Nick of Time (9 page)

“Don't tell me about laws, because I don't care. Obeying them gets me in as much trouble as breaking them does. And don't tell me about right and wrong and all that lofty church crap, because let me tell you, I've seen shit that ‘wrong' doesn't even touch.”

He was like an entirely different person right now. She wasn't sure exactly what triggered this diatribe, but she sensed that she'd hooked directly to his heart, bypassing the filters of his brain.

“I'm doing this trip as a kick, okay? As a treat. I thought we'd have some good times and a few adventures, but listen to me, Nicki, because this is very important. Are you listening?”

She nodded.

“Good. I only know how to be who I am. I tried being a thousand other things in my life, and I suck at all of them. I'm going to be
me.
You can think of me as a criminal, but I think of me as a pragmatist. You can think of me as a thief, but I think of myself as a provider. Am I making sense to you?”

Again, she nodded.

“Good. But I'm tired of providing just for myself. I wanted company, and from the very first moment that I started thinking about this, you were the only person I ever thought of asking. I know you don't believe that because you're all over that ‘I'm not worth anything' bullshit, but I'm telling you like it is.

“Your father is going to tell people that I kidnapped you—or that somebody did. He's going to see only what the goddamn laws allow him to see, and when he does, he's gonna be pissed as shit that you went along with it. You need to decide if you're with me, or if you're going back to Bumfuck suburbia.”

“I have to decide now?”

Brad shrugged. “For now you do, yeah. I mean, you can change your mind anytime you want. You say, ‘stop the car,' and I'll stop it. But you need to know up front that I'm not going to get some job flopping burgers, and I'm not staying in no-tell motels. This is your swan song, and it may be mine, and I want it to have class and style. That means we're going to bend a few laws.”

“You mean
break
a few laws.”

Brad paused, correctly reading the signs that he hadn't run her off. He smiled. “It's hard to tell sometimes. They don't actually make a snapping noise or anything.”

Nicki laughed. It was her nervous laugh, a little breathless, reflecting the fluttering of her stomach, the rush of adrenaline. Part of her was thrilled, but another part wished that she'd never asked her question. An even larger part of her worried about the other 999 untold stories.

This was decision time. As they sat there in the grocery store parking lot, invisible in the crowd of shoppers, Brad's eyes never left her, never eased the burden of her making a commitment one way or the other—a commitment for at least the time being.

Everything he said ran counter to everything she knew. Despite her adolescent attitude—yes, she knew she had it, and yes, she flaunted it every time she thought she could get a rise out of her father—she'd never broken
any
law, and now Brad was talking about a potential crime spree. She was riding in a stolen car, for crying out loud!

For all the potential danger, Brad was offering
real
living—real on-the-edge adventure. Maybe if somebody else had been sitting there with a better offer—someone else who liked her for who she was, and countered Brad's plan with a law-abiding alternative—then maybe she would have chosen differently. How could she know? But for the time being, the only alternative plan offered hospitals and doctors and the smell of disinfectant; a lifetime—literally—of worried looks and temperature-controlled environments and warnings to be careful.

“Okay,” she said. “I'm in.”

Brad beamed. “Outstanding.” He pulled the transmission back into gear and headed for the exit from the parking lot.

“No violence, though,” Nicki said.

He looked hurt. “We're not doing a Bonnie and Clyde thing, Nicki. We're not even doing a Thelma and Louise thing. This isn't
about
breaking the law, okay? That's not the point. The point is to have a good time. As it is, I've got plenty of cash to last for a while, and you brought some, too, right?”

“I could only get $500.”

“That's fine. That's plenty.” Suddenly, excitement returned to his voice, nudging aside that morose edge that had unnerved her before. He was once again the Brad whom she'd come to know so well in cyberspace. “And quit worrying about me being a sicko, okay? Because I'm not.”

“I wasn't worrying about any such thing,” she protested.

“You were too,” he said, and he did the eyebrow thing again.

Nicki smiled at the windshield. “Maybe I thought about it a little.”

“These days, you'd be nuts not to,” he agreed.

“It's my dad. He keeps harping on me about all the crimes that he prosecutes—”

“Nicki?”

She stopped talking and turned to face him.

“Do me one favor, okay? Let's not talk about your father anymore.”

His words hurt her feelings somehow, and he sensed it.

“He's the past,” Brad explained. “He's what was. What used to be. Now, you and I, we're all about the future. We're all about finally having some fun!”

He punctuated that last sentence with a shot to the gas pedal that launched them back into traffic. “Can I see your cell phone?” he asked.

“Who are you going to call?”

“Does it matter?”

Nicki hesitated, but didn't really know why. Then she reached into her pocket and slid out her Nokia phone. She handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said. And then he threw it out of the car into traffic.

Nicki whirled in her seat. “What did you do? That was my phone!”

“It's cheap and old-fashioned,” Brad said. “Motorola's Startac is way cooler.”

“Brad! We have—”

“That's your old life, Nicki. That phone is your father and the doctors and everything else that sucks the life out of you. If you need a phone, we'll buy you a new one.”

Nicki watched him for a long time while he continued to drive. God, he was hot.

Five minutes later, he slowed and pulled into another driveway. “There it is,” he said. “Your fantasy castle.”

Nicki saw it, but she didn't believe it. “Oh, my God,” she breathed. It came out as a giggle. “Are you kidding?”

The smile blazed on Brad's face. No, he wasn't kidding.

TIME TO HIDE

Chapter Eight

S
urf's Up Amusements was a terrible place to be under any circumstances, but in these off-season days it was particularly creepy—a playground for rats that doubled as a den of iniquity for druggies and horny teenagers. To be arrested in a place like this had to be particularly humiliating.

Jeremy Hines grew old before Darla's eyes, and as the minutes ticked by, she felt guilty that she hadn't looked the other way and saved these kids the humiliation that was barreling toward them. She'd turned her back on the opportunity to do a good deed.

Even Peter-the-mouth had settled down.

To make her point as vividly as possible, she'd cuffed them both, hands behind their backs. They sat in the sand with their legs folded, and the effects of the pot had dwindled to nearly nothing.

Peter cleared his throat to get Darla's attention. “I guess it's too late to apologize?”

She pruned up her face and gave a sarcastic nod. “Yeah, I think so.”

“I notice you didn't tell the sheriff why you wanted him here.”

“And I notice that you really don't know how to keep your lip zipped.”

“How about if I tell you that this is Numb Nuts's first time doing weed?” Peter asked.

“Don't,” Jeremy commanded.

“Why not? It's the truth.”

Darla tried to see Jeremy's eyes, but he was busy studying his ankles. His pharmaceutical virginity seemed to be a source of embarrassment.

“Why today, then?” Darla asked.

Peter answered, “I talked him into it.” He clearly knew that Darla didn't believe a word, so he added, “Him and his old man are at war, okay?”

“Shut up, Peter!” The vehemence of Jeremy's outburst convinced Darla that Peter was dancing perilously close to the truth.

“No, you shut up,” Peter fired back. Then, to Darla, “Look, I'm the bad influence, okay? I'm the druggie. The homeless guy. The perpetual screwup. I figured that he needed a little weed, and I needed a little cover. This arrest'd be my third and a felony, and I figured there was no way they could lock me up and let him go, you know? Hell, the chances of getting caught in the first place are like, what? Nothing in a million? And I thought it was zero that you'd cut paper on the sheriff's kid.”

“So you were using him,” Darla concluded.

“We use each other. I take him places where he'd be afraid to go on his own.”

“You better keep me cuffed, Deputy,” Jeremy growled. “When you let me go, I'm gonna kill this asshole.”

Peter laughed, but somehow he did it in a way that was free of derision. “He says that a lot. Fact is, he can't afford to kill me.”

“How's that?” Darla asked.

“His scholarship. He's off to UNC next year on a baseball scholarship. Room, board, everything. That kind of shit goes on his record—or a drug conviction goes on his record—and he'll be cleaning condos next year instead.”

One look at Jeremy told Darla that she was hearing fact. “So, why do you do this?” she asked. “Why would you take the chance?”

“Ask Peter,” Jeremy mumbled. “He knows all the answers.”

“I want to hear from you.” When Jeremy still wouldn't answer, she turned back to Peter.

“He
hates
baseball,” Peter said.

Darla didn't get it. “So, why—”

“He doesn't hate his teeth. Or his bones. All of which Sheriff Daddy is going to break when he gets here.”

Darla tried to figure out the dynamic that was unfolding here. She couldn't tell if Peter was trying to be Jeremy's friend, or if he was just goading him on. Certainly, he seemed dialed in to the other boy's secrets. For his part, all Jeremy did was turn red.

Her portable radio broke squelch. “Unit six-oh-one's out at the Surf's Up.” It was Sheriff Hines, and within seconds, Darla heard the sound of his tires crunching gravel. She turned to see the sheriff's specially outfitted Suburban pulling to a stop. A glance toward Jeremy made her wonder if the young man might pee in his pants.

Frank Hines had been sheriff of Essex County, North Carolina, for twenty-three years, and he carried himself with the arrogant grace of someone who not only enforced the law, but owned it as well. Not especially tall, he was nonetheless a big man, stocky and powerful. He wore his khaki uniform a bit too tight, highlighting a prominent gut that looked solid as stone. She could tell at a glance that he was angry.

“Deputy Sweet,” he said, “in the future, when I ask you what a visit is in regard to, you by Jesus better answer up and tell me.” His voice sounded half an octave too high for the size of his body.

“I'm sorry, Sheriff, but I thought that discretion might be the order of the day on this one.”

Hines's scowl transformed from a mask of curiosity to one of fury. He saw his son on the ground in the classic pose of a perp under arrest, and then shifted his white-hot eyes to his deputy. “Speak,” he said.

“They were doing drugs.” Darla said the words as quickly as possible, with the intent of knocking the sheriff off balance. “Smoking weed. That one over there started running his mouth, and here we are.”

Sheriff Frank Hines worked his jaw muscles hard. His gaze shifted to Peter Banks, whose face showed only contempt. There was history here that Darla didn't comprehend, but clearly the animosity ran deep between these two.

Without a word, Sheriff Hines moved toward Peter. As he closed to within two feet, he unleashed a brutal kick to the boy's thigh. Peter howled and rolled to his side, struggling, with his hands tethered behind him, to rise to his feet. A second kick had to break some ribs.

“Jesus, Sheriff!” Darla shouted. Jeremy winced at the sight and looked away.

“Stay outta this, Deputy,” Hines growled. Then, to Peter: “I thought I told you to stay the hell away from my boy.” A third kick was more like a shove with the sole of his shoe. Peter landed on his face, then curled up in a protective ball, sputtering and choking in search of a breath.

The sheriff turned to his son. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Jeremy looked away.

“Talk to me, boy, before I break every tooth in your head.”

Darla stepped forward, tried to get between them. “Come on, Sheriff, let's not—”

Hines froze her in her tracks with a forefinger aimed at her nose. His thumb was up, forming what looked like a pretend gun. “You've done your job,” he said. “I can take it from here. This is a family affair.”

Hines lifted his son by the hair, pulling him to his feet. Jeremy had to move quickly to keep his scalp from being torn from his skull.

“I asked you a question, boy. What the
hell
were you thinking, doing drugs in my county?”

“I wasn't thinking at all, sir.” Jeremy's answer had monotonous quality of a memorized rejoinder.

Hines glared, as if trying to set the boy afire with his eyes. Then, his head turned, and he again focused on Peter. “Is this your doing, Peter?”

Peter didn't attempt to respond, struggling instead for his next breath.

“I'm calling for an ambulance,” Darla said, reaching for her radio.

“No, you're not,” the sheriff said.

“But he can't breathe.”

“He's okay,” the sheriff said. “He just had the wind knocked out of him.” He turned to Peter. “Ain't that right, son?”

Peter managed a nod.

“See? What did I tell you?”

“You can't beat these boys, Sheriff,” Darla said, trying to keep the tone of her voice steady.

Hines was trembling, his face red and hot. “Deputy Sweet, I want you to get in your cruiser and clear this scene immediately.”

She stood her ground. “No, I don't believe I'll do that,” she said. “I believe I'll stick around here as a witness.”

The sheriff's eyes narrowed. “That wasn't a request, Deputy. I'm ordering you to clear this scene.”

“And I'm telling you, I'm not going anywhere as long as you're this angry. If you want me to call the state police for backup, I can do that, too.”

Sheriff Hines pivoted to face her full-on, his posture mimicking hers. “Are you disobeying a direct order, Deputy Sweet?”

Behind the sheriff, Peter caught his breath and worked himself back up to his knees, where he could watch the exchange between the cops. Jeremy's countenance had frozen itself into a giant O.

“I look at it as reasonable intervention to prevent the commission of a felony.” Darla's racing heart made her words tremble in her throat.

Hines cocked his head. “A felony.” Apparently, the words didn't taste quite right to him.

Darla stood a little taller. “Yes, sir, a felony. You're beating helpless, unarmed juveniles. That is a felony in this state.”

“In Essex, we call it discipline,” Hines said. He seemed amused by the conversation.

“Hit him again, and we'll see.” To emphasize her point, she thumbed the button on her radio mike. “Unit six-oh-four to Central.”

Hines's expression turned to one of concern. “Just what do you think you're doing?”

Her radio popped. “Go ahead, six-oh-four.”

Darla arched her eyebrows. “You tell me, Sheriff. You tell me if I'm calling for backup to have you arrested.”

“Central to six-oh-four, go ahead.”

The color of the sheriff's face intensified to something north of red, but still south of purple. He pressed his lips so tightly together that they nearly disappeared. “You're on dangerous ground, Deputy. This is a family matter.”

Darla looked to the beaten boy on the ground. “This feel like a family matter to you, Peter?”

The boy smiled. “No, ma'am, it doesn't.”

“Six-oh-four, do you have traffic?” The dispatcher's voice had a distinct edge on it now.

She thumbed the mike, and as she did, Hines jumped a little. “Ah, Central, stand by for a second.” Then, to Hines: “Tell me what to do, boss.”

Sheriff Hines faced the boys again. “You broke the law,” he said.

Peter Banks winced as he straightened, but then smiled. He knew he'd won. “Cheer up, Sheriff. I'm sure it won't be my last time. You'll get another chance.”

Sheriff Hines looked ready to kill the kid. He whirled to face Darla. “I suppose you want to just let him go with a warning.”

“No, sir,” Darla said. “I think that we should arrest them and prosecute them for possession of a controlled substance. I called you because of the presence of your son, and I thought a little deference might be in order.”

The sheriff churned it all through his mind. A confirmed hothead, he was nobody's fool. He understood the corner he was in. When he took a step closer to his son, Darla moved to stay between them. “Do you know what you've done, Jeremy?” he growled.

His son stared at the ground.

“Answer me, boy.”

“Yessir.”

“Do you know how this makes me look? Do you understand what it can do to your future? A drug charge? Jesus.”

“Won't make you look any too good, either, will it, Sheriff?” Peter said.

Darla wanted to kill him herself.

Peter continued, “Chief lawman of a little burg like this can't even keep his own son in line. For years and years, people'd be talking in the diner about how that Hines kid, boy, he really could've been something. Shame he lost that scholarship.”

Sheriff Hines glowered at the Banks boy. “You're going to jail,” he said.

“Not today, I'm not. Not without Jeremy coming with me. See? I choose my friends carefully, Sheriff.”

Hines vibrated with anger. He wanted to do violence to something—some
one
—but that wasn't going to happen. Not today.

“Central to six-oh-four. Sweet cheeks, do you have traffic for me or not?”

Darla looked at the sheriff, waiting for a cue.

“Take those cuffs off,” he said. “Let them go.”

“I don't want you taking out your anger on Jeremy when he gets home,” Darla said. “I'll be checking up, Sheriff, and I swear to God—”

“Know when to accept victory and back off, Deputy,” Hines said.

* * *

Brad's surprise destination turned out to be the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, located in Mason's Corner on the western edge of Braddock County. A meaningless crossroads just thirty years ago, Mason's Corner was now the mecca of high-tech development in Northern Virginia, employing over 100,000 workers. Complete with its own traffic gridlock and distinctive skyline, this unincorporated city was center field for the computer technology game on the East Coast. In a few years, if things kept growing the way they had, Mason's Corner would make Silicon Valley look like a low-rent district.

The hotel was an opulent appendage to the Galleria at Mason's Corner, which itself appeared to be a freeze-dried version of Rodeo Drive, where Saks Fifth Avenue was the
low-end
store.

“This is beautiful,” Nicki breathed.

“You ain't seen nothin' yet,” Brad said with a wink.

Brad whipped the turn into the circular driveway, and the doorman walked with casual efficiency to Nicki's door and opened it. “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton,” he said. “Do you need help with your luggage?”

Brad answered before Nicki had a chance. “That's okay. I think we'll just leave it in the trunk for a while.” He pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to the attendant. “I love this car,” he said. “Please take good care of it.”