TailSpin - Catherine Coulter [72]
“Did Perky tell you anything about Rachael Janes?”
“Only that she wasn’t supposed to still be kicking around, said she should be lying at the bottom of Black Rock Lake, said those barbiturates were good. She laughed.” Everett shrugged, then moaned. “Perky said Rachael Janes was some artsycraftsy fluff head who arranged furniture and painted walls, and so she should be real easy to knock off. But look what happened. That Rachael Janes must have been another Hou dini, getting herself free like that. Perky was pissed again.”
“Keep it up, Don, you’re doing good,” Savich said.
“It was Clay who kept asking her questions since he hadn’t worked with her before. She finally let on that Lloyd Roderick—that dumb-ass rockweed who’s into teenagers—he’d got himself shot while trying to nail Rachael Janes in Parlow, Kentucky. Who ever heard of Parlow, Kentucky? He was in the hospital, Perky said, so now it was our turn. This girl was a civilian, hiding out, thinking she was safe from the big bad wolf. And then Perky growled.”
He sighed, the tears dry on his cheeks now, and itchy. “That damned girl, she wasn’t alone. Surprised the shi—crap out of everybody, all those shots coming from inside that house. It was close.”
He hung his head, scratched the fingers of his injured arm. “You’re just trying to do a job and look what happens.”
“What exactly happened?” Savich asked.
“Well, when we found our way through the woods to this Slipper Hollow, we saw the girl the first thing, but there was this big guy with her. Perky said it’d be okay, the guy would bite the big one along with her. But before we could get close, a guy comes running outside, yelling for them to get into the house. He obviously knew something was up—I don’t know how he knew, but he did. Rachael Janes and this big guy made it through the front door just as we began shooting. Perky split us up. Clay and me slipped through the woods around to the back of the house to go in, get them in a cross fire. I decided it was best for Clay to stay back, since he was new to the team, to cover me, to shoot anyone who tried to get out the back.
“I come in the kitchen at the same time this big guy steps in. I thought I got him, he fell down, but he was only acting shot, the bastard. Then he clocked me in the shoulder. I’m down, then he’s out the back and I know Clay doesn’t have a chance, and he didn’t.
“You can’t believe how bad it hurt my shoulder to haul Clay back through the woods and out to our car, but I knew I couldn’t leave him there. I buried him in a tobacco field about fifteen miles down the road. I don’t know if I can find it, I really don’t.”
Everett started crying. He hiccupped. He looked up at Savich. “You promised me pills if I told you everything. I did. My pills, they’re in the medicine cabinet.”
Savich called out, “Dane, go into Mr. Everett’s bathroom and bring out his bottle of pain pills.”
They let him hiccup until Dane pressed the bottle into his hand, set a glass of water on the arm of the La-Z-Boy. Everett took two pills, drank the entire glass of water, some of it dribbling down his chin.
He wasn’t bad-looking, Sherlock thought dispassionately, staring down at him, maybe late thirties, lots of dirty blond hair, a good build, but he hadn’t shaved in too long, and didn’t smell like he’d bathed recently, either, understandable given his shoulder. He was wearing dirty gray sweats, dark green socks, a hole in the big toe. He looked, she thought, like a man who’d been ridden hard and put away wet too many times in his short years.
“And now, Don,” Savich said, “tell us where to find Perky.”
Everett chewed his lower lip. This was tough, Savich knew, this was betrayal of the killing kind.
“Think of your future,” Savich said, voice easy and smooth and scary.
“She lives a block over from that Barnes & Noble in Georgetown, off M Street, on Wisconsin, I think, in a little apartment over a boutique. I don’t know the name of the boutique.