Midnight Rambler_ A Novel Of Suspense Part 42

Linderman glared at me. I wanted to tell him not to worry; I was never trying out for the FBI. Instead, I went looking for Melinda.

The back of the house felt like a crash pad, not a place anyone had spent much time in. There were two cramped bedrooms, each with a mattress on the floor and a small electric fan beside it. Walking down a hallway, I came to a closed door.

I twisted the k.n.o.b and entered. The room had no furniture, save for a video camera and tripod in the room's center and a boom box on the floor. The camera was pointed at a closed closet door. I opened it expecting to find Melinda. Instead, I let out a startled cry.

Hanging from a metal pole was a naked young woman I'd never seen before. A purple rag was stuck in her mouth to keep her from screaming. Everything about her looked dead, except for her face. There was a trace of pink in both cheeks, and I pulled the rag free and untied her wrists. She fell limply into my arms, and I gently laid her down on the floor.

"Wake up. Come on, you can do it," I said.

At first she did not respond. Then a cough escaped her throat.

It was a tiny sound, like a dead car battery with a spark of life.

Her eyelids fluttered, and she started to breath normally. She stared at me without lifting her head off the floor.

"You're not Skell, are you?" she asked.

I shook my head, and she started to cry.

"I was a present for Skell," she said.

"Did they tell you that?"

"Yes. Over and over."

"There's an ambulance coming," I said. "Everything is going to be all right."

She was eighteen if she was a day, and conscious that she was lying naked in front of a stranger. I went to the bathroom, grabbed two bath towels, and used them to cover her. If one thing defined the gang's victims, it was their beauty. Every one of them was a feast for the eyes. Even in her distressed state, she was no exception, and I watched her hand slip out from beneath a towel and encircle my wrist.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Jack Carpenter."

"One of my kidnappers talked about you," she said. "He showed your picture to the others. He said if you showed up, they should kill you because you'd kill them. It wasn't a very good picture, though."

I did everything I could not to laugh.

"You're a brave young woman," I said. "I need to ask you a question."

"Sure," she said.

"There was another young woman the gang was holding. Her name is Melinda. Do you know where she is?"

"She was in one of the other bedrooms. I heard her cry a couple of times. I think they took her away."

"When?"

"Early this morning, while it was still dark."

"Did they say where they were taking her?"

She thought about it.

"If they did, I didn't hear them."

"Did they take her in a car?"

She shook her head. Her fingers tightened around my wrist.

"Would you do me a favor, Mr. Carpenter?"

"Sure," I said.

"Would you lend me your cell phone, so I can call my mother?"

I took out my cell phone and slipped it into her hand. Then I rose from the floor. I needed to go stick my gun in Jonny Perez's face and find out where he'd taken Melinda. Based upon what the girl had told me, I didn't think it was very far.

"I'll be right back," I said.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE.

"Jack, Jack, get in here! Hurry!"

I ran through the house. Linderman was still tending to Theis, who lay on his back by the open front door. Linderman pointed outside.

"Perez is making a run for it," the FBI agent said.

I drew my Colt and stuck my head through the door. Cheever lay on the gra.s.s with a pocketknife stuck in his leg, while Jonny Perez hobbled down the sidewalk clutching the handgun I'd taken from him. Linderman slapped my leg.

"Finish the job, Jack."

"Yes, sir," I said.

I hurried down the front path. Elementary school kids filled the street, riding bikes and skateboards, kicking and throwing b.a.l.l.s. The neighborhood had a lot of crime, and I guessed the kids had seen their share of bloodshed. As I pa.s.sed Cheever he spoke.

"G.o.d, am I f.u.c.king stupid," he said.

I chased Perez down the sidewalk. The bullet in his a.s.s was making it impossible for him to run, and he glanced fearfully over his shoulder. Seeing me, his eyes went wide. I yelled for him to stop, and Perez grabbed a chubby little kid pus.h.i.+ng a scooter and threw him to the pavement. The little guy started bawling for his mommy, and I ran into the street to avoid stepping on him. As I did, Perez staggered up the path of a run-down house and banged frantically on the front door. The door sprung open, and a skinny Rastafarian with shoulder-length dreadlocks and bloodshot eyes poked his head out.

"What's up, Jonny?" the Rasta asked.

"The police are onto us," Perez said.

"That's bulls.h.i.+t," the Rasta said.

They disappeared inside the house. I ran up the path and stuck my head through the open doorway. The living room was filled with towering marijuana plants and burning fluorescent lights, and reggae music was blaring over a pair of old-fas.h.i.+oned speakers. I stepped inside and was greeted by a screaming motion detector.

Perez appeared on the other side of the living room, cradling a machine pistol. It was the weapon of choice among drug dealers and could fire a hundred rounds a minute. I beat a path out the front door with bullets flying all around me. On the street, kids screamed and ran for cover.

I hid behind a thick hibiscus hedge at the side of the house. Finally the torrent of bullets stopped. I counted to five, then poked my head out. Perez wasn't standing in the doorway, and the house was quiet. Still, I had no intention of going back inside. The walls looked like plasterboard, and Perez could easily kill me from another room.

I heard a door slam, then voices coming from the backyard. Staying low, I sneaked around the side of the house. The backyard was a jungle of tall Bermuda gra.s.s and dying citrus trees, with a detached garage facing the alley. I saw Perez carrying Melinda over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. The Rasta walked beside him, cradling the machine pistol. I didn't have a clear shot, and watched them disappear into the garage.

Moments later I heard a car being started. Then I heard the Rasta exhorting Perez to take his foot off the gas and stop flooding the engine. I ran into the alley and aimed my Colt at the garage door.

The garage door automatically lifted, and a black Mustang convertible pulled out. The vehicle had been backed into the garage and came straight toward me. Melinda was sandwiched between Perez and the Rasta in the front seat. She wore a man's white T-s.h.i.+rt and baseball cap. She was alive, and our eyes met.

Then she screamed.

"Jack! Help me!"

I had a shot at Perez. But I was just as likely to hit Melinda. I didn't take it, and Perez hit the gas and attempted to run me over. I leaped out of the car's path and rolled onto the gra.s.s. Before the Mustang had reached the street, I was on my feet and got off several rounds. There was a loud Bam! Bam! as the right rear tire exploded. The car drove away, sagging to one side like a wounded animal. as the right rear tire exploded. The car drove away, sagging to one side like a wounded animal.

I stood with my gun hanging by my side and Melinda's voice ringing in my ears. I reached for my cell to call Linderman, then remembered I'd given it to the girl. I began to tremble. This wasn't how it was supposed to end.

The sound of a car horn brought me back to reality. Linder-man was burning down the alley in his 4Runner with Buster occupying the pa.s.senger seat. He braked in front of me, and I hopped in, sharing the seat with my dog.

"Perez and his buddy got away with Melinda," I said.

"For the love of Christ, Jack," he said.

He drove to the alley's end and hit the brakes. "Which way did they go?"

"To the right," I said. "How's Theis?"

"The medics arrived a couple of minutes ago. He'll live."

"How about Cheever?"

"He'll live, too."

We drove around the neighborhood in silence. The gunfire had sent everyone inside, and the streets were clear. There was no sign of the Mustang save for several pieces of shredded tire lying in the middle of the road.

"I got one of his tires," I explained.

"Describe the car," Linderman said.

I described the getaway car. Linderman called the Broward County Police Helicopter Unit on his cell phone and pa.s.sed along the information to a dispatcher. Hanging up, he jabbed me in the arm with his forefinger.

"You need to start going to the firing range."

"I didn't want to hit Melinda," I explained.

He shot me an exasperated look. "Jonny Perez is a cold-blooded killer. Our responsibility is to get him off the streets before he kills again. You had two cracks at him, and he got away."

"You think I could have taken him out, but didn't?"

"You said you wanted to talk to Perez about the victims. I'd like to question him as much as you would, but this isn't a perfect world."

"Question him about what?" I asked.

At the next intersection Linderman hit the brakes. He took a stack of photographs from the backseat and dropped them in my lap. I leafed through a dozen black-and-white glossies of an apartment complex taken from the outside. In one shot, a sign was visible. It read University of Miami, Coral Gables Campus.

"Theis found those photographs on Coffen's computer," he explained. "Your daughter's dormitory," I said.

"Yes, my daughter's dorm. They were taken five years ago."

"Is that when she disappeared?"

"Yes, Jack, that's when she disappeared."

I leaned back in my seat with my dog pressed to my side. Lin-derman had found evidence that tied Skell's gang to his daughter's disappearance, and yet he still wanted me to take out Perez.

It said a lot about who he was and how he viewed his job.

I looked at the badge pinned to his lapel and thought of the badge resting in the desk in my office. I supposed that was what separated us. He was always going to be a law enforcement officer, and I was never going to be one again.

His cell rang. He took the call, then looked sideways at me.

"A police helicopter just spotted Perez's car abandoned on the shoulder of 595. Want another crack at them?"

The offer surprised me. I'd figured Linderman was finished with me.

"I sure do," I said.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX.

Fort Lauderdale has three categories of drivers. Crazies, blue hairs, and people without licenses. Despite the blue flasher on the dashboard of Linderman's 4Runner, not a single vehicle on 595 got out of our way.