Cut and Run

The greenish purple crept in from the edges, now nearly all he saw. He felt the cab door open. He heard the little guy straining with something. For just a flicker of a second Jimmy thought he saw a pretty little girl in the shotgun seat, silver tape around her eyes, a knotted rag in her mouth. But maybe that was just dreaming about his own kids.

Engulfed in sadness, drowning in his own blood, Jimmy Oyer succumbed to the sounds of Vince Gill on the four-hundred-watt stereo he’d paid for himself.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Larson swerved out of the way of some teenage trick-or-treaters as he drove the rental car around the bend in the road by the hotel’s golf course, ru

He’d picked up decent cell reception halfway across the bay. Neither Hope nor Tommy had answered their phones, leaving him pushing Tomelson’s charter boat to warp speed. Stomach acid bubbled in his throat. He saw himself as a murderous failure. He’d arrived with only noble intentions of saving his daughter, protecting Hope, carving out a future for them. Seeing himself as part of that future.

But this?

He pulled the car over and went the rest of the way on foot. Clearing the front corner, arriving at the hotel’s covered porch, he was met with bedlam.

He’d been gone a little shy of three hours. He returned to a different world, he realized.

Already a busy Halloween night, the emergency lights had brought the locals out like moths. Fifty or more had gathered, held back by the staff of college kids in their green golf shirts.

He found the dense Florida night air as suffocating as St. Louis in August. He tugged at his collar, only to realize it wasn’t the fabric constricting him. He strung his federal shield around his neck by the wallet’s string. It bounced against his chest. His throat tight, he cautioned himself not to give anything away. Practiced in the art of lying, the identity of a witness to protect, he crossed the porch, for the first time bringing attention to himself.

“You!” an older guy wearing a wrinkled khaki uniform called out. His khaki shirt was buttoned incorrectly, the collar opened beneath the loosened knot of black necktie.

He wore CHIEF on the pi

There were too many younger kids in the crowd. Spider-Man. Catwoman. Power Rangers. Larson swallowed dryly, knowing you didn’t drag the chief of police out of his house, along with what had to be every emergency vehicle for a few miles, for anything less than a crimes-against-persons felony.

Beyond the crowd, filling Gasparilla’s only access road, Larson saw bumper-to-bumper vehicles backed up more than fifty yards behind the stop sign at the crossroads. Among the trapped vehicles, a NEWS 7 step van stuck out, its ungainly ante

Sight of the news van told Larson he was at least an hour behind whatever had happened here.

Squinting at Larson’s shield, the chief said, “Come with me.” It was not an invitation.

“Vacationing?” the chief asked sarcastically, noting Larson’s Marshals Service shield.

From behind the registration desk, a pale, nervous woman in a hotel uniform caught Larson’s eye. She looked sick, and Larson quickly felt this way as well.

“What’s going on here?” Larson asked.

“I thought I was the one asking questions.” The chief made a half-assed effort to stop and shake hands while walking. He squeezed too hard.

“Floyd Waters,” the chief introduced himself. “You are…?”

“Visiting friends,” Larson said. “I saw the cruisers.”

The chief led the way.

Black-and-white photos hung on the hotel walls and spoke of another era. White dresses and wooden golf clubs. Children in knee socks and bow ties.

The chief turned left at the top of the stairs. “Where you out of?”

“ Washington.” Larson found the lie easy, he’d made it often enough. He had no desire to identify himself as FATF just now.

“Where do your friends live?”

“On the bay side. I’d rather leave them out of it.”

“I bet you would.”

The chief rudely pushed past one of his officers. Larson braced for the sight of her sprawled out on the floor. He lowered his eyes, unable to look.

“Medics stabilized the white guy and took him off island by ambulance. One in the leg. One in the lung.”

The white guy. The description echoed in Larson’s head: Tomelson.

The dead guy on the floor had pale Mediterranean skin. Clearly not purebred enough for Floyd Waters. He’d taken a bullet under the chin that would have killed him instantly. Tommy had either fired from the hip or from the floor.

“He say anything?” Larson asked. “The one that lived?”

“Unconscious when I seen him,” the chief answered.

The chief pointed a dull toe of a black shoe at Tomelson’s nine-millimeter Beretta, partially beneath the bed. He said, “That’s a 92FS. Military officers and federal law enforcement.” He looked up at Larson and said dramatically, “I’m going to ask this once and only once. Did you know this white guy?”

“Are you going to give me a name, or should I recognize his piece?”

The big man leaned in close, apparently thinking he might intimidate Larson.

The armoire doors hung open. Larson noticed the TV’s remote on the bed and then, to his surprise, a computer keyboard upside down on the carpet.

Larson sca

Had she been abducted? Fled? He felt his breathing quicken.

Larson needed to find a quick and believable way out of here. He thought the dead man on the floor to be the missing Markowitz guard. The man had hurried to the marina, barely an hour after Hope had checked in. Did the Romeros have someone on the staff of the hotel? Was there some other way they might have learned Hope had checked in?

His eyes returned to the keyboard, wondering what that had to do with anything.

“Room’s registered to a couple,” the chief said, studying a piece of paper he’d been handed by a patrolman. “Is this something a U.S. marshal might arrange?” He tried to engage Larson in a staring contest, but Larson wouldn’t give him that. “A marshal carrying a 92FS.”

“I carry a Glock myself,” Larson said. He patted his side, indicating the hidden weapon. “So does everyone on my squad.”

“And that squad is…?”

“Based in Washington.”

“The laundry bag contains a pair of women’s pants, size four.”

For playing into the stereotype, Waters didn’t miss much.

Larson said, “So where is she? If we’re looking at abduction-kidnapping-then I’m required to notify the Bureau… as are your guys.” It was the only card he could think to play, the threat of federal involvement. He hoped it might buy him an invitation to leave without further questioning.

The chief studied Larson a moment with an unwavering eye. Judging by his breath, the man had been party to a few nightcaps earlier in the evening. “Who’d you say your friends were?”

Larson hadn’t said. “The Kempers. They’ve got a pair of beautiful daughters,” Larson added. “Both married, but things change. I try to keep my toe in the door.”