The shouting unexpectedly halted. They slowly paraded out of the room with alabaster faces.
The shaken mob thought it couldn’t get any worse than the horrific scene they had just discovered. Until one of them saw something on a table in the front room. “What’s this?”
“What is it?” asked Silicon Valley Sally.
Wasted in Margaritaville held it up. “It’s a DEA badge.”
“But how is that possible?” said Lucy. “Unless . . .”
“The addresses got mixed up,” said Mets Jersey.
“It’s not the impostor,” said Shitless in Seattle. “It’s the real Rick Maddox.”
“You!” The Pirates fan pointed at Serge and took a step back. “You killed him! You killed a real federal agent!”
“Now wait just a second,” said Serge.
The gang looked around at one another. Nods and murmurs.
“Everyone needs to take it easy,” said Serge. “I going to make myself a drink of rainwater, and the rest of you help yourself to whatever you like.”
Panic only increased. They screamed more accusations as they backed up en masse toward the front door.
Coleman returned from the backyard with a big smile and a sawed-off. “I got it!”
A chandelier fell.
The witnesses all raced out of the house and down the steps for their cars.
Chapter Thirty-Three
BISCAYNE BOULEVARD
The number and condition of the budget motels along U.S. Highway 1 meant there would always be vacancy.
A black Firebird was parked in front of the one called the Coral Arms.
There were only two beds in room 17. So Serge assigned them to Coleman and Brook Campanella, while he slept on the floor.
The clock radio reached three A.M., and Brook still hadn’t been able to nod off. Adrenaline from all the trauma. She just clutched the pillow and stared over the side of the bed at Serge, sleeping like a newborn with his own makeshift pillow of balled-up clothes.
Brook thought she had chosen the lesser evil by agreeing to leave with him. The only other options were to hang out at a murder scene with her fingerprints or drive herself back to the condo and wait for the cops to slap the cuffs. And those weren’t options. So she got in the Firebird.
Brook was no babe in the woods. These guys were dangerous. Well, maybe Coleman was only a danger to himself, but definitely Serge. She totally expected to have to make a break for it at some point. Her mind reeled in terror of rape, or worse.
But there hadn’t been any opportunity to get away. The Trans Am was a two-door, so there was no chance of escaping at a red light. And Serge didn’t make any stops on the way to the motel.
Police cars were always going by on the boulevard. Brook could take off running in the parking lot and flag one of them down. And then say what? Okay, maybe try a cab or a Good Samaritan. But then she was suddenly at the point where they were at the motel. Decision time. Serge was already out of the car telling her to follow them into the room. Brook didn’t know why she allowed herself to do it, but she went inside.
The first few minutes were the twin terrors of murder-scene memories and now being cornered in the room with Serge and Coleman.
It was an utter surprise when Serge made the bed assignments. It had to be a trick. She’d get all snug in bed, and then . . . She blocked off those thoughts.
But instead of taking advantage of her, Serge just grabbed some T-shirts from a duffel bag and slipped them under his head on the floor.
There was something about him, especially asleep. Some qualities like her father and brother had. She found herself unable to stop watching him curled in the corner.
He turned over in his sleep. Then Brook heard some mumbling. Couldn’t make it out, even though it was steadily getting louder. He began rolling back and forth on the floor, slamming into the wall, over and over. Until finally:
Brook sprang from bed and shook him. “Serge, wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”
She shook harder. “Wake up!”
Serge came around with slowly blinking eyes. “Felicia?”
“No, I’m Brook. Who’s Felicia?”
“It’s not important.” Serge bunched up the clothes and wiggled his head into a comfy position. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” She took him by the hand. “There’s plenty of room in the bed. And you need a good night’s sleep, so forget the floor.”
Serge climbed into the sheets, staying as close to the opposite edge of the mattress from Brook as possible without falling off the side. Brook lay there watching him. Serge was on his back, staring wide-awake at the ceiling.
“Serge, who’s Felicia?”
“Just somebody.”
“Tell me. You were having a really bad nightmare.”
Serge shook his head.
“I want you to tell me.”
