The Miracle Strip (5 page)

“That's some special agent, visiting from South Florida and working with Nailor. I think her name is Carla Terrance. Don't be fooled by her looks. She asked some of the questions last night at the station. She's a real ball-buster. I think she was pissed 'cause Nailor got her out of bed or something.”

I took another hit of tequila and passed the bottle back.

“You think they got a thing or what?” I asked. Stupid question, but we all get stupid when we drink. Denise wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and laughed.

“I doubt it,” she answered. “Why? You interested?”

“Hey, watch your mouth,” I said, taking a swipe at her head. “You know he ain't my type. Speaking of types,” I said, switching the subject, “what's with you and Frankie? Is this serious?”

Denise looked embarrassed. “I don't know, Sierra. There's something about him.”

I laughed. “Yeah, like what? He has to tattoo his name on his damn arm to remember who he is? Is that what turns you on?”

Denise didn't like that. “He was drunk that night, Sierra. He wishes he hadn't done it, too.” She paused and took another swig. I didn't know about her, but I was feeling a distinct buzz. “All I know is, he ain't like Leon. He's kind and gentle to me. And he loves Arlo.”

At the mention of Arlo's name, Denise started to cry. For a minute she sat there, drinking and crying. There was something about Denise, something childlike and vulnerable. It made you want to help her, make it all better. Maybe Frankie saw that in her, I sure hoped so, 'cause girls like Denise, with their wide-open hearts, get stomped on all the time. I hoped Frankie treated her right and kept her away from his friends. I hoped it didn't last long, either. That kind of life was not the thing for someone like Denise. Maybe she thought she could tame him, but she was wrong. I've been down that road too many times to think she'd be his magic charm.

“Arlo's gone, Sierra,” Denise wailed. Suddenly she was drunk. “He's never coming back. Only one ever really loved me, and he's gone.” She leaned her head against my shoulder, and maybe that's what saved her, because as she moved a bullet tore through the back window of her VW, shattering the glass and scaring the living shit out of me.

Denise screamed and I pulled her roughly to the ground. Gravel bit into my knees and the palms of my hands as I crawled around to the other side of the car. The shot had come from the direction of Thomas Drive. Denise was still screaming.

“Shut up, Denise,” I hissed. “Your mouth makes you a target.”

I poked my head up cautiously. A long white sedan with tinted windows blocked the front entrance of the club. The left rear window was lowered several inches. I pulled my head down quickly. Another shot was fired and went wide. Whoever was shooting was having trouble finding us. Denise was shaking like a leaf.

“Okay,” I whispered, looking behind us at my black Trans Am. “Here's the deal. We're going to stay low, crawl to my car, and try and get the hell out of here.”

“How?” Denise wailed.

“We'll drive out the exit.”

Denise didn't look so sure. “I think I'm gonna be sick,” she moaned.

“Suit yourself,” I whispered. “Puke and get your brains blown out or put your ass in gear and get out alive. It makes no nevermind to me.”

Denise started moving with me right behind her. I heard another bullet ping off something a few feet away from where we'd been. We reached the car and I crawled across the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. Denise climbed in behind me.

We sat, panting, while I fumbled for my keys. The side door to the Tiffany suddenly flung wide and Bruno emerged out into the driveway. He was holding a shotgun.

“Hey!” he yelled, the sound echoing off the stucco walls of the Tiffany. “What the fuck are you doing?” He was using the door as a shield, aiming the gun around the side at the white sedan. He fired and the sedan took off. As the car sped away, I saw something—a gray paw, a white-and-black muzzle—at the window. Arlo. I started my car and raced out the exit drive.

“Sierra!” Denise screamed. “What are you doing?” I gunned the accelerator and we bounced the curb and took off down Thomas Drive. Ahead of me, the white car shot down a side street, past the Signal Hill Golf Course, headed east through the back streets and away from the beach.

“I thought I saw something. Besides, you think I'm gonna let some chickenshit shoot at me and then run?” Denise was grabbing for anything to hold on to.

“Yes. I do. That's called saving our asses!” she yelled. “This is called suicide.”

She was right. If this was Denise's ex-husband, or one of his associates, then I was insane to chase him. On the other hand, what if Arlo was in that car? All right, so I wasn't thinking clearly. I didn't have a plan for what we'd do if it was Arlo, but at that moment, nothing was going to stop me from chasing that car.

We played tag, whipping around cars, ignoring red lights, and tearing toward Hathaway Bridge, the bridge that separates Panama City Beach from Panama City. The white car tore past the state patrol station and Gulf Coast Community College. The driver tried to lose me when he hit Harrison Avenue. He suddenly made a series of turns, whipping through the residential and business section of Panama City. Denise was yelling at me, but I didn't pay attention. It was me and the Trans Am, chirping tires, taking corners too tight, and making it anyway. The car cut past Patterson Elementary School in an effort to avoid the police station and the fairgrounds. Whoever was driving sure knew his way around PC. We came out in Parker, zooming down Business 98 and suddenly crossing Dupont Bridge.

We were flying out 98, doing in excess of eighty-five miles per hour. We'd passed Tyndall Air Force Base and were now headed for Mexico Beach. I couldn't believe a cop hadn't spotted us. The road was flat, surrounded on either side by scrubby pines. At four in the morning there isn't much traffic between the air force base and Mexico Beach. We passed a couple of cars like they were standing still. Denise had a death grip on the sides of her seat.

“Sierra, let them go. If it's Leon's people, you don't want to mess with them.”

“I can't,” I answered, watching the road up ahead. The adrenaline pumping through me had long since chased out the tequila buzz. “Denise, I think Arlo's in there.”

Denise leaned forward, peering at the car in front of us. “Arlo? Oh no!”

We were coming up on a big truck, filled with pine logs and moving slowly. The white car whipped around it. I edged up behind the truck and pulled out. I was almost able to see the rear plate. The white car pulled in front of the truck and jammed on its brakes. The truck driver reacted, not seeing me, and pulled sharply to the left. We were airborne before I could blink. The last thing I heard was Denise screaming.

Eight

Someone was singing, softly, under her breath, but I could make out the words.

We are standing outside and we're hungry as sin.

Won't you open your doors up and welcome us in.

Hallelujah, I'm a bum. Hallelujah, bum again.

Hallelujah, give us a handout to revive us again.

Someone shifted a chair. There was the sound of metal on metal. My eyes were closed, but I could feel bright white light seeping through.

“Come on, Catfish,” the voice whispered. “Wake up. I brought someone to see you.”

There was a faint whimper, then a cold wet nose pushed at my fingers. Fluffy. I struggled to wake up, to pull my eyelids open. It felt like moving steel doors, but slowly I opened my eyes, wanting to cover them with my hand but unable to move.

“Ah, there you are.” I heard a strong, familiar, satisfied voice. A substantial form hovered over me. Pat.

“Pat,” I whispered through cracked lips. “Fluffy?”

Fluffy's small body wiggled next to me, licking my neck and chin. Where the hell was I, and what was my friend Pat doing here?

“Fluffy insisted.” Pat's gruff voice broke the silence. “I didn't have the heart to leave her home, not after all she's been through.” She sounded irritated.

“What's going on?” I tried to remember and found I couldn't.

“According to the paper, which is the only way I knew anything, you were driving—racing, actually—and wrecked your car. Two other people were injured, your passenger and a truck driver. The truck driver—” She stopped, apparently thinking she'd said enough.

My eyes slowly brought Pat into focus. Her brilliant white hair was stark against her tanned, lined skin, and her bright blue eyes were clouded with concern. Pat was a charter fishing boat captain, my landlady, and my friend. I think she looked at me like the daughter she never had, and that suited me fine at this particular moment. Any other time, we'd be arguing. I usually tried to reassure her that I was a competent adult while she debated the point. Right now she'd be winning.

Things began coming back to me like outtakes from a bad movie. I looked around and confirmed that I'd landed myself in the hospital. Then I looked down at my body, checking to make sure I'd arrived all in one piece. There was a bandage on my right forearm and I hurt all over, but nothing was missing, everything worked.

“Pat,” I said, struggling to sit up, “I wasn't racing. The people in the car I was chasing had tried to shoot me and Denise. They pulled in front of the truck and slammed on their brakes. The truck driver didn't see me when he swerved to avoid hitting their car.” Pat was staring at me, a concerned look on her face. I couldn't tell her about Arlo. What if she got responsible on me and decided to tell the cops?

“The paper didn't say anything about a white car. It said you were trying to pass a truck and lost control of your car.” Pat didn't believe in sugar-coating life.

“Ask Denise,” I protested. “Ask the truck driver.” Fluffy sensed my anxiety and started to growl deep in her throat. Pat wiped her weathered hands on her faded jeans and looked uncomfortable.

“I can't ask the truck driver, Catfish, he's in a coma and they don't know if he'll make it.” My heart started beating in my throat. I had to get out of here.

“What about Denise? How is she?”

Pat frowned. “The girl riding with you?”

I nodded.

“She was treated and released, just cuts and bruises.” Good, I thought, then she'll be here soon and we'll get this taken care of.

Pat stood up and grabbed an oversized tote bag. She looked worn out. Her gnarled fingers were red and swollen and she moved slowly. I couldn't see how she kept taking people out fishing five days a week. She had a mate, but still, it was a demanding job.

“Pat, how long have I been here?”

She frowned. “Two days,” she answered. “You had a concussion or maybe a hairline fracture. They said when the swelling went down, you'd wake up.”

“Well, I've gotta get out of here, so where did they put my clothes?” I was trying to swing my feet over the side of the bed when she gently pushed me back. My head exploded and sparks of light flashed around me. I was in agony.

“You're not going anywhere until they release you.” Pat's no-nonsense voice cut through my headache. “Your clothes were a mess, what's left of them. I'll bring you fresh ones tomorrow. Now,” she said, smoothing the covers, “I need to get Fluffy out of here before someone comes in and catches us.” She scooped Fluffy out of the covers and plopped her unceremoniously into the tote bag. Fluffy growled once, then subsided. She knew the score.

“Pat, really,” I began, “someone did try to shoot at us. I didn't want them to get away.” My voice sounded like a bullfrog croaking and my body was on fire. Pat sat on the edge of my bed and took my hand in hers.

“Catfish, even if that were true, you almost killed yourself and two others.” She shook her head, worry lines etched around her eyes. “You're in a lot of trouble. If that truck driver dies, you won't be coming home from the hospital. You'll be headed straight to jail.”

My brain was banging against my skull, trying to get out, and I couldn't pull myself together. What was going on, and how had I landed myself in such a fix?

As if to echo my thoughts, the heavy door to the room creaked slowly open. It was my worst personal nightmare. Detective Nailor and his friend Special Agent Carla Terrance stood framed by the doorway and they didn't look happy.

Pat stood up abruptly, jiggling the bed and sending my headache racing through my body. She was gone before I could say good-bye, but on her way past the two detectives, I heard Fluffy growl.

I didn't need a mirror to know I looked like hell. I could see my reflection in Detective Nailor's eyes. He looked shocked. Carla Terrance was staring at me like I was some vaguely interesting yet disgusting lab specimen.

“Ms. Lavotini,” Nailor began, his tone all business, “this is Special Agent Terrance.”

I nodded. She didn't move, just continued to stare at me.

“We have some questions we'd like to ask about your accident,” he said, going again for his suit coat pocket and the notepad.

“I thought you were homicide,” I said.

“Let's say I'm interested,” he answered. “Now, why don't you tell me what happened?” He wandered in closer, pulling a chair up by the bed. Terrance hadn't moved from the doorway and she hadn't stopped staring.

I went over it all, everything I could remember. I might as well have told it to the wall, because Nailor didn't say a word.

“You can ask Denise,” I said, aware that my voice sounded thin and weak. “You can ask Bruno, at the club.”

Nailor glanced over at Terrance. “We've got someone interviewing Bruno,” he said, “but there's a little problem with your friend Denise.” They were both looking at me now, like I somehow knew something that I hadn't told them. Maybe I was being paranoid.