“I’ll have to shoot you first, of course. You should have paid attention to those notes and backed off. Curiosity killed the cat, you know.’’
“But we had no idea,’’ Mama said, her hand fluttering to her throat.
“It was only a matter of time until you linked me to Emma Jean, and then both of us to Jim Albert. Emma Jean was this close to confessing the whole plan to you on the phone, Mace.’’ He held his left thumb and forefinger apart a fraction of an inch. “I cajoled and sweet-talked and convinced her to fake her own disappearance in the swamp instead.’’
He examined his hanky, looking for a dry spot. I took the opportunity to scan the ground for anything to get us out of this mess—a big rock, a sharp stick, even a snake sunning itself. I know how people are about snakes. Tossing him a serpent might spook him and let us get away.
When I looked up again, black rivulets ran down the pastor’s forehead from his hairline. He obviously washed away his gray. He closed his eyelids, patting gently at the stinging dye.
Continuing my survey, I finally spotted something in the tall grass: Paw-Paw’s gun. Emma Jean must have tossed it as she ran. It was ten feet away, on my left. I gripped Mama’s hand tighter. Cocking my head ever so slightly over my left shoulder, I whispered. “Bang.’’
She looked and shook her head once, a nearly imperceptible No. I answered with a tiny nod of my own. Yes.
“We all have to do what we have to do, Pastor Bob.’’ I addressed him, but the message was for Mama.
Nodding at me, she squeezed my hand and closed her eyes. Her lips moved in a silent prayer. I joined her, a little rusty, asking God for strength and guidance.
Suddenly, a distant shout shattered the park’s quiet.
“Police! Get down on the ground, Emma Jean.’’ It was Detective Carlos Martinez. “Get down!’’
Bob Dixon spun toward the command coming from the far trees. Mama and I glanced at each other. Now or never. I ran, diving into the grass. Her leather-hard foot delivered a sharp kick to the reverend right where it counted. I bolted up from the ground, aiming the antique gun. Pastor Bob dropped his weapon and doubled over, cupping his crotch with both hands.
I whistled, loud enough to call a cab south from New York City. “Over here,’’ I yelled. “I’ve got Emma Jean’s accomplice at the business end of a shotgun.’’
“I was watching before.’’ The reverend spit out the words between painful breaths. “I saw it jam. It won’t fire.’’
“You don’t want to test that,’’ I said, lowering the barrel from his heart to his groin. “This old gun is just like a woman. You have to know how to handle it right.’’
Martinez came crashing from the woods, pistol raised. His face lit with relief as he took in the scene: Mama and me, still dripping, but safe. Pastor Bob, cradling his family jewels. And my granddaddy’s shotgun, aimed and ready to do more damage if need be.
I heard the distant sound of police sirens. My eyes flickered to Martinez for a moment, just long enough to see the hint of a smile steal across his face.
“Rosie!” A bellow like an escaped bear from the Bronx zoo thundered from the woods. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m here now.’’
The expression on Sal’s face was priceless as he lumbered into the clearing. His weapon was ready. But the bad guys were already in handcuffs, on the ground.
“Looks like your backup is a little late,’’ I said to Martinez.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, chica.’’ His face was a mask.
“C’mon, it’s over now. You can admit it. Sal’s a cop, too, isn’t he?”
“Retired,’’ Sal said, holstering his weapon. His face was as pink as his golf shirt from jogging over to us in the heat. “Thirty years, New York City Police Department.’’
He leaned down to kiss my mother. “How’d you know, Mace?’’
“Well, there was the way you spoke about Detective Martinez and the police. You were awfully admiring, for a mobster. Then you called the rest of us ‘civilians,’ like cops always do. I put it together just now, seeing the way you ran over with your revolver drawn.’’ I nodded toward Martinez. “He wasn’t at all surprised, so he must have been expecting you.’’
“I’m sorry,’’ Sal said. “I couldn’t talk about it. When I was on the job, I was undercover. Jimmy Albrizio, a.k.a. Albert, was a link to one of my last cases.’’ His eyes scanned the tree line, like he was searching for something there. “A good friend, my first partner on the force, died trying to protect that weasel so he could testify in court.’’ His face got hard. Mama reached up on her tiptoes to stroke his cheek.
“When Albrizio moved south, I followed. I hoped he’d lead me to the people who killed my buddy.’’
Martinez said, “Sal’s cover was convincing. Even I thought at first he was linked to the mob and Albrizio’s murder.’’
“When you found out otherwise, y’all became cigar-puffing pals,’’ I said.
“You got that right.’’ Sal clapped Martinez on the back, man-to-man. “And now, we’d better worry about getting these two booked.’’
The two young officers who’d arrived after Martinez seemed uncertain about what to do next. Emma Jean was sobbing softly on the ground. Bob Dixon looked like he’d kill any one of us if given the chance.
“Emma Jean will go in with them,’’ Martinez nodded toward the two cops. “I’ll be taking the good reverend in myself, along with the murder weapon, his .38.’’
Pastor Bob had clammed up as soon as Martinez arrived. Mama and I filled in the blanks, telling him what the minister had revealed to us.
I stole a glance at Emma Jean. Donnie Bailey’s words ran through my head: there’s hardly a woman in jail who doesn’t claim some man put her there. Poor, desperate Emma Jean. She’d wanted Dixon’s love so badly, she went along with his murderous plans to get it. I hoped my cousin Henry could refer her to a really sharp defense lawyer.
Sal handed over a cuffed Emma Jean to the two cops. Martinez hauled Pastor Bob to his feet. As our little group walked toward the entrance, two more squad cars came screaming into the park. A caravan of other vehicles trailed them, bump-bump-bumping over the bridge.
Donnie Bailey was in his brother’s white pickup, with Police Chief Johnson riding shotgun. The chief had apparently dressed quickly. Dabs of shaving cream dotted his face. Maddie drove her Volvo. Marty leaned forward in the front seat, clutching the dashboard so hard her knuckles were white. Mama’s neighbors, Ronnie and Alice, craned their necks from the back of a custom-colored purple Chevy. The driver was Betty Taylor, Mama’s beauty shop boss and fellow Abundant Hope worshipper. Betty’s towering bouffant scraped the plum-colored upholstery of the roof. Behind Betty, nearly all the other cars from the church breakfast were rolling in.