Greg Iles - 24 Hours

“You heard her right,” Hickey cut in. “She’s busy driving now. But if I hear any more bullshit about what you will and won’t do, the Lexus queen won’t be the only one who dies this morning. You follow?”

“Yes.”

“Now, what about this helicopter?”

Acid flooded Will’s stomach. “Helicopter?”

“You been talking to the FBI?”

Harley Ferris couldn’t possibly have gotten an FBI helicopter into the air and over Hazlehurst so quickly. It had to be coincidence. “Joe, I’m doing exactly what you tell me. Nothing else.”

“Let me talk to Cheryl.”

Cheryl was sitting on the sofa with her purse at her feet. She had gone downstairs to Impulse, a clothing store in the casino lobby that operated twenty-four hours a day, and bought a white lycra sheath to replace the torn cocktail dress. She took the phone from Will and began her litany of one-word replies.

“Yeah…No…Right…No, he’s cool…We’ll be there. No problem.” She handed the phone back to Will. “It’s showtime.”

“Thank you, Cheryl.” He hung up the phone. “I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

She stood and slung her purse over her shoulder. “You just remember you said that.”

The Klein Davidson Building was an elegant stone edifice in the affluent business section of north Jackson. It looked more like a town house than an office, but Karen knew its interior thrummed with computers churning out market quotes from around the world. There were four satellite dishes mounted on the flat roof in back, but Gray Davidson had hired an architect to construct a mansard roof to conceal them. Karen pulled the Expedition into the parking lot and parked two spaces over from Davidson’s Mercedes 560.

“You only want to be thinking about one thing in there,” Hickey said. “Your kid.”

As Karen reached for the door handle, an older woman parked beside them, got out, gave her a little wave, and walked into the office.

“Gray’s receptionist,” she said.

“Go on,” Hickey told her, uncovering the gun in his lap.

“I’m not taking one step until you let me call nine-one-one and report a woman shot at my address.”

Hickey held the gun against her ribs again.

“If you shoot me, you won’t get your money. All I’m asking is a chance to try to save a woman’s life. It won’t cost you anything.”

“She’s dead,” Hickey insisted. “I shot her in the pump.”

“You don’t know she’s dead. She has two small children, and I can’t live with myself if I don’t do all I can to help her.”

“You won’t be able to live with yourself if you kill your own kid, I’ll tell you that. And that’s what you’re doing if you don’t go wire that money.”

She turned to him, unable to remain silent. “You hate Will for supposedly killing your mother, but you just shot someone else’s mother. You orphaned two children. Can you explain that to me?”

Hickey expelled air from his cheeks in exasperation. “You’re going to pay for this later.”

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest. She expected to feel the gun barrel pressed to her temple, but instead she heard four beeps, one ring, and a click.

“Nine-one-one, emergency,” said a female dispatcher.

Hickey said, “A woman was just shot in the chest at number one hundred, Crooked Mile Road. She’s dying.”

Karen looked over at him, amazed.

“One hundred, Crooked Mile Road,” said the dispatcher. “Are you at that address, sir? I’m not getting a location readout.”

“I’m on a cell phone. The woman is lying in the driveway.” Hickey looked at Karen as though asking if he’d done enough.

“Sir, I’m showing that we already received a call for this emergency.”

Hickey’s jaw clenched. “When was that?”

“About two minutes ago.”

“Who called it in?”

“I don’t have that information, sir. But we’ve already dispatched an ambulance to-”

Hickey hit END. “I think your husband has made a very big mistake. First we get a helicopter over the cabin. Now somebody’s at your house reporting a shooting.”

“You were outside when you shot her. A neighbor could have heard and run over.”

“Your neighbors aren’t that close.” Hickey rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. “Get your ass in there and move the money. And remember. .. one mistake will put you in a mourning dress that you’ll never really take off.”

Karen got out and walked toward the entrance, his last sentence hanging over her thoughts like a pall.

The Biloxi branch of the Magnolia Federal Bank was a two-story brick building of unprepossessing architecture. There were few cars in the parking lot, but drive-through business was brisk as Will pulled his rented Tempo into the lot and parked.

“What now?”

Cheryl shifted in the seat beside him and began tapping her fingers on the dash. She had popped two amphetamines before they left the hotel, and she was wired. Will had swallowed one, fearing that exhaustion might prevent him from making the right move if an opportunity to save Abby presented itself.

“Now we wait,” Cheryl replied. “Joey will call after the money’s on its way.”

Will took her cell phone from her lap and dialed Harley Ferris’s number.

“Ferris,” said a clipped voice.

“It’s Will. Anything?”

“The FBI already had a chopper in the air when I called them. It’s been over the woods at Hazlehurst for a while now, but the foliage is so thick, they’re probably missing buildings down there, much less a pickup truck.”

“What about the phone trace?”

“We’re almost there, Will. We just had a quick call to the subject’s number. Our crew is working its way down an overgrown logging road right now.”

“What will they do if they find the truck?”

“There’s an FBI SWAT team en route from Jackson. The SAC there says they can seal off the cabin without the subject’s knowledge.”

A chill of foreboding went through Will. “They’re not going to try an assault?”

“I think they’re going to play it safe,” Ferris replied. “But my guess is that with your little girl’s life on the line, if they get a clean shot at the guy holding her, they’ll take it.”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“They’re pros, Will. Just like you. They know their jobs.”

“I’ve got to clear this line.” Will couldn’t bring himself to hang up. “Harley… for God’s sake, tell them to be careful.”

“Have faith, brother.”

He hung up. Have faith? It took a supreme effort simply to sit in the parking lot while Abby’s future unfolded a hundred and forty miles to the north. But he had to play the hand Hickey had dealt him. Hickey had to believe until the last second that his plan was ticking along like a Swiss watch.

“What happened?” Cheryl asked. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he lied. “Nothing at all.”

Sending the wire was just like everything Karen had ever done at Klein Davidson: a matter of paperwork, signing on various lines while Gray Davidson led her through the pages and made chitchat about kids and schools. With men, he probably talked kids and sports. Or women. Karen didn’t know and didn’t care. She was functioning on autopilot, tormented by images of Stephanie Morgan’s chest blossoming red. The only thing that really registered was the receptionist handing her a receipt and saying, “The money’s on its way.”

“That’s it? That’s all we have to do?”

Gray Davidson patted her on the shoulder. “Scary how fast you can spend two hundred grand, isn’t it?”

He was wearing his trademark double-breasted English suit with a spread collar shirt and rugby tie. Five years older than Karen, Davidson hailed from Hot Coffee, Mississippi, but his pretensions rivaled those of the most dedicated Anglophiles on the eastern seaboard. Some clients made fun of his eccentricities, but nobody joked about his market acumen.