never got stuck because of perspiration, allowing me to draw it in the blink of an eye.

I picked up the box of bullets. Buster was curled at my feet and had not moved a muscle. He'd never liked firearms and would have made a lousy hunting dog.

“Want to go outside?” I asked.

Buster didn't move. I got the hint and left without him.

I walked down the dock that ran alongside the bar. The sky was lightening, and a flock of seagulls circled lazily overhead. My destination was a hangarlike building where people paid to dry-dock their boats. The building was a hundred yards from the bar. The Colt felt good in my pocket, and I tried to remember why I'd stopped carrying it. Perhaps leaving the force had something to do with it. Or maybe I was afraid I'd use it unwisely, and permanently mess up my life.

Behind the dry-dock building was a clearing where Kumar's employees came during breaks to smoke cigarettes and talk. In the center of the clearing was a rusted garbage can filled with trash. Rummaging through the trash, I found an empty milk carton, tore off its top, and tossed a few rocks into it.

Printed on the milk carton's side was a photograph of a missing boy. His name was Mitchell Thompson, and he had dimples and a wonderfully engaging smile. He had last been seen in Boise, Idaho, over two years before.

On the other side of the milk carton was a picture of his abductor. I looked at the abductor's name to see if they were related. The abductor wasn't identified. He was just another nameless face who had stolen a child.

I put the carton on a tree stump and positioned it so the abductor's photo faced me. Just looking at him made my blood boil. I took ten giant steps back.

For several minutes I practiced drawing the Colt from its holster. The clearing was filled with buzzing mosquitoes, and I was constantly having to swat them away. They were a necessary distraction-there was never a perfect time or place to use a gun. It was all about adjusting.

Then I loaded my weapon and practiced shooting the carton. People think shooting a handgun is easy, but in reality there's nothing easy about it. I held the Colt with both hands in front of me and my knees slightly bent. It was called the Weaver position, considered the most efficient way to shoot a handgun. I pulled the trigger until my weapon was empty.

My aim was lousy. I'd never been a great shot, and time had only worsened my skills. For every bullet that hit the carton, two missed it completely.

I kept shooting until I was hitting the carton every other time.

Hearing a sharp rustling of leaves, I lowered my weapon so the barrel was aimed at the ground, then looked over my shoulder. Kumar entered the clearing.

“Jack, how can you breathe in here?” he asked.

The air was dense with gunpowder. I picked up the empty casings scattered on the ground and tossed them into the can. Only a handful of bullets remained in the box. I dropped them into my pocket and left the clearing with Kumar by my side. We walked down the dock toward the bar.

“What is wrong, Jack?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“A man does not practice shooting a gun unless something is wrong,” Kumar said. “Tell me what the problem is, and I will try to help you.”

The sun had popped over the horizon, and the new day had begun. I considered bringing Kumar into my confidence, then decided against it. The things I knew would only depress him. And there was nothing he could do to make them better.

“Who said I was practicing?” I said.

“Please don't play games with me,” Kumar said. “I went to my office to do some paperwork. I opened the window, and heard you firing your weapon. I counted over eighty shots. A man does not shoot a weapon that many times unless he's preparing for a gunfight. Are you planning to shoot someone?”

Kumar's words had a powerful effect on me, and I realized he'd hit the nail on the head. Paul Coffen, Neil Bash, and Jonny Perez were more than just murderers. They were my mortal enemies, and I would kill them if I had to, just as I suspected they'd kill me if the opportunity presented itself. And as any cop would tell you, the first rule of a gunfight was to bring a gun.

“Yes,” I said.

“Is this person a criminal?”

I nodded.

“Are you scared?” Kumar asked.

“I'd be lying if I said I wasn't,” I said.

We had reached the bar. I put my hand on the door, then turned to look into my friend's face. His eyes were open wide. In them, I saw my own fear. Fear was a gift if you listened to it, and I touched the warm gun resting in my pocket.

“I'll be okay,” I said.

“What if you are shot? Or killed?” Kumar asked.

“Better not to think that way,” I said.

“But what if you are?”

I hadn't weighed that option. Yet, it was an easy one to consider. I had nothing of value to pass on. If I died, all my earthly possessions would probably end up in a Dumpster. Except one.

“If something happens to me, I'd like you to take care of Buster,” I said.

“You would?”

“Yes. He likes you.”

Kumar acted as if he was going to cry. Instead, he threw his arms around me and held me tightly against his body.

“May almighty God watch over you,” he whispered in my ear.