Jeff Abbott - Cut and Run

Bucks opened his eyes.

‘Did… I get?’ Bucks said, looking hard into Whit’s eyes.

‘We’ll get an ambulance, Bucks, okay? Hold on.’

‘Did I get… the money?’ And then his eyes went vacant, empty as a useless platitude.

Whit closed Bucks’ eyes and pulled the Jag’s keys from the dead man’s pocket.

‘We got to go, Mom. We got to go.’ He steadied his mother’s arm, shot the handcuff off the chair. He hurried her through the now-broken gates, ran her back through the alleys to where the cars were hidden. One car was already gone. Frank and a hot wire, he decided. They got in Bucks’ Jaguar, and Whit tore out of the lot, headed down Mississippi toward Clinton. In the distance they heard the rising whine of a fire engine.

‘Whit,’ she said. ‘Oh, God. I love you.’ She clutched his arm, wouldn’t let go.

‘Mom, let go, I got to stick-shift and I’m not good at it,’ he yelled and it made her laugh, a long hysterical laughter that put her low in the seat as he shot the Jag onto Loop 610.

‘Where…’ she asked.

‘We’re leaving town,’ he said. ‘We are leaving Houston, Mom, right fricking now.’

‘But Frank…’

‘Frank is a lying, murdering piece of shit,’ Whit said, and Eve went silent. She held onto his arm, shivering, crying, squeezing his arm like she couldn’t believe he was there. He steered the battered Jaguar onto 1-10 West, toward Austin and San Antonio.

She spoke again when Houston was well behind them, the road an empty black band except for the occasional eighteen-wheeler, the gleam of the truck stops of Brookshire ahead on the horizon. He held the steering wheel in a death grip.

‘The money. So where is the money?’ she said. ‘I can’t help but want to know.’

He glanced over at her and now he could see the wreck her mouth was, her lips badly cut, her jaw a solid bruise. ‘Frank has it. Has had the money all along.’

‘Oh, Christ. Frank. No.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Mom, it doesn’t matter, okay? It doesn’t matter. We’re safe now.’

She started to cry. ‘Don’t let them take me away from you, Whit, okay? Don’t let them take me from you.’

They arrived in San Antonio by seven in the morning, and found a small motel. She didn’t want to be alone so he got a room with twin beds and while she showered he drove to a nearby Target, waited for it to open, and bought them cheap jeans, sneakers, underwear, shirts, duffel bags. When he got back to the hotel she was clean but sitting in her dirty clothes. He showered while she changed and then he drove her to a nearby emergency room.

The doctor was a young Pakistani woman who gave Whit a fierce, accusing glare as she inspected his mother’s bruises. ‘What happened?’

‘My boyfriend beat me up,’ Eve said. ‘My son came and rescued me.’ She gave Whit a little smile.

‘My word,’ the doctor said, checking in her mouth. ‘He pulled out two teeth, broke two.’

‘With pliers,’ Eve said.

‘You should file charges,’ the doctor suggested.

‘Perhaps later,’ Eve said.

‘I beat him up,’ Whit said.

‘Good for you.’ The young doctor cleaned and stitched up Eve’s lip, gave her painkillers, and made an emergency appointment for them with an oral surgeon on call with the hospital.

While the surgeon worked on Eve’s damaged teeth, Whit sat in the waiting room, watching the Texas Cable News channel. The report on the fire came third on the update. Two people found dead in the parking lot of a warehouse, investigators sifting through the rubble had found at least two more remains. It appeared to be arson and one of the dead had been identified as Gregory Buckman, a former Energis executive who had become of interest to the police after a recent attack at his home. A second man, as yet unidentified, had been mauled to death by two Dobermans, who were also found killed. Police suspected, the announcer said, that the killings and fire were drug-related.

They would find nothing left of Jose. He closed his eyes. Killing Jose, strangely, didn’t bother him. It was almost as if he hadn’t done it. Eve had told him about Public Service, what Jose had told her, and he could not shake the thought that, in letting Tasha go, he had released a woman who, however misguided, was trying to do good. Justice wasn’t often a straight line, but he wasn’t sure what he had done was justice any more than what Jose or Tasha had done.

The oral surgeon took his time with Eve and when she came out she was groggy, her mouth padded with cotton, armed with pills.

‘That wasn’t fun,’ she mouthed. ‘Need to sleep.’

So he took her back to the hotel. She lost herself in a heavy doze. He checked the voice mail on his cell phone. One from Vernetta Westbrook, one from Arturo Gomez, five from Claudia. He called her.

‘Where are you?’ she said.

‘I found my mom. In San Antonio.’

‘Whit, is Frank Polo with her?’

‘No. They’re not together anymore. She left him.’

‘We found a partial of a fingerprint of Polo’s at Harry’s murder site,’ Claudia said. ‘Actually, on the underside of Harry’s rental car bumper. If he was wearing gloves he probably tore the latex taking off Harry’s plates. The police are looking for Polo. Whit, you can’t protect this man.’

‘I promise, I’m not.’ He paused. ‘We’ll come back to Houston in a few days. She got hurt, I had to get her medical attention.’

‘Is she okay?’

‘Yes. Frank Polo roughed her up.’ A cold rage settled in his bones. Frank’s prints at the murder scene. That devious little bastard. ‘Claudia, I want to tell you everything. I’m not sure I can. Because I have to take care of my mom first.’

‘When you come back to Houston, you have to talk to the police and the DA’s office. You understand that.’

‘I’ll call right now and set up a time to meet,’ he said. ‘How’s Gooch?’

‘Continuing to improve. Continuing to not cooperate. And Greg Buckman is dead.’

‘Really?’

‘You don’t know anything about that, do you, Whit?’ There was a coldness in her voice he’d never heard before.

‘No,’ he said, watching his mother. ‘I don’t.’

‘Come home, Whit.’

‘This is over now,’ he said. ‘I will. Claudia. Thank you.’

‘I’m going back to Port Leo today, Whit. Without Gooch. I can’t take off more time. Call me when you get home.’ And she hung up without a good-bye.

He thought of calling her back, but instead called Charlie Fulgham’s cell phone. ‘Are you back home?’

‘Yes. Should I not be?’

‘Your house is safe now. Are we all still your clients?’

‘Still got my three dollars in my pocket,’ Charlie said.

‘Buy some legal pads, Charlie. Fast.’

‘I don’t want to talk to the police, Whit,’ Eve said. It was Wednesday morning, and she was curled on the hotel bed. She’d taken another Vicodin but it hadn’t kicked in hard.

He sat down next to her, touched her shoulder. ‘Where would Frank run?’

‘Anywhere, if he’s got five million. I really don’t know.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Mom,’ he said. He touched her swollen jaw. ‘You and Frank strike me as people with contingency plans. Where is he?’

‘I told you, Whitman, I don’t know.’

‘He put you in mortal danger when he could have cleared your name in an instant. He ran when it was time to save you,’ Whit said. ‘He doesn’t really love you.’

‘He loved me,’ she said. ‘Just not enough. Like how I loved you when you were little. Just not enough.’

‘There is no parallel,’ he said. ‘Please.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were a judge?’ she said, surprising him.