Damaged Goods (36 page)

The corner yard on his right was wide enough for Hannibal to see the approaching Jeep halfway up the block. They moved closer and closer to one another, apparently on a ninety-degree collision course. Missy sat frozen, staring out her window at the incoming open vehicle. She knew these men better than Hannibal did, but he suspected that this was not a situation that fell within her understanding. She knew violence as play but he wondered if she had missed the rage underlying it.

In the second before Hannibal cranked his wheel hard to the left he was not quite close enough to see Derek's eyes, but he could clearly see the oversized revolver in his right hand. Rod had given the boy a .44 and probably carried one himself. Listening to his tires squealing as he whipped around the corner, Hannibal wanted to ask Missy if the boys were compensating for something, but didn't think she'd find this line of conversation humorous right then.

Another gunshot sounded, this one a wild shot that never came close to his car. Those boys were more dangerous to the
locals than to him. If this kept up much longer some innocent would be hurt or killed. Where the hell were the police? Hannibal had heard that Virginia Beach had more cops per capita than any community in the nation except Las Vegas. Surely someone had reported these maniacs shooting up a quiet suburban neighborhood in the wee hours of the morning. How could they get away with it so close to the beach? And that was when he realized that the water he was working toward had no beach in front of it.

“What the hell is this?”

“It's one of the lakes,” Missy said, sounding short of breath. “I think. Maybe Lake Holly. It's spread all over this area with little inlets and stuff where vacationers can keep their boats.”

“Great.” Hannibal's hand slipped on the gearshift lever, wet with perspiration. Now he had no idea where the ocean was. Breathing was getting harder. He pretended it was the humidity and powered down his window. A swampy odor wafted in. Lakes always smelled nasty to him.

A narrow bridge loomed ahead. He would have to slow down a little to cross it. Rod's Corvorado filled Hannibal's mirror, its engine so loud it drowned out his pounding heartbeat. On the grid in his head Hannibal could see Derek circling around in the Jeep to get to the first corner on the other side of the bridge. Hannibal couldn't afford to slow down very much.

“Come on, old friend,” he muttered under his breath. “Get me over this one obstacle fast enough and I think we'll be home free.”

The bridge was wooden, arched high like a medieval monastery gateway. The water on either side of it was thick with reeds, lily pads and flotsam he couldn't identify in the colorless moonlight. It must be lovely to stroll past on a warm summer day. Then it would be picturesque, charming, maybe even calming. This night, the bridge was simply an obstacle.

Hannibal slammed the accelerator to the floor just as his front tires touched the first slats of the bridge. He figured that Rod's rear-wheel drive car couldn't possibly hit the bridge
this hard. Rod would lose ground and he would gain just enough to race past the Jeep at the intersection, dodging them both. All he had to do was to keep a tight grip on the wheel and allow the Volvo to go airborne past the crest of the bridge.

No! Hannibal's eyes stretched wide as he reached the midpoint and saw the headlights of the little Toyota. What kind of idiot was driving around at this time of night? And hadn't he heard the Volvo racing toward him? Why was he driving toward the bridge? In truth, they might have been able to pass each other if Hannibal was driving at a reasonable speed. But his speed was nowhere near normal and he would crush the other car in a second unless he did something radical.

In this case, radical meant yanking the steering wheel hard to the right just before the front tires left the ground. As the car pushed through the flimsy guardrail and began to spiral right, Hannibal mentally apologized to his old metal friend and asked it to protect him and his charge.

The steady tone in his head was the noise a telephone makes when it has been left off the hook. The pressure across his chest, he reasoned, came from the shoulder harness. His left arm was numb, but that was probably from his own weight being on it. Despite the darkness, he knew that pain and noise meant he was alive.

Hannibal touched his face, expecting wetness. Instead he felt a very raw abrasion on his right cheek. He opened his eyes a crack and saw the source. His airbag, now deflated, had popped out to hold him in place at the moment of impact. It had also scraped across his face at high speed like a cheese grater, and left him covered with a fine powder.

Turning his head he saw Missy, suspended above him like the woman in some magician's stunt gone wrong. Her arms hung limp, and her breathing was labored. A merciful fate had allowed her to lapse into unconsciousness while Hannibal experienced the entire horrible crash: the jarring impact as the Volvo hit the ground just past the waterline and rolled, and rolled again. The vicious blow from the air bag was followed by the sound of twisting metal. His stomach had flipped with the movement, and when he finally came to rest, the clanging sound in his ears overrode everything else.

But even though Missy had been spared the worst of the experience, he could not leave her hanging from her seat belt and shoulder harness for long. The gasoline smell that was
making him nauseous was also a warning signal of possible danger. He knew what to do, but also knew that it would not be easy.

“Oh, well,” Hannibal said aloud. “There's nothing for it.”

After releasing his seat belt, Hannibal slowly and carefully pulled himself upright. In a moment he was standing with the steering wheel against his shins, his feet on the ground through the driver's side window. A shower of windshield safety glass cascaded out of his hair and off his shoulders. The full moon cast him in a spotlight in the narrow confines of the car resting on its side.

Hannibal was startled by the rush of silence when the horn stopped. The sudden silence prompted him to focus. Missy's head pressed against his chest as he unbuckled her seat belt. The shoulder harness was less cooperative, but by turning her body into a vertical position he easily slipped her out of it. He supported her, leaning against the back of the seats, but only for a few seconds. He felt her head shiver against his chest before she spoke.

“What happened? Where are we? Smoke?”

“It's me, only call me Hannibal,” he said, easing her downward so that she could rest on the center console. “We crashed and rolled. We're in a small field near the edge of Lake Holly I think. You can now do commercials for Volvo's safety record. Now sit tight for a minute and try not to throw up.”

Placing one foot on the console beside Missy's hips, Hannibal boosted himself up and out of the passenger window. As he turned to sit on the closed door he rocked gently to test whether the vehicle would be tempted to drop onto its roof or its tires. When neither seemed likely he reached down.

“Give me your hands, Missy.”

“How come I'm not scared?”

“You're in shock,” Hannibal said. “Give me your hands.” Missy reached up with both arms. Hannibal grasped her wrists and pulled up until he could wrap his legs around her waist to hold her steady.

“Not feeling very good,” Missy said.

“Just hold on for a few seconds.” Hannibal wrapped both hands around her waist and pulled her up. Without being told, she curled her legs to clear the roof. He lowered her to her feet on the grass. She dropped to her knees and then fell forward onto her hands.

“Oh God! Can I throw up now?”

“Go for it,” Hannibal said, hopping down from the car. He sat on the grass with his back to the roof of his car and fished in his pockets for his phone. He was surprised that Rod hadn't taken it from him, but figured he shouldn't have been. This guy never thought things through and Hannibal was at a loss to explain how a man who never considered consequences could be so dangerous.

Gazing into the calm lake waters, Hannibal slapped at a growing cloud of flying insects and listened to Missy begin to heave. Absently he reached over to hold her long hair back while she vomited into the grass. She had only been unconscious for a few seconds but he knew this to be one common reaction to being knocked out. When she was finished he leaned her back against the white roof beside him and pushed a button on his phone.

“Police?” Missy asked.

“They're next.” In fact, he wondered why no police cars had found them already. Their landing was noisy and the nearest homes stood no more than fifty yards away. Besides, hadn't the driver of the little Toyota stopped to watch the crash? Surely he would have called an ambulance. Unless of course he was too drunk to think and didn't want the authorities to know he was behind the wheel in that condition. Or, he may have been sneaking home from someone else's wife's bed at four-thirty in the morning. Or, maybe he and the nearby residents were just in the habit of minding their own business. In any case, he would get the local police to come by and pick them up, tell his story and point out the bullet holes in his car. With police assistance he would return to Rod's house in daylight with Missy telling tales of rampant drug use and showing handcuff marks.
Hannibal's blood in the hall carpet, and more in the master bedroom, would hold their attention. While Rod answered questions he would retrieve the disc he left behind in the sofa.

In the meantime, they sat alone being eaten alive by the lakeside insects. But before he called for help he wanted to check in. There were people who might be worried about him.

He expected to hear a series of rings but Cindy's voice burst through after only one. “Hannibal! Oh thank God.”

“Hey, baby…”

“Did Sarge find you?”

The question froze his planned words in his throat. He didn't know why, but the question started a chill up his spine, and fresh perspiration painted his forehead.

“I told Sarge I didn't need backup on this. I left him to guard Marquita.”

“Hannibal, she disappeared,” Cindy said. “Right after she made that one telephone call for you. We were all at Sarge's place and then she was just gone.”

That was so many hours ago. So much had happened since then. Hannibal stood up, pacing with the telephone. “Where would she go? She knew she was safe with Sarge.”

“He thinks she went to see Rod in person.”

“She wouldn't even know where to go,” Hannibal said, staring into the lake as if clarity lay there. “I only gave Rod's address to you, for safety's sake. Oh, Cindy. You didn't tell her, did you?”

“Of course not,” Cindy said, indignation in her voice. “I'm not an idiot.”

“Thank God.” Hannibal breathed relief, slowing his pacing around the car.

“But Sarge thought she might already know. He took off after her.”

Relief vanished in an instant, and Hannibal felt an invisible hand squeezing his chest. “You gave the address to Sarge,” he said with grim certainty.

“I didn't think it could hurt. He was starting to act a little crazy. If he was going to be a loose cannon it seemed best for
him to be with you.” Hannibal closed his eyes and quickly did the math. Enough hours had passed. Sarge would be driving like a bat out of hell, with blood in his eyes. His search for Marquita would have quickly changed to a mad charge to get at the source of her suffering. What if Rod and Derek, both armed, returned to that house after running Hannibal off the road and found Sarge on the porch, spoiling for a fight? Hannibal had wanted to return to Rod's house in the daytime, but waiting for daylight could mean Sarge's life.

“Don't worry, babe,” he said into the phone in calm, even tones. “I'll find Sarge and bring him home safe. Got to run now.”

With his thumb Hannibal cut his connection to his support system. He panned slowly, his eyes scanning the houses across the nearest street. “So, where the hell is Rod's house from here?” he asked himself aloud.

Behind him, Missy said, “It's that way.”

Hannibal looked down just in time to see Missy's arm drop.

“What makes you think it's that way?”

“I have a good sense of direction,” she said. “But you don't want to be there. He'll kill you. Wait for the police.”

“Can't,” Hannibal replied, hopping up to grab the edge of the car's skyward window. He reached into the car, clawing for the clips under the dashboard.

“They have guns,” Missy said, in an expressionless voice.

“Me too,” he said, dropping back to the ground. After flashing his Sig Sauer to her he slid it into the back of his waistband. “How far do you think?”

She shrugged. “A mile. Maybe a little more.”

“Okay.” Hannibal looked down at Missy, chocolate skin highlighted by very plain white bra and panties, and considered how simple packages sometimes hold very complex contents. “You were experimenting, weren't you?”

“Yes.” Somehow, she knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Well, was the experiment a success?”

She smiled up at him. “Well, I learned something about myself. Guess that would be a yes.”

Hannibal nodded. “I don't see any injuries, but that doesn't mean you're not hurt.”

“The shock thing.”

“Exactly,” Hannibal said. “Pick up that phone and call 911 and get an ambulance out here. When the police arrive, send them over to Rod's house.”

“You could wait for them.”

“No,” Hannibal said, already walking toward the road. “A friend may be in danger. My fault. I have to put it right. And I need to finish this business with Rod.” He turned to being jogging toward the street. He could just hear Missy's words behind him on the wind.

“Spoken like a true agent of the cosmos.”

Darkness closed around him as Hannibal jogged toward the bridge he had driven off minutes earlier. Before he reached it he had settled into a good running pace and his breathing deepened. As always, he shifted his focus from his aching lungs to the rhythmic sound of his footfalls. Then, as always, his mind wandered to unrelated matters. When asphalt changed to wooden slats under his feet he was asking himself some hard questions.