Читать книгу Sneak And Rescue - Shirl Henke - Страница 11

Chapter 5

The car grazed her van, leaving faint dark smears on the white paint. Not a direct hit, but the speed of the encounter rocked the Ford’s suspension. By the time she climbed from the muddy ditch, pulling briars and dry leaves from her clothes, the car had vanished into the distance. She couldn’t even tell what make or model it had been. Too busy leaping for her life.

“What the hell is it about me and cars lately?” she muttered, thinking about the incident in the parking garage. Did someone want to stop her from retrieving Farley? She watched the horizon for lights as she walked to the front of the van and pulled out her cell. Dead zone. Big surprise considering she was smack in the middle of nowhere. May be best not to call Matt and worry him. And what could she tell Patowski or any of her cop buddies?

She hadn’t a clue about the car, other than that it wasn’t the Olds. That ancient rust bucket couldn’t have moved that fast without the driver putting his foot through the floor-boards and breaking a leg. And it had been an indistinct light color. The paint deposits on her van were dark.

“Damn, it’ll cost a bundle to get this baby repainted.” She would add the expense to Winchester’s tab, but having a quality paint job done took time and aggravation. Just in case the jerk decided on another crack at her, she dug her snub nose .38 out of the glove compartment and shoved it into her belt before returning to the jack.

“Maybe I’m being paranoid. Just some drunk or dumb kid showing off for his buddies,” she said. But all the while she fixed the flat, she kept an eye on the highway.

Sam caught a few hours sleep that night in a cheap roadside motel. By late afternoon the following day, she was past Atlanta, heading toward the Tennessee line. Scenery was great and traffic light. She hummed along with a Cole Porter tune on her CD player, watching a big Caddie coming up behind her. Fast.

“Who does that jerk think he is, Mario Andretti?” she muttered.

The highway wound its way through some very mountainous terrain with steep drop-offs and sharp turns. Definitely not the place for a big luxury sedan to be doing ninety. “Your funeral, buddy,” she said as the Caddie pulled abreast of her. She slowed to let him pass as they approached a beaut of a curve.

But he didn’t pass. Instead the black sedan started to crowd her, veering dangerously over the line into her lane. A quick glance at its right side showed scrapes and flecks of white paint. “Shit!” she gritted out, punching the accelerator.

All the wiggle room available to her right was a couple of feet of berm and then a flimsy guardrail. The drop-off below was a minimum of fifty feet. She could easily have outdistanced the heavy car on the uphill grade with her specially modified engine if not for the wicked curve coming up much too fast. But the Caddie driver’s intent was clear, even though the tinted windows hid him from view. This bozo was out to finish the job he’d begun the preceding day.

“Uncle Dec, I hope you weren’t exaggerating when you explained what this suspension can take,” she said, along with a short prayer as she cut the wheel sharply and tromped the gas pedal again. Her speedometer approached triple digits. She’d left the Caddie behind but he was closing once more. If she dared to slow down to negotiate the curve, he could rear-end her and blast the van through the railing. Sam and the Econoline would fly over the edge like a Canaveral rocket.

But the landing would be a lot rougher.

She felt the van’s two left wheels leave the ground as she entered the sharpest angle of the curve. Sam literally leaned to the left as she held the accelerator steady going into the final turn. When the wheels hit the pavement again and the van surged straight ahead up the road, she murmured, “Thank you Uncle Dec. Who’d a thought St. Jude was a mechanic?”

The Caddie was dropping back quickly when she checked her side-view mirror. Too far away to get a plate number, which would no doubt be as bogus as the one on the Olds. She felt the adrenaline rush begin to fade and took several deep breaths, calming her jangled nerves. It had been a lousy twenty-four hours.

At least she didn’t have her usual scalding cup of joe between her legs, she considered philosophically. Now that would’ve been a really painful way to touch up her bikini line. She tried the cell as soon as she saw a tower on a nearby mountaintop. Dialing 911 she was patched through to the local highway patrol. Somehow Sam had a gut feeling that the black Caddie with its incriminating exchange of paint would be long gone before they could spot it.

On impulse, she dialed Matt. “Hi sweetie… Oh, no, nothing much. I’m about halfway to St. Louis… Yeah, should get there tomorrow. Just wondering if you’ve had time to check out Winchester or Reicht yet… No, no particular reason… What do you mean, ‘something’s wrong’? Nothing’s wrong,” she replied, crossing her fingers on the steering wheel and the cell.

If Matt knew two more attempts had been made on her life, he’d go ballistic and protective all at once. Then he’d fly to St. Louis and mess up her retrieval. If she only knew what was going on, she could handle it. So she omitted a few pertinent details…okay, she lied to him.

Matt gave her the info he’d dug up. “Haven’t had time to get beyond the society stuff, pure PR fluff on ‘Roman Numeral.’ He’s on every civic board and committee from here to Tallahassee. Lots of political clout. Reicht’s a different matter. Found some interesting dirt on him right off—but then you might not think so.”

“Huh?” Sam responded to his voice on the other end of the line.

“Seems our boy’s being investigated by your heroes, the IRS,” he said with a sarcastic chuckle.

Sam pathologically hated the IRS. They had audited her twice in the past five years. It seemed some of her “retrieval expenses” didn’t meet their criteria and she’d had to cough up a couple of small fines. To Sam, fines were like parking tickets. No such thing as a “small one.” “Bloodsuckers. You’re right, it could make me like the guy a little. What malfeasance is he supposed to have committed?”

“Can’t get Ida Kleb to say but I’m working on her.”

“Ida Kleb?” she echoed with an incredulous laugh. “Shouldn’t that be Rosa Kleb?”

“You mean the KGB agent from the James Bond movies?” he asked. “Fits the little troll to a tee. All she needs is the poisoned knife sticking out from the toe of her shoe when she kicks you.”

“Sounds charming. But I have complete faith in your way with the ladies. Find out what Reicht’s up to. Maybe he’s just a tad careless with his records. His office was a bigger mess than mine.”

“Not possible. That stockpiled warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark isn’t a bigger mess than your office, Sam. And you have more stuff stashed inside.”

“You’re a funny man, Granger. Oughta go on Letterman.” She cut the transmission, saying, “Call me if you turn up anything new.”

If the good doctor was stiffing the Infernal Revenue, she could care less, but there could be more to it or to poor Farley’s civic-minded father. But both men stood to gain if she quietly brought the kid back for treatment. That’s what Winchester was paying her to do. A better bet was Scruggs. He and young Winchester were living large if the credit info she’d received was accurate. For certain she’d like to know where he’d spent those seven missing years and if he had any pals with an affinity for big cars and reckless driving.

The sun was a big gold ball centered just above the gleaming silver of the Gateway Arch when Sam crossed the Poplar Street Bridge over the Mississippi and entered downtown St. Louis. The traffic was horrendous and everyplace she looked, orange construction site barrels were either lined up or knocked aside as commuters made their headlong dash during rush hour. The place resembled a life-size pinball machine.

“Just like Miami, only fronting a river instead of an ocean,” she muttered, dodging a barrel that a car in the oncoming lane had nudged in her direction. The van hit a pothole so deep she felt the jarring travel from her tailbone clear up to her front teeth. Yep, just like Miami. Once on city streets, she glanced at her map, getting her bearings while stopped at a red light. The city’s convention center was located a couple of blocks north.

She navigated up Washington and immediately figured parking might be an issue. But she was certainly in the right place. A huge neon marquee with bold red letters running across it proclaimed, WELCOME TO SPACECON XIV!! Farley and his dad had something in common—Roman numerals. How sweet. She found a parking lot and paid the extortionist at the booth, only willing to part with a sawbuck because it went on the expense account.

The price of admission nearly choked her, but Sam coughed up her credit card and accepted the three-day pass. It might take her that long to find her target in a crowd this big. The enormous hall was filled with several thousand Spacies. Oh, and were they ever! Maybe bringing Matt might not have been such a bad idea. He understood this aberrant behavior, liked it even. He’d assured her that physicians, attorneys, business executives and other successful professionals actually attended Space Quest Cons.

Looking at some of the middle-aged bodies and listening to educated accents, she was inclined to believe it must be true, but the costumes! Reemulans with pointed ears and superior scowls mingled with turtle-foreheaded Klingoffs carrying katliffs—dangerous curved blades with points on both ends. The damned things were big enough to slice and dice a mastodon.

One enormous lizardlike creature covered with glistening scales shambled along the aisles like a malevolent Barney, only green instead of purple. But the scariest of all were the junkyard rejects decked out with wires and pieces of glass protruding from bodies encased in metallic suits. She glanced around and found a relatively normal-looking kid dressed in an Eastley Masher Spacefleet ensign’s uniform. He was selling Klingoff “blood milk” steins. “What are those guys?” she whispered.

He looked at her as if she’d asked what year it was, but then again, most of these people probably thought it was the twenty-third century, so who gave a flip? “Cybs. You know, Cyber organisms,” he enunciated slowly. At her still-puzzled expression, he elaborated, “They’re part human but integrated into the Cyber Collective. Enhanced cognitive abilities and superior strength.”

Yeah. Pretty hard to tell who was on or off his meds in a joint like this. Granger, I can’t believe you were ever this much of a geek. And to think he didn’t understand baseball. Or car engines!

“I am one of the Folean Web. Would you care to link with me?” a short, stocky guy dressed like an oversize Pillsbury Doughboy asked, ogling her breasts.

“How’d you like me to tie your link in a big fat knot?” she muttered, shoving past him. At least a guy making a pass was normal behavior, even if he did it sci-fi style. Then again, maybe he hadn’t asked what she thought he had. Who knew? These people were all nuts. Made Halloween on Lincoln Avenue in Miami Beach seem like a Republican convention.

She scanned the program issued at the entrance and tried to figure out where Farley Winchester might be. If he wore his Confederation uniform, he’d be a cinch to ID, but she’d have to walk her feet flat to locate him. The best course was to access registration information.

“Frobisher, help me, buddy.” He could hack the info in seconds. She dialed her cell, leaving a message on his machine, explaining what she needed. Fro had had a crush on her since they attended St. Stanislaus in sixth grade. If he didn’t come through, she’d have to wander the aisles of this menagerie for the next three days—maybe get carved up by a katliff or eaten by a Borne.

On that gloomy note, she doggedly set out again, cruising the next aisle where a white furry creature sporting long tentacles on his-its head conferred with a pair of pointy-eared Vulcants. Matt had explained the difference between Vulcants and Reemulans. She felt proud of herself for remembering.

Emboldened by her crash course, she smiled at the Vulcant and said conversationally, “Nice makeup job.”

He stiffened and raised one eyebrow, inspecting her with disdain. “This is not ‘makeup,’ madam. The plastic surgeon charged me two thousand apiece to reshape my ears and a thousand for the rebrow work. I can assure you I am a true Vulcant,” he said in a cultivated voice.

Sam nodded. “Whatever you say, mister.” Oops, did one call Vulcants mister?

She scooted off fast, melting into the crowd but still feeling the Vulcant’s icy stare following her. I thought only Dobermans and boxers got their ears docked! She wondered if the surgeon had shortened a tail on the guy while he was busy cutting. This scenario was starting to get to her, but a job was a job. She had to find Farley and get him out of here before someone grafted a tentacle to him—or worse.

“The only thing I can figure is that they registered under assumed names.” Ethan Frobisher’s voice came over the line sounding distinctly frustrated. He didn’t like coming up empty when he hacked. “No one named Farley Winchester or Elvis Scruggs is registered for the con.”

Sam tapped her toe on the cement floor, trying to think while a kaleidoscope of creatures paraded by. Some sort of laser show complete with fake explosions vibrated through the huge center. She held her free hand over her opposite ear and spoke into her cell. “Is there an official convention hotel? From what I could see, there are a dozen places around here.”

“That’s an easy one. The Holiday Inn Select and the Renaissance St. Louis Suites are both listed,” Fro replied, almost panting his pleasure at being able to supply an answer.

If Sam had read the program closely, she could’ve found this out for herself, but she had to throw him a bone. “Say, Fro…you aren’t…naw, never mind.”

“A Spacer?” he replied, figuring that was her question. “Yes, I really dig the shows, especially the original episodes. The science is weak, of course. Worf drive could never work that way, but the philosophical issues they explore—”

“Uh, I know, Fro. Matt agrees with you.” The minute she said it, Sam could’ve bitten her tongue. She knew how jealous of her husband Ethan Frobisher had become. She didn’t need to rub salt.

But he surprised her. “Way cool! I’m happy for you, Samantha. Sounds as if you found an intelligent guy after all.”

On some issues. But she wasn’t about to discuss her and Matt’s divergence of opinion about Space Quest or her quest for Aunt Claudia’s money. She thanked him and signed off, then checked her program guide. The Holiday Inn was closer to the America’s Center, but the Renaissance offered more luxurious accommodations. Farley and Elvis would go for the high end.

Loudspeakers were blaring that the con was closing for the night and lights were blinking the ten-minute warning. The crowd had thinned. Sam watched the swarms of what she’d loosely term humanity filing out of the big convention center. Other than the Confederation’s Earth officers, no one was even vaguely recognizable, thanks to latex masks, complexions dyed every hue from maroon to bright green, padded costumes, even additional appendages in some cases.

“And let’s not forget the ones with antennae or wires,” she muttered. How the hell was she going to find Farley in the middle of the madness? She only had two more days.

Then an idea hit her. The lure of a big payday always brought out a real creative streak. Sam walked into the warm evening air and headed to the parking lot to retrieve her van before that pit-stop pirate charged her for another day. By the time she reached the Econoline, the place was so deserted she could have heard a pin drop.

But what she heard instead was the sound of footsteps dashing up behind her.