Twice in a Lifetime (26 page)

I need Drake’s cash! I won’t survive two days without it!

Digging into his pocket, he fumbled the key, dropping it on the floor. Once he’d finally retrieved it, he struggled to get it in the door; after he managed to insert it, he couldn’t turn it in the lock.

“Goddamn it!” he swore.

When he heard it click, Amos shouldered the door open and made a beeline for Drake’s duffel bag. It was right where the driver had left it that morning. Before they’d departed for the race, Amos had suggested that they check out of the hotel and take their things with them, but Drake had shook his head; he’d insinuated that there was something else they needed to talk about, but Amos had been too grouchy at that point to listen. Now the mechanic knew he should’ve insisted.

Rushing over, he snatched up the bag, clinging to it as if it was his salvation, which he supposed it was. But then, just as he allowed himself to hope that he would get away, Amos heard something that made his sweat go cold as ice.

“What room is Barstow in?” someone shouted down in the lobby. “Either you tell me, bitch, or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes!”

Amos knew that voice from his nightmares. It was Sweet Woods. He and his men had caught up quicker than expected.

Instantly, the mechanic knew he was trapped like a rat. He couldn’t go back down the stairs, and it would only be a matter of seconds before the bloodthirsty drug dealer would be coming up after him. Frantically, he looked around, desperate for a way out. Then he saw it. Just outside the window was a fire escape. In a different, more rational time, Amos might’ve checked to see if the ladder went all the way to the ground, but he was too panicked for that; frankly, plummeting a couple of floors and busting his head open on the concrete would be preferable to letting Sweet and his thugs get their hands on him. It would have to do. He had to get out of there.

To hell with Sweet. To hell with this damn town. And to hell with Drake, too.

He wanted to live.

As soon as Drake stepped into the lobby, he knew he’d made a mistake. Outside, he had peered in the windows, listened by the door, considered going around the back way, but he’d assumed that Amos had succeeded in giving his pursuers the slip. Unfortunately, he hadn’t. Three men stood at the front desk, the same ones who’d tried to kill his friend. Every head in the room, including that of the hotel’s terrified owner, turned to look at him. For a moment, no one moved. Then one of the men, the owner of the pistol, smiled.

“Well, well, well,” he said with a chuckle. “Look who we have here.”

Now that he was up close, Drake took a long look at the strangers. The colorfully dressed one was clearly in charge, his mouth as loud as his taste in clothes. The thinner one to his side kept looking from his boss to Drake and back again, as if he was a dog, eager to please. The third stood silently, his eyes hooded, his hands hanging loose at his sides, sizing up the new arrival; instinctively, Drake knew that if it came to a fight, this one would be the most dangerous. Still, he didn’t recognize any of them. Strangely, they seemed to know him.

“Where is he, McCoy?” the leader asked.

“Where’s who?” Drake responded, stalling for time.

“You know goddamn well who we want,” the thinner one snapped, smiling, cocky and proud. “You want to keep breathin’, you better answer.”

“I don’t know,” he lied.

“Bullshit,” the man in charge growled; he said it so angrily that the threatening, quiet goon took a step forward as if he anticipated violence.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Drake said truthfully, trying to defuse the situation. “What do you want with Amos?”

The two talkative members of the trio burst into laughter.

“Hilarious!” the thin one guffawed. “The nerve of you, actin’ like you don’t know what that son of a bitch took!”

“You been traipsin’ ’round with him for weeks now,” the boss added. “Drivin’ hundreds of miles from St. Louis, and you expect me to buy that you ain’t got no idea what he’s been up to? What kind of fool do you take me for?”

Drake was beginning to suspect that
he
was the fool. For some reason, these men had come after them. What had Amos stolen?

“This has to be some sort of misunderstanding,” he offered. “Just tell me what it is you think Amos has done and maybe we can—”

The flamboyantly dressed man pointed his gun at Drake and cocked the hammer. “The time for talkin’ is over,” he said. “Either you tell me what room the two of you are in, or otherwise, I’m gonna—”

But before the thug could finish his threat, they were all surprised by the sound of the Plymouth’s engine roaring to life. Seconds later, they watched, stunned, as the race car peeled away from the curb, its tires smoking as it sped out of sight. Somehow, Amos had gotten past them.

Through those turbulent instants, Drake kept a cool head. With the criminals momentarily distracted, he knew that this was going to be his only chance to escape. A hallway ran just off the lobby and toward the rear of the hotel. If he could just get around the corner, get back to Clara, he might be able to start piecing together what the hell was going on. And so, with the squeal of the Plymouth’s tires still shattering the afternoon’s quiet, he made his move.

“Hey!” the thin man shouted. “He’s gettin’ away!”

Drake thought that the goon’s warning had come too late, that he was fast enough, that like Amos, he was going to make a clean break for it.

But he was wrong.

Just before he made it to safety, the leader, the criminal Drake had never met before today, pulled the trigger and shot him.

A
RE YOU IN LOVE
with him?”

Clara was so surprised by Tommy’s question that she gasped. They had been sitting in the pickup, waiting for Drake to return. She’d been anxiously watching the hotel while her son drummed his fingers on the door. When he spoke, it was the first thing either of them had said since Drake left.

“I…It’s…” she stammered, not because she didn’t know the answer, but because she wasn’t sure how to talk about it with her son.

Tommy turned to look at her. “With the way you kissed, I figured that things must be getting serious…” he said, offering a weak smile.

“They are,” Clara acknowledged, speaking carefully, knowing that the situation was delicate. “Drake is a good man.”

Her son nodded, but didn’t speak.

Feeling the need to explain herself further, Clara said, “He’s smart, kind, and funny. You’ll see it, too, once you get to know him better.”

“He seems like a good guy,” Tommy added, his expression unreadable.

“He is,” Clara agreed. But then she felt like she was selling Drake short, like even if she sat here for an hour, she wouldn’t be able to tell Tommy about all the ways he had changed her life, how before the race car driver had arrived, her tomorrows were something to dread, rather than days to look forward to.

“I haven’t felt this way in a long time,” she finally explained.

“Since Dad died?”

Tommy’s words silenced her. Tears filled Clara’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She had already made her peace with Joe. Deep in her heart, she knew that he would have understood her feelings for Drake. It was time to face the future and quit clinging so tenaciously to the past. Now she had to convince Tommy.

“No one will ever replace your father,” she began. “He will always be a part of both our lives. Nothing can ever change that.” Clara paused. “But somehow, unexpectedly, I’ve found love again. Just when I was ready to give up all hope, Drake appeared, and while he can never make up for what we’ve lost, not completely, he can be the start of something new. The only thing I ask of you is that you don’t turn your back on him. Give him a chance. That’s all.”

Tommy turned to look out the window. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, he nodded his head. “I’ll try,” he said.

It was then, as she was flooded with feelings of relief, that Clara’s attention was drawn to a figure hurrying down the sidewalk toward them.

It took Clara a moment to realize that it was Amos.

The mechanic hobbled with a noticeable limp, his clothes drenched in sweat and his face as white as bone. He clutched a large bag to his chest, its strap swinging with every step. Passing in front of the truck, his eyes were focused straight ahead; he never spared them so much as a glance.

“Isn’t that…?” Tommy remarked.

Clara didn’t answer; she could only watch Amos go, too stunned to call out to him or honk the horn. The next thing she knew, the mechanic threw the bag in the back of the Plymouth, fired up the car’s powerful engine, and disappeared in a cloud of burnt rubber.

“What was that all about?” Tommy asked.

In answer, Clara started the pickup.

Whatever was going to happen next would happen fast.

Drake leaned against the wall down the hall and around the corner from the lobby, cursing under his breath. He had paid a price for running. The bullet had punctured his biceps, tearing through his skin as easily as his shirt. Blood stained the fabric and dripped onto the floor. Drake knew that it could’ve been much worse; a couple inches to the right and he would probably be taking his last breath. But as bad as the wound hurt, he had a bigger problem: the door at the end of the hallway, the one he’d planned on using to make his escape, was locked tight.

“Come on!” the thin man shouted. “After McCoy before he gets away!”

Time was running out. Drake knew that he had only two choices: he could either bust the door down or stand his ground and fight, but the odds of surviving against three men, especially when they were armed, were slim to none.

Think, damn it! Think!

But then his salvation came from an unexpected source.

“To hell with the driver!” the leader barked. “I don’t give a damn about him! I want Barstow!”

“But what about—”

“Move!”

The order was followed by the pounding of footsteps. Drake listened closely, his breath caught in his throat. As soon as he heard the slamming of car doors, he was off and running.

Outside, Drake found Clara behind the wheel of the pickup. She slid over as he got in, wincing in pain as he brushed his arm against the door.

“What happened?” she asked, staring at his blood-soaked shirt, her voice panicked. “Have you been
shot
?”

In answer, Drake threw the truck into gear and took off after the other cars. He concentrated on working the stick, the clutch, and the accelerator as smoothly as he could, but it still felt as if it was taking forever to increase their speed.

“Why are they after Amos?” Clara asked.

“I still don’t really know,” Drake answered, racing down Main Street; up ahead, he could just make out a Cadillac speeding toward the edge of town. “They claimed he’d stolen something from them.”

“What?”

“They didn’t say. But they seemed to think I was in on it.”

“We saw him,” Tommy said. “Your friend. The one those guys were shooting at. He walked right past us on the way to your car.”

“He was limping like he’d hurt his leg,” Clara added. “He was carrying a big duffel bag with him, but we were both so—”

“Amos was what?” Drake interrupted, his heart suddenly racing faster than the pickup truck.

“Limping,” she repeated.

“Not that. What did you say he had with him?”

“A big bag.”

Drake felt as if he’d been slugged in the gut. That bag was
his
. All the money he had saved over the years was in it. Thousands of dollars.

Amos was stealing from him, too…

Amos pointed the Plymouth out of town and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. He drove recklessly, drifting across the center line before overcorrecting, and took even the gentlest of corners fast enough to make the tires squeal. His poor driving made sense given how bad he felt: his hands, slick with sweat, trembled on the steering wheel; his guts ached, like they had been tied in knots; he blinked constantly, his eyes betraying him as the road wiggled like a worm on a fishing line.

“Come on, come on,” he said to himself. “Keep it together.”

In the end, the only thing that mattered was that he had the money. Somewhere, deep inside, Amos knew it was wrong to steal it like that, but what choice did he have? Morphine wasn’t free. Sweet Woods and his men were right behind him. Without enough cash in his pocket, he was as good as dead. Though he hated to have done Drake that way, in his withdrawal-addled mind, he had already begun to rationalize his actions, to convince himself that his friend would understand, even that he was running away with Drake’s blessing.

I’ll make it up to him someday…We’ll laugh about it…

Nervously, Amos looked in the rearview mirror. He had long since zoomed out of Sunset and was now barreling along a straightaway, the river out the passenger-side window. As he watched, he noticed something drawing steadily closer. After blinking a couple of times, the mechanic raised his hand to wipe sweat from his eyes and nearly drove off the road. But what he saw never changed. Tense seconds later, he understood that it was a car driving at high speed, kicking up a huge plume of dust in its wake. Just like that, all his hope vanished.

Sweet Woods wasn’t about to let him go
that
easy.

“There he is!” Jesse shouted, so excited that he reached out to point, his finger pressing against the Cadillac’s windshield.

Sweet smiled. He leaned forward over the front seat between the two men. His eyes narrowed, locked on the fleeing Plymouth.

“Son of a bitch didn’t get far,” Jesse continued. “As fast as we’re goin’, we’re gonna catch him right quick!”

Ever since they’d rocketed away from the hotel, Sweet had been impressed with Malcolm’s driving. He was strong and steady, his big hands clenching the steering wheel like a vise, and had quickly brought them to the Cadillac’s top speed. The man knew how to negotiate turns by taking his foot off the gas and occasionally tapping the brakes. Even as Sweet watched, the distance between the two cars continued to shrink. Barstow might have been a whiz under the hood, but behind the wheel, Sweet would bet on his man any day of the week.

“Too bad about McCoy gettin’ away,” Jesse said, too worked up to keep his gums from flapping.

“Barstow first,” Sweet replied. “Then we’ll see about his driver.”

There was a part of Sweet that wondered if Drake McCoy hadn’t been telling the truth when he said he didn’t know what Barstow had stolen. Over the years, Sweet had heard more than his share of lies, often while holding a gun, and there was usually something that gave the person away: eyes that couldn’t stay in one place for long, a nervous twitch, or a shirt drenched in sweat. McCoy had shown none of these signs. Regardless, the driver was a loose end. Sweet had seen the splatter of blood on the hallway wall. McCoy had been wounded. It would be a simple matter to go back and put another bullet between his eyes; he’d put one into the old woman who’d been behind the counter, too, while he was at it.

The road rose sharply over a hill but then, after an equally steep descent, curved hard to the left. As fast as Malcolm was driving, there wasn’t time to slow as he tried to negotiate the turn and the rear end started to fishtail. A second later, one of the rear wheels skidded onto the shoulder; rocks and loose dirt sprayed as the wheels spun. In that instant, a number of unfortunate possibilities loomed: they might flip, continue sliding down into the ditch, or even blow a tire. But amazingly, Malcolm kept them steady. Before Jesse could shout in fear, they were back on the road and again racing forward, the engine growling loudly as it tried to go as fast as its driver demanded.

“Jesus Christ almighty,” Jesse swore. “That was close.”

Sweet ignored him. “Stay on him,” he ordered Malcolm. “Catch up and knock his ass off the road.”

Malcolm did as he was told, closing the gap until Sweet could see Barstow’s eyes watching them in his rearview mirror. As if to formally announce their presence, Malcolm drove the Cadillac into the rear of the Plymouth, giving it a solid bump.

“Hey, now,” Jesse worried. “Be careful! We don’t wanna—”

“Quit your bitchin’!” Sweet shouted. Grabbing Malcolm’s shoulder, he said, “Wherever he goes, you follow! Drive
over
him if you have to!”

This was going to end right here, right now.

Clara watched Drake push the pickup as fast as its old engine would take them. The truck complained loudly, occasionally sputtering as its pistons misfired. Only a couple of days earlier, he’d
wanted
to drive it, curious about what the truck could do, had even called it a classic, but now Drake’s earlier amusement was gone, replaced by raw frustration. Even though they raced out of Sunset, in comparison to the other two cars it felt as if they were crawling. The truck simply wasn’t fast enough.

“Come on, damn you!” Drake complained, striking his palm against the steering wheel. “We’re never going to catch them like this!”

Clara put her hand on his knee. “It’s all right…” she said, recognizing the inevitable: Amos and his pursuers were going to get away.

“No, it isn’t,” he argued. Drake looked at her, his expression a mix of anger and worry. “Amos…” he began slowly, as if he couldn’t find the words. “He stole…all of my money…”

Clara was stunned. “But…but how?”

“It was in the bag he was carrying,
my
bag,” he explained. “It’s most everything I’ve saved. There’s a bit more in a bank in Illinois, but…”

Drake didn’t finish, but Clara knew what remained unspoken. The money in his duffel bag was the future they’d both been counting on; it was how they were going to keep Eddie from following through on his threat to take away her house. All of their hopes and dreams were in danger.

“They’re taking Baker’s Road out of town,” Tommy suddenly said.

“So?” Clara asked.

“It runs west along the river for a couple of miles, but then loops back toward town just before you reach Bill Shelton’s farm,” her son explained. “If we turn right after Walt Cornelius’s place, the back roads will lead us right to them. We might even reach the highway ahead of them.”

“Where’s the turn?” Drake asked.

Tommy showed him and the pickup roared around the corner, spraying gravel. Clara bounced on the seat as her son directed Drake past recently plowed fields, over rickety bridges, and through dense woods. As they crested a hill, the valley opened beneath them and her eyes scanned the length of road that threaded through it; her heart beat faster when she saw two cars headed their way.

“There they are!” Clara shouted as she pointed.

“We’re not going to get there in time,” Tommy said with a frown. “They’re moving too fast.”

“We’re sure as hell going to try,” Drake said as he floored the accelerator.

Even as they rocketed down the hill, the truck’s engine straining hard, Clara knew that Tommy was right; by the time they reached the highway, both cars would have already gone past. They were too late.

It would take a miracle to keep them from getting away…

Sweat dripped into Amos’s eyes, but he was so focused on the other car that he didn’t bother to wipe it away. Icy chills rippled across his skin, making him feel nauseous. His vision swam and his ears rang. He felt as if he was trapped in a nightmare from which he couldn’t wake.

Once again, Sweet Woods’s car rammed him; the jolt was jarring, hard enough to make his teeth chatter. This time, it caused the Plymouth to swerve wildly, forcing him to wrestle it back under control.

“Leave me alone!” he pleaded.