Midnight Rambler_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [84]
I had driven this stretch of highway enough times to know its landmarks. One of the most significant was the service center eight miles south of Vero. Reaching it, I left the dead zone I'd been traveling in since Kissimmee, and my cell phone came to life.
A minute later my phone's message bell chimed. I dialed up voice mail and found two messages waiting for me.
The first message was from Rose. It had come in shortly after I hit the road. My wife was lying in bed, and called to say how much she loved me. I'd forgotten the powerful effect those three words had on me, and I listened to the message several times before erasing it.
The second message was from Jessie, and it came in right after my wife's. I could tell from the exuberance in my daughter's voice that she'd spoken to Rose and heard the news about our reconciliation. When Jessie was happy, she talked a mile a minute, and the voice mail cut her off in midsentence. I listened to her message a second time, then erased it as well.
As I neared the Stuart exit fifty minutes later I weighed calling my wife and daughter back. Both were early risers, and I couldn't think of anything I would have enjoyed more than hearing their cheerful voices to begin my day.
I decided against it. If I called them, my wife and daughter would hear the apprehension in my voice and know something was wrong. To be honest, I didn't want to hear it myself, for I just might realize how afraid I was of what lay ahead.
So I played Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers Damn the Torpedoeson my tape player. Normally, Petty's sardonic lyrics and hard-driving music cheered me up, and I would join the chorus while tapping my fingers on the wheel. But their magic was lost on me this time, and I stared at the rain-soaked highway and watched the miles clock by.
A few minutes after five I pulled into Tugboat Louie's. A beer delivery truck was parked by the front entrance, and I parked beside it. Kumar had once told me that he trusted his employees with everything but money and alcohol, which was a nice way of saying that he didn't trust them at all. I found him in the bar counting cases of beer.
“Good morning, Jack! How are you? Not used to seeing you up so early in the morning,” Kumar said. “How about a fresh cup of coffee?”
“That would be great,” I said.
“Can I interest you in something to eat?”
I shook my head. “I just came to pick something up.”
“Well, you have a good day.”
I went upstairs to my office. Taking out my keys, I unlocked the center drawer of my desk and opened it. The drawer contained my detective's badge, which the department had never asked me to return; a box of .380 copper-jacketed bullets; a pocket holster; and my favorite gun, a Colt 1908 Pocket Hammerless, the best concealment weapon in the world.
I took the gun out of the drawer and cleaned it. The Colt 1908 carried seven rounds and was magazine fed, with a European-style release at the back bottom corner of the grip. It sat easily in my right pants pocket without making a bulge. The gun had gone wherever I had for sixteen years. At times it had been the only thing standing between me and a killer. Not once had it let me down.
I fitted the Colt into the pocket holster, then slipped both into my right pants pocket. The holster had been handmade by an exLAPD detective named Robert Mika and was constructed of a moisture-resistant material that kept its interior bone-dry. As a result, the Colt never got stuck because of perspiration, allowing me to draw it in the blink of an eye.
I picked up the box of bullets. Buster was curled at my feet and had not moved a muscle. He'd never liked firearms and would have made a lousy hunting dog.
“Want to go outside?” I asked.
Buster didn't move. I got the hint and left without him.
I walked down the dock that ran alongside the bar. The sky was lightening,