Ivan chuckled. “You’re a funny guy, George. So I’m offering you the chance to meet with me, give me the money, and have your problems diminish.”
“If we give you the money you’ll lock yourself back up in the cage? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I didn’t say that your problems will go away completely. But if you hand over the cash, I’ll disappear. You’ll never hear from me again. Otherwise, there will be a bloodbath beyond anything your criminal mind can imagine. I’m talking about dead women and dead babies. Dead grandmas, dead grandpas, dead aunts and uncles, dead moms, dead dads, dead sisters, dead brothers...I will kill and kill and kill, and I will write ‘George Orton Was Here’ in the blood of every victim.”
“The cops will take you down.”
“You think so? Maybe. I might only get to murder twenty newborns instead of thirty. I guess if you can only kill twenty babies, why even bother, right?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s fine. I wouldn’t believe me, either. But this is a one-time offer. Once the Everglades genocide begins, I’m not going to take a time-out to see if you’ve changed your mind.”
George knew the skinny bastard was up to something, but he also believed that Ivan would make good on his threat. If they were going to drive around looking for him, they might as well meet him somewhere. “All right.”
“Superb choice.”
“Where should we meet?”
“I’m in Naples. How far away are you?”
George punched in some information on the GPS. “About fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes. Lie to Ricky when he asks what’s going on. If I get any kind of feeling that you’re not playing fair, the deal is off.” He hung up.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
No Time For A Good Plan
“What are we going to do with her?” Lou asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You could let me go,” Michele said, helpfully.
Though they had a perfectly good cage to lock her in, the broken windshield meant that she could scream for help and attract attention. They could gag her, in theory, and you couldn’t really see the cage from outside the vehicle, but the broken windshield would also make the van very enticing to thieves if they left it unattended.
They could just let her go, except that if they did succeed in recapturing Ivan, they’d wish that Michele wasn’t free and blabbing to the police. It was a big loose end they didn’t need. But what else could they do? Bring her to the meeting with Ivan and get her killed?
“I didn’t run before,” she said.
“Actually, you did.”
The phone rang. Fifteen minutes on the dot. “Yeah?” George answered.
“Where are you?”
“We’re in Naples. Just passed a Seven-Eleven.”
“Well, that’s helpful. Put the Cotton Mouse Tavern into your magic machine.”
George entered the name in the GPS. “Nine minutes away.”
“Then be there in seven. Find us a cozy booth.”
At 2:47, exactly when the GPS said he’d get there, George pulled into the parking lot of the Cotton Mouse Tavern, a bar with about three billion neon beer signs on the outside, along with an ugly-ass rat-thing on the roof. There were about eleven or twelve other cars in the lot, none of them fine automobiles.
George parked, shut off the engine, and turned to Michele. “This is our chance to negotiate with this psycho. If he thinks we called the cops, he may start killing people. So I’m not going to lock you up, but I’m going to trust that you’ll make the right decision and not cause any trouble that will get anybody killed.”
“You’re letting me go?” Michele asked.
“Yeah. It’s either that or drag you in there with us. You want to tag along?”
“Not really.”
“You know, it would’ve been nice to be consulted on this,” said Lou. “I’m just saying.”
“Where were we going to talk about it?”
“We could’ve talked about it right in front of her. What was she gonna do?”
“Are you saying that we shouldn’t let her go?”
“No, I’ve been in favor of letting her go from the beginning. I’d just like to be part of these decisions. We’re partners. You’re not my boss.”
“Then I apologize. But for the past nine years our relationship has generally involved me making the decisions and you cheerfully going along with them. Forgive me for not realizing that suddenly you want to--”
“I get to go, right?” Michele asked.
“Yes,” said George.
“Yes,” Lou added.
“Thank you. I’m not going to get anybody killed, I promise.”
George and Lou got out of the van. Lou carried the briefcase, while George carried the folded-up blanket. Michele followed them, then stood there, looking uncertain.
“I guess it’s inappropriate to, I don’t know, shake your hand or anything like that.”
“It would be weird,” said George.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I hope you guys catch the werewolf. I’m rooting for you.”
“Thanks.”
Michele stood there for another moment, then walked away from the van. George watched her go, wondering if he’d just made a huge mistake.
“Did we just mess up?” Lou asked.
“I don’t know. What else were we going to do with her? Hobble her?”
“I kind of liked her. Not just because she was hot.”
“Well, damn, you should have asked her out on a date. That might keep her from rushing right to the cops.”
“Think I’d have a chance?”
“Not in hell.”
“Yeah. Oh well. So in addition to letting her go, are we really going to walk in there and talk to the werewolf?”
“Yep.”
“This is a decision we’re making on purpose, as opposed to, say, getting in that van and driving for the border?”
“Which border?”
“Whatever one is closest. Canada or Mexico. I don’t care.”
“You don’t have to come with me.”
“Yeah, I know. But if I didn’t, you’d get all killed and stuff, and then I’d have to deal with funeral arrangements, and your financial affairs are probably completely screwed up.”
“They’re actually very solid. I’ve even got a living will. It says that if I can’t go to the bathroom on my own, pull the plug. That’s my minimum standard for quality of life. So if Ivan doesn’t kill me but he turns me into a paraplegic, that’s what you need to know.”
“Got it. Hey, George?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re just standing here talking so we don’t have to go in there and face this guy, aren’t we?”
“That’s why I’m standing here, at least.”
“We should get it over with.”
“Yeah.”
They walked into the bar. A jukebox played a country/western song that immediately became George’s least favorite song of all time. All of the stools at the bar were taken, though a couple of the booths in the back were unoccupied. An extremely intoxicated sixty-year-old slow-danced (even though it was a fast song) with a twenty-one year-old who had one hand in each of his back pockets. The place smelled like smoke, booze, and desperation.
It wasn’t even three o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday. Didn’t these people have lives? Granted, George’s line of work didn’t stick to a strict nine-to-five schedule, so who was he to judge?
There was no sign of Ivan.
“Now what?” Lou asked.
“I guess we have a seat.”
They weaved through the crowd to the booth furthest in the back and sat down on the same bench, giving the werewolf a place to sit across from them. George brushed some ashes and a wet straw wrapper off the table, put a finger in his left ear to block out the hellish noise, then called Ivan.
“Are you there?” Ivan asked.
“Yeah. Where the hell are you?”
“Making sure you’re not setting a trap.”
“We’re not that clever.”
“I see that. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Ivan hung up. George tucked the phone back into his pocket. A waitress who was neither the appropriate age nor the appropriate body shape for her tight t-shirt walked over to their booth. “What can I get you?”