Sucker bet - James Swain [94]
Her abductor stared down the gun’s barrel. He smiled, exposing two crooked rows of teeth. “You got me,” he said.
“Yes, I do,” she said.
“You’re a cagey old broad.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
Slash lifted his arms as if to stretch, and Mabel twitched the gun’s barrel.
“Don’t move,” she said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.
Yes, you would, Mabel thought. I’m a sixty-five-year-old woman with lousy vision. If you jump me—and I’m sure that’s exactly what’s going through your deranged mind—I might get a round off. Wounded, you’d still be strong enough to strangle the life out of me.
Mabel aimed the gun directly at her abductor’s heart. It took Slash a few seconds to comprehend.
Forgive me, God.
Slash leapt out of his chair. But by then, Mabel had already squeezed the trigger.
As Rico pulled off 595, Valentine had understood.
Like any other predatory creature, murderers often returned to places they believed safe. Rico was taking him to the swamps, to the place where he’d dumped Jack Lightfoot, and where Splinters had tried to shoot Candy.
Rico drove down the unlit road for a few miles, then pulled over. The shoulder was muck, and the wheels sank a few inches before coming to rest. He got out, then flung open Valentine’s door. “Move,” he barked.
It wasn’t easy to walk with his hands tied behind his back, and Valentine stumbled to find his legs, his body still feeling the effects of having the fat guy in the newspaper store pancake him. There was a full moon, and the swamp was alive with animal sounds.
Rico took out a handkerchief and tied it over Valentine’s eyes.
“Walk,” he said.
Valentine’s feet found the path, and he took a few uncertain steps. He felt a gun barrel press against his left ear, then heard a deafening roar.
The pain was white and traveled through his brain like a hot stake. He fell forward, his head wrenched to one side, away from the burning sensation that consumed the left half of his face. Lying on the ground, he thought about Gerry, and how angry his son was going to be when his will was read.
“Get up,” Rico barked.
Valentine staggered to his feet and stumbled down the path.
Rico shoved him. “This way.”
Valentine went to his right. Soon his feet found a clearing, the swamp sounds more prevalent than before. Rico stuck the .45’s barrel into his spine.
“On your knees,” he said.
Ray Hicks came around a bend in the road and saw Rico’s limo parked on the shoulder. He flashed his brights, then parked behind the limo and shut off the engine. Rolling down his window, he heard a pair of men’s voices coming from one of the trails.
Inside the glove compartment was a pearl-handled revolver he’d won in a poker game, and a Walther PPK. He removed the Walther and checked the chamber to ensure it was loaded. He watched Mr. Beauregard lower his window. Something in the swamps was calling the chimp, and Hicks imagined him running away.
“Mr. Beauregard, I am ordering you to stay here.”
Mr. Beauregard stared out the window, ignoring him.
“You will stay here.”
The chimp sighed. Hicks got out of the car. From the trunk he removed a flashlight, tested it, then cautiously headed down the path.
The swamp was jungle-thick with vegetation, and the flashlight’s beam caught elephant ears and tree vines that reminded him of the Louisiana bayous. As a boy, he’d spent countless hours in the low country with his granddaddy, learning to hunt and fish and all the other things it took to become a man. It had been a special time, and thinking about it had a calming influence on him.
He came to a fork in the path. The men’s voices had stopped, the swamp deathly still. Which way should he go? He was left-handed, so that was the direction he chose.
He walked a quarter mile, then came to a dead end. He kicked at the ground in frustration, then heard a gunshot pierce the still night air.
Hicks retraced his steps, then went down the other path to a clearing. His flashlight found a figure lying on the ground.