Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [102]
The Porsche was built for high speeds, and I tore down the road toward the national forest where I’d found Marty Diamond’s cabin. The roads were winding—and out of the city jurisdiction. While hot pursuit would give Gunny leave to chase me, he might also decide to drop back and wait for a chance to catch me without endangering the lives of Adams County residents.
If I could get far enough ahead of him.
And that was a big if. He was nobody’s fool behind the wheel of the patrol car, and he drove like a man who knew his business. Still, the Porsche out-horsepowered him. At last, after what seemed an eternity of curves coming too fast and hairpin turns, I lost him.
And I’d lost valuable time. I had to get back to Natchez and the rendezvous at Bennator’s. In the national forest, I had no cell phone reception at all.
Dark fell quickly as I made my way back toward town, hoping that Gunny had better things to do than set up a roadblock. Instead of trying to reason with him, I’d run. He wouldn’t appreciate such behavior. Not in the least. If he caught me now, he wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say.
As soon as I got within range of a tower, I called Tinkie to tell her what had happened. God bless Barclay, he’d already delivered the news, which had calmed Eleanor somewhat. Instead of bouncing off the walls, she was merely climbing them.
“Can you pick me up?” I couldn’t risk driving into Natchez proper in Monica’s car. Gunny might not have roadblocks up, but he sure as hell had alerted his officers to be on the lookout for me.
“Eleanor isn’t going to like it.” Tinkie spoke cautiously, so I knew our client was listening.
“It’s either that or manage without me. Tell her.”
In a moment Tinkie came back on the line. “Eleanor will wait here at Bennator’s. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
With some reluctance, I parked the Porsche behind a Laundromat and started walking to a quick-serve station about a mile away. The night was dark, the moon hidden by low clouds.
The road was completely empty, a creepy feeling. At Dahlia House, I enjoyed the solitude and sense of isolation. Natchez wasn’t home, though. Here I felt cut off from everyone, and there was a nagging sense that I’d missed something important.
My leather boots crunching the gravel on the shoulder of the road as I walked, I listened to the song of the crickets in the tall grass that covered the ditches.
Summer in the South—a combination of beauty and brutality. This was not a climate for the faint of heart or those who couldn’t confront harsh elements. Even though the sun was gone, the night was sticky and close. Sweat slipped down my cleavage and back, soaking my shirt and jeans.
Graf loved the hot summer nights. During his most recent visit to Dahlia House, we’d gone for a ride on Reveler and Miss Scrapiron, cantering around the cotton fields as dusk fell.
“This land holds magic.” Those had been Graf’s words. Sitting on the beautiful bay mare Miss Scrapiron, he’d breathed in the smell of dirt and growing things. “I love this place, Sarah Booth. I’d never take you from here. Not permanently.”
I didn’t tell him that he couldn’t. No one could. But he could steal me away for long weeks of California sunshine and the glitzy life of a film actor. I could share his life as he shared mine.
Without warning, I missed Graf with a physical pain. The urge to call him was great, but I couldn’t. Not when my intention included helping Eleanor drop $4 million in ransom money—likely a very dangerous ransom exchange where a woman’s life teetered in the balance.
No, now wasn’t the time to call Graf. I would only make him worry.
I’d walked so long in the darkness and silence I stopped when I saw headlights approaching me. My first inclination was to get in the ditch and hide, like a refugee or criminal.
The car approached slowly,