The evening shadows were long enough to drape across the entire street. Wayne limped from palm to shrub to telephone pole. Lantern Island was one of the oldest developments on Florida’s Gulf Coast, which was why the lots were so deep. Nowadays waterfront lots were cut so skimpy and the houses built so big, a sneeze was enough to break the boundaries.
Those were his thoughts while hustling along in pain and solitude. A meandering assortment of nonsense that kept him from focusing on the other thoughts. As in, the state of his body.
He could have waited for security. Should have, most likely. But he then risked meeting some ambitious kid who saw Wayne as his chance to break into real copdom. Do the interrogation himself, lock Wayne in a back room until he figured how to best work the whole deal. Wayne had no idea how real the risk was. He only knew he couldn’t afford the threat of more lost time.
He walked.
The island was so quiet Wayne had no trouble hearing a car long before it appeared. He crouched behind whatever cover was closest while one security car after another cruised by. They might always be so diligent, but Wayne didn’t think so.
The limo with its overstuffed trunk had taken off soon after the house alarm had sounded. One of the shooters had come over for a quick scout, but Wayne had remained safely hidden in a pantry off the living room, far from the broken back window. He had heard an outboard motor roar into life and then someone shout a name. Tommy. Twice. The shooter had cursed and fired two rounds into the kitchen wall before taking off. Wayne had stayed where he was long enough to be sure they were truly gone. He had used the time to work on his plastic band with a paring knife he had picked up off the kitchen counter. But he had been unable to saw through the band. The plastic seemed as strong as steel. Or perhaps it was his urgent need to scoot before the security arrived.
He had slipped the knife into his rear pocket and headed out, making it to the shrubs on the opposite side of the street just as the first patrol car had flashed into view.
His hands were still bound but they didn’t bother him anymore, which Wayne took as a bad sign. His rib hurt and blood from a slice across his forehead wouldn’t stop dripping into his vision. He felt something dig into his right thigh with each step. Wayne assumed it was glass. He kept to the grass so he wouldn’t leave a telltale trail on the asphalt for any vigilant patrol.
He half walked, half trotted past the scam accountant’s house. Police tape fluttered in the breeze, blocking the drive and the front portico. Wayne kept looking over, wondering why he felt as though he was missing something. But Dorsett’s house was empty and so silent he could hear the plastic tape flap in the wind.
Up ahead at the next house, the lights glowed rich against the backdrop of blue and gold water and green and golden lawn. The setting was a tropical version of paradise, far too fine for this troubled earth. Too nice as well for the man scurrying along the drive, doing his best to keep to the long shadows.
At the edge of the porch, Wayne froze.
Up to that point, all the way across the island, the clearest sound Wayne had heard was the ticking clock. Now even this was almost drowned out by something completely different.
Inside the house, a child laughed.
Wayne stood at the porch stairs and willed himself forward. But he could not take that first step.
He could not risk frightening the child. The little boy lucky enough to live in this place. Nurtured and kept safe and loved by his parents.
Wayne stayed like that, frozen between his need and his inability to reveal the world’s underbelly to the child inside that house.
He had nowhere else to go. But he could not take the risk.
He turned away.
He was midway down the drive when headlights appeared at the road’s far turn. Wayne trotted around the back of the garage and waited.
A car purred down the drive. The garage doors ground up. Wayne hustled back around and stepped inside just as the engine died. He waited.
The passenger window powered down. A man yelled, “I’m calling the police!”
Wayne’s relief was so great he had to choke out the words. “Ask for Detective Mehan in Homicide! Tell him it’s an emergency!”
From beyond the garage’s perimeter, a small voice called, “Daddy!”
Wayne flinched so hard he stumbled over a child’s toy and went down hard. He rolled under the other car. “Don’t let him see me!”
“Stay out, Roger!”
“Daddy’s home!”
“Daddy’s still working. See the phone? Go back in the house. Tell Mommy I said not to come out.”
“But—”
“Do what I say, Roger!”
“Okay.”
Wayne remained on the cold smooth concrete. His rib throbbed from the latest fall. He watched the approach of polished loafers attached to legs in fashionable trouser legs. “Is he gone?”
“You’re tied up.”
“Your son. Is he gone?”
“Yes.”
“Did you call the police?”
“You want me to?”
“Yes. Hurry. Detective Mehan. Homicide. Tell him it’s—”
“An emergency.” The man spoke into his phone. “They want to know who’s calling.”
“Wayne Grusza.”
There was a longer pause. “Wayne?”
“Tell him.”
“All right. He’s coming.”
“There’s a knife in my back pocket. My hands, I can’t feel them anymore.”
“Are you dangerous?”
Wayne found it good to chuckle. Even when it hurt. “Not to you.”