She nodded once, taking small, quick breaths. They crouched and darted to the rear door of the garage, which was slightly open. Mark stuck his head
inside. He turned on the flashlight and aimed it at the floor. Reggie eased in behind him.
The odor was thick and pungent, like a dead animal rotting in the sun. Reggie instinctively covered her nose and mouth. Mark breathed deeply, then held his breath.
The only open space in the cluttered room was in the center, where the boat had been parked. They crouched over the concrete slab. “I’m getting sick,” Reggie said, barely opening her mouth.
Another ten minutes, and the body would have been out. They had started in the center, somewhere around the torso, and chipped away at each side. The black garbage bags, partially decomposed by the cement, had been ripped away. A ragged little trench had been cut away toward the feet and knees.
Mark had seen enough. He picked up a chisel, one that had been left behind, and jabbed it into black plastic.
“Don’t!” Reggie whispered loudly, backing away but still seeing it all.
He ripped through the garbage bag with the chisel, and followed it closely with the light. He made a slow turn, then pulled the plastic with his hand. He bolted upright in horror, then slowly placed the light squarely into the decaying face of the late Senator Boyd Boyette.
Reggie took another step backward, and fell onto a pile of bags filled with aluminum cans. The racket was deafening in the still air. She scrambled and fought to get up in the darkness, but the thrashing and kicking created more noise. Mark grabbed a hand, and pulled her toward the boat. “I’m sorry!” she whispered, standing two feet from the corpse without thinking about it.
“Shhhhh,” Mark said as he stepped onto a box and peeked through the window. A light came on next door. The shotgun could not be far behind.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Stay low.”
They eased through the rear door, and Mark closed it behind them. A door slammed at the neighbor’s. He hit his hands and knees and slid around the debris pile, past the trees, and through the gate. Reggie was on his heels. They stopped crawling when they reached the brush. They crouched low and scampered like squirrels until they found the trail. Mark turned on the flashlight, and they didn’t slow until they were at the creek. He ducked into some weeds, and turned off the light.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, breathing hard, terrified, and damned sure not willing to pause in this getaway.
“Did you see his face?” Mark asked, in awe of what they’d just done.
“Of course I saw his face. Now let’s go.”
“I want to see it again.”
She almost slapped him. Then she stood upright, hands on hips, and started walking toward the creek.
Mark ran beside her with the flashlight. “I was just kidding.” She stopped and glared at him, then he took her hand and led her down the bank to the creek bed.
* * *
THEY ENTERED THE EXPRESSWAY BY THE SUPERDOME AND headed for Metairie. Traffic was light, though heavier than in most cities at two-thirty on a Sunday morning. Not a word had been spoken since they’d jumped in the car at West Park and left the area. And the silence bothered neither.
Reggie contemplated how close she’d been to death. Mafia hoods, snakes, crazy neighbors, police, guns, shock, heart attack—it would’ve made no difference. She was indeed fortunate to be here, racing along the expressway, soaked with perspiration, covered with insect bites, bloody from the wounds of nature, and dirty from a night in the jungle. It could’ve been so much worse. She’d take a hot shower at the motel, maybe sleep a little, then worry about the next move. She was exhausted from the fear and sudden shocks. She was in pain from the crawling and stooping. She was too old for this nonsense. The things lawyers do.
Mark gently scratched the bites on his left forearm, and watched the lights of New Orleans thin as they left downtown. “Did you see that brown stuff on his face?” he asked without looking at her.
Though the face was now forever seared into her memory, she could not, at the moment, recall any brown stuff on it. It was a small, shriveled, partially decayed face, and one that she wished she could forget.
“I saw only the worms,” she said.
“The brown stuff was blood,” he said with the authority of a medical examiner.
She did not wish to pursue this conversation. There were more important things to discuss now that the silence was broken.
“I think we need to talk about your plans, now that this little escapade is behind us,” she said, glancing at him.
“We need to move fast, Reggie. Those guys will be back to get the body, don’t you think?”
“Yes. For once I agree. They might be back now, for all we know.”
He scratched the other forearm, and placed an ankle on a knee. “I’ve been thinking.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“There are two things I don’t like about Memphis. The heat, and the flat land. There are no hills or mountains, you know what I mean? I’ve always thought it would be so nice to live in the mountains, where the air is cool and the snow is deep in the wintertime. Wouldn’t that be fun, Reggie?”
She smiled to herself and changed lanes. “Sounds wonderful. Any particular mountain?”
“Out west somewhere. I love to watch those old
Bonanza
reruns with Hoss and Little Joe. Adam was okay, but it really ticked me off when he left. I’ve watched them since I was a little kid, and I’ve always thought it would be neat to live out there.”
“What happened to the tall buildings and the crowded city?”
“That was yesterday. Today, I’m thinking about mountains.”
“Is that where you want to go, Mark?”
“I think so. Can I?”
“It can be arranged. Right now, they’ll agree to almost anything.”
He stopped scratching and locked his fingers around his knee. His voice was tired. “I can’t go back to Memphis, can I, Reggie?”
“No,” she said softly.
“I didn’t think so.” He thought about this for a few seconds. “It’s just as well, I guess. There’s not much left there.”
“Think of it as yet another adventure, Mark. A new home, new school, new job for your mother.
You’ll have a much nicer place to live, new friends, mountains all around you if that’s what you want.”
“Be honest with me, Reggie. Do you think they’ll ever find me?”
She had to say no. At that moment, he had no choice. She would run and hide with him no more. They had to either call the FBI and strike a deal, or call the FBI and turn themselves in. This little trip was about to be over.
“No, Mark. They’ll never find you. You have to trust the FBI.”
“I don’t trust the FBI, and you don’t either.”
“I don’t completely distrust them. But right now they’ve got the only game in town.”
“And I have to play along with them?”
“Unless you have a better idea.”
MARK WAS IN THE SHOWER. REGGIE DIALED CLINT’S NUMBER, and listened as the phone rang a dozen times before he answered. It was almost 3 A.M..
“Clint, it’s me.”
His voice was thick and slow. “Reggie?”
“Yes, me, Reggie. Listen to me, Clint. Turn on the light, put your feet on the floor, and listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“Jason McThune’s phone number is listed in the Memphis directory. I want you to call him, and tell him you need Larry Trumann’s home phone number in New Orleans. Got that?”
“Why don’t you look in the New Orleans phone book?”
“Don’t ask questions, Clint. Just do as I say. Trumann’s not listed down here.”
“What’s going on, Reggie?” His words were much quicker.
“I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes. Make some coffee. This could be a long day.” She hung up and unlaced her muddy sneakers.
Mark finished a quick shower, and ripped open a new package of underwear. He’d been embarrassed when Reggie bought them, but now it seemed so unimportant. He slipped into a new yellow T-shirt, and pulled on his new but dirty Wal-Mart jeans. No socks. He wasn’t going anywhere for a while, according to his attorney.
He left the tiny bathroom. Reggie was lying on the bed, shoes off, weeds and grass on the cuffs of her jeans. He sat on the edge of her bed, and stared at the wall.
“Feel better?” she asked.
He nodded, said nothing, then lay beside her. She pulled him close to her body, and placed an arm under his wet head. “I’m all messed up, Reggie,” he said softly. “I don’t know what happens next anymore.”
The tough little boy who threw rocks through windows and outsmarted killers and cops and raced fearlessly through dark woods began to cry. He bit his lip and squinted his eyes, but couldn’t stop the tears. She held him closer. Then he broke, finally, and sobbed loudly with no attempt to hold it back, no effort at being tough now. He cried without shame or embarrassment. His body shook and he squeezed her arm.
“It’s okay, Mark,” she whispered in his ear. “Everything’s okay.” With her free hand, she wiped tears from her cheeks, and squeezed him even closer. Now it was up to her. She had to be the lawyer again, the
counselor who moved daringly and called the shots. His life was once again in her hands.
The television was on but the sound was off. Its gray and blue shadows cast a dim light over the small room with its double beds and cheap furniture.
JO TRUMANN GRABBED THE PHONE AND SEARCHED THE darkness for the clock. Ten minutes before four. She handed it to her husband, who took it and sat in the center of the bed. “Hello,” he grunted.
“Hi, Larry. It’s me, Reggie Love, remember?”
“Yeah. Where are you?”
“Here in New Orleans. We need to talk, and the sooner the better.”
He almost said something smart about the hour of the day, but thought better of it. It was important, or she wouldn’t be calling. “Sure. What’s going on, Reggie?”
“Well, we’ve found the body, for starters.”
Trumann was suddenly on his feet and sliding into his house shoes. “I’m listening.”
“I’ve seen the body, Larry. About two hours ago. I saw it with my own eyes. Smelled it too.”
“Where are you?” Trumann pressed a button on the recorder by the phone.
“I’m at a pay phone, so no cute stuff, okay?”
“Okay.”
“The people who buried the body tried to retrieve it last night, but they were unable to do so. Long story, Larry. I’ll explain it later. I’m willing to bet they’ll try again very soon.”
“Is the kid with you?”
“Yes. He knew where it was, and we came, we
saw, and we conquered. You’ll have it by noon today if you do as I say.”
“Anything.”
“That’s the spirit, Larry. The kid wants to cut a deal. So we need to talk.”
“When and where?”
“Meet me in the Raintree Inn on Veterans Boulevard in Metairie. There’s a grill that’s open all night. How long will it take?”
“Give me forty-five minutes.”
“The sooner you get here, the sooner you’ll get the body.”
“Can I bring someone with me?”
“Who?”
“K. O. Lewis.”
“He’s in town?”
“Yeah. We knew you were here, so Mr. Lewis flew in a few hours ago.”
There was hesitation on her end. “How’d you know I was here?”
“We have ways.”
“Who have you wired, Trumann? Talk to me. I want a straight answer.” Her voice was firm, yet with a trace of panic.
“Can I explain it when we meet?” he asked, kicking himself in the ass for opening this can of worms.
“Explain it now,” she commanded.
“I’ll be happy to explain when—”
“Listen, asshole. I’m canceling the meeting unless you tell me right now who’s been wired. Talk, Trumann.”
“Okay. We bugged the kid’s mother’s room at the hospital. It was a mistake. I didn’t do it, okay. Memphis did it.”
“What’d they hear?”
“Not much. Your man Clint called yesterday afternoon and told her you guys were in New Orleans. That’s all, I swear.”
“Would you lie to me, Trumann?” she asked, thinking of the tape from their first encounter.
“I’m not lying, Reggie,” Trumann insisted, thinking of the same damned tape.
There was a long pause in which he heard nothing but her breathing. “Just you and K. O. Lewis,” she said. “No one else. If Foltrigg shows up, all deals are off.”
“I swear.”
She hung up. Trumann immediately called K. O. Lewis at the Hilton. Then he called McThune in Memphis.
39
EXACTLY FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, TRUMANN AND LEWIS walked nervously into the near empty grill at the Raintree Inn. Reggie waited at a table in the corner, far away from anyone. Her hair was wet and she wore no makeup. A bulky T-shirt with LSU TIGERS in purple letters was tucked into a pair of faded jeans. She sipped black coffee, and neither stood nor smiled as they approached and sat opposite her.
“Good morning, Ms. Love,” Lewis said in an attempt to be nice.
“It’s Reggie, okay, and it’s too early for pleasantries. Are we alone?”
“Of course,” Lewis said. At that moment eight FBI agents were guarding the parking lot, and more were on the way.
“No bugs, wire, body mikes, salt shakers, or ketchup bottles?”
“None.”
A waiter appeared, and they ordered coffee.
“Where’s the kid?” Trumann asked.
“He’s around. You’ll see him soon enough.”
“Is he safe?”
“Of course he’s safe. You boys couldn’t catch him if he was on the streets begging for food.”
She handed Lewis a piece of paper. “These are the names of three psychiatric hospitals that specialize in children. Battenwood in Rockford, Illinois. Ridgewood in Tallahassee. And Grant’s Clinic in Phoenix. Any one of the three will do.”
Their eyes went slowly from her face to the list. They focused and studied it. “But we’ve already checked with the clinic in Portland,” Lewis said, puzzled.
“I don’t care where you’ve checked, Mr. Lewis. Take this list, and check again. I suggest you do it quickly. Call Washington, get them out of bed, and get it done.”
He folded the list and placed it under his elbow. “You, uh, you say you’ve seen the body,” he asked, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably.