The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(93)

“That’s part of it.”

“You ever watched someone bleed to death, Vonn?”

“Yes,” Vonn said proudly.

“Stupid question.”

“Anything else?” Vonn glared at Hank as if to say “Get him outta here.”

Clyde raised his hands in surrender and backed away. “Okay, okay, but I really want to leave for a year, to get away from all this. Please, Vonn.”

“I’ll think about it.”

—

In the van, Allie Pacheco removed his earphones and smiled at the technicians. He mumbled to himself, “Beautiful. ‘It’s called intimidation, Clyde. That’s the name of the game and that’s how I run things.’?”

The FedEx man suddenly found a way to start his van. He drove away just as Clyde and Hank were leaving the model home. Clyde noticed it but had no idea it was loaded with FBI.

Hank said nothing as he weaved through the construction maze. Traffic was blocked by a truck loaded with brick. In front of them the FedEx van was also waiting. Hank tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and said, “Wonder what FedEx is doing here. Nobody’s moved in yet.”

Clyde said, “I guess they’re everywhere.”

The Timex vibrated again. Pacheco was close by and saying, “Keep talking.”

Clyde said, “So, Hank, do you think I was wrong to say what I said to Vonn, about me not wanting to do the dirty work?”

“It wasn’t smart. Vonn despises weak people. You would have been better off saying nothing. You wanted to meet so you could offer to disappear. That was fine. But the chickenshit stuff doesn’t sit well with Vonn.”

“I was trying to make the point that I didn’t sign on to kill people.”

“No, you didn’t. But Vonn thought he saw something in you. So did I. Guess we were wrong.”

“And what was that? What did you think you saw?”

“A guy who might enjoy getting his hands dirty.”

“Do you?”

“Why don’t you shut up, Clyde? You’ve said enough for one day.”

And so have you, Allie thought as he smiled again.

Clyde drove away from Honey Grove and, as directed, returned to the Surfbreaker Hotel in Fort Walton Beach. He checked in with his secretary, made a phone call, and left. Using a rear door near a loading ramp, he walked out of the building and jumped into the rear seat of a gray SUV. Two FBI agents had the front. As they left the Surfbreaker, the driver said over his shoulder, “Nice work. Pacheco says you were marvelous. Nailed him.”

Clyde said nothing. He didn’t want to talk or be congratulated. He felt like a worm for ratting on his colleagues and he knew things would only get worse. He could not begin to contemplate one day walking into a crowded courtroom and narrating the story, for the benefit of a jury, of the killing of Hugo Hatch while Vonn Dubose looked on from the defense table.

He took off the watch and handed it to the agent in front of him. He said, “I’m taking a nap. Wake me when we get to Tallahassee.”

—

By 9:00 a.m. on Friday, Lacy had not heard from JoHelen and she was not answering the phone she’d used the night before. Lacy briefed Geismar and they were concerned. Using an office landline, Lacy called the circuit clerk’s office in Sterling and, after being passed around, was informed that Judge McDover was not in the courthouse that morning. She might possibly be presiding over in the town of Eckman. Since there was a chance JoHelen had gone to work, Lacy called the clerk’s office in Eckman, where a girl on the phone said yes, Her Honor was in the building, but not presiding. There was nothing on the docket.

After a few more dead ends, Lacy had no choice but to sit and wait. She returned a call from Gunther and had a pleasant chat. He had nothing planned for the weekend, other than the usual “pending deals,” and said he might pop down for dinner Saturday night. She promised to call back later.

—

JoHelen awoke to bright sunshine and a dead phone. The burner, the last one Cooley had given her, was out of juice and she’d left its charger at home. Using her cell phone, she called Claudia, and rather convincingly went through the upset-stomach routine. Claudia seemed somewhat convinced and mildly sympathetic. Fortunately, there was nothing on the docket that day that would require a court reporter. It was not a day off. JoHelen lived with a permanent backlog of trial transcripts to prepare.

She had to have that damned charger, which would necessitate a return home. She had closed the bar down at midnight. The only possible bedtime companion had been a forty-year-old truck driver with a scraggly beard that wiggled all the way down to his ample potbelly. She allowed him to buy her a drink but had not been remotely tempted to go further.

She checked out of the motel at nine and drove toward the beaches, an hour south and east. Along the way she repeatedly reminded herself to keep an eye on the rearview mirror, but she was not up to the cloak-and-dagger crap. She parked in her driveway with a knot in her stomach and told herself she would never be able to live in the house again. Every inch of her private space had been touched and examined by a man with bad intentions. Even if she changed the locks and doubled down on the security, she would never again relax there. Mr. Armstrong was pulling weeds near his front porch and apparently wanted to flirt some more. She charmed him over with a big smile and said, “Let’s have something to drink.” He entered the house with her and stood in the door as she disarmed the security. She went to her bedroom, checking every room along the way and talking nonstop, curious about Mrs. Armstrong’s shingles and all. She found the charger where she’d left it, on the counter of her bathroom. She plugged it into the burner and returned to the den.