Wallace Stroby - Gone 'Til November

She laid her head on the pillow, felt him breathing next to her, and slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

By the next afternoon, the cold front had blown through and gone. Sara drove out to CR-23 in the Blazer, pulled onto the shoulder and parked. The sky was bright blue, dotted with billowy white clouds. Sugarcane moved in the breeze.

Why she’d come here, she wasn’t sure. She got out, walked along the edge of the incline. There was no sign of the teddy bear or cross, though she knew she had the right location. She wondered if a roadside trash crew had picked them up.

She took off her sunglasses, hung them from the collar of her sweatshirt, looked around. Swamp on one side, cane fields on the other, the dark shape of the abandoned Highfield refinery in the distance. Billy’s father had worked there, his grandfather before him. It had been closed for fifteen years, all those jobs gone south, out of the county, the building left to rot.

The air was cooler now, the sun starting to sink. Her left leg ached, and there was still a faint ringing in her right ear. She went back to the Blazer, sat with the door open, got the Aleve from the glove box, shook two out, washed them down with a long swig from a bottle of water. She looked back at the refinery, already deepening in shadow.

She hung her sunglasses on the rearview, got her cell phone from the waistpack, called JoBeth.

“How are you making out?” Sara said.

“Fine, we’re watching TV. I was about to start making dinner. Are hot dogs all right?”

“Sure, Danny loves them. Is there a deputy there still?”

“Yes. They changed shifts again. Should I bring something out to him?”

“Not a bad idea.”

“When will you be back?”

“Twenty minutes, half hour at the most.” She looked at the darkening refinery. “But if Danny’s hungry, go ahead and start without me.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll call you on my way back.”

Maybe it’s worth checking out. Have a look, scratch it off the list.

If she called the sheriff, he’d scramble a tactical team double time, maybe twenty men, half a dozen vehicles. Bring them all the way out here so she could sheepishly explain why she’d called in the cavalry for no good reason. Why she hadn’t bothered to check it out herself first, had sat in the car until the men arrived. And if there was nothing there, it would all be a waste. Worse than a waste.

You’re a sheriff’s deputy. You’re out here now. It’ll take five minutes. Have a look, head back.

She shut the phone, dropped it on the passenger seat, started the engine.

As it grew dark, Morgan packed the last of his things in the Monte Carlo, checked the room again. He wouldn’t be coming back.

He sat on the bed, ejected the Beretta clip, reloaded it, slid it back home. He checked the Walther as well, chambered a round, lowered the hammer.

Flynn had called that afternoon, given him a time and place. If it was a setup, Morgan would be ready for him. If the money wasn’t there, he would make Flynn take him where it was. End it there and be on the road by midnight, heading north.

He slid his right pants leg up, exposing the elastic ankle support he’d bought at a drugstore that day. The Walther went into it, tight against the skin, but easily reached. He let the pants leg drop down to cover it.

When he stood, the pain hit him with such suddenness it took his breath away. He stumbled into the bathroom, barely got his pants down before it came, a hot rush that seemed to flush out his entire body. Sweat filmed his forehead. He wiped at it. It was thick, oily, and harsh.

He sat on the toilet until the cramps stopped and his muscles started to relax. When he could move again, he cleaned off, flushed. He drank from the faucet, splashed more water on his face. He thought about the Vicodin, decided against it. He would need to be sharp. The pain would be better. It would keep him focused.

After a while, he left the bathroom, shut out the light. He pulled on the windbreaker and gloves, used a hand towel to wipe down everything he might have touched. Then he got the Beretta from the bed and left the room for the last time.

Sara turned down the refinery service road, the Blazer rumbling over the metal bridge that spanned the canal. The refinery was three stories high, set back from the road. Weathered wood, broken windows, gaping holes in the sloped roof. She drove slow, the road pitted and worn.

There was a chain-link fence around the property, sagging in spots. A metal frame gate with steel letters-HF-mounted on it, like the brand from a western ranch. Beyond the gate was what would have been the truck yard, a hard dirt clearing surrounded by overgrown brush and scrub trees. The road continued past, up to some small satellite buildings, shacks really, low and empty, windows boarded. Workers’ quarters maybe. The paint all but stripped from them by wind and weather.

She parked the Blazer, got out. The gate was secured by loops of chain, a heavy padlock. The lock was rusted shut, its coating of grit and dust undisturbed.

She got back in the Blazer, drove up the road toward the shacks, parked in front of them, shut the engine off. As she stepped out onto the hard ground, she tugged the Velcro snap of the waistpack, closed her hand on the Glock, drew it out, and held it at her side.

Three shacks, side by side, the plywood on the windows still tight. The doors had been nailed shut with sawn boards. She tugged at them, no give.

She went around to the back. No windows on this side. There was a small tractor barn farther back, sliding door pulled shut. She looked at the ground, saw no tracks of any kind, as if the dirt had been brushed clean.

Nearly dark now. She went to the barn and pushed at the door. It creaked, slid open a foot. The glint of metal inside, the silver of a high bumper. A truck.

From behind her, Billy said, “Hey, Sara.”

She didn’t move. Her hand tightened on the Glock.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said.

She tried to swallow, couldn’t.

“The sheriff’s on his way,” she said.

“I don’t think so. If he was, you would have waited for him, right? Or maybe not, way you are. Doesn’t matter now, though. Go ahead and turn around. Not too fast, though, okay?”

She turned, saw the gun. It was a Colt Python.357 with a ventilated barrel. She’d seen him with it before, at the range. He raised it now, pointed it at her face. She didn’t move, the Glock still hanging at her side.

They looked at each other. He wore jeans, boots, a flannel shirt, sleeves buttoned. Dark circles under his eyes.

“Should have given you more credit,” he said. “Guess I always did underestimate you. Why don’t you go ahead and let that weapon drop?”

She shook her head. “Can’t do it.”

He steadied the gun. She looked into the darkness of the wide muzzle. Breathe. Think.

“I’ve got nothing to lose, Sara. Not anymore.”

When she didn’t move, he thumbed the Python’s hammer back. She heard the drag and click.

“Let it go,” he said. “Think about Danny.”

She looked from the gun to his eyes. She let her grip loosen. The Glock fell to the dirt.

“Now take a couple steps back,” he said. “Stop. That’s good.”

He came forward, the Colt still on her, dipped and picked up the Glock.

“You wouldn’t be carrying a backup weapon, would you?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you pull up the legs of your jeans there? One at a time.”

She did, looking up at him as she bent.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s take a walk. Get out in front of me. I’ll tell you where to go.”

“Why don’t you let the hammer on that pistol down?”