“Nonsense,” Trader had retorted. “We have always been on good terms, and in fact, he considers me his closest friend.”
“Maybe he won’t if Regina’s blood work turns out in an unfortunate way for you, Trader,” Andy had replied. “I understand from the news she was rushed to the E.R. a little while ago with a severe gastrointestinal attack that you and I both know was precipitated by cookies you were witnessed to bring into the mansion kitchen and set down on a countertop. You were overheard to say that the cookies were for the governor only, but Regina got into them anyway when no one was looking.”
“No one’s ever gotten ill from my wife’s cookies,” Trader had said.
“When she get back?” the unidentified person with a heavy Spanish accent was asking over the line.
“I’m not sure, but is there something I can help you with?” Andy tried to get this evasive, suspicious-sounding caller to talk.
“It’s just I’m concern, you know? They say this Hi’panic kill someone at the river, and I didn’t kill no one and the po-lice, they be looking for me.” Cruz was out with it as he huddled in the phone booth and noticed a black Land Cruiser parking at the gas pumps.
“What makes you think the police are looking for you?” the man on the line asked.
“Because they stop me at the tollbooth and chase me for no reason. I had to hide and afraid for my life! The toll lady give me her number and say she help me.”
Andy strained to figure out why Hooter would have given out his home phone number to a possible fugitive, and then he recalled working the Bag Man case last year.
“Maybe we should meet and discuss this,” Andy suggested as he absently clicked the mouse and changed a word in the essay he would post momentarily. “There’s no point in running from the police, even if you’re innocent, because all you’re going to do is create more legal problems for yourself. Why don’t I meet you in a secure, safe place and we’ll talk about it? I have connections and may be able to help you out.”
Cruz was tempted and possibly would have done the smart thing and met whoever he was talking to, but an unforeseen event began to unfold right before his very eyes. Through the expansive plate glass of the 7-Eleven, he saw a white woman walk into the convenience store and appear to be asking the clerk for help. Then a white man with dreadlocks staggered in looking stoned, and whipped a pistol out from the inside of his coat and pointed it at the clerk, who was away from the counter and the emergency button that all convenience stores have these days. Cruz couldn’t hear what the white man was saying, but he looked very mean and violent as he mouthed abusive words at the terrified clerk in her orange-checked 7-Eleven jacket. She began to cry and beg as the white man cleaned out the cash drawer. Then, to Cruz’s horror, the woman with long black hair calmly took the dude’s gun, put it right against the clerk’s head, and fired repeatedly. The explosions shook the phone booth and Cruz yelped.
“What was that?” Andy asked, startled by what sounded like gunfire.
“Ahhh! This white dude with dreadlocks! They just shot the clerk!” the Hispanic yelled over the line and hung up.
Smoke? Andy wondered as he recalled the description of Smoke that the prison guard, Pinn, had given after Smoke had escaped. According to Andy’s caller ID, the Hispanic had called from a 7-Eleven off Hull Street, south of the river, and Andy called 911 while Cruz jumped into his car and sped off.
Cruz was horrified not a minute later to notice that the black Land Cruiser was right on his rear bumper. He had learned to drive in New York City and swung into several alleyways, gunned through a side street, then another, and roared across a median and threaded his car precariously through others until he ended up on Three Chopt Road in the parking lot of what looked like a huge mansion with tennis courts.