Chill Factor (47 page)

Dixie injected as much conviction into her own voice as she could manage. “I wish we’d had a chance to work together, Mike.”

“Do you?”

She held his eyes, resisted glancing down at the needle. Despite the chill that had crept deep into her bones, Dixie envisioned a sunny day at the beach, a romp on the sand with Mud and Parker. Then she aimed that joy at Mike Tesche. She had to convince him.

“
‘A soul that knows strength develops skill.’
Mike, that’s what you meant, wasn’t it?” Dixie allowed her eyes to widen a fraction, as if in surprise. “The strength to pursue the mission, even when a subject must be sacrificed. Lucy, Edna—their job was to draw fire. By forcing the officers to shoot, they stirred up public hostility toward the HPD and, by extension, Chief Wanamaker and Mayor Banning.” Dixie exhaled the last word in a whisper of admiration. “Brilliant.”

Mike gave a single nod and glanced at his watch. “It’s time to make an appearance. Can I trust you for five minutes?”

Dixie shrugged, rattling the cuffs. “Can’t get in much trouble like this.”

He studied her eyes for another moment, then he checked her handcuffs, tossed a glance at Laskey, and closed the door behind him.

Dixie waited a full minute. She couldn’t hear his footsteps
receding down the hall. That bothered her. Could he be waiting outside the door, planning to step back in and catch her trying to escape?

Swiveling the chair around on its rollers, she backed up to the desk. The cell phone was in the top drawer. Her hands wouldn’t reach that high.

She struggled to her feet, dragging the heavy chair up with her. Handcuffs gouged into her wrists. She stretched her fingers … and finally tugged the drawer open. Shuffling around again, she saw the cell phone and dropped back into the chair. She stabbed at the
POWER
button with her tongue. Hard to see when she was close enough to hit it. She backed off to look—no lighted numerals. Tried again, could feel buttons move beneath her tongue, but the power refused to come on. Maybe the battery was dead.

Pencil, pen … she needed something to punch the buttons.
Shit.
The pencils were in the other top drawer.

Reversing, she rocked up on her feet again, the chair’s weight scraping the handcuffs painfully down her chafed wrists, and opened the other drawer. Then seated, she pushed her face into the drawer, caught a pencil between her teeth. Rolled back to the cell phone. She punched the
POWER
button … and heard a satisfying
chirp.

The
NO SERVICE
light came on, then the
ROAM
light. It winked off, then on again. When it winked out the second time, Dixie hurriedly punched 911 and
SEND
. Leaning far enough into the drawer to speak
and
hear sufficiently was impossible.

“Texas Department of Public Safety, Officer Bergerron.” Dixie spit out the pencil.

“This is Dixie Flannigan. I don’t know the address.” Unlike a standard phone, a cellular would not instantly flash her location on the dispatcher’s monitor—unless their technology was more advanced than Dixie imagined. She spoke low but distinctly, conveying her situation, describing as best she could the route she’d driven to the training center.
How far to that private road? The next turn?
She estimated, remembering for certain only the final two miles after she’d turned away from the sound of an eighteen-wheeler. “My car is parked off the
road, a quarter mile past the building.” She described her Mustang, adding the license number.

The dispatcher asked a question. Dixie couldn’t quite make the words out, but she knew the gist.

“Weapons, at least three guns,” she said. “No alcohol, no drugs.” She thought about the meeting Mike had referred to earlier. “Could be as many as twenty-eight men.” Then she glanced at Laskey and winced. “One man’s been shot. He’s unconscious.”

Maybe dead.

“I can’t stay on the phone,” she told the dispatcher. “He’s coming back. But I’ll leave the line open.”

She nudged the drawer almost closed, praying Mike wouldn’t notice the half-inch gap. When she started to close the other drawer, Dixie saw a ballpoint pen, recalled seeing a handcuff key made from an ink cylinder … but that was in a film. Would it work?
Jeez, she was stealing escape ideas from a movie?

To make it work, she needed the pen in her hands, not her mouth. The chair would prevent her from reaching into the drawer. Dixie grabbed the pen between her teeth and nudged the drawer shut.

The doorknob turned.

Dipping her chin low, she poked the pen into the neck of her shirt. It slid down her side, between fabric and skin.

He instantly seemed to sense something was wrong. He glanced at the lockbox apparatus, then around the room—not a flicker of remorse as his gaze passed over Philip. Then he circled the desk and examined Dixie’s cuffed wrists.

“Trying to wriggle free?” He sounded unconcerned.

“The cuffs are too tight. You didn’t double-lock them. Unless you use a key, they tighten down with every movement.”

He searched her eyes, as if testing the truth of what she was saying.

“We’ll leave soon. I suggest you remain still until then.”

“Are we going to The Winning Stretch?” She spoke as loud as she dared and tried to sound excited about the idea.
Where were those cops?

Mike nodded, returning the items to the lockbox.

Dixie had clamped the ballpoint between her arm and side
to prevent it falling out while Mike examined her wrists. Now she let it slide down to the chair seat, talking to cover any sound.

“What about Philip? We can’t leave him here. If he’s dead—”

“I’ll take care of Mr. Laskey.”

“The men who came for your meeting—are they still here?”

“Why all the questions, Dixie?”

“I’m … fascinated. Two completely separate groups, yet neither knows the other exists.”
Talking too fast.
“Both regard you as a … leader? Commander? Minister?”

“You’ll learn everything soon enough, if I decide I can trust you.” Leaving the syringe on the desk, he carried the flask into the bathroom.

“All the time you were gone,” Dixie called after him, unable to take her eyes off the needle, “I thought about the … symmetry of it, the robberies, which triggered the assassinations. And these boys, marksmen, from what I saw in the shooting gallery, they’re avenging the slain Granny Bandits with no idea that you directed the robberies.”

Running water drowned out the last of her praise.

Dixie caught the ballpoint between her fingers to unscrew the barrel. After fumbling with it for ten seconds, she realized it wasn’t a screw type. She tried to wedge a fingernail between the point and the shaft, but it wouldn’t pull free.

When he turned off the water, she palmed the ballpoint—as a weapon, if he got close enough. If he removed the damn handcuffs.

Where were those cops?
How long had it been? Five minutes? Fifteen?

Mike returned with the clean flask, set it into the box, and locked it. Dixie leveled her most admiring gaze at him, but knew it wasn’t working. She almost wished the incense
would
relax her. That needle made her damned nervous.

Mike smiled as he returned her gaze. “I knew you would be an apt pupil, Dixie.”

“I like the way you think,” she lied. “You’re a father figure to the boys. To the women, too?” Adding a desperate flirtatious lilt to that last phrase.

“Actually, yes, you might say that.” He carried the lockbox to the file cabinet. “Either the father they worshiped as a child, or a celibate lover. Isn’t that what so many women want, especially in later years?”

The age-old symbiosis, men mate for sex, women for intimacy; women provide sex to enjoy intimacy, men provide intimacy to enjoy sex. Marriage counselors built careers working it out for couples. Mike had done his homework.

“I suppose that’s true of some women,” she agreed.

He came up behind her, placed his hands on her neck.

Dixie’s gaze shifted to the spot on the desk where the hypodermic had been:
gone.
Was it in the box?

“Mike—”
Keep him talking, bragging.
“Tell me about Angela. She seems … special.”

He stroked her neck and shoulders, as he’d done briefly at The Winning Stretch. His fingers delicately traced her jaw, her cheek, the curve of her ear.

“The tea you drank, it’s wonderful for toning the skin and strengthening bone mass, but one unfortunate side effect is significantly increased levels of oxytocin and free cortisol. In higher dosage, it produces an effect akin to amnesia, causing neuronal loss.” Mike’s fingers slowed. “I love the way you smell, Dixie Flannigan. And the silken firmness of your flesh.” One hand slid from her shoulder.

Into his pocket?
Did he have that goddamn syringe in his pocket? Had he revealed his secrets because he knew she wouldn’t retain enough brain cells to remember them?
That possibility chilled her more than death.

Dixie tensed, her thoughts racing.
Whirl the chair around, knock the needle from his hand … he had the .25, but she’d rather be shot than brain-dead.

Or tell him she’d called the cops. They could be surrounding the building right now.
Should
be.

“It’s time you got some rest, Dixie.” The jingle of keys. “At The Winning Stretch, you’ll have a room of your own—”

Like Rose?

His hands at her wrists. Where was the gun?

“—I’ve already moved your car into the shed out back.”

Shit! No wonder the cops hadn’t found her. She’d told them to look for the Mustang.

The handcuffs fell, clicked open.

Dixie shoved the chair back
hard
, knocking Mike into the wall. She sprang to her feet—hands numb—and jabbed an elbow into his side, another into his throat.

He gagged. Dropped her keys. Fumbled for his pocket.

Dixie snap-kicked her boot heel into his hip, crunching the hand reaching for the gun. Retracted her foot for another kick—

An explosion deafened her. Fire tore at her arm.
He’d shot her!

Still on her feet, she aimed another kick at his wrist—

The gun thudded to the floor.

—jammed her boot into his groin.

He grunted. Folded.

She slammed her clasped hands on the back of his neck and raised her knee into his face.

He went down. Blood spurted from his nose.

She nudged the .25 out of reach.

Boot heel aimed at his face, she asked: “Are you going to stay down?”

He nodded.

Dixie ached to deliver a killing blow. Thanks to his religious immunity and her mishandling of the search, Mike Tesche would not likely serve any prison time.

“The syringe, hand it over.”

He tugged it from his pocket, needle tip still encased in its plastic shield. He’d planned to get her into the car first. Inject her. Dump her. Or maybe he’d take her to The Winning Stretch, where he could monitor her response to the drug.
You have too many friends in high places.

Blood ran down her arm and slicked her palms as she handcuffed Mike’s hands behind his back. Then she grabbed the cell phone.

“Are you there? Where the hell is that patrol car?”

Philip Laskey floated in red mist, counting pull-ups.
ONE
.

Philip, can you hear me?
Someone had called his name from far away. Anna Marie? No … a younger voice. Ms. Flannigan.
I’ll get help. You’ll be all right, Philip.

TWO
. He thought it strange that he didn’t feel the tug on his arms … but his head pounded, as if from a long workout.

… fine, good man, Philip … trifle heavy with the rod …

THREE
…
killed those women … as surely as if he’d placed his own gun to their heads …

FOUR
…

Philip opened his eyes.

Drifting in and out, he’d heard voices.
Lucy Ames … Edna Pine … induced to willingly die.

Philip sat up shakily.

“Philip!”

Across the room, Colonel Jay attempted to get to his feet.

“Come here, Philip. Help me up. We have to leave.”

“Yes, sir.” Philip rose. His head throbbed….
pursue the mission …

“Can you take these cuffs off, Philip?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Good, but hurry. Police are coming.”

Philip unbuckled his belt and slid a thin wire from its narrow placket….
no idea that you directed the whole thing …
He looped the garrote around the Colonel’s neck and yanked it tight.

… as surely as if he’d placed his own gun …

The Colonel gasped, struggled.

… casket’s pink satin lining … touched the cold hand …

The Colonel clawed at the wire.

… his own gun to their heads …

The door opened.

“Stand down, son. Let him go.”

An officer snapped a gun from its holster. Ms. Flannigan stood behind him.

Philip smiled….
could melt the heart of a hangman.
His arms quivered as he tightened the garrote against the Colonel’s final struggles. “It’s okay.” His voice echoed in his head. His cheeks felt damp. “You can shoot.”

“Mister, drop your weapon!” The officer braced and aimed.

“Don’t shoot him!” Ms. Flannigan said.

“Drop your weapon, mister!”

“No, McGrue!”

As the Colonel sagged lifelessly beneath Philip’s noose, Ms. Flannigan stepped in front of the officer’s gun, but he batted her aside and pulled the trigger.

“The People,” Philip whispered, “have avenged …”

Dixie sat in a far corner of a makeshift conference room set up for the task force. This floor of the new HPD building was already undergoing a remodeling. Behind her, a thick sheet of polyethylene masked a construction area. Paint fumes floated on every gust of air from the vent.

She’d spent part of the afternoon getting her arm bandaged, then more time explaining the hunch that prompted her to follow Philip Laskey, and the subsequent events leading to the murder of Michael Jay Tesche. Finding Philip still alive—a deep gouge creasing his skull—she’d rushed outside to meet the DPS officers and direct the medics. The familiar sight of Slim Jim McGrue unfolding his six-foot-eight body from his black-and-white patrol car had looked damn fine. And his presence had helped her cut through the tedious explanations. What Dixie longed for now was a cold beer and a month of solitude to sort through the “whys” that bounced around in her brain.