Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(44)

“Right,” he said. “That’s what I meant.”

“Where would Fred Barrow stash his loot?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam said. “The money won’t save us. Stirman wil kil her. We have to find him before tomorrow night. We have to get to him first.”

For once, I agreed with him.

“I have to cal Maia,” I said. “I need to tel her . . .”

What?

Sorry, honeybun—the psychopath knows where you live. Don’t forget your AK-47 when you take Jem to the playground.

“We’l figure something out,” Barrera told me. “We’l talk on the way.”

“The way to where?”

“Castrovil e.”

I stared at him. “What?”

“The McCurdy Ranch. I’m supposed to take you there.”

The air thickened around me.

“Sam,” I said, “we already went to Castrovil e . . . this morning.”

He hesitated a couple of heartbeats. “I just meant . . . That’s what I said. This morning.”

I stepped around the ironing board, sat down across from him. “Sam, let me see your notebook.”

He didn’t move.

I took the notebook out of his hands.

Inside, meticulous notes—where Barrera worked, directions to his house, who he had cal ed that day.

Addresses. Phone numbers. Names—his secretary Alicia, Erainya Manos, Wil Stirman. Descriptions of each person. My name, with a small notation: Erainya’s PI. Be careful about him.

“Sam,” I said, “do you know who I am?”

His eyes were watery with frustration. “Of course I do.”

“What’s my name?”

He glanced at his empty lap. “I never forget a name. The whole damn case is in the details.”

“When were you diagnosed, Sam?”

Barrera stared at the wal , his jaw tightening. “I’m fine. They gave me some pil s.”

“Do you remember what happened, the night you took down Wil Stirman?”

A long silence. “There was something . . . something important . . .”

He gazed across the room, helpless.

“We’re going to get through this, Sam.” My voice didn’t sound like my own. “I’m going to help you, okay?”

“I don’t need any help.”

“Are you better in the mornings?”

“Yeah. I’m fine in the mornings.”

“I’m going to drive you home then, and keep your car for the night. I want you to sleep. We’l talk tomorrow.”

“Damn it,” Barrera said. “Goddamn it.”

He pushed away my hand, and got up by himself.

We took our second ride together in his mustard-colored BMW.

As the windshield wipers slashed back and forth, I realized I was going to need other help finding Stirman fast.

I was going to have to cal on an old friend. A friend I’d rarely cal ed for help without somebody ending up dead.

Chapter 15

Just before the news hit the networks, the Guide cal ed Wil from Omaha to warn him.

Luis and Elroy had f**ked up.

The Guide had told them to steal a new set of wheels. He didn’t give a shit what kind. Anything from the Target parking lot across the road. A van would be good. Tinted windows, for sure.

It wasn’t a f**king calculus problem.

The Guide told them to fil up with gas and meet him back at the motel. They only had to go, like, two blocks. Shouldn’t have taken them more than fifteen, twenty minutes.

Luis and Elroy ended up boosting a Toyota Sienna—two child seats in the back, the whole floor littered with Cheerios and juice boxes and trading cards. It was parked on the side of the store, nice and secluded.

Doors weren’t locked. Might as wel put a STEAL ME sign in the window.

But did they notice the FOP sticker? Did they know that stood for Fraternal Order of Police? Fuck no.

Apparently what happened, the police officer’s wife came out with her kids, saw her van driving away without her, and cel -phoned her husband. Must have happened that fast, because in a matter of minutes the whole f**king Omaha Police Department knew some stupid shits had stolen an officer’s car, and every unit in the area was closing in.

If Luis and Elroy had gotten straight on Highway 64, they might’ve had a chance, but no—they were supposed to fil up the van with gas, so they parked a block away at the pumps of a gas station—the most obvious f**king target in the world.

Back at the motel, the Guide heard the first dry crack of gunfire.

How it happened: Luis went into the Exxon store for a six-pack of cherry Coke and some candy. He was thinking jel y beans, maybe red licorice.

“You’re a f**king kid,” Elroy told him. “How about some beer?”

Luis grinned. “You want them carding this baby face?”

He went inside to get his sweets while Elroy worked the pump.

It was a big goddamn gas tank, so Elroy had time to watch the clouds scraping by overhead. There were hil s in Omaha. Tal pine trees. Parks with lakes. Elroy never would’ve figured that in Nebraska.

He watched a big military plane lumbering toward the horizon, and he thought about C.C.

He missed the scrawny bastard’s smart remarks. He missed his tough-guy act, his stupid Italian suit and matching pistols. C.C. had been a time bomb, sure, but he’d kept things upbeat. He’d believed they would make it to freedom. Another week, C.C. had told them, and they’d al be partying in Alberta, screwing some Canadian chicks. Now, C.C. was six hundred miles south, under a foot of red earth, food for Oklahoma worms.