The Runaway Pastor's Wife (17 page)

“Oh, but I can. I have all the evidence I could
possibly need. I hired a private investigator to follow Duke and your little
friend Beauregard. I have a whole file of pictures, receipts, phone
records . . . and they all lead back to you. Well, that is—you
and your good friend Duke. I’ve gotta tell you, Elliot. For being such a shrewd
politician, you sure blew it placing your trust in someone like Duke. Not exactly
the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

By now Michael felt much more sure of himself.
Flaunting his evidence pumped up his confidence. But it was short lived. Even
before he’d finished speaking, he noticed Elliot stealing glances here and
there. Michael tensed, sensing danger.

Then all of a sudden, Elliot seemed to relax. He
sat back in his seat and released a long breath. “I guess you’re right,
Michael. You’ve outfoxed me this time. It’s a little hard to digest, but I’m
afraid you’ve got me over a barrel on this one.”

Well, what do you know?
Michael
gave himself a mental pat on the back. He relaxed somewhat cautiously,
stretching his arms out against the steering wheel. “I’m glad to hear you say
that, Elliot. I’ve kept my mouth shut this long. No reason to open it now as long
as you’re willing to relinquish The Page to me once and for all.”

As he turned to face his father-in-law, he heard
the indisputable pop of a gunshot.

“Noooo!” he shrieked, instantly fighting back as
reality rushed in. A white hot burn in his bicep screamed in pain as he
struggled to seize the pistol out of Elliot’s hand.

Elliot’s face contorted with rage. Age was no
issue with stakes so high. Michael’s hands locked around Elliot’s grip on the
pistol. Elliot fired off another shot which whizzed past Michael’s ear and out
his open window.

Elliot cursed. As the struggle intensified, he
groped for the door handle with his right hand. Then, with a sudden burst of
force, he jabbed his fist into the bleeding wound on Michael’s shoulder.
Michael’s grip broke free as he recoiled, grabbing his shoulder and screaming
in agony. Elliot threw open the door behind him.

Michael knew it was now or never. He turned the
key in the ignition, shifted into reverse, and slammed his foot on the
accelerator. Elliot catapulted backwards out the door, but not before firing
off another shot.

The Escalade spun backward in a wild cloudburst
of dust. Michael threw the car into drive, keeping the pedal on the floor.
Careening off into the darkness, he felt a second pinpoint of searing heat on
his right side just below his ribs. He forced himself to ignore the wounds,
trying to make sense of what was happening. He flipped on his headlights and
peered into the rearview window. A bright red glow shrouded the trail of dust
in his wake, his rear lights mercifully swallowing the scene behind him.

The will to survive consumed him. Instinctively,
he approached the interstate and headed north, the engine roaring against the
accelerated speed.

This can’t be happening . . .

I have to drop out of sight . . .

Gotta go somewhere I can think . . .

Have to get some help . . .

He reached down to the festering pain below his
ribs. His hand was soaked immediately with bright scarlet blood. The sight
shocked him, sending an involuntary shudder over him. Wiping his hand on his
pant leg, he continued speeding toward an unknown destination.

The desperate prayer escaped his lips.
God if
you’re out there, help me . . . please help me!

The clock on the wall of Elliot’s dark office
read
8:00
. He
slammed his door shut and rushed to pick up the telephone on his desk. With a
trembling hand, he punched each number, then collapsed into his chair.

At the second ring, he cursed.
Answer, Duke!

“Hello?”

“Get your butt to my office immediately. We’ve
got trouble.” Elliot slammed the phone down and cursed again.

By
8:20
,
Elliot was on his second shot of bourbon. He heard the outer doors of his
office open and close, then a rapid knock on his door as it opened.

“What’s up?” Duke Willis asked, obviously trying
to remain calm as he hurried into the inner sanctuary of Elliot’s office. “Good
grief! You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Maybe that’s because I have,” he spat. “Maybe
that’s because I’ve been hitchhiking for the last hour. Maybe that’s because I
had to catch a ride with a bunch of brain-dead illegal aliens in a pickup
loaded with filthy, stinkin’ snot-nosed kids,” he shouted, wiping his hands on
his shirt.

Duke dropped into the leather chair behind him.
“What in the world were you doing out there hitchhiking? Don’t you realize how
dangerous that is in this town?”

Elliot’s face heated with anger. “Of course I
know how dangerous it is, you imbecile!” he bellowed. “That idiot son-in-law of
mine dumped me out in the middle of nowhere! Tried to blackmail me! Thought he
could stop me from squeezin’ him out of his stupid company!”

Duke scrunched up his face. “
Blackmail
you?” he laughed. “With what?”

Elliot leaned forward, clutching the edge of his
desk. “With Christopher Jordan,” he growled, his eyes narrowing.

Duke went pale. His mouth fell open. “Wha—what
does he know about
Jordan
?”

“
Every
thing.”

For half a minute the two men locked eyes. No
words were necessary. Unspoken scenarios rifled through Elliot’s mind. And by
the look on his assistant’s face, he was confident the same scenarios pummeled
Duke’s mind as well. Finally, Elliot got up and walked over to his bar. He
replenished his drink and poured one for Duke. He sauntered slowly over to the
sofa and handed the glass to the silent, frail man whose face was now buried in
his delicate hands.

“Now, listen to me very carefully, Duke.” Elliot
sat down in the wing chair adjacent to him. “I’ve already called Gus and
Marcus. I called them from my cell phone right after Michael took off before
the useless thing went dead on me. I sent them up I-45 north toward
Dallas
to
track him down. He’s in his Escalade—they shouldn’t have any trouble spotting
him. I gave them explicit directions to call me the minute they find him. And I
told them to stay out of sight. Told them not to go near Michael, just tail
him.”

“But—”

“I told them this is stealth surveillance. Of
course I had to explain that since the morons didn’t a clue what it meant. But
I made it absolutely clear—under no circumstances were they to stop him or in
any way warn him of their presence.”

“Why can’t they bring him in? Or dispose of
him?”

“Because I want to know just exactly where it is
our Mr. Dean is going. He claims to have all the evidence he needs to link us
to
Jordan
’s
murder. If he’s got it stashed somewhere, I want him to lead us to it. There’s
too much at stake. If we play this smart we can eliminate him
and
his
little packet of goodies.”

Duke shifted under Elliot’s stare.

“Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to
find Bo. I don’t care where he is, you find him. Then you put him on a plane
out of the country. Send him where no one will find him. And you make sure we
can reach him at all times wherever it is you stash him. You got that?”

“I haven’t talked to him in years! I have no
idea where—”

“FIND HIM!” Elliot roared. He paused, exhaled,
then continued. “Now Michael probably hasn’t gotten very far. I got a couple of
shots into him so—”

“You
what?
” Duke jumped up. “Are you out
of your mind? Elliot! He’s threatening to implicate us with
Jordan
’s
murder! You can’t go blasting away at him like some Keystone cop! Do you
realize what you’ve done?”

Elliot felt his face heat once again. He slammed
down his drink and stood nose to nose with Duke. “You shut up and listen to me!
If you hadn’t been so careless, Michael would never have come up with any proof
in the first place. It’s
your
fault this has blown up in our faces and
I’ll see you hang before I’ll let them pin this on me!”

Duke stared silently at him. Elliot could almost
read his thoughts. Duke knew perfectly well he would be six feet under before
he blinked if he didn’t do just as he was told.

His assistant quietly sipped from the glass in
his trembling hand and sat back down in resignation. “I’ll do whatever you ask
of me, Elliot. You know that. We’ll find Michael. Don’t worry.”

“That’s more like it.” Elliot made his way back
to his desk.

“How bad is he hurt?”

“I don’t know. For all I know he may be dead on
the side of the road even as we speak. But I doubt we can count on it. Oh, and
get rid of this, will you?” He handed Duke the small handgun out of his pocket.
“Wipe it clean and make sure it doesn’t mysteriously appear again. Bury it in
concrete if you have to.”

CHAPTER 11

Huntsville
,
Texas

An hour after his exit from his explosive
encounter with Elliot, Michael pulled off the interstate on the outskirts of
Huntsville
. His
gas tank was low, but more urgently, he needed to care for his wounds. His arm
and side were bleeding too much. Already the towel he’d pulled from his gym bag
was soaked with blood.

He spotted a Shell Super Station and pulled in,
pleased to find the restrooms tucked back behind the station. He pulled up next
to the men’s room and slowly slipped inside carrying his bag with him. Once
inside, he locked the door and assessed the damage. The mere sight of so much
blood sent the room spinning. Holding onto the sink to brace himself, he waited
for the dizziness to subside, then splashed his face with cold water. He
carefully peeled off his shirt and threw it in the sink under the running tap.

Just don’t even think about it. Just clean it up
and get out of here. No time to think. No time to think . . .

Michael held a wad of wet paper towels over the
dark wound on his side hoping to slow the flow of blood. Apparently the bullet
must have grazed him, tearing in then back out his side. At least that’s how it
looked. He pulled his Astros sweatshirt out of his bag and carefully crawled
into it. He ran his fingers through his wet hair and took another assessment
through the mirror. It would have to do, at least until he could get some
medical supplies. He cleaned up his mess, throwing the blood-soaked shirt into
his bag.

Holding his arm tight against his body, Michael
walked as casually as he could across the pavement to the store. Avoiding eye
contact with other customers, he gathered his supplies into the small shopping
basket—a traveler’s first aid kit, some antiseptic, extra gauze and medical
tape, and a large bottle of pain reliever. He grabbed a handful of snacks and a
six-pack of bottled water, then headed for the counter. He realized he was the
only customer left in the store. For the first time, the young clerk, dressed
in a yellow Shell Super Store shirt and tight blue jeans, looked up to greet
him.

“Hey-how-ya-doin?” she drawled. Nineteen, maybe
twenty, Michael figured. She chomped on a wad of purple bubblegum.

Michael opened his mouth to answer, but nothing
came out. He coughed and cleared his throat then tried again. “Whoa, sorry.
Guess I must be thirstier than I thought. But I’m fine.”

Ringing up his purchases, she looked back at him
with a questioning glance. “Say what?”

“Oh, sorry. You asked how I was and I said I’m
fine.” He tried to smile.

“Oh. Yeah, right.” A purple bubble exploded out
the frosted pink lips. She stopped smacking for a second. “Are you okay,
mister? You don’t look so good.”

“I don’t?”

“No, you sure don’t.” She handed him his change.
“Maybe you oughta’ sit down for a minute. Go git ya one of them iced down
bottles of water in the cooler back there. You said you was thirsty. Maybe you
just got dehydrated or somethin’.”