Mercy (Buchanan-Renard #2)

Mercy (Buchanan-Renard #2) Page 45

He thought about the transactions listed in the papers again. There was a letter in brackets beside each entry, indicating the person responsible for that contribution. There was a C, most likely Cameron Lynch. J was for John Russell, but who were P and D? The Sowing Club. What a cute name for their crooked little group. Four men who had illegally accumulated millions of dollars.

“Two down and two to go,” he said.

Then he laughed. Catherine had also made a copy of the letter she’d written to John, and Theo pictured how her husband must have reacted when he read the letter and found out what she had done.

Oh, Catherine. You were such a devious woman.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The Swan was packed. The crowd, mostly fishermen, was so dense and loud, Michelle could feel the floor trembling under her feet. She and Noah worked behind the bar, filling drink orders. Noah made the job easy. No matter what alcoholic beverage anyone ordered, he served a draft of beer. The only other choice he allowed was a soft drink.

John Paul managed crowd control and bussed tables from the supper traffic, while Daddy sat at the end of the bar by the kitchen door with his Big Chief tablet and a ballpoint pen. He’d cleaned out an old metal tackle box and was using it as his safe for the tournament money so it wouldn’t get mixed up with the cash taken in at the bar. All the latecomers who wanted to sign up for the tournament formed a line that reached to the parking lot. Each man paid his fee in cash — Daddy wouldn’t take checks or credit cards — signed his name in the tablet, and was then given a ticket with a registration number on it. The fishermen would hand in the ticket at five o’clock tomorrow morning and receive a tag. Anyone who tried to sneak out earlier to get a head start would automatically be disqualified by not receiving a tag.

There were quite a few outsiders from neighboring parishes. Preston and Monk easily blended in. Like at least half the crowd, they wore ball caps and jeans and guzzled beer while they stood by the jukebox, pretending to be waiting for an empty table.

They acted as though they were having a good old time. Preston struck up a conversation with three men nursing beers at a nearby table. He told them a fishing story about the big one that got away. Monk joined in by showing off a couple of lures he’d purchased at the tackle shop down the road. He wore an oversized fisherman’s vest to conceal his gun. Unlike Preston, he wasn’t willing to go into the bar unarmed with an FBI agent less than twenty feet away.

Preston was better at chitchat than Monk. They both laughed and drank, even flirted with a couple of available women who hit on them, but never did they let Michelle out of their line of sight while they waited for Theo Buchanan to walk through the door.

John, Dallas, and Preston had made the decision that it would be safer and easier if they hit both Michelle and Theo at the same time. The plan was to lure them outside, then take them at gunpoint into the swamp and kill them. Cameron was out of the picture. Monk had already been instructed to follow him back to New Orleans after he finished his job in Bowen. Although Monk usually decided the method, in this case Dallas explained that they would need a quick death certificate to withdraw their money from the Sowing account. Since everyone at his firm knew how distraught and depressed Cameron was over his pending divorce, Dallas thought Monk should use Cameron’s gun to kill him and leave a suicide note behind.

Monk was no longer willing to work on credit. After all, the stakes were higher now. When John protested that there was no way they could get the money in cash so quickly, Monk decided to negotiate. He knew all about their dirty dealings and the money they had waiting for them, so instead of his fee, he offered to help them out this time for Cameron’s cut of the funds. As far as John and Preston and Dallas were concerned, time was critical. They had to agree to his terms.

So where was Theo Buchanan? Had it not been three deep at the bar, Preston would have tried to strike up a conversation with Michelle or her father. He’d ask her who her fishing partner was — he’d seen Buchanan’s name next to hers on the sign-up sheet — and then casually inquire where Buchanan was.

It was too loud and crowded to talk to her now. Preston would have to wait until the traffic thinned out a little. He figured that most of the fishermen would head home by ten because they had to be back at The Swan with their boats and fishing gear at five A.M. The tournament would officially begin at five-fifteen.

John and Dallas were in a rental car at a crossroad a half a mile away. They were waiting for Preston to call them. The longer they waited, the more anxious and trigger-happy they became. What the hell were Monk and Preston doing?

John opened a bottle of water and took a drink. “No matter what, we do this tonight. I don’t care who gets in the way. If we have to kill everyone in that bar, then, by God, that’s what we’ll do. We’ve got the firepower, and I want this finished. Why hasn’t Preston called?”

“You saw the cars in the lot. He’s waiting for his opportunity,” Dallas said.

At almost nine o’clock, the bar was still teeming. The jukebox was blaring — Elvis was singing about his blue suede shoes — and the customers had to raise their voices to be heard over the music. Had Michelle not been at the end of the bar by the phone serving customers, she wouldn’t have heard it ringing.

She put the receiver against one ear and held her hand over her other ear so she could hear the caller. She still had trouble understanding and walked into the storage room. Cherry Waterson was on the line, calling from the hospital. The woman was hysterical. Michelle couldn’t make any sense out of what she was saying and finally demanded that she put a nurse on the line.

Thirty seconds later, after giving the nurse orders, Michelle hung up the phone and ran to Noah. “We have to go to the hospital now.”

Noah didn’t need to hear the details. The look on Michelle’s face told him it was serious. He dropped the bar towel, whistled, and motioned to John Paul. They followed Michelle into the kitchen.

“What’s the problem?” her brother asked.

“I need your car keys,” Noah said.

“John Patrick got in the way of a dart. It’s imbedded in his chest,” she blurted as she unlocked the back door and opened it. “Gotta go.”

John Paul tossed Noah the keys.

Michelle grabbed Noah’s phone and was calling radiology as she walked. Noah shouted to John Paul just as he closed the door, “Call Theo. He’s on his way here. Tell him where we’re going.”

Preston had pushed his way through the throng and was now hovering close to Jake Renard, pretending to study the sign-up sheet tacked to the wall. He strained to hear every word as John Paul told his father what had happened. The second he heard that Michelle was on her way to the hospital and that John Paul was going to call Theo and tell him to meet Michelle there, Preston set his glass down on the bar and headed for the door.

Across the room, one of the old men was telling Monk a fishing story. He’d invited Monk to join him and his friends at the table, but Monk stayed where he was so that he could watch the parking lot through the front window.

“I sit all day at a computer,” he said. “What were you saying about that speckled trout?”

The old man shook his head because Monk obviously hadn’t been listening, and then once again launched into his story from the beginning. Monk nodded a couple of times so that he would appear interested. When he saw Noah and Michelle get into an old pickup, he immediately headed for the door. The old man shouted something to him, but Monk ignored him and kept going. His hand was in his vest pocket.

Out in the parking lot, Preston was walking to his car with his head down in case Michelle or the FBI agent happened to be looking back. Monk caught up with him.

“Where are they going in such a hurry?”

“To the hospital,” Preston answered. “And Buchanan’s on his way. If Clayborne drops the doctor off, then we can get Buchanan and her there. It shouldn’t be crowded this time of night. Most surgeons operate early in the morning.”

John changed the plan. When Preston called him and told him the news, he said, “Dallas and I will wait in the car in the hospital parking lot and grab Buchanan when he arrives. If he gets there ahead of us, Dallas will go in and lure him out. You and Monk go in and keep tabs on the doctor. When she’s alone, you grab her and meet us like we planned.”

“Screw that,” Preston shouted. “I heard her brother say she’s going to operate on some kid. I think we should do her there. We’ll get the FBI agent too if he hangs around.”

John gritted his teeth. “Are you out of your mind? Do you know how many people will be in there with her? For God’s sake, use your head. We want to make this look like a professional hit on Buchanan, remember? And we want the police and the FBI to think the doctor got hit because she was with him.”

“What about Clayborne?”

John considered the question for several seconds and then said, “If the agent gets in the way, you’re going to have to kill him too.”

“My God, if anyone could hear us . . .” Dallas raged.

“Shut up,” John snarled. Then he continued his conversation with Preston. “What kind of car is the doctor driving?”

“An old red pickup truck.”

John punched the end button and dropped the phone in his lap as Dallas muttered, “Slow down. The hospital is right around the corner.”

He realized he was speeding and slowed the rental car. “What was Preston arguing with you about?” Dallas asked.

“He wanted to go in shooting.”

“How did this get so screwed up? You’re talking about killing two, maybe three people, and I’m going along with it.”

“We don’t have any choice.”

“The hell we don’t. We could pack our bags and fly to the Caymans. We could get the money now, split it three ways, and then disappear.”

“We have to have Cameron’s death certificate to get the money.”

“Monk could get it to us.”

“How come you’re feeling guilty about killing strangers, but you aren’t having any trouble with killing Cameron?”

“He became a dangerous liability.”

“Exactly,” John said. “And so have Buchanan and his friends. Let’s finish this tonight.”

“I think we should call the whole thing off.”

“No,” John shouted.

“It’s out of control,” Dallas shouted back. “And it’s all your fault, you bastard.”

John’s hand gripped his gun. He had the nearly overwhelming urge to put the barrel against Dallas’s temple and pull the trigger. He took a deep breath instead.

“Don’t you dare fall apart on me,” he said. “Look, there’s Preston’s car. He and Monk must already be inside.”

“The parking lot’s almost empty. That’s good.”

John was craning his neck to see the doctors’ lot. Then he smiled. “There’s the pickup truck.”

“Clayborne obviously didn’t drop her off and go back to The Swan. He’s inside with her.”

“Then he’s in the game.”

“Pull in next to that purple van behind the line of trees.”

John swung the car into the spot, pushed the button to bring the window down, and turned the motor off.

Dallas reached into the backseat for a black windbreaker and put it on. The pocket contained a small semiautomatic.

“I’m trying to go over every possibility in my head,” Dallas said. “Buchanan and the doctor shouldn’t be difficult. Clayborne’s going to be the tough one. He’s trained, and he’ll be looking for trouble. If it goes bad and Preston and Monk and I have to hit them inside, he’ll go down shooting, and he’ll try to take us with him.”

“Then you’ll take him out first. Remember, the element of surprise will be on your side. He won’t see it coming.”

“But he’ll . . . anticipate.”

“You’re going to be able to lure Buchanan outside.”

“I’m just saying that if something goes wrong then —”

“Look,” John said impatiently. “Monk will be thinking the same thing you are. You and he can maybe get Clayborne between you. Preston can get Buchanan.”

“You prick. You should go in with us.”

“The doctor knows who I am. It’s too risky. She could be standing in the hallway and spot me right away. No, I’ll wait here.”

Dallas reached over and snatched the key out of the ignition. John was highly insulted. “Do you think I’m going to run out on you?”

“If you hear shooting, you just might.”

John put his hands up. “Fine. Take the keys, but keep them where you can get to them quickly.”

John saw a car coming down the drive, and even though the trees hid them from view, he still ducked down. The car drove on. They had a perfect vantage point. The ER entrance was right in front of them. Buchanan would either park his car in the visitors’ lot or pull in and park next to the doctor’s truck in the adjacent lot. Either way, he wouldn’t see Dallas or John.

“If I have to go in after him . . . it could blow up in my face,” Dallas worried.

“Think about the money,” John whispered, his voice as smooth as satin. “Just think about the money.”

Slumping down in their seats, they silently waited.

CHAPTER FORTY

Theo had made one more detour before he drove to the hospital.

He stopped at a Pak Mail store, made copies of the papers Rosa had given him, and then, using the store phone, he called his superior in Boston and told him what had happened. As he was talking to him, he had one of the store’s employees fax the papers to his boss.

Then he called the local FBI branch, got their fax number, and sent copies to their office as well. And because he was tired and feeling a little paranoid, he faxed a set to his home.

By the time he reached the outskirts of St. Claire, the signal on his cell phone was fading. The battery was almost out of juice. He wanted to call Ben and ask him to meet him at the hospital so he could give him copies too, his intent to include the chief in the investigation. Theo decided he would have to wait and call him from the hospital. While he waited at a stoplight, he stacked the papers and put them into the glove compartment.

Now that he felt he had covered all the bases — his boss was going to fax a copy to a friend at the IRS — Theo once again went over the conversation he’d had with Rosa Vincetti. The poor woman was terrified of the police, and based on her past experience, he certainly didn’t blame her. They had broken down her door in the middle of the night and, with their guns drawn, had rushed through her home, dragged her son out of his bed, handcuffed him, and taken him away. Ever since that night, Rosa had been living in terror that it would happen again.