Page 53 of Blood Moon

“Nothing. It was all for show. It made Mitch look like a badass to those creeps he’s trying to nail.”

“And John needed to blow off steam,” Mitch said.

She looked at John. “I had surrendered and left. You should have been relieved. Why did you need to blow off steam?”

Mitch snickered, but before he could respond, the elevator stopped on the ground floor. “I’ll bring the truck around and meet y’all at the exit on the north side. It’ll be a quick stop. Be ready to roll.”

“Security camera?” John asked.

“Partially obscured by a canopy.”

“What about your license plate?”

“Fogged out.”

“Good. Let’s do it.”

Mitch flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt and loped toward the lobby. John and Beth went in the opposite direction. They didn’t encounter anyone as they made their way past empty conference rooms and a small workout facility.

When they reached the specified door, John reached over and pulled up the hood of Beth’s jacket, then did the same with his slicker. Seconds later, Mitch arrived in a pickup truck that truly was a p.o.s.

He made quick work of stowing her roll-aboard in the bed of the truck and covering it with a tarp while John helped her into the cab, where there were only two seats. “Sorry,” he said. “You’ll have to sit on the console.”

“What about a seat belt?”

Mitch answered her question as he climbed in, engaged the gears, and took off. “Drug dealers don’t believe in them. Just hold on tight to John. You won’t mind, will you, John?”

“Just drive, Mitch.”

“What about your car?” Beth asked John.

He told her he was leaving it there at the hotel. “If I was being tailed from the department, which I suspect, he’ll have a long sit-in.”

Eye on the rearview mirror, Mitch drove out of the parking lot. “Where to first?”

“My house. I’ve got to get Mutt. I can’t leave the boat behind, either. We may need it later. Mutt and I will go by water and meet you two at the cabin.”

Beth said, “Why can’t I stay with you?”

“We’ll need provisions. Mitch will drive you.” He rattled off a list of food staples. “Don’t forget dog food.” He took two prepaid credit cards from his wallet and gave them to her. “Each has two hundred dollars on it.” Looking down at her feet, he said, “Buy yourself some socks, and a pair of stouter shoes, and anything else you can think of that you might need.”

“You make it sound like we’re preparing for a siege.”

In all earnestness, he said, “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Tom’s wife’s main concern was that the facial disfigurement would be permanent.

When she’d arrived in the ER and saw his misshapen nose and the eggplant-colored bruises that rimmed his bloodshot eyes, she’d burst into tears. When he’d looked in the mirror, he’d almost started crying himself. Not just over his appearance, but over the unfairness of life.

John Bowie’s black eye had made him look rakish, dashing, dangerous, and sexy. It had contributed to his swagger. Peering over the wad of bandages holding his nose in place, Tom could barely see to walk, much less swagger. He was uglier than the ogre.

“The surgeon will fix it,” he’d told his weeping wife. Her boo-hooing had driven him to distraction until an injection for pain had finally kicked in and made him loopy enough to ignore her.

It was suggested by one of the ER doctors that he consider going to New Orleans for the surgery, but he hadn’twanted to expend the time or effort. He’d entrusted himself to the local plastic surgeon.

He was at home now, and in bed. The anesthesia had worn off, but he had pills within reach on the nightstand. His wife fussed over him, but, behind her murmurs of sympathy, he sensed her misgiving that the defacement was temporary.

When his kids came into the bedroom, they were uncharacteristically subdued at the sight of him. They said all the expected sweet, nice things, but once they’d filed out into the hallway, he’d heard them gasping with laughter.