Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(64)

Etch had no choice. He hadn’t chosen any of this.

He made Lucia a silent deal: If you want it stopped, you’ll have to stop me. Otherwise . . .

He slipped the syringe in his coat pocket.

He closed up his empty house. As he walked toward his car, he imagined that his steps were erasing themselves behind him, leaving no trace of the path he’d walked for the last eighteen years.

Chapter 16

SO MUCH FOR BIOLOGICAL CLOCKS.

When I woke up, it was already light outside. I was upside-down in Frankie White’s much-too-comfortable bed. The clock read 9:02.

I cursed and ripped off the covers. My head felt like it had been used as a guacamole pestle. I was still wearing the silk pajamas.

I grabbed the baseball bat, started to go for the door, but the tiled floor was like ice. I tiptoed my way to the closet and searched for shoes.

Frankie’s too-small football cleats? Wouldn’t fit.

My only other choice: the teddy bear slippers. I swallowed my pride. At least they were warm, and I figured they’d be quieter than cleats.

I went to the door and tried it—still open. Virgil was still standing outside, bleary-eyed, reading a NASCAR magazine.

He turned, stared at me in surprise.

I gave him my most disarming smile. “’Morning, Virgil.”

Then I rammed the baseball bat in his gut. He doubled over, allowing me to clonk him on the head and roll him into the room. He curled into fetal position on the tiles and moaned. Not quite unconscious, but he wasn’t going to be running relay races anytime soon.

I took his gun and his keys, apologized, and was about to leave when I thought, Shoes.

I checked him out. No good. Feet way too small. For the time being, I was stuck with the teddy bears.

I locked Virgil in Frankie’s room and trotted next door to Ralph’s. No guard outside. The hallway was clear in both directions.

I suppose I should’ve felt honored Virgil chose my door to stand outside. He’d obviously concluded that I was the more lethal threat, or maybe he simply didn’t want to listen to Ralph snore. And Ralph does snore.

I rapped lightly on the door—Para bailar La Bamba.

A muffled grunt, then silence.

I rapped again. Ralph doesn’t sleep much, but when he finally gets to deep REM, he tends to stay there.

Finally his voice: “You better have breakfast.”

“A .38 or a baseball bat,” I murmured. “Take your pick.”

“Thirty-eights give me indigestion.”

I found the right key and unlocked his door. He was wearing black sweatpants and a T-shirt. His hair was frizzy, tied in a haphazard ponytail like the Wicked Witch of the West.

He looked down at my animal slippers. “Nice.”

“There’s a story behind those.”

“When the mother bear catches up with you, it’s your problem.” He grabbed the bat. “Which way?”

We headed for the main staircase.

I was hoping several things: First, that I could find my way back to the service entrance in the kitchen. I mean, why mess with a classic strategy? It had worked for Titus Roe. Second, I was hoping the White household was mostly asleep, this being the morning after the big party. Finally, I was hoping we could find a car and get off the property alive.

All those hopes pretty much fell apart when we ran into Madeleine.

WE WERE CROSSING THE BALCONY OF the main entry hall, heading for the final flight of stairs, when she emerged from a door right next to us.

I’m not sure who was more surprised, but her hangover must’ve still been slowing her wits. I had time to raise my gun.

Her jeans and oversized button-down were spattered with acrylic paint. She smelled of turpentine. She had three green freckles on her cheek and a slash of sky blue in her hair.

She stared at the .38 like it was a dead rat. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” I said.

“The hell you are.”

“Come on, Madeleine. Just . . . go take a shower or something. We’ll be out of your way.”

“You son-of-a-bitch. Where’s Virgil?”

“Upstairs with a stomachache and a headache. Look, you never wanted us here. It didn’t work out. We’re going to keep looking on our own.”

The scary thing was, I almost thought I’d convinced her.

She gazed down into the entry hall, as if thinking hard. Then I realized she was looking at the front door. Our favorite mafia boy Alex Cole had just come inside, carrying a Sunday paper, his car keys and a box of Krispy Kremes.

He was moving fast. Red-faced and scowling, he marched toward the stairs like he absolutely had to get his doughnuts somewhere important. He froze when he saw us.

“You bitch,” he said to Madeleine. “What are they doing out?”

Madeleine blinked. “What did you just—”

“It was on the car radio.” Alex pointed at Ralph. “It was him. The police have DNA. Arguello killed Frankie. That’s why he shot his wife. She was about to bust him.”

Madeleine looked like she’d taken an uppercut to the face. She turned toward me.

“It’s a frame,” I said. “Madeleine, we wouldn’t be here—”

“Hey, wake up!” Alex shouted at the house. “Security! Wake the f**k up!”

Madeleine’s fists clenched, but her eyes were brittle, the way they’d looked when she was ten, running under the high school bleachers to get away from her brother. “How. How could you—”