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.“I assume you’re joking, right?” I ask, looping back through the parking lot and following the narrow two-lane street to the familiar building at the end of the block.“Ya-huh.of course.”“Fine, then just keep him away,” I say.“Away from me and away from Boyle.”“Dammit, Rogo, you missed the turn!” Dreidel shouts in the background.“The on-ramp’s back that way!”Without a word, I know Rogo understands.By the time they get to Dr.Eng’s office, then back to Palm Beach, Dreidel’s officially one less crisis I have to deal with.“Okay, eight o’clock tonight at Dreidel’s hotel—you got it, Wes,” Rogo says.“Ya-huh, yeah.of course,” he adds, even though I’m silent.Through the phone, he takes a deep breath.His voice slows down.“Just make sure you’re safe, okay?” I know that tone.The last time I heard it, he was standing by my hospital bed.“I’m serious, Wes.Be safe.”“I will,” I tell him as a sharp right takes me up the paved brick driveway that’s shaped like a horseshoe in front of my apartment building.Driving past the main entrance, I pull around to the open-air parking lot in back.“Though I gotta be honest, Rogo—I figured you’d be happy I was finally fighting back.”“Yeah, well.next time try swimming a few laps before you decide to cross the English Channel.”“I gave my life to him, Rogo.I need to get it back.”“You’re telling me? Wes, I fight with everyone.I love fighting with everyone—I fight with the snot bagboy who tries to cheap me out by giving me plastic instead of paper.But let me tell you something: You don’t fight with people like this.You get your proof, you lock it up somewhere safe, and then you run to the press.to the authorities.to whoever’s in the best position to keep them from knocking your teeth out through your colon.And believe me, when they find you, they’re gonna hit back.”“You still talking about Micah and O’Shea?” Dreidel interrupts in the background.“Who else would we talk about?” Rogo shoots back.“Rogo,” I interrupt, “I know how they hit.They’re not getting another crack.”“Good—that’s what I wanna hear.Okay, so if you can’t go home, where you gonna hide out for the next few hours: that crappy hotel my mom stayed at, or maybe somewhere more out in the open, y’know, like the lobby of the Breakers or something?”I’m silent for a moment, coasting toward my parking spot in back.“Whattya mean?”“Look at the time, Wes—you’ve still got two hours to kill—so assuming you don’t wanna be at home.”I’m silent again.I swear I can hear Rogo shaking his head.“You’re home right now, aren’t you?”“Not exactly,” I say as the car bounces over a speed bump.“Not exactly? What’s not exactly?”“It’s.it means I’m.it means I’m kinda in the parking lot.”“Aw, jeez! Wes, why would you—? Get out of there!”“You don’t think our security in front can—?”“That’s not security.It’s a doorman with a sewn-on badge!”“I’m talking about the cameras, Rogo.That’s what they’re afraid of—being seen! And no offense, but until you just blurted it to Dreidel, I probably would’ve been fine.”“Just go.Now!”“Y’think?” I ask, pulling into an open spot for a quick three-point turn.“Just turn the car around and get your ass outta there before—!”As I throw the car into reverse, there’s a knock against the driver’s-side window.Turning to my left, I spot the tip of a gun tapping against the glass.O’Shea points his pistol right at me and raises his pointer finger to his lips.“Tell them you’re fine,” O’Shea says, his voice muffled through the window.I stare at the gun.“L-Listen, Rogo—I’m fine,” I say into the phone.Rogo says something, but I can’t hear him.“Tell them you’ll call back when you find someplace safe,” O’Shea adds.For a moment, I hesitate.O’Shea tightens his finger against the trigger.“Rogo, I’ll call you back when I find someplace safe.”I shut the phone.O’Shea rips open my car door.“Nice to see you again,” he says.“How was Key West?”90Let’s go, Wes.Out,” O’Shea says, gripping the shoulder of my shirt and dragging me from the Subaru.As I stumble across the asphalt of the parking lot, I realize the car’s still running.He doesn’t care.He doesn’t think this’ll take long.“Keep going.toward the fence,” he adds, barely a step behind.His gun is no longer out in the open.But through the outline in his jacket pocket, it’s still clearly pointed at me.We head toward the back corner of the parking lot, where there’s an opening in the tall shrubs that leads to a shaded dog run that runs parallel to the lot.The dog run is narrow and not too long.But tucked behind the shrubs, it’ll keep us out of sight.“So Key West,” O’Shea says, still right behind me.“Your buddy Kenny says hi.”I glance over my shoulder just as we reach the two lampposts that flank the entrance to the dog run.O’Shea offers a smug grin, but the way his sandy-blond hair is matted to his head, he’s had a tougher day than he’s saying.The drizzle of rain looks like beads of sweat across his pug nose.“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, turning back to face him.He doesn’t even bother calling me on it.“Where’s the photo you took, Wes?”“I told you, I don’t—”In a blur, his fist cocks me in the face, jamming into my left eye and sending me crashing to the muddy path.As I skid backward on my butt through the damp grass, my whole eye socket’s throbbing, like a just-rung bell.“I know you have the photo.Hand it over, and you’re free to go.”“It-it’s in the glove compartment,” I say, pointing to the car with one hand and holding my eye with the other.He glances back at the Subaru just as two more cars glide into the parking lot.Their headlights are on, slicing through the early darkness and turning the light drizzle into tiny fireworks that flicker in the distance.Fellow tenants coming home from their day’s work.Planting his foot on my shoulder, O’Shea studies the entire scene like he’s reading someone’s palm.Without a word, he reaches down, grips the front of my shirt, and pulls me to my feet.Even before I get my balance, he whips me around, and I crash chest-first into the nearest tree.My cheek scrapes against the bark, momentarily forcing me to forget the pain in my eye.Behind me, O’Shea kicks my legs apart and starts frisking through my pockets, tossing the contents to the ground: wallet, house keys, the folded-up sheet of paper with Manning’s daily schedule on it.“What’re you doing?” I ask as he pats my chest and works his way down my legs.“I told you it’s in the glove compar—”There’s a soft crackle as his fingers pat my ankle.I look down at him.He looks up at me.I try to fight free of his grip, but he’s too strong.Choking my ankle, he hikes up my pant leg, revealing the glossy black-and-white photo that’s curled around my shin, the top half of it sticking out of my sock.Enraged, O’Shea rips it free and shoves me aside [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]