“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
“It flew out the window. I think it went over the fence and landed in the neighbor’s yard because I heard their dogs barking.”
“That’s also not good,” said Serge. “But you didn’t touch anything, did you?”
“Yeah, the whole wall down that hallway. I was having trouble standing up.”
“So we’ve lost control of the weapon and left prints everywhere,” said Serge. “But that’s it, right? I mean you didn’t leave any other evidence that might be helpful to police, like a DNA sample?”
Brook promptly jackknifed over and threw up.
“And that completes the hat trick.”
“I don’t think I can handle this,” she said.
“You have to.” Serge pointed at a table. “See that badge? You got the real agent mixed up with the fake one.”
“But I didn’t kill him.”
“Right now that means less than nothing.” Serge turned to Coleman. “Go out back and look for that gun in case it didn’t clear the fence.”
“How do I get there?”
“I don’t know. Take a stab at that thing over there called a back door.”
Halfway across the front yard, Enzo crept with a pistol pressed against his thigh. No ambiguity this time. The junta had given him total clearance for any eventuality, which meant two immediate taps to the chest of everyone found at the house, to drop them, followed by two more in the back of the head on the way out. Enzo reached the bottom porch step and eased his weight onto the wood.
Suddenly he was lit up and blinded in a blaze of high-beam headlights from several vehicles that converged on the residence. “What the hell?” He sprinted back to the Beemer and sped away as more cars arrived. Tires screeched and braked to a stop at various angles on the lawn.
Inside, Brook leaped at the sound of squealing rubber. “The cops!”
Serge ran to the window. “No, not the police. They’ve got drinks. But who the hell are they?”
A swarm of almost twenty people in identical T-shirts spilled out of the vehicles and headed up the walkway with an unmistakable air of torches and pitchforks.
“This looks like trouble,” said Serge. “Especially the guys wearing Pittsburgh and Mets jerseys. We better get ready.” He put the chicken head back on.
Heavy pounding on the front door. “Open up! . . . We know you’re in there! . . . Give us our money back!”
Serge opened the door. “How can I help you?”
The gang was prepared to unleash a merciless dialectic blitz on whoever answered. But the sight that greeted them created a confused pause.
“You’re . . . a chicken?”
“Correct,” said Serge. “Next question.”
“Are you the guy going by the name Rick Maddox?”
“Not today.”
“Do you know where he is?”
Feathers pointed. “In the den.”
The Mets jersey pushed through the pack. “Well, if you’re a friend of his and know what’s good for you, you’ll step out of the way.”
The others: “Yeah, don’t try to stop us! . . .”
“We’re coming through! . . .”
“Stand clear! . . .”
Serge raised his wings. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”
“Fuck you, chicken! . . .”
They shoved him aside and charged down the hall, running into the den, yelling profanities that even a sailor never heard.
The shouting unexpectedly halted. They slowly paraded out of the room with alabaster faces.
The shaken mob thought it couldn’t get any worse than the horrific scene they had just discovered. Until one of them saw something on a table in the front room. “What’s this?”
“What is it?” asked Silicon Valley Sally.
Wasted in Margaritaville held it up. “It’s a DEA badge.”
“But how is that possible?” said Lucy. “Unless . . .”
“The addresses got mixed up,” said Mets Jersey.
“It’s not the impostor,” said Shitless in Seattle. “It’s the real Rick Maddox.”
“You!” The Pirates fan pointed at Serge and took a step back. “You killed him! You killed a real federal agent!”
“Now wait just a second,” said Serge.
The gang looked around at one another. Nods and murmurs. “The chicken killed him! . . .” “He’ll fry for this! . . .”
“Everyone needs to take it easy,” said Serge. “I going to make myself a drink of rainwater, and the rest of you help yourself to whatever you like.”
Panic only increased. They screamed more accusations as they backed up en masse toward the front door.
Coleman returned from the backyard with a big smile and a sawed-off. “I got it!”
Boom.
A chandelier fell.
The witnesses all raced out of the house and down the steps for their cars.
“You killed him! . . .”
“You blew his head off! . . .”
“We’re telling! . . .”
Chapter Thirty-Three
BISCAYNE BOULEVARD
The number and condition of the budget motels along U.S. Highway 1 meant there would always be vacancy.
A black Firebird was parked in front of the one called the Coral Arms.
There were only two beds in room 17. So Serge assigned them to Coleman and Brook Campanella, while he slept on the floor.
The clock radio reached three A.M., and Brook still hadn’t been able to nod off. Adrenaline from all the trauma. She just clutched the pillow and stared over the side of the bed at Serge, sleeping like a newborn with his own makeshift pillow of balled-up clothes.
Brook thought she had chosen the lesser evil by agreeing to leave with him. The only other options were to hang out at a murder scene with her fingerprints or drive herself back to the condo and wait for the cops to slap the cuffs. And those weren’t options. So she got in the Firebird.
Brook was no babe in the woods. These guys were dangerous. Well, maybe Coleman was only a danger to himself, but definitely Serge. She totally expected to have to make a break for it at some point. Her mind reeled in terror of rape, or worse.
But there hadn’t been any opportunity to get away. The Trans Am was a two-door, so there was no chance of escaping at a red light. And Serge didn’t make any stops on the way to the motel.
Police cars were always going by on the boulevard. Brook could take off running in the parking lot and flag one of them down. And then say what? Okay, maybe try a cab or a Good Samaritan. But then she was suddenly at the point where they were at the motel. Decision time. Serge was already out of the car telling her to follow them into the room. Brook didn’t know why she allowed herself to do it, but she went inside.
The first few minutes were the twin terrors of murder-scene memories and now being cornered in the room with Serge and Coleman.
It was an utter surprise when Serge made the bed assignments. It had to be a trick. She’d get all snug in bed, and then . . . She blocked off those thoughts.
But instead of taking advantage of her, Serge just grabbed some T-shirts from a duffel bag and slipped them under his head on the floor.
There was something about him, especially asleep. Some qualities like her father and brother had. She found herself unable to stop watching him curled in the corner.
He turned over in his sleep. Then Brook heard some mumbling. Couldn’t make it out, even though it was steadily getting louder. He began rolling back and forth on the floor, slamming into the wall, over and over. Until finally:
“Felicia! Noooooo! . . .”