24 Hours

  “I’m dead,” she said in a toneless voice.

  “No, you’re not. Hang with me, Cheryl.”

  She covered her eyes with a shaking hand. Fear and exhaustion had brought her to the point of despair. Will could almost read her mind. In some corner of her brain she was thinking she should pick up the phone and warn Hickey. That if she told him what Will was up to, he might forgive her and call the whole thing off before everything came apart.

  “Cheryl, you’ve got to think straight right now. I’m going to do everything I can to help you. If you somehow wind up in police custody, I’ll testify on your behalf. I swear it. But you can’t save Joe. It’s gone past that. I know you still feel loyalty to him. But if you try to warn him, I’ll have no choice but to tell him everything you’ve told me. He’ll know I could only have gotten it from you.”

  Her face closed into a bitter mask, like the face of a woman from some impoverished Appalachian hollow. “I’ll tell him you tortured it out of me with those goddamn drugs.”

  “If anything spooks Joe now, he’ll tell Huey to kill Abby, and then he’ll run. But you won’t get out of this room. The only place you’ll go will be death row in Parchman. You’ll spend ten years rotting there while you go through all your appeals. Shitty food, no drugs, no life. And then—”

  “Shut up, okay? Just shut up!” Tears welled in her red-rimmed eyes. “I see I got no place to go. I never have.”

  “But you do. If you can keep it together for another hour, you’ll get enough money to become anybody you want to be. To get free and clear for the first time in your life.”

  Cheryl turned and walked back into the bedroom. Before she was out of earshot, Will heard her say, “Nobody’s free and clear, Doc. Nobody.”

  Dr. McDill accepted the magnifying glass that Special Agent-in-Charge Zwick offered him and leaned down over the photograph on the desk. It was a black-and-white, high-resolution digital still, captured from videotape shot by a security camera at the Beau Rivage Casino on the previous day. A time/date stamp in the corner read: 16-22:21. 4:22 in the afternoon. That particular camera had been covering one of the blackjack tables at the time. The shooting angle was downward from behind the dealer, which yielded a perfect shot of the blonde in the slinky black dress standing over the king of diamonds and six of hearts.

  “Is it her?” Zwick asked.

  “No doubt about it.”

  McDill put down the magnifying glass and looked back at his wife, who was sitting on Zwick’s sofa with her legs close together. The emotions running through him were intense enough to make his eyes sting. “I was right,” he said. “It’s happening again. Right this minute, another family is going through the same hell we did.” He walked over to Margaret, sat beside her, and took her hand. “We did the right thing. Thank you for coming with me. I know how difficult it was.”

  She looked as shell-shocked as a war refugee. He needed to get her home.

  “Has Agent Chalmers seen that picture?” he asked. McDill hadn’t seen Chalmers in the past couple of hours. There were so many people moving in and out of the office now that it was hard to keep up with anybody.

  “Chalmers is in the field,” Zwick replied. He was already behind his desk, dialing the telephone.

  “Oh my God,” McDill cried, slapping his forehead like one of the Three Stooges.

  “What is it?” Zwick pressed the phone to his chest.

  “I’m scheduled to do a triple bypass in a half hour. My surgical team is probably calling the police right now.”

  “Would you like an agent to drive you to the hospital? We can have a female agent take Mrs. McDill home.”

  “I can’t operate. I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. May I use your phone?”

  “Of course. There’s another line just outside.”

  As McDill approached the door, a young woman burst into the room.

  Zwick glared at her. “I assume you have a good reason for this interruption, Agent Perry?”

  The female agent nodded, her eyes flashing with excitement. “There’s a man on the main line asking for the Special Agent-in-Charge.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Harley Ferris.”

  Zwick turned up his palms. “Who the hell is Harley Ferris?”

  “The president of CellStar. And he says he’s got to talk to the SAC about a kidnapping-in-progress.”

  The blood drained from Zwick’s face.

  Huey Cotton was sitting on the porch steps of the cabin, using the point of his knife to put the finishing touches on his carving. When his cell phone rang, he put down the cedar and picked up the phone.

  “Joey?”

  “How you feeling, boy?”

  “Okay.” Huey looked past the old Rambler to the line of trees. It stayed dark longer in the woods. He liked the way the light pushed down through the limbs in arrow-straight shafts, the way it did in churches. “I guess.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I heard something a minute ago.”

  “What was it?”

  “A motor.”

  “Where? In the woods?”

  “In the sky. I think it was a helicopter.”

  Hickey said nothing for a few moments. Then, “It’s probably the Forest Service. You just heard it once?”

  “No. Back and forth, like a buzzard circling.”

  “Is that right. Well . . . you remember the backup plan we talked about?”

  Huey reached down and picked a roly-poly from the dirt below the bottom step, delighting in the way its gray segmented body curled up in the palm of his hand. “I remember.”

  “It’s time to start thinking about that.”

  He felt a twinge of fear. “Right this red-hot minute?”

  “Not quite. But you be ready. I’ll call you.”

  “Okay.”

  “How’s the kid?”

  “She’s nice. Real nice.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Is she still asleep?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Maybe you better wake her up.”

  “Okay.” Huey heard the gurgling sound of the commode from inside. “She already woke up.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you soon. Stay ready. And keep listening for that helicopter.”

  “I will. Are there bad people up in the sky?”

  “Nobody to worry about. You just get ready.”

  “Okay.” Huey hit END, then set the roly-poly carefully on the ground and stood to the accompaniment of creaking steps and knee cartilage. When he turned, he saw Abby standing in the cabin door. Her face was pale, her eyes crusted with sleep.

  “I don’t feel good,” she said.

  Huey’s face felt hot. “What’s the matter?”

  “My head hurts. And my tootie feels funny.”

  Confusion and fear blurred his vision. “Your what?”

  “Where I tee-tee. It feels funny. Something’s not right.”

  “What should we do?”

  “I need my mom. I think I need my shot.”

  Huey cringed at the memory of last night’s terrifying injection scene. “Soon,” he promised. “It won’t be long now.”

  SIXTEEN

  Karen stood in the kitchen with the cordless phone in her hand, listening to “hold” music that sounded like George Winston on sleeping pills. She was dressed in a navy Liz Claiborne skirt suit with a cream blouse, and her face was made up to cover the bruises she’d sustained during the night. At Hickey’s insistence, she had even curled her hair. She had the feeling he was molding her to fit some ridiculous idea he had of the suburban yuppie wife. But no makeup was going to hide the hunted look in her eyes.

  “Still on hold?” Hickey asked. He was sitting at the kitchen table, his sutured leg propped on its tile surface.

  “Gray’s getting something from his car.”

  Gray Davidson was one of the founding partners of Klein Davidson, an independent brokerage firm that handled most of the money in the wealthy suburbs north of Jackson. Karen
and Will went to parties at Davidson’s home two or three times a year.

  “You’re not going to listen in?” she asked.

  Hickey shook his head. “Just stick to the script.”

  “Karen?” said a male voice. “It’s Gray. Sorry you had to wait.”

  “That’s all right. I know it’s early. Did you get a call from Will a few minutes ago?”

  “Did I ever. Two hundred grand for a sculpture. That’s kind of steep, even for Will.”

  “It’s a very important piece. But I should have gone to that convention with him. I’d have kept him at the outlet mall, instead of on his little art hunts.”

  When Davidson spoke again, his voice changed subtly. “Do you feel all right with this, Karen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it seems odd, is all. I don’t like that this guy selling the sculpture is in such a hurry for his money. Will says it’s a competitive bidding situation. A New York art dealer discovered the piece three days ago in a workshop at an estate sale. He doesn’t think Walter Anderson is any great shakes, so he took Will’s bid, but he claims he’s flying back to New York today and he wants cash.”

  “That sounds like an art dealer.”

  “But why can’t we just wire the money to his account? Why does he want cash?”

  “Art dealers are crazy, Gray. They carry sacks of cash all over the place. Didn’t you know that?”

  “All I know is that most of them are gay and all of them are crooked. There’s something else. Three weeks ago, Will got nervous about the market. He sold some stock and transferred the money to various banks. He put a hundred and fifty thousand into Magnolia Federal. He could go to any branch in the state and withdraw most of the two hundred thousand he needs. Including Biloxi.”

  Karen faltered for a moment, confused. Will hadn’t mentioned anything about this. “Did you tell him that?”

  “Yes. He said he put the money into CDs, so there would be penalties for an early cashout. He’s got two hundred thousand liquid here in his tax-free instruments trust account. No penalty for spending that.”

  “I’m sure that’s it.”

  “I guess so.” Davidson waited for her to say something more. When she didn’t, he said, “I guess I just hate seeing that much money leave my computer in a single morning.”

  She forced herself to laugh. “Now, that I believe. I’ll be down to sign for it in half an hour.”

  “Look forward to seeing you. You bringing Abby?”

  She closed her eyes. Davidson was a world-class schmoozer; he knew the names of every child of every client, and it showed in his company’s annual profits.

  “Abby’s with Will’s mother today, in the Delta.”

  “I know she loves that. Sorry I’ll miss her. Come on down.”

  “Bye.” Karen hung up.

  Hickey’s chair creaked as he slid his leg off the table. “What was that part in the middle?”

  “What?”

  “When you said, ‘What do you mean?’”

  “He asked if I was all right with Will spending that much money.”

  “But then you said, ‘Did you tell him that?’”

  For some reason, Karen didn’t want to mention the money in Magnolia Federal. “He said it was odd, the seller wanting cash.”

  “Then you said, ‘I’m sure that’s it.’ What was that?”

  When she hesitated, Hickey stepped forward and took hold of her arm. “What was it?”

  “He said the guy was probably only going to report half the sale price to the IRS. That’s why he wanted cash.”

  Hickey stared coldly at her as he analyzed her explanation. The levity he’d displayed before was gone. She suddenly wished she had Will’s pistol, but Hickey was wearing it in the small of his back.

  “Get your purse,” he said.

  She took her purse from the counter, then opened the refrigerator.

  “You don’t have time for breakfast.”

  She took two vials of insulin and some syringes from the top shelf and put them in her purse. “I want this with me in case Abby’s in trouble. You have a problem with that?”

  A strange light flickered in Hickey’s eyes. “No problem. I told you nobody was going to die today.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Let’s go. We’ll take the Expedition.”

  Karen picked up her keys and led the way through the pantry and laundry room to the garage. Hickey limped after her. His leg was probably burning like fire. She hoped it was infected.

  She hit the UNLOCK button on her key ring, then the garage door opener on the wall. She had the Expedition cranked and in gear by the time Hickey got into the passenger seat. The pneumatic suspension hummed as it adjusted to their weight, and as soon as the garage door retracted to sufficient height, she started backing up.

  “Easy,” Hickey said, laying a hand on her arm. “You’re going to have a wreck before we even hit the interstate.”

  As Karen pulled her arm away, Stephanie Morgan’s white Lexus crested the top of the hill and blocked her access to the drive. She hit the brakes with a screech.

  “Shit.”

  “Who is it?” Hickey was already reaching for the gun.

  Karen grabbed his wrist. “It’s Stephanie Morgan, the same woman as yesterday.”

  “What does she want now?”

  “Something about the flower show, I’m sure. I’ll get rid of her.”

  “You do that.” He rolled down his window so that he could hear whatever transpired.

  Karen got out and started toward the Lexus. Stephanie was already walking toward her, dressed more like a woman going to a cocktail party than to a weekend of volunteer work.

  “I just came from the Coliseum,” she said in a tart voice. “I didn’t call because I knew you’d try to blow me off.”

  “What is it, Stephanie?”

  “The same as yesterday! Only worse. The cattle show people swore they’d be out by this morning and that the whole place would be cleaned up by noon.”

  “And?” Karen looked past her, trying to see if either of her kids were in the car. The Lexus looked empty.

  “And some redneck has got a pen of calves sitting in the middle of the Coliseum floor. There’s hay and cow manure all over the place!”

  “Calm down, Steph. It can’t be that bad.”

  “There’s cow shit all over the floor, Karen. I don’t think that’s going to work wonders for a flower show. You’ve got to come down and light a fire under those people. They just won’t take me seriously.”

  Karen found that easy to believe. “I can’t come yet, Stephanie. My cousin’s in the car, and he’s got a plane to catch. I’ll get there as soon as I can. You’ll just have to handle it until then.”

  “I can’t handle it. I’m maxed out on Zoloft, and even that’s not doing any good. Oh, and I left out the best part. The moving company we contracted to bring in the exhibit tables double-booked this weekend. We have no tables, Karen. No tables.”

  Karen tried to look concerned, but she could hardly believe that yesterday she would have given a damn about exhibit tables, flowers, or even cow shit. She had to get Stephanie Morgan off her property and out of harm’s way.

  “Listen to me, Steph. Get on the phone and call the football coach at Jackson Academy. His name’s Jim Rizzi. Tell him you’ve got a summer project for his football team and you’ll pay real money. Tell him to get as many players he can down to the convention center with a couple of pickup trucks. Those high school boys can move those tables in half the time it would take a moving company. Okay?”

  Stephanie seemed shocked by the simplicity of this solution. “Karen, that’s fantastic. But I don’t know Rizzi at all. And I’m no good at asking people stuff like that. And what about the cows?”

  Karen wanted to scream, Who takes you to the bathroom and wipes your behind for you, Stephanie? But the sound of the Expedition’s door stopped her cold. She turned and saw Hickey walking toward t
hem, a concerned look on his face.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Oh, hello again, Mr. Hickey,” Stephanie said with a Teflon smile. “I’m sorry to hold you up.”

  “Call me Joe, please.”

  Karen interposed herself between them. “I told her we have to get right to the airport.”

  Hickey looked puzzled; then he smiled. “We are late for my flight. They make you check in so early now.”

  Stephanie’s eyes went wide. “I’ve got it! I can run you out to the airport. That way Karen can get right over to the Colisseum. Things are absolutely falling apart over there. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “No,” Karen said quickly. “Joe and I still have some talking to do. The estate things. I told you last night. It can’t wait.”

  Hickey looked amused by Karen’s fabrication, but Stephanie’s face darkened, and her voice lost its sorority-girl veneer.

  “You’re the chairman of this show, Karen. You volunteered for it. That means it’s your job to—to make sure . . .”

  Karen followed her gaze. Stephanie was staring at the right leg of Hickey’s khakis. A bright-red bloodstain ran from above the knee down to his ankle. There was blood on his Top-Siders as well. Some of the stitches must have broken loose.

  “What happened to you?” Stephanie asked.

  Hickey looked down at his leg.

  “Joe hurt himself,” Karen said quickly. “Doing some work for me.”

  “That looks serious.”

  “It’s not, really,” Karen said.

  Hickey was watching Stephanie, his dark eyes glittering. Karen took her by the arm and started walking her back toward the Lexus.

  “I’ll get down there as soon as I can, Steph. You go back and slap those people into shape. And call Coach Rizzi about the tables. Okay?”

  Stephanie looked back over her shoulder. “Is your cousin all right? He looks . . .” She slowed down and looked into Karen’s eyes. Something was stirring in her Zoloft-padded brain. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Karen pushed her toward the car, but she refused to be pushed.