He was still wearing the stinking Braves cap and sunglasses found in the Mustang. He hoped, coupled with the rain, he was adequately disguised from the curious view of any passing motorists, one of whom might work for De Florio. He’d destroyed his cell phone and left it in a dumpster forty miles behind him.
He snaked around the lake’s east shore, passing the county boat ramp and two of the larger fish camps. He turned north at the intersection of Thrasher Point Drive and County Road 36, the north shore being the most sparsely populated section of the lake. The terrain was steep and rocky. Whole quarries had been excavated during the lake’s construction. Few houses existed. Thewood-sided, hip-roofed cottage he sought was nestled away from the road among tall pines, encased in heavy underbrush, nearly invisible. A pine straw and gravel drive twisted to it, the dingy white Toyota pickup parked in front. Wet gravel crunched beneath the tires as the Mustang crept to a stop.
Moisture pelted the windshield.
He quickly scampered out and banged on the front door, which Hank opened.
“It’s about time. I was getting worried,” Hank said. “You changed clothes.”
He stepped inside and shook the water off onto the hardwood floor. “The rain slowed me and I tried to eat something. I also got rid of all that stuff.”
“To a safe place, I hope.”
“The safest. Even if we don’t survive, it will.”
“I don’t like thatifstuff.”
“Neither do I, Hank, but we have to face reality. These guys are pros. Even if we go to the police right now, there’s no guarantee they won’t still get us. They’ve been killing people a long time, and have gotten pretty damn good at it.”
A long blue vinyl sofa faced the rear wall. He plopped down onto the soft cushions. Through sliding glass doors, past a wooden deck, was a panoramic view of Eagle Lake, its south shore barely visible, thick woods to the west and east since the house sat in the elbow of a cove. The rain pounded the lake at a billion entry points. Lightning flashed in the distance. Thunder clamored overhead.
“Pretty place,” he said, looking around the inside. “What about the owner?”
“On vacation.”
“How’d you get in?”
“I know where he keeps the key.”
Okay. He liked it. “The privacy should give us time to think.”
FRANKBARNARD WAS WAITING IN HIS MOTEL ROOM LISTENING TOthe rain when the call came from De Florio. Immediately after receiving instructions he drove straight to Eagle Lake.
Southern Republic owned a large house perched on the east shore. It was actually an extension of Hickory Row, maintained and controlled by the same personnel who oversaw all the Row’s operations. The house and grounds were outfitted especially for fishing, waterskiing, and parties. Part of the accommodations included a concrete dock that harbored a pair of V-hulled outboards.
His instructions were clear. Take one of the boats and approach as close as possible to the house owned by Leon Peacock. From a map he’d already learned its location in the elbow of a cove. But by the time he arrived at the dock rain was falling in sheets, the lake pitching like the agitating cycle of a washing machine. So he vetoed a water approach and decided to head for the shore about a quarter mile from the target, on the far side of the inlet. From there, he could safely hike through the woods and observe from across the water, using the trees and underbrush for cover.
The twin engines on the eighteen-footer cranked instantly. Warm rain pounded him and, aided by his speed, pricked his face like needles. He wore camouflage coveralls, a dark-green slicker, a cap, gloves, and boots. By the time he found the inlet and beached the boat every stitch of him was soaked.
The shore was unpopulated, a steep rocky incline littered with wet palmettos, thorny vines, and ankle-deep mud. He trudged up, breasting the top of a craggy hill and cautiously peering through the trees. The house sat across on the side of the cove, on an incline, the front invisible. He assumed Victor Jacks was now nearby too. Seeking shelter under one of the bushy pines, he dialed Jacks’ number on his cell phone.
“Bluebird?”
“I’m here,” Jacks said.
“Anything?”
“A pickup truck and car were there ten minutes ago.”
“You in position?”
“I am.”
“Stay there.”
He ended the call and replaced the phone in his pocket.
He checked his watch. 4:25P.M.