Page 14

CHAPTER 14

What kind of thoughts now, do you carry

In your travels day by day

Are they bright and lofty visions,

Or neglected, gone astray?

Matters not how great in fancy,

Or what deeds of skill you’ve wrought;

Man, though high may be his station,

Is no better than his thoughts.

Catch your thoughts and hold them tightly,

Let each one an honor be;

Purge them, scourge them, burnish brightly,

Then in love set each one free.

—Myra Viola Wilds, “Thoughts”

WHITNEY

Panic took hold of me as I sped away from Terry’s salon. It was nearing seven o’clock, and the sun had set, only a few rays of light gray in the distant sky.

My stomach clenched as her words replayed in my mind: Then we both agree that I’m not done with you.

She’s going to come after me, isn’t she? I figured I was probably safe for the night. After all, she didn’t know my name, so she wouldn’t be able to figure out where I lived. Not unless she had some way of running my license plate number through an online database to get my address. I figured it was more likely she’d come after me at Ridgetop Prep. After all, I’d told her I was working there. With so many workers coming and going, the main gate was left open during the daytime. She’d have no problem accessing the property.

My guts squirmed when I realized I might have put Buck, Owen, my uncle Roger, Mr. Loflin, and everyone else working at Ridgetop Prep in danger. If Terry decided to come after me, she wouldn’t let anything stand in her way. My big feet would never actually fit in those tiny red patent pumps of hers, but I tried to put myself in her shoes figuratively. If I were Terry Thorne, and I wanted to eliminate someone who was trying to implicate me in two deaths, how would I do it?

Terry was tiny, and while she’d thrown that jar of face cream with surprising force, it seemed doubtful she’d rely on her personal physical strength to bring me down. I was much taller and broader, and wouldn’t go down easy if she attempted to engage me in hand-to-hand combat or came at me with a sharp weapon. There was a good chance I could wrench it out of her grip or stop her with a kick in my steel-toed boots. As much as she’d likely take joy in killing me with her bare hands or cutting shears, she probably wouldn’t risk getting so close to me that I could defend myself or she could be caught. I was fairly certain she’d attempt to shoot me from a distance instead, maybe get me as I climbed out of my car in the Ridgetop parking lot in the morning or as I walked out to my car at the end of a workday. The best weapon for that particular task would be a long-range rifle.

With her criminal record, Terry couldn’t legally buy a gun. But I had a feeling that wouldn’t stop her. Did she already own such a weapon? She might. But if she didn’t, she’d try to get her hands on one, wouldn’t she?

I pulled over, grabbed my phone from my purse, and searched for the nearest car rental outfit. I got lucky. There was a location less than a mile away. I’d been Terry’s last appointment of the day, but, after I left she’d have to sweep up my hair trimmings, wash the color bowls and brushes, and clean up the towels and sink. Those tasks would buy me a little time. I hoped it would be enough.

I headed to the car rental, rented a black mid-sized sedan, and made a quick stop at the Dollar General next door for a ballcap, a black men’s T-shirt, an eyebrow pencil, and a pair of readers with a plastic frame. After pulling my still-damp hair back into a ponytail and putting on the hat and the tee to disguise myself, I punched the lenses out of the readers so they wouldn’t distort my vision. I put the frames on and tucked my ragged ponytail down the back of the T-shirt where it wouldn’t be visible. I put the eyebrow pencil to work around my mouth, drawing a goatee. When I was done, I took a quick look at myself in the vanity mirror. I wouldn’t win any costume contests with this getup, but at a reasonable distance I could pass for a man, especially at night when the light was dim.

I returned to the Main Stage Salon and drove past it, noting the lights were still on inside and Terry’s car was still in the lot. I took a spot at the curb a half block down, away from the streetlight, where I could watch the parking lot.

A few minutes later, the lights went off inside the salon and Terry emerged, turning back to lock the door behind her. She lifted her fob, and her convertible’s lights came on. She opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and backed away from the salon building, heading to the exit. I wasn’t sure which way she’d turn. I hoped she wouldn’t come my way. Even with this disguise, there was a chance she’d recognize me if my face was lit up bright in her headlights. I slouched in the seat, ready to duck over into the passenger side if needed to make the rental car appear unoccupied.

Fortunately, she turned in the other direction, away from me. I waited until she’d stopped at the corner, then turned right out of sight before starting my engine. I pulled up to the corner, waited for a Cadillac coupe to pass, then turned right. When the Cadillac hooked a left, I could see Terry waiting at a stop light ahead, so I eased off the gas, creeping along at a snail’s pace lest I end up directly behind her where she might identify me in her rearview mirror.

Thankfully, the light turned green before I’d closed the space. She took the entrance ramp for Interstate 40 east and continued for several miles, dutifully obeying the speed limit. I followed at a distance, moving into the adjacent lane when possible so she wouldn’t notice headlights consistently behind her. When she turned on her blinker to take an exit into downtown, I moved over into the exit lane and followed suit.

She continued down a side street that ran parallel to Broadway and turned into a pay-by-the-hour aboveground parking lot. She pulled into a spot at the back and shut off her engine. I pulled into a metered spot at the curb and cut my engine as well. I expected her to get out of her car and head over to Broadway for a drink at one of the bars, but she remained in her car. What is she doing? I couldn’t see well from this far away.

New York might be the city that never sleeps, but Nashville is the city that never stops singing. The air was filled with the sound of bands playing at the honky-tonks one block over. Though not nearly as bustling as the weekend crowds, a notable number of people milled about. I could blend in with them, couldn’t I?

I slipped out of the rental car and silenced my cell phone. I slid my phone into one back pocket, my wrench into the other. I tucked the key fob into my front pocket and scanned the area for a good hiding spot from which I could keep a close eye on the Miata. There. A dumpster behind a nearby restaurant was only fifty feet from her car and would provide excellent cover, especially since it was overflowing and surrounded by additional trash bags sitting on the ground and thus had an irregular silhouette.

I cut in behind a trio of tourists heading in the right direction, and walked close on their heels. Anyone looking our way would assume I was one of their group. As they passed the rear of the restaurant, I broke off, circling behind the dumpster. The garbage funk threatened to activate my gag reflex, but after a few seconds I adjusted to the odor. I peered out from behind the dumpster, waiting to see what Terry would do.

For fifteen minutes, nothing happened, other than a rat coming by to scavenge around the base of the garbage bin. I quietly jogged in place, hoping the movement would scare him away, but with a buffet of such delicious tidbits to savor he wasn’t easily deterred. He kept one dark, beady eye on me while chowing down on what appeared to be a truffle fry. I couldn’t blame him. I loved the things myself.

My patience was rewarded when a black car pulled into the lot and rolled slowly along until turning into the empty spot directly next to Terry’s Miata. It made no sense for someone to park there with so many empty spots closer to the street. But being closer to the street meant being closer to the streetlights, and the driver of this vehicle clearly didn’t want to be seen. When he stopped, the make and model of the car became apparent. It was a Dodge Avenger, a sporty mid-sized sedan. Though it was in good shape, the body style told me it was ten to twelve years old.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, opened the camera, and zoomed in on the license plate, snapping a quick pic. I snapped a second photo showing the two cars side by side.

As the driver climbed out of his car, Terry climbed out of hers. He was light-skinned and lanky, and like me he wore a ballcap that shaded his face, making it difficult to discern his features. But I could see the ends of a horseshoe-style mustache framing his mouth and ending at his chin. He met Terry at his trunk. My first thought was that this was a romantic rendezvous, but when he said, “I need to see two hundred in cash before we go any further,” I realized this was a business transaction.

Who is this guy? A hit man she plans to hire?

Terry pulled some cash from her purse, very likely the same bills I’d left in her magazine rack earlier to pay for her services. She counted out several bills and held them out to the guy. He snatched them from her hand, counted them to verify the amount, then folded them up and tucked them into the front pocket of his jeans. As he looked around to make sure the coast was clear, I pulled my head back behind the dark dumpster, out of sight.

When I heard the unmistakable pop of a trunk release, I dared to peek around the dumpster again. His trunk was dark. He must have turned off the trunk light. But it didn’t stay dark for long. He activated the flashlight app on his phone and shined it inside. I couldn’t see much from my vantage point, so I stepped up onto a wooden pallet leaning up against the back of the building, between the dumpster and the back wall of the restaurant, using it as a ladder of sorts. I had to descend only two cross boards before I could get a good view into the trunk.

I saw guns, guns, and more guns. An array of firearms was situated inside, lying in an organized display with the smaller handguns up near the backside of the rear seat, long guns closer to the bumper. She’s buying a gun. This was the illegal gun market Collin had told me about.

I snapped a photo of the two of them looking down into the trunk at the weapons, another as Terry picked up a small rifle outfitted with a scope. Perfect for shooting a nosy carpenter at a hundred yards or more. Gulp!

I texted the pics to Collin along with a text that read Terry Thorne is buying a gun! I shared my location, letting him know I was safely hidden behind a garbage dumpster.

Fortunately, Collin read the text right away. A response came back in under a minute. MNPD en route. Stay where you are. Let them come to you.

Terry Thorne seemed to be quite particular about her guns. She hoisted several of them into her arms, testing their weight, before deciding which one to purchase. “I’ll take this one.”

“I’m gonna need another three hundred,” the seller said. “Plus another two-fifty if you want ammo.”

“Of course I want ammo!” she snapped. “What good is a gun without bullets?”

As she counted out more bills, he held the gun vertically a few inches in front of his chest, barrel pointed down at the asphalt. The position was probably equally for safety and the fact that the rifle wouldn’t be visible to anyone entering the parking lot behind him.

I kept my ears peeled for sirens, but heard none. Will the police get here in time?

The two exchanged the cash and the gun. Terry opened the driver’s door of her car, leaned in, and slid the rifle onto the floorboard of the passenger seat. She stood back up and took a box of ammunition from the gunrunner. Their transaction completed, they both climbed into their cars. Their headlights and taillights illuminated in unison. Both began to back out at the same time. Terry must have assumed the guy would defer to her, and he either assumed the same or simply didn’t see her Miata reversing. His car was probably too old to have a rear camera or blind spot monitoring. He cut his wheel and with a loud crunch, their rear fenders collided. The impact caused his trunk lid to bend upward, creating a gap between the lid and the car frame.

I put a hand over my mouth as I fought a laugh. It sure is nice when karma does her job.

The two jumped out of their cars, each spitting curses at the other.

Terry put her hands on her hips. “I expect you to fix my fender!”

“You’re crazy,” he said, adding the B-word. “I was backing up first. You ran into me!”

With the two squaring off, they failed to notice the two patrol cars turning into the parking lot, at least until one turned a spotlight on them. Both of them froze, proverbial deer in headlights.

“Hands in the air!” came a male officer’s voice over the cruiser’s public address system.

The gun dealer moved as if to raise his hands, then turned and bolted, heading for Broadway, probably hoping to disappear among the small throng of midweek tourists. His hopes were dashed after another lock was popped, this one the lock to the kennel for the K9 in the back of one of the cruisers. The dog launched from the cage like a furry, fanged missile. He sprinted after the guy and leapt gracefully into the air, taking the gun dealer down before he’d gotten more than twelve steps in. The dog took the guy’s calf in his mouth and bit down hard. The gunrunner yelped and cursed and kicked his leg, trying to dislodge the dog, to no avail. “He’s biting me! He’s biting me! Get him off!”

The K9 handler ran over to tend to the suspect on the ground, while the other officer climbed out of his car to deal with Terry.

Her hands were up, but only to her shoulders.

“Get those hands higher!” the officer hollered, drawing on her.

“Why?” Terry teased. “You afraid of a little thing like me?” She raised her hands higher, but only to put her thumbs in her ears and waggle her fingers like a kindergartener might do.

The officer wasn’t afraid at all. He shoved his gun back into his holster and stormed her, grabbing her like a rag doll, lifting her up and spinning her around, pinning her up against the damaged Dodge. Still hidden behind the dumpster, I pumped silent fists. The officer yanked Terry’s wrists behind her back and cuffed her.

She turned her head to eye him over her shoulder. “Kinky, are you?”

She didn’t know when to stop, did she? She was the same malicious girl she’d always been, only now in a sexagenarian’s body. She should know better by now.

The K9 handler led the gun dealer over to the other officer’s cruiser, and wrangled him into the back seat. The officer who’d cuffed Terry did the same, putting her in on the other side. Immediately, the two began to argue about their cars again. I could hear it through the open door of the cruiser. With her hands cuffed, at least Terry couldn’t punch or slap at the guy. She was crafty enough to realize she had another option, one befitting the B-word he’d called her. She leaned over and sank her teeth into his shoulder.

He writhed, trying to force her to let go. “She’s biting me! She’s biting me! Get her off!”

As many bites as had been taken out of the guy tonight, he must feel like a rare steak.

The officer ran to Terry’s door, yanked it back open, and tried to pull her off her seatmate. “Let go! Now!”

She didn’t.

He was forced to grab her by the hair and pull her head back, much as she’d done to me earlier. That only made her turn her teeth on him. She snapped at his wrist like a rabid dog.

While his K9 sat by obediently, the handler pulled the gun dealer from the back seat to safety. He slammed the door and put the guy up against it while he called for backup to transport him. “He’ll need to be taken to a clinic first for a bite wound.”

An officer’s voice responded over the radio. “Your dog got him?”

“Yeah,” said the K9 handler, “but my dog didn’t break his skin. The bite wound came from another suspect.”

“No kidding? Don’t that beat all.” A chuckle came over the airwaves. “I’m on my way.”

While the K9 handler and his dog kept watch over the gun dealer and Terry fumed and frothed in the back seat, the other officer searched Terry’s Miata, retrieving the rifle and ammunition. He tagged them and put them into the trunk of his patrol car. He proceeded to frisk the gun dealer, felt his fob in his front pocket, and pulled it out, along with the wad of cash Terry had paid for the rifle and ammo. The cop put the cash in an evidence bag, then used the fob to unlock the Avenger. After searching the interior of the car, he pushed the trunk release and shined his flashlight into the bay. “Woo-hoo!” he cried. “We’re going to earn a commendation for this bust for sure.”

Keeping one hand on the back of the suspect leaning against the cruiser, the K9 handler reached down and ruffled his dog’s ears. “Hear that, boy? You’re going to be rolling in dog treats.”

A couple of minutes later, a third cruiser pulled into the lot. The gun dealer was loaded into it, and the two patrol cars containing the suspects eased out of the lot.

The K9 handler looked in my direction and motioned with his hand. “Whitney Flynn! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Glad to finally get out from behind the stinky dumpster, I quickly wiped the penciled beard off my face with the hem of my T-shirt, and then strode over to the officer. His dog sniffed the legs of my jeans, probably scenting Sawdust, Galileo, and Copernicus on them. Or maybe it was the garbage. The odor had permeated my clothing and hair. I’d have to take a shower, shampoo my hair, and do a load of laundry when I got home.

We introduced ourselves. By then, Collin was pulling into the lot in his civilian car. He’d arrived home in time for dinner, which was a rare treat, only to learn that I’d been out doing unofficial detective work on my own.

His nose quirked. “You don’t smell so good.”

I pointed to the K9. “He happens to think I smell wonderful.”

The dog wagged his tail in agreement.

Officer Yardley gave Collin a rundown. Once he’d heard the officer’s story, Collin turned to me. “How did you know she was coming to buy a gun?”

“I might have accidentally antagonized Terry Thorne so much that she wanted to kill me.” I raised my shoulders and gave him a sheepish grin.

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in spikes. Now we’re both having a bad hair day. “She’ll be lucky if she gets bail. Between her two felony convictions and the restraining order her current husband has filed against her, she’s in some pretty deep doo-doo.”

“Speaking of doo-doo…” I pointed to the K9, who was currently dropping a load in the parking lot.

Officer Yardley whipped a bag from his pocket to collect the droppings. “Good job, boy!”

The dog wagged his tail once more. Clearly, he loved his job.

Yardley gave his dog a command, and the dog heeled by his side. Raising a hand, the handler called, “Thanks for the tip!” The two loaded into their cruiser and pulled out of the lot, leaving just me and my husband.

Collin looked around. “Where’s your car?”

I pointed to the rental parked across the street. “I’m driving that car, at the moment.”

He issued a soft sigh. “You can give me the details when we get home.” Collin leaned a little one way, then the other, eyeing my head. “Did you get a haircut?”

I’d gotten half a haircut, but I didn’t want to explain how the cut had been interrupted—with Terry holding her sharp scissors to my throat. That was a detail better left out. So, I just said, “Yes.”

“It looks”—he searched for the appropriate word—“chic.”

It looked terrible, lopsided. But I appreciated his attempt to make me feel good. “Thanks.” I’d call my regular stylist tomorrow and see if she could squeeze me in soon to fix the mess Terry had made of my hair. She might not appreciate that I’d let another hairdresser have a go at me, but she’d enjoy hearing the story of how my attempt to wheedle information out of Terry had led to the arrest of both the hairdresser and a gunrunner.

Collin walked me to the rental and held out a hand to help me in. “I’ll have a glass of wine poured for you when you get home.”

“Thanks.” Tonight, I definitely needed it.