The Grim Reaper's Dance grm-2 Read online

  Casey pressed the side of her face into the weave of the seat. L’Ankou. Please. Take me away.

  “Not now, dearheart. It’s not your time.” Death ran cold fingers through her hair.

  “Now,” Yonkers said. “Miss…Jones, was it? I suppose that’s as good a name as any at this point. Miss Jones, I understand you were in the truck with our unfortunate friend Evan a few days ago.”

  Casey breathed around the gag in her mouth. Evan? Who was Evan again?

  “The trucker,” Death whispered. “Evan Tague.”

  Right.

  “Dix,” Yonkers said. “Take that thing off her face.”

  Dixon untied the knot on the gag, yanking out some of her hair in the process, and unwound the fabric from her face. She stretched her mouth open and shut, easing the pain.

  “How was it you were in Evan’s truck, Miss Jones? Had you planned to meet somewhere?” He waited, and when she didn’t answer asked, “Just how deep were you into this with him?”

  She swallowed, her mouth dry from breathing through it, and tried to speak. Her voice wouldn’t come.

  “A drink, Mifflin. Do I have to tell you everything?”

  Mifflin left the room and came back with a glass of water, probably straight from the hose. He poured it on her face, some of it actually making it into her mouth. She tried again. “Hitched. Ride.”

  “Oh, I see. You hitched a ride. From where?”

  Where had she been? She thought she shouldn’t tell him. Somehow it didn’t seem… “O…hio.”

  “Ah, yes, Ohio. Lovely state. We do lots of business with people in Ohio. And you just happened to be traipsing along in Ohio when Evan drove up with his wealth of stolen information, is that right?”

  Was she supposed to answer?

  “Answer him.” Dixon kicked the chair, jarring her so that she could hardly catch her breath from the pain shooting through her ribs.

  “Dix, give her some time. She can’t think straight, since you guys got so carried away. There, has she fainted now?” Casey’s eyes opened to slits, and she saw Yonkers sitting behind a desk, his hands folded on top. A large window, blinds down, framed him as he watched her. “Oh, you’re awake. Good.” He came around to the front of the desk, pulling an upright lawn chair a few feet from her. He sat and leaned over, his face inches from hers. “When did you and Evan join forces?”

  What day of the week had it been? How long ago? “S-Sun…day.”

  “Ah, Sunday. Just hours before his little accident. Such a shame. A shame things worked out the way they did—for both of you. You know, we really didn’t want Evan to die.” He tilted his head, looking into her eyes. Was that sorrow she saw there?

  She blinked as he went fuzzy around the edges.

  “Miss Jones?” He patted her cheek roughly. “Miss Jones?” He sat up, sighing loudly. “Well, congratulations, guys, you’ve done her in so hard she’s no good to us at all.”

  “Can we get rid of her, then?” Mifflin sounded all too eager.

  Casey strained to keep her eyes open—she wasn’t about to let him kill her with her eyes closed.

  “No you can’t get rid of her, you idiot. We need her. We need what she has. And unless you know where it is…”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Casey’s eyes drifted shut as she held on to the understanding that Mifflin wouldn’t be killing her just that moment.

  “The kids,” Dixon said. “The teenagers.”

  Casey kept her eyes shut, but her heart beat faster.

  “What about them?” Casey heard Yonkers get up and move behind his desk.

  “Don’t you think they know where it is?”

  “The Cross kid told us to look at the shed. We did. It wasn’t there.”

  “But—”

  “He thought you were a cop, Dix, remember? He would have told you. Look, haven’t we been over this?”

  A phone rang, and Dixon answered. After a brief conversation his phone slapped shut. “He’s here.”

  “Good. Let’s get him in and out. No reason to keep him while we’ve got other…complications.”

  “You got it. This is Sandy Greene, though. He was pretty pissed she called him. He probably wouldn’t mind getting a few punches in.”

  He and Mifflin both laughed, and shuffled toward the door. Casey listened as hard as she could when they’d gone. Only one person breathing.

  “Yonkers,” Death whispered. “He’s the only one left. Can you move?”

  She certainly couldn’t take Yonkers out, if that’s what Death was wondering. Yonkers had been right to tell his men not to worry.

  “Just try to do something,” Death said. “Move a finger. A toe. He’s not watching.”

  She managed to move both. When she’d done that, she concentrated on her hand. Her left wrist seemed to be the one part of her that didn’t hurt.

  “Well, that’s a plus,” Death said. “How about an ankle?”

  The left one seemed okay. In fact, from what she could tell she didn’t have any broken bones except for maybe some ribs. She’d had broken ribs before, and what she was feeling was very familiar. There was no telling what kind of internal bleeding she was suffering—she vaguely remembered getting hit numerous times in her abdomen.

  “Yonk?” Westing’s voice jerked Casey back into the room, and she held as still as she could. “Want to see this? Sandy got some extras, and I’m not sure what you want done with them.”

  Yonkers growled. “How many times do I have to tell these guys? No extras—just what’s on the paperwork.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s a reason these people can’t drive legit anymore. Too stupid.”

  Yonkers’ footsteps followed Westing’s, and the door slammed shut. Casey’s impulse was to relax, but she knew this could be her only chance to get free. Or, if not free, to at least arm herself. Biting her lip, she eased into a sitting position, sliding her legs off the chair, her feet on the floor. Her vision swam.

  “Steady,” Death said. “I can’t catch you, you know.”

  Casey took as deep a breath as she could and looked at the top of Yonkers’ desk. Papers. A clock. Picture frames. Not much within reach. She stretched as far as she could and snagged a pencil. Not newly sharpened, but when you were thrusting lead into someone, it didn’t need to be.

  “Coming back!” Death hissed.

  Footsteps and angry voices were heading their way.

  Casey slid the pencil up her shirt and lay back on the chair just as the door opened.

  “But they were just sitting there!” a man said. “A whole pallet of Wiis. Don’t tell me you can’t unload those.”

  “Of course I can,” Yonkers said. “And I can come up with paperwork for them, too. But what if you would have been stopped? What if someone had found those in your load? You don’t have the authorization for them.”

  “I hid them way in the front, no one would’ve checked in— Hey, who’s that?”

  Casey knew he was talking about her. She held down her fear. Dixon had wanted to let Greene have a crack at her. Would Yonkers allow it? She thought about the pencil hidden in her shirt and wondered how much damage she could do with it before the rest of the guys stopped her.

  “That,” Yonkers said, “is someone who crossed me.”

  The statement hung in the air.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Greene finally said. “It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

  “And your word is so good. Get out of here. And keep your hands off things that aren’t on the orders.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Go.”

  Footsteps shuffled, and left.

  “Tell me why we hired him, again?” Yonkers, sounding irritated.

  “Friend of Dix’s,” Westing said. “Got into trouble for hitting his wife and needed to go underground. Wasn’t a driver, but Dix said the man could learn, and he’s been doing okay.”

  �
��Until tonight. If he does it again we’ll have to cut him loose.”

  “I’ll warn him.”

  Westing left, and Casey allowed her eyes to open a crack. Yonkers sat behind his desk, shaking his head. All this time she’d been thinking of him as some mysterious, evil man behind a vast trucking conspiracy. Looking at him now, in his suit, surrounded by greenery, it was hard to think of him as being behind anything more evil than killing plants. It was his buddies she had to worry about. They were the loose cannons.

  Yonkers closed his eyes and clenched a pen in his hand for several moments before standing suddenly and walking around the desk. Casey closed her eyes and concentrated on being limp.

  Yonkers sat in the other lawn chair—Casey could hear it creak—and she felt his breath as he leaned toward her. He grabbed her face in his hand and turned it this way and that before tossing it back toward the chair. “Westing!”

  Casey hoped he didn’t see her jump.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m going home. She’ll probably wake up in a while. If she does, find out what she knows…without killing her. We don’t need any more bodies.”

  “Sure thing. What if she dies anyway?”

  Yonkers paused. “You were supposed to keep Dix from—I told you I needed her alive. Preferably able to talk.”

  “You know how Dix gets. He was always that way, even in high school.”

  “I know. But this time…we can’t do this kind of thing. It’s going to get out. Talk to him, will you?”

  “Okay, Yonk.”

  “And if something happens…I don’t know. Cover her with mulch and we’ll figure something out.”

  Yonkers left, but Casey could feel Westing still with her in the room. He came close, and she concentrated on relaxing, as if she were unconscious.

  He poked her with the toe of his shoe. “I don’t know who you are, lady, but I’m telling you–you give us what we want, or you’ll be sorry. So will those precious kids you found. Dix and Mifflin get a little crazy when they get mad. And when they want their money.” He gave her another little shove with his foot, then left the room, closing the door solidly behind him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  After Sandy Greene’s truck drove away, it was quiet. Too quiet. Where had all of the men gone? Casey couldn’t imagine they’d left. In fact, Yonkers had told Westing to stay. Casey yearned for some more water, but Mifflin hadn’t left any extra. She worked her mouth, trying to summon up a little saliva, but there was nothing.

  What had she been in the process of doing?

  Escaping. Right. She looked around the room. There was no way she was leaving through the door. Even as quiet as they were, she knew the men had to be just outside, waiting for her.

  It would have to be the window. She took a deep breath, biting her lips together so she wouldn’t cry out, and once again eased herself into a sitting position. She looked around. Death had deserted her. She was completely alone. Gripping the side of the chair, she gradually placed her weight on her feet and pushed herself up from the chair. Her head filled with white noise and she fell forward against the desk, knocking several pens to the floor. She perched there, waiting for running footsteps. No one came.

  Once her head cleared she could feel every injury her body had suffered. Her ribs ached with a vengeance, and her head felt as if it were being squashed between two rocks, but at least her joints were moving, and she was starting to get used to the taste of the blood in her mouth from where Dixon has smashed her face against the bricks. Keeping her hands on the desk for support she worked her way around it, toward the window. By the time she reached the other side, she was exhausted, and leaned heavily on the desk. The white noise was coming again.

  She eased down into Yonkers’ chair and let her eyes roam across the room. There was nothing much of interest. The wall was filled with photos of Yonkers with celebrities and their purchases—some of the same pictures she’d seen on the Internet. A few plants sat around in the corners, and draped over the tops of file cabinets. The desk had photos, too, and she studied them blankly. His daughter Tara’s senior picture. His son’s graduation. A football team. She laid her head on her arms, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When it did, she raised her head. A football team?

  She picked up the picture and looked at it more closely. It was the same photo she’d seen on Pat Parnell’s counter, in a place of honor, along with the shots of his kids. As her eyes focused on the individuals, something connected in her foggy brain. There was Yonkers, in the middle, holding the football. Surrounding him were other familiar faces: Westing, Dixon, Parnell. All of the men she’d dealt with during the past week. She laughed to herself. Evan had given her the clue long ago, when he’d referred to this group as The Team. This was no masterminded gang. No global conspiracy. This was a high school football squad gone bad. And Yonkers was the quarterback.

  She looked down at the papers she’d been resting her head on. Smears of her own blood covered up what was printed there—numbers and words. What exactly did they say? She squinted, trying to make them clear. When she succeeded, she saw these were unpaid orders for plants and flowers—seemingly legitimate invoices for Exotic Blooms. No other papers were on the desk, but there were several drawers, two of them large enough for file folders. She pulled one drawer out, the effort causing sweat to pop out on her scalp. There was nothing but information about Exotic Blooms. Shipment after shipment of plants, flowers, seeds, bulbs, trees…all of which would have to pass rigorous tests before being transported from another country, or even across state lines. The Department of Agriculture wasn’t about to let foreign flora bring disease which could wipe out the region’s own crops or plants. So these loads would have to be Class A’s legitimate shipments. The paperwork the authorities would actually see.

  Casey pushed a key on the computer keyboard, and the monitor came to life. You’d think with all Yonkers had to hide he’d be a little more careful. She blinked hard, trying to stop the dizziness. Her vision cleared and she looked at the screen, clicking on all the different folders. Again, all about Exotic Blooms, but this time everything she saw pointed to one thing: Exotic Blooms was going under. All of those celebrity customers? Gone. All she could find for the past year and a half were piddley orders from locals. She found a couple invoices dealing with importing a few exotic palm trees to south Florida, but the star athletes, the TV personalities, the politicians—all had apparently decided that expensive flowers were something they could do without. Or should at least be seen to be doing without.

  Yonkers had just about lost his shirt.

  So was that what the trucking thing was all about? Had he slapped together this slate of bad drivers and aging football players to make a few extra bucks and save his business? That’s not what she’d heard the night before. Owen Dixon, at least, was expecting a huge payoff sometime soon. It looked like he was going to receive a huge disappointment, instead. Casey wondered how hotheaded Dix would deal with that.

  There was nothing on the computer about Class A trucking. No truckers, or false IDs, or fake manifests. So if the information wasn’t there tying Willie Yonkers and his buddies to the death of Evan Tague, where would it be? What had Yonkers’ daughter said? Tara? He hardly ever leaves home, can you believe it? Spends all day locked away in his precious office, eating popcorn and watching porn for all I know. It’s not like he ever lets me in there.

  So that’s where the information would be, if it existed. And no one would ever find it if Casey died in this smelly greenhouse. No one would find her stash underneath that rock out in the grove of trees. No one would believe Evan Tague died because he trusted the wrong man. And no one would know they had to protect the little band of teenagers who had offered her shelter.

  Casey had already spent too long sitting at the desk. Westing would be coming to check on her any minute. At least he had orders not to kill her—not that it would stop Dixon or Mifflin, if he left her alone with them.

  Spinning the
chair toward the window, Casey reached the string at the end of the blinds and pulled. When it was all the way up, she grabbed the windowsill, pulled herself up, and almost fell down when she looked out the window.

  Someone else was looking in.

  It was a familiar face—black and white, pale skin with dark hair. Bailey? The girl’s eyes went wide, and she jerked back, falling against Johnny, who stood behind her. He set her aside and placed his hands on the window, pushing upward. It didn’t budge.

  He was mouthing something to Casey. She wavered where she stood and tried to read his lips. What was he saying? He was pointing at the middle of the window and gesturing with his hand. Up? Under?

  And then there was another face, but it didn’t belong. Older. Grayer. Concerned. He was saying something, too. The same thing. Above? Allowed?

  Unlock. They wanted her to unlock something. The window. Casey found the metal clasp in the center of the pane and twisted it. Johnny was doing something outside. Taking something off. A screen. And then Davey Wainwright—how could it be that he was there with the kids?—was pushing the large window to the side, reaching in, grabbing her.

  Casey groaned, and Davey froze. She listened. Was someone coming?

  “Mr. Wainwright, we have to get her out.” Johnny again, whispering.

  Then they were lifting her out, holding her under the arms, easing their hands under her legs. There were more of them, not just Bailey and Johnny and Davey, but others, looking down at her, eyes wide, and scared.

  “Come on, over here, this way. Somebody put that screen back. Close the window.” Who was that? Someone else talking quietly, so quietly Casey almost couldn’t hear it.

  Around the old wooden trailer they carried her, lit only by the lights from the front parking lot. Faces anxious, jaws clenched as they hurried next door, through the loading dock for the big box store, toward Old Navy, to a covered pickup truck, onto the bed, under a cap, where blankets lined the floor, and people lined the sides of the truck.