He abhorred getting wet even in benign settings, refusing even to tiptoe into country-club shallows to retrieve an errant golf ball. The idea of slogging buck naked and unarmed through a dark bog was so mortifying to Chaz that he couldn't dwell on it without risking a breakdown. The sky had begun to clear, and enough starlight was being cast upon the water that he could finally make shapes out of shadows. He was especially attentive to those that even vaguely resembled alligators, whose abundance was being confirmed by full-throated rumbles near and far. Chaz remembered from basic herpetology that such territorial outbursts were sexual in origin, and he wondered whether he was in greater danger of being devoured, or defiled. He was aware that most snakes had two operative penises-a topic of high mirth in undergraduate biology-but he could not recall if crocodil-ians were similarly endowed. It wasn't long before his recurring nightmare of being eaten by a two-headed gator had been supplanted by a vision even more harrowing.
In the distance loomed a tree island, an oasis of higher ground in the midst of the watery savanna. Chaz splashed ahead at a savage pace, adrenalized with dread at the prospect of being double-boned by a randy five-hundred-pound lizard. The saw grass sliced him mercilessly as he advanced, but he remained driven and unbowed. It was only when he reached the bushy hump of dry land and sagged against a bay tree that Chaz paused to contemplate the full measure of his misery. His muscles were cramping from fatigue and dehydration. His back stung hotly from a freckling of buckshot. His arms and torso were striped bloody from the grass blades. His face was covered by a humming shroud of mosquitoes. His crotch and thighs itched mysteriously.
And that was only the physical torment. Emotional pain assailed Chaz Perrone, as well.
The $13 million inheritance he'd dreamed of receiving had turned out to be a sadistic hoax.
The wife he had tried to kill was still alive, and on her way to the police.
The girlfriend he'd shot with similar intent had survived, and set him up for an abduction.
The man with whom he'd so profitably conspired had turned on him, and ordered him put down like a lame horse.
And now Chaz found himself filthy wet and abjectly naked, lost and defenseless in a place that he loathed more than any other.
Do I deserve this? he wondered. Really?
He ran a forefinger along one of his shins, skimming off the muck like chocolate icing. Holding it to his nose, he detected no noxious or rancid odor. Even if this gunk is loaded with fertilizers, so what? Chaz thought. It's just mud, for God's sake. It's not like I was clubbing baby harp seals.
A sliver of moon spread a pale bluish light across the savanna. Something rustled heavily, out of sight. Chaz Perrone drew his knees to his chest and silently groped for a rock. Another alligator boomed from a nearby pond.
Who… do… you love?
Yeah, who… do… you love?
Thirty-two
Maureen smiled fondly when she saw Tool hobble out of the barn. He opened the door of the truck and arranged himself behind the steering wheel.
"Well?" She held out one hand.
He dropped two misshapen kernels of lead into her palm. "The rusty one is what come outta you-know-where," he said. "The shiny one's from under my arm."
After examining the slugs, Maureen said, "I'm proud of you, Earl. That must've stung like the dickens."
He said the pain wasn't so bad. "Guy's a real pro."
"His specialty being… cattle?"
"Livestock in general." Tool had explained to Maureen that a medical doctor would be required by law to notify authorities if a patient turned up with a gunshot wound. A veterinarian had no such obligation.
"The important thing is, you're finally free of the burden," Maureen told him. "No more needless suffering."
"Yeah. Now it's your turn."
"I'm doing all right, Earl."
"Tell the truth," he said.
"The truth is, I'm absolutely elated to be outdoors in the fresh air."
"Wait'll we get clear of this pasture."
"No, it's all glorious," said Maureen, "even the cow poop. Thank you, Earl."
"For what?"
"My freedom. Being my Sir Galahad. Rescuing me from Elysian Manor!"
She tugged him closer and bussed his cheek.
"That's enough a that." Tool felt himself redden.
Nobody had uttered a word of objection when he carried Maureen out of the convalescent home. Nobody had dared to get in his way.
She'd already been awake for hours, sitting upright in bed, waiting with her handbag on her lap.
Pulled the intravenous tube from her arm and got herself to the bathroom. Ditched the hospital gown in favor of a light cotton shift, periwinkle blue. Fixed her hair, put on some lipstick, brushed a little color into her face. Dashed off a note to each of her daughters, telling them not to worry.
At breakfast time the nurse from hell had stalked in, eyeing Maureen as if she were a nutcase; humoring her, telling her how cute and pretty she looked, fluffing her pillows, all the time trying to con her into lying still so they could jab her with another needle.
But Maureen had resisted fiercely, forcing the nurse to call for backup. Eventually two lumpish, pimply orderlies had shown up; the lumpier of the two seizing Maureen's arms while the other attempted to pin her legs-the nurse hovering with a gangrenous smirk; uncapping a loaded syringe and lining up her shot.
That's when Tool had appeared, shiny with sweat, a mammoth miasmal presence blocking the doorway. His work boots were crusty and the overalls hung crookedly off his shoulders, exposing a crude mummy wrap of soiled tape. His arms and neck were damply matted, jet-black curls that at a distance could have been mistaken for an ornate body tattoo.
"Git away from her," he'd said without a flicker of emotion.
Instantly the orderlies had released Maureen and stepped away. "It's all right, Polly," she'd told the quaking nurse. "He's my nephew, from the Netherlands. The one I told you about."
Tool had stomped in and gathered Maureen from the bed, carrying her out of the room, down the hall, past the front desk, through the double doors and into the circular driveway, where he had parked the apple-red F-150 supercab pickup, purchased the day before with $33,641 cash.
Leaving, by Tool's arduous calculation, more than $465,000 in the Samsonite.
With plenty of room for the thirty-one fentanyl patches he had burglarized from a discount pharmacy in Boynton Beach-the medicine meant for Maureen, not for himself.
"It's a beauty!" she'd exclaimed upon seeing the new truck. "But I may need a stepladder."
"Naw," Tool had said, and lifted her royally into the passenger seat. The pickup had leather-trimmed captain's chairs, loads of leg-room, a crackerjack air conditioning system and a cargo bed deep enough to accommodate Tool's entire crop of highway crosses, which he had carefully uprooted one at a time from behind his trailer. The task had taken most of the night.
Appalled by the ratty condition of his bandages, Maureen had insisted that Tool seek out a doctor. For miles she'd begged, until he reluctantly had pulled off the turnpike near Kissimmee and made his way to the cattle ranch on the river. His veterinarian pal had agreed, at Maureen's urging, to extract both of the bullets.
"Soon you'll feel like a new man," Maureen proclaimed, dropping the slugs into her handbag. "Did he give you something for pain?"
"Whatever they use on bulls," Tool said. Truth was, he felt pretty darn fine. "So, where you wanna go?" "Earl, may I ask a personal question?"
"Sure." They were bouncing along a narrow dirt track, heading off the ranch. Tool turned down the radio, some sappy song about loneliness and heartbreak on the road.
"Now, it's none of my business," Maureen said, "but I'm curious how you can afford a chariot like this on a bodyguard's income."