Midnight Rambler

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I didn't shoot Coffen as he burst through the glass. If I killed him he wouldn't be able to tell me where Melinda was being held, and that was all I cared about right now.

Going to the window, I kicked out the broken glass with my shoe. Coffen was staggering across the parking lot with hideous gashes in his black T-shirt and pants. He wasn't moving very fast, and I didn't anticipate any trouble running him down.

I jumped through the broken window and landed in a standing position. The fall was short, but it made my right knee sing with pain. Coffen was fifty feet away, and I watched him pull a key ring from his pocket as he staggered toward his Mercedes.

Linderman appeared in the broken window above me.

“He's getting away! Take him out!”

I aimed at Coffen's legs and fired. A large hole appeared in the Mercedes's gas tank, and gasoline began pouring out. Four more shots produced the same results. I missed Coffen but kept hitting his expensive sports car.

Coffen got into his car and backed out of his space. Instead of driving toward the exit, he went in reverse and plowed through a thick hibiscus hedge. Reaching the street, he spun the wheel until he was facing Las Olas.

I fired my last two bullets at the gas tank. The Mercedes began to make loud popping noises, followed by a muffled explosion. Within seconds the vehicle became engulfed in bright orange flames.

“Way to go!” Linderman shouted.

I limped toward the burning vehicle while reloading. The flames were intense, and I cautiously approached the driver's door and found it wide open. Coffen had escaped.

My eyes found his bloody trail. It crossed the street and went straight down the sidewalk of Las Olas. Linderman came out of the building and staggered toward me.

“Where's Coffen?”

I pointed down the sidewalk. Something wet touched my wrist, and I looked down to see Buster pinned by my leg.

“Can't you go anywhere without that dog?” Linderman asked.

“No,” I said.

We limped down the sidewalk in pursuit. It was early, and most of the stores along Las Olas were closed. Halfway down the block I spotted Coffen hanging on to a lamppost. In his damaged hand was a cell phone, into which he was frantically punching numbers. I knew what he was doing. He was calling Jonny Perez to tell him to kill Melinda.

“Drop the phone!” I shouted.

Coffen saw me and pushed himself off the post. The life was draining from his face, and his eyes were out of focus. Throwing himself across the sidewalk, he disappeared inside a hotel restaurant.

“Get him,” I told my dog.

Buster took off running.

I was moving faster than Linderman and hurried ahead. The restaurant Coffen had gone into was part of the Riverview Hotel, a local landmark. I walked through the main dining area to find several patrons hiding beneath tables.

“Stay down,” I said.

I passed through the restaurant into the hotel lobby on the other side of the building, an airy room decorated with elegant rattan furniture and ceiling fans. There, Coffen's bloody trail mysteriously stopped.

“Buster! Here boy!” I called out.

I heard my dog's familiar yip. The hotel's entrance was on a backstreet, and I pushed open a swinging door with my gun and went outside.

Coffen stood by the valet stand, trying to punch numbers into his phone while kicking at my dog. His broken fingers were making this especially hard for him. I leveled the Colt at his chest.

“Drop the phone,” I said.

“You're not a cop. You can't tell me what to do,” he said.

He kept pressing numbers into the phone. Even Buster nipping at his ankles didn't seem to faze him.

“I'm giving you one more chance,” I said.

He raised the phone triumphantly to his face. His call had gone through.

“Go fuck yourself,” he said.

I fired the Colt three times. Coffen spun away from the valet stand, clutching his chest. The phone slipped from his hand and clattered to the pavement. He tried to speak, but instead of words, blood spilled from his mouth. He crumpled to the pavement.

I retrieved his cell phone and held it to my ear. It had gone dead. I attempted to power it up and retrieve the number he'd just dialed. The phone did not respond.

“Shit,” I said.

Linderman came out of the hotel and said something. When I didn't reply, he knelt down and checked Coffen for a pulse. It was strictly a formality, and he looked up at me.

“He's dead. Did his call go through?”

“No,” I said.

In the distance I could hear wailing sirens. I couldn't imagine how I was going to explain this to the police. Linderman stood up.

“Give me the phone,” he said.

I handed him the damaged phone.

“Let me deal with the police,” he said.

“Deal with them how?”

“I'll tell them I shot Coffen. It will take the heat off you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. It will make everything easier.”

I suddenly felt light-headed. I had never shot an unarmed man before. It was a strange feeling, and I pointed at the doors leading inside.

“I'll be in there if you need me,” I said.

The hotel lobby was filled with frightened guests and wide-eyed staff. I sat on a creaky rattan couch with Buster glued to my side. A white-jacketed waiter served me a cup of coffee without being asked. I thanked him and sucked it down.

The coffee brought me back to life. The couch faced a flat-screen, high-definition TV, the lobby's only nod to modernization. CNN was on, broadcasting live from Starke Prison. I stared at the screen and nearly got sick.

Simon Skell had been released.

Starke was in a rural area, the facility surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. A stretch limousine came through the front gates, followed by several news crews covering the event. There was a light drizzle, and the caravan inched down a muddy road to a field where a helicopter sat.

The limo stopped, and four figures piled out. Leonard Snook, Lorna Sue Mutter, Chase Winters, and Skell. Skell was dressed in jeans, an Old Navy sweatshirt, and white tennis sneakers. Everyone else wore raincoats.

The group climbed into the waiting chopper, and the door closed. Skell's face appeared in the side window, and he tugged on his paintbrush beard.

The chopper went airborne and briefly hovered in the gray sky.

A second chopper appeared and followed Skell's chopper. I guessed this chopper contained Scott Saunders and the other FBI agents tailing Skell.

As the choppers faded from view an icy finger ran down my spine. The FBI wasn't going to stop Skell. Skell had been on the FBI's radar for three years, and they hadn't gotten close. They didn't understand what made him tick. His motivation was a crazy song, one I knew by heart. Only I could stop him.

I grabbed Buster and went outside. Coffen lay beneath a white sheet. Two uniformed cops stood behind him, making small talk. They paid no attention to me.

Linderman stood by the valet stand, talking on his cell phone. In his face I saw something that resembled hope. He folded his phone and approached me.

“Tell me you've got good news,” I said.

He nodded enthusiastically.

“Theis just cracked Coffen's computer,” he said.