She lifted her hand in front of her face. “No!”
“Aw, c’mon. Such a pretty face. Even with the hat and glasses, I can tell.”
Courtney turned her back to the man, grabbed her bag of beignets and her coffee, and walked quickly away from him. After she’d gone farther away, she looked back for a second and saw him talking on the phone. How’d he make such a quick call? Maybe he dialed 9-1-1. I’ve been spotted! Her heart raced. How could she escape or hide in a city she didn’t even know?
Think! She ran, trying to ensure that there were trees, cars, people, and objects blocking the view of the street artist to her movements towards the Toyota truck. She ran across the parking lot, jumped in the truck and started it. She remembered the directions the cashier had given her, and Courtney drove down Decatur Street, hoping that the woman named Mariah Danford was home.
52
I bought two disposable phones and used one to make a call to Dave Collins. I told him what happened and he said, “So right now there isn’t a posse on the tail of an older model red Toyota pickup truck, but it’s just a matter of a short time before that changes. Courtney may still be in Florida. It’s unfortunate that in her wake three more people are dead. Two probably because they were, no doubt, hired guns who stepped in the wrong trailer at the wrong time. So their SUV was wiped clean and no one has a clue who leased it, right?”
“Someone does.”
“Of course. I’d love to follow the bread trail back to wherever the hit order originated. Maybe it was Bandini.”
“I don’t think so. Why would they shoot the dwarf? These guys took orders from bigger fish — sharks, and they smell blood. Maybe they were the two guys who followed me into the Denny’s parking lot, or could be from the same litter. Somehow Courtney survived the first attack. I’ve got to find her before they do. If I can prove that she’s not Andrea Logan’s biological daughter, Courtney will no longer be a liability in the eyes of corporations and PACs funding Logan’s presidential bid.”
“But if you prove the opposite it will be deadly for her.”
“It’s already deadly. I don’t have a choice.”
“Yes you do. This kid’s stepped into the middle of some serious defecation. And by default, she’s taken you with her. We need to think this through, Sean. Every possibility, angle and probability. The irony is the more visible you are, the less likely that someone will put a bullet in your head. With your old connection to Andrea Logan, if something should happen to you, her hubby or at least those orchestrating his campaign would be more than suspect. They can’t afford for that to happen. It’s similar to when Giuliani was fighting the mafia in New York. The mob hated him, but he was too visible, too public to be the recipient of an organized hit. You’re that way now. Courtney is not. And because she’s wanted in murders, it’s worse.”
“I have to find her.”
“You have no idea where to look. She’s not going to show up at another carnival. Do you think the murdered dwarf is related to Solminski, the one working for Bandini?”
“Yes. Looked close in age. Maybe brothers. Possibly twins.”
“She might try to get in touch with him, especially since they’re friends and she’s driving the dead man’s truck. Could you convince Solminski to tell you if she does?”
“Maybe. If he is related to the dead man with the bloody snake, he might have a motive to help me find who’s threatening Courtney. Maybe he’ll point me toward her if he knows where she is or where she’s trying to go.”
“But there’s still a remote chance that the guys in the fire were sent by Bandini. Since you were detained by the local constables in Hillsborough County, the media flew the coop here, most following your trail, the trail of destruction down there in Gibsonton. Courtney might be hiding out with some family member somewhere. FBI will probably find her, and let’s hope it’s before she becomes unfindable — no body — no proof of a murder, and certainly no result of a crime. Logan skates into the White House, and Courtney gets tucked away in the scrapbook of legacies and mysteries next to Jimmy Hoffa’s grainy picture.”
“I can’t let that happen.”
Dave lowered his voice. “I know you can’t, but I have to be the voice of reason in a situation where reason can’t float your lifeboat. You’re my friend, and that’s the least I can do.”
“How’s Nick?”
“Better. Moving about. He walked Max, and spent some quality time with her at the Tiki Bar. Good thing Kim is there to send them both home.”
“I’ll see you in less than an hour—”
“Speaking of Kim, she told me to tell you something if I heard from you. She said a woman called the marina and left a message for you. Kim said the woman had been watching all of the news coverage, saw the allegations about Courtney being the daughter of you and Andrea Logan, and then she said she knows Courtney. Apparently she gave her a ride after she found her walking in the Ocala National Forest.”
I accelerated the Jeep, felt my chest tighten. Who was this woman? Was it some kind of ploy or trap? If I didn’t get pulled over for speeding, I’d know very soon.
53
Courtney drove slowly down Dumaine Street searching for an address on the old buildings. Many were decked with shutters painted lime green or salmon pink, propped up with timeworn red brick, balconies laced in wrought-iron, hanging baskets dripping with color. One balcony was almost covered with ferns growing from clay pots. She had her window down, the breeze warm and tinged with the smell of horse droppings, stale beer, and azaleas.
A white Lincoln eased away from the curb, opening the only parking spot on the street that Courtney could see. She parked and looked for change in her bag, finding four quarters. When she started to drop a quarter in the meter, she saw that it had a full hour of time remaining. Maybe this is a good sign. Maybe Mariah Danford would be here.
Across the narrow one-way street was a bar with doors yawning wide, paddle fans turning in slow-motion, a woman’s rippling laugh coming from the cool recesses inside where two men sat at the bar, their profiles silhouetted in a blue neon wash from an old Jaxs Beer sign.
An elderly black man sat on a swayback bench in the shade of a balcony and to the right of the bar door, his eyes closed, gnarled fingers picking the strings on a guitar, his raspy voice singing a blues song, Rock Me by Muddy Waters.
Courtney looked for addresses, crossed the street and stopped when she walked by the old black man, watching him sing and play the guitar for a few seconds. The four quarters she didn’t have to put into the parking meter, she dropped into a rusted French Market coffee can at the man’s feet.
“Much obliged, darlin’ girl,” he said, pausing from singing. He opened his eyes and looked somewhere above Courtney, his irises clouded with cataracts, his smile wide. A lower front tooth was missing, and the hint of gold flashed near a front incisor.
“How did you know I was a girl? Your eyes were closed when you thanked me.”
“I could feel you standin’ there. Been sightless long as me … o’ter senses commence to gettin’ sharp as a razorblade.”
Courtney studied him a moment, glad he couldn’t see her. White whiskers sprouted from the old man’s gaunt face. A harmonica was perched on his lap, threadbare khaki pants stained from coffee and tobacco. He held a guitar pick made from a broken plastic clothespin. “Where you be headin,’ darlin’ girl?”