Straits of Fortune - Anthony Gagliano [67]
“I’m not sure I can be your attorney anymore, Jack, not after this.”
“I understand.” I showed her the key. “Thanks for the car and the clothes.”
“Don’t bother calling me when they catch you,” Susan said before shutting the door in my face.
I stood in the hallway, staring at the peephole for a moment. Then my stomach reminded me about the famous tuna fish sandwich again. I considered ringing Susan’s bell to ask for it, but something told me I had better let it ride. One more squeeze and I’d probably wind up with a black eye.
The old Beemer was where she said it would be, at the far end of the garage shrouded in form-fitting gray plastic as snug as a bodysuit. I peeled the skin off and stowed it in the small trunk, then climbed into the cockpit and prayed. I turned the key in the ignition and heard the sweet, happy purr of the engine.
Five minutes later I was on U.S. 1 heading north toward the beach. Only three courses of action now made any sense at all. The first was to keep driving until I hit Canada and then get a job training Eskimos. The second was to find Vivian and Williams, or maybe even Nick, with the hope that the truth, whatever it turned out to be, would be better than the chaos and uncertainty of not knowing. Of course, there was the third alternative of turning myself in and telling everything I knew to the cops, of playing the part of the pawn who’d gotten used like a condom on a one-night stand.
But the more I thought about it, the less I liked that last idea.
Maybe in the end they would give me my life back, but not right away, and that’s why I didn’t do it. I couldn’t see how I could avoid doing time—and not just because I’d illegally performed a burial at sea. By sinking Matson’s yacht, I had also sunk crucial evidence in an investigation, if not the entire investigation itself, and investigations take time to set up, especially when they involve more than one branch of law enforcement. A big case might take years to build. A dozen assorted careers might depend on its successful conclusion, and then I came along in a kayak and sent all that hard work down to the bottom of the sea—not deliberately perhaps, but permanently nonetheless.
I would have to pay for that. My ass would be grass, and the government would be the lawn mower. It might be that they would get me for obstruction of justice or even as an accessory to murder, though that charge wouldn’t stick. And then there was my famous breakout from Krome. That one was good for a couple of months. The point was that they would do whatever they could to make my life miserable for as long as they could, and that would mean keeping me in jail for as long as possible. Once I was inside, it might even be revealed that once upon a time Jack Vaughn had been a police officer up in New York City, and then the real fun would begin. If you think the police lack a flair for vengeance, then you need to hang out with them more often.
So I was in no rush to put myself in the hands of the police, the FBI, the DEA, or even the ASPCA for that matter. Sitting passively in the slammer waiting for fate to call my number made no more sense to me at that moment than being free. Jail is a lot like death in that respect: It makes sense to avoid it for as long as possible, and I felt more than a little vengeful myself. So since there’s nothing more pathetic than a vengeful man sitting in a jail cell, I intended to stay free.
Vivian and Williams were up to something, and I intended to find out what that something was. There was no sense in going down alone. I hit a button, and the sunroof slid open. Orion winked at me; the wind tore at my hair. I put the Space Man’s CD into the tiny slot and turned the music up full blast. They’re going to extradite my love. I threw my head back and laughed without reason. It was a catchy tune, though:
Cincinnati, New Orleans, New York City, too,
They caught my ass in Tennessee,
Now I’m comin’ right home to you.
They’re going to extradite my love, baby,
They’re going to extradite my love.
Now take your butt