Time to Steal (6 page)

Ben's eyes drifted off again. “How can people do things like that? He was so young. Such a nice young man.”

Darla agreed. Such a waste. The cash drawer was already open, for heaven's sake. Why did they have to kill the kid, too?

“Did you keep a gun out there at the register, Ben?” she asked. “Do you think maybe Chas tried to defend himself?”

Ben shook his head. “That boy never harmed a soul in his whole life. God bless it, if I'd known that there was even a remote chance that something like this might happen, I'd have never—”

“Wait!” Darla exclaimed. Holy shit, could it be this easy? “Two teenagers, right? A boy and a girl?”

“I already told you, I didn't hear—”

Darla didn't wait for him to finish the thought. It didn't matter. She dashed around to the front seat of her cruiser and reached in for the clipboard that was forever propped in the center console. She had it in her hand when she came back to Ben. “We got word this morning on a couple of runaways,” she explained. “Now I'm going to show you a picture, and I want you to look at it carefully. If you—”

“That's them!” Ben declared. He could see it already from his oblique angle on the clipboard. “That's them, I swear to God. Oh, Jesus, that's the two I saw.”

The old man's outburst startled her. “I know you're anxious for the killers to be caught,” she said, hoping to settle him down, “but it's important for you to take your time with this.”

“I don't have to take my goddamn time, missy. I know who I saw, and this is them.”

Darla thought of asking him one more time, but the look of exasperation told her that he was as sure as anyone could be.

“We got this on the wire this morning,” Darla explained. “We're halfway home.” As she spoke, she walked toward the front doors.

Jackson Ryan yelled, “Hey! You can't go in there!” But she'd already pulled it open.

The door pinged as she walked through, and she was surprised to see the sheriff leaning against the counter, his expression vacant, clearly unnerved. He looked up at the sound of the bell and growled, “I thought I told you to stay out of here.”

“Are you okay, Sheriff?”

He glared at her. “Don't try to mother me, Deputy. Even my mother didn't enjoy the experience.”

“You just look kinda—”

“There's no videotape in the recorder, okay?” It sounded as if he'd intended to shout the words, but couldn't muster the energy. “I got a dead boy on my hands, and the one good shot we had at catching his killer was screwed up because a drunk old man was too lazy to load his damn security machine.”

“We won't need it.” Darla started to take a step closer as she announced the news, but stopped as Chas Delphin's corpse came into view. “I got a positive ID from Ben. It's those runaway kids who came over the wire this morning.” She checked the clipboard again. “Brad Ward, aka Brad Dougherty, and Nicolette Janssen. She's from upstate New York, he's from Michigan.”

Sheriff Hines looked confused as he processed the information through his head. “That's awfully fast, Deputy. Are you sure that Ben knows what he's talking about?”

“I showed him the pictures, and he was certain. Aggressively certain. I think these are our perps, Sheriff.”

Hines still did not seem convinced. In fact, he seemed kind of lost, as if he'd checked out of reality.

Darla continued, “Ben told me that the killers were rifling through Chas's pockets. Maybe they left some prints behind. If we can get a positive hit from that, then we're home free. We don't even need the video.”

Sheriff Hines considered that, and a smile blossomed on his face. “You're right,” he said. “If we can put some known fugitives here on the scene, then we've got all the evidence we need, don't we?”

“Exactly.”

“Yes,” he said. “That's really very good, isn't it? That's excellent, in fact.” The smile became a grin. “Okay, Darla, here's what I want you to do. Get the information out on the net that these escapees are murderers and that they're expected to be in the area. Have Deputy Jackson bring me the fingerprint kit out of the trunk of my cruiser and we'll get to work on that part of it.”

“You want me to put in a request for the State PD crime lab?”

Hines gave her a look. “This one's ours, Deputy,” he said. “Even a hick backwoods sheriff like me knows how to lift a fingerprint.”

Darla understood the subtext: This was an election year, and given the events of the past couple of days—not to mention the faltering economy, the drop-off in tourist dollars, and all the other crap that led voters to seek changes in November—it wouldn't harm Sheriff Frank Hines one bit to have a solid success on his record.

“Okay,” Darla said. “I figure they've got a twenty-, thirty-minute head start at best. There's a good chance we can close this one today.”

The sheriff smiled. “Good work, Deputy,” he said. “Damn good work.”

Those were words that Darla Sweet never thought she'd hear, uttered by a man who did not speak them easily. The warmth they brought surprised her. “Oh, and listen, Sheriff,” she said, stopping when she was halfway to the door and turning to face him. “I spoke to your wife this morning—”

Hines waved her off. “I'm sorry about that. It never should have happened.”

“That's okay, really. I just wanted you to know that there's nothing for you to worry about.”

The sheriff gave a tired smile. “Darla, I've got a son experimenting with drugs in an election year. He's been gifted with a pitching arm that he's not interested in using, and he's solidly on the path that's going to keep him from ever escaping this little burg. I've got plenty to worry about. But it's my problem, not yours. I just panicked a little, is all.”

She didn't know what to say. Suddenly, she'd become one of the sheriff's confidants. “I think anyone would, under the circumstances. I put myself in your circumstance and—”

“Don't,” he interrupted. “Don't put yourself in my head, Deputy. I don't want you there. What I want is for you to get your ass out on the street and find the bastards who did this.”

She'd pushed too hard. “You got it,” she said. “I'll get right on it.” She ignored the urge to apologize.

“And Deputy? Make it clear that these are heartless killers, okay? Make it clear that they shot and killed an unarmed teenager just to get a few dollars out of the till. Make sure that responding officers react accordingly.”

Darla scowled. “Accordingly?”

“If there's more blood to be spilled, I want it to be theirs.”

Chapter Five

O
n its best day, Interstate 95 was ugly. Parts of it were less ugly than others, but from origin to terminus, it was thousands of miles of monotony broken only by the occasional view of open road. In this weather, with the rain falling in sheets, it was an exercise in white-knuckle driving. The worst problem was the spray from the tractor trailers, which rendered Carter's windshield nearly opaque.

Carter hoped he wasn't being foolish driving all this distance without knowing where he was going. How did he know he wasn't heading in exactly the wrong direction? Sure, the smart money said that Brad and Nicki were probably heading for the beach, but who was to say that the terrible weather hadn't scared them off toward an entirely different compass point? Who was to say that they weren't still hanging around Brookfield, waiting for the heat to disappear?

No one could say anything for sure, but motion was better than sitting still. Carter wondered when the pressure would make him implode.

When he was a younger man, Carter harbored dreams of suburban contentment. Unlike so many in the office of the district attorney, he had no designs on wealth or fame or political advancement. He was what he'd come to realize was the last of a dying breed—a public servant whose chief sense of gratification came from serving the public. He took pride in putting bad guys behind bars.

The whole idea was to have a plain vanilla life, sweet but ordinary. The linchpin, though, was always the family. God knew he loved Jenny, and Jenny knew it, too. In retrospect, he wasn't at all sure that he could say the same about Nicki. He'd left far too many of the child-rearing chores to her mother, always promising to make it right just as soon as he crossed the next hurdle.

But the hurdles never ended. Somehow, in mere moments, seventeen years had passed, and he was all alone, struggling to temper bonds with his daughter that should have been forged when she was a toddler.

Every time he thought that life had gotten as bad as it possibly could, he discovered that there was no bottom to the well of badness. Honest to God, he just didn't know how much more of this he could take.

“Get a grip,” he told himself, embarrassed that he'd spoken aloud. Who was he to feel sorry for himself, when Nicki was staring down the tunnel at her own death? It was terrible, he knew, but more and more he'd come to think of Jenny and Nicki as the lucky ones. For them, the pain had stopped, or soon would. For Carter, the misery and loneliness had no foreseeable expiration date.

The bungled transplant call was the end of the line for Carter. It was the goal for which he and Nicki had focused everything for so long, and when the call finally came, he'd allowed himself to smile.

Then, when the heart and lungs were ripped from their hands, it was as if his soul had been ripped from his body. There was nothing left anymore. There was no hope. When he replayed the details of last night's argument in his head—no, wait, that was two nights ago, wasn't it?—he found that the specific words were gone, evaporated from his mind into the cloud of so many similar screaming matches. But the desperation in Nicki's voice remained etched forever in every synapse: All she wanted was to be normal.

Even in the panicky, giddy ride to the hospital for her transplants, her nervous chatter had dealt not with life in its metaphysical form, but in terms of being able to go to college next year, with a specific eye on spring break. This, from a girl who'd never attended anything close to a spring break.

Carter hated himself for never having taken his daughter to the beach himself. She had in fact seen it several times, en route to Italy one year and to Disney World another, but she'd never touched it. Neither Carter nor Jenny were all that fond of the water, and together, they'd justified their dismissal of a beach vacation by telling Nicki that she had a whole lifetime in which to make up for lost time at the beach.

A whole lifetime.
My ass
.

The ring of his cell phone brought Carter back to the here and now. He pulled it from the clip on his belt and flipped it open. “Janssen.”

“Hello, Carter, this is Warren Michaels. I've got some troubling news for you.”

As he listened, it was all Carter could do to keep his vehicle on the road.

* * *

The sky was the color of lead. Brad and Nicki didn't make it five miles down Shore Road before heavy drops started to hammer the windshield. Three minutes after that, the skies erupted. Rain fell in torrents. They had no choice but to pull to the side of the road and stretch the fabric top over the Sebring. It was time they could ill afford, but necessary. Brad told himself that the rain gave them a reason to have the windows up, and therefore be less noticeable.

“I know what you're thinking,” he said when they were on the road again. Nicki hadn't said three words since they'd left the Quik Mart, and the silence made the whole nightmare even worse. His comment drew a numb gaze. “A boy was
killed,
” he said, “and we witnessed it, and we need to do something about it. Is that close?”

He was right on the money.

“Well, listen. That's not our problem. If we'd come into that place ten minutes sooner or ten minutes later, we wouldn't even be giving it a second thought. That poor bastard would still be dead, and we'd still be on our way to Florida. It was a coincidence, okay? A random happening. You can't sacrifice your future because some asshole you never met fired a gun.”

“But he's dead,” Nicki said. No matter how many times she tried to wrap her mind around it, the concept seemed too large. Dead was forever.

“We're all gonna die sooner or later.” Brad looked at Nicki, a long enough take that she began to worry about him seeing the road. “We're in the sooner category, know what I mean? So was the kid in the store. Christ, I don't even know his name.”

“Chas,” Nicki said. “Short for Charles, I guess.”

Brad brought his eyes back around to the road. “Well, Chas just drew a low number. That sucks, but I wasn't holding the hat he drew from. Us staying free for a while won't bring him back. All it will do is keep us free.”

Nicki couldn't believe what she was hearing. “Don't you even care?”

“Of course I care.”

Nicki pounded her thigh with her palm. “We should have done something!”

Brad flashed anger, and then his features softened. “You did do something, Nicki. You held his hand and stroked his head and made sure that he didn't die alone. You made sure that somebody noticed his pain, and you eased him over to whatever lies on the other side. You did everything that could have been done.”

Nicki looked at him, shocked.

“I care, Nicki. I really do. But he'd be no less dead if we'd hung around there. Don't you understand that? It'd be different if we were patching his wound, or keeping him from bleeding to death or doing CPR or something. But dead plus one minute is the same as dead plus fifty years. We
had
to leave.”

“What about the old guy?” Nicki asked.

“What about him?”

“He thinks that we did the shooting.”

“All the more reason to get the hell out of there,” Brad said. “The tape will show it wasn't us. That'll be the first thing the cops look at, and when they see what happened, you'll be off the hook. I, on the other hand, will be one giant step closer to getting nailed again.”

They fell silent. Nicki couldn't clear the image of the dead boy out of her mind.

“Do you want me to drop you off and go it alone?” Brad asked.

Nicki looked at him, surprised. “No.”

“It's getting a lot hotter than you signed on for,” he added. “I just thought—Well, I want you to know there's no hard feelings if you want to just bag it. For you, this is like spring break. For me, it's life and death. If they get too close—” He cut himself off before he said something he might regret.

The spring break line pissed her off. “Jesus, Brad, I'm dying. That's not exactly a vacation.”

“I didn't mean it that way,” he said. “I just meant that the stakes are different for you. If this all goes to shit, you get to go home. I don't exactly have that option.”

Nicki's gut seized with the tone of his voice. There was a finality to it, a subtext that terrified her. “What are you saying?”

Brad returned his eyes to the road. “Forget it.”

“No, I won't forget it. What are you telling me?”

“I'm telling you exactly what I said. I'm not going back to prison.”

“Neither am I.”

Brad kept his eyes on the road as he said, “It's not the same.”

There it was again. “So, what, you're going to kill yourself if the cops get too close?”

He didn't answer.

“That's crazy, Brad. That's totally insane.”

She saw the muscles in his jaw flex as he worked to swallow anger. “You haven't been there, Nicki. You don't know.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea.”

“Well, you're wrong,” he snapped. “You think that because you're sick, you've got the shittiest deal in the world. Trust me. It can get a lot worse than that.”

“Spoken like somebody who has a life ahead of him,” Nicki said. It was one of the most powerful lines in her repertoire, guaranteed to shut down an argument, the one verbal thrust for which there was no parry.

But Brad didn't back down. “Oh, for Christ's sake, I'm already dead. Don't you get it? My clock started ticking the second I walked out of prison. It's just a matter of time. There
is
no transplant that can prolong anything for me. Today, tomorrow, next week, one way or the other, I'm dead.”

“But you can't do that,” Nicki argued. “It's too . . .” She struggled for the right word. “Easy.”

Brad laughed. “If it were easy, I'd have done it by now. I'd have done it after my first week in the joint. Killing yourself might be a lot of things, but easy isn't one of them.”

Nicki opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. What was there to say?

“And you're a fine one to talk about easy. If you believed the crap you're slinging you'd be in a hospital, squeezing out every drop of hope. Yet, here you are.”

The words hit Nicki hard. She'd never thought about this adventure with Brad being a weird kind of extended suicide pact. Now that she did think about it, she didn't like it at all. “It doesn't matter for me,” she said. “I've got a year. Maybe. At best. It might as well be a week or a second. You could have another fifty, seventy-five years ahead of you.”

Brad scowled. “I think you really think that's a good thing.” He looked at her. “I'm twenty-two years old, Nicki. Do you realize that if the State of Michigan has its way, I'll be forty-six before I even get my first parole hearing? And nobody ever gets out on their first hearing. I can't do that. I
can't
.”

“Won't,” Nicki corrected.

He shrugged. “Okay, I
won't
spend the rest of my life in prison, just as I
won't
sit here and argue the point with you. That's not to piss you off, that's just the way it is. You've never lived with that kind of violence, and until you have, there's no way for you to understand.”

Nicki could tell from his body language that this discussion was over. Maybe the smart play for her really would be to just walk away. Brad was a
criminal,
for God's sake. A cute criminal, and sweet and mostly kind, but everything about him was criminal. He stole cars, he lashed out at old men. He participated in armed robberies where people were killed. Having seen for herself how horrendous a thing that was to do, how could she possibly continue this way?

They were barely moving. All she had to do was open the door, and it would be all over. She wasn't a prisoner. Pull the handle, open the door, take a step, and there you go. There was no way this could turn out well, not for either of them. If Nicki had a brain in her head, she'd get as far away from Brad as she could, and head on back to—

What?

What was there for her to return to? A hospital room and a pump in her gut? Slow death in a sterile room. Just like Mom.

“What are you thinking?” Brad asked, breaking the silence.

Nicki forced herself to look right at him as she answered. “You never laughed at me,” she said.

“Huh?”

She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. “I was trying to figure out a reason to stay here, a reason not to run back like a scared little girl.”

Confusion etched Brad's brow. “When didn't I laugh?”

“You know, back then. Back in the old days, when you lived next door and I was drooling over you. When I pretended to be so worldly, talking about things I thought would impress you, you never laughed. You could have. I was always afraid that you would, but it would have destroyed me.”

“This is a high-price reward for showing a little restraint.”

Nicki was getting to the difficult part. “That's just part of it. You were the boy of my dreams.”

Brad grew uncomfortable, shifting in his seat.

She went on, “I used to do those crazy things, like writing my name as Nicolette Ward, and I used to hate myself for it, because I knew that nobody as gorgeous as you would ever think twice about me.”

He groaned, “Oh, God.”

“I know. It was puppy love. But even after you left, I used to dream that we'd get married and we'd go on long drives, just the two of us.”

He shifted uncomfortably again.