Daylight (Atlee Pine #3)(95)

She knew this was pretty much impossible under the circumstances.

Pine felt the pulse at his neck and looked down at the ugly, bleeding wound in his torso. She put her hand over the wound to stop the flow of blood, but that wasn’t going to work since he had holes in front and back. And he was no doubt hemorrhaging internally.

She eyed the pursuers behind her. They were still hunkered down apparently. She fired four more shots in their direction to keep them there.

She called 911 again, explained the situation, and put her phone away. As she looked down at Vincenzo, she knew they were never going to make it in time.

He seemed to understand this because he gripped her arm even more tightly and his eyes became even more panicked.

“I’m here, Tony. Help is on the way.”

He shuddered and then shook his head stubbornly, now clearly aware that his death was near. He motioned for her to bend closer. She did so.

“T-tell my mom that I-I love h-her.”

“Just hang in there, okay?”

She didn’t want to give him false hope, but she didn’t know what else to say. And what did any words really matter at this point?

The next sounds Pine heard were sirens cutting through the dark.

She looked back and saw the light dots swiftly moving to the street. They had evidently heard the sounds, too, and were beating a hasty retreat.

When she looked back down at Vincenzo another lightning burst revealed his face clearly.

He was dead.

She closed his eyes, rose, and sprinted toward the street.

Pine arrived there in time to see the men climb into the black SUV farther down the road and speed off in her direction. She ducked down behind a garbage can before it got close. As the vehicle raced past her she saw the person in the back seat.

Lindsey Axilrod was in there, her face heavily bruised where Pine had walloped her, and she was holding up her bloody hand. They had found and rescued her.

The SUV turned off and was gone.

Thirty seconds later she ducked behind the garbage can once more as police cars shot past her and pulled in down the street at Vincenzo’s beach house. Pine jogged in that direction, but then broke off and went to the parking lot next to the beach, climbed into her car, and pulled out. She kept her headlights off and didn’t gun the engine until she was two streets away.

She looked down and saw Vincenzo’s blood on her. Everything had happened so fast. She had gone from searching the boxes in the attic to—

Shit.

She pulled into a convenience store, slid into a parking space, and put the car in park. She put her hand in her pocket and took out the photo. Her hand was trembling.

She clicked on the dome light and slowly turned the Polaroid over.

She first cast her eyes at the bottom, where in the white perimeter of the photo was written: “Len, Wanda, and Becky. July 1999.”

Slowly, a millimeter at a time, Pine lifted her gaze. Her body was trembling like she was in the throes of a terrible chill, her breaths were painful, she felt sick.

Then she stopped. There were three people lined up in front of what looked like a mobile trailer set up on cinder blocks.

The man was of medium height, reedy, and bald. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and held a cigarette. He was smiling at the camera. The older woman was rotund and short, wearing cutoff jean shorts and a sleeveless blouse. She was not smiling. She didn’t look like someone who had ever smiled.

And next to her, and towering over both of them, at what Pine calculated was nearly six feet, was a young woman. She wore an old-fashioned gingham dress that looked to be handmade and that hung limply down past her knees. She was barefoot, and her hair was a mess of tangles and cowlicks. Her exposed skin was dirty and full of scabs. She was not looking at the camera. She was staring straight down at the ground, her shoulders hunched, her entire body looking uncomfortable, contorted—perhaps seized in pain, Pine didn’t know. And even though Pine could not glimpse her face, she knew without a doubt that she was looking at her sister. It was mostly the height and the hair. The once beautiful hair that her mother had religiously brushed and endlessly braided into shapes and configurations that had made the tomboy Atlee giggle. But Mercy had loved it.

And now . . . this.

Pine started to quietly weep. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel as her body started to shudder and the sobs made her breathless.

The knocking on her window made her sit up and wipe at her eyes, her hand going to her holstered Glock. An old man in a baseball cap was peering in at her. He held a plastic bag full of things he’d presumably bought in the store. She hit the button and her window came down.

“You okay, ma’am?” he asked in a worried voice.

She nodded, cleared her throat, and brushed more tears away.

“Yes, just . . . just some bad news.”

“Well, I’m real sorry about that. Is there anyone you can call to come be with you? Or is there anything I can do?”

“No, I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.”

He touched her hand with his. “Life can throw us some curve-balls, can’t it? I lost my missus six months ago. Always thought I’d be the first to go.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Well, I’m real sorry for what you’re going through. But if it makes you feel any better, time does help. And you figure out you got other people who care about you.” He held up the bag. “My son and my grandson are visiting. I told them this place here has the best durn grilled hot dogs in the whole state of New Jersey. They’re excited to try ’em. I’m just happy I’m not alone tonight.”