24 Hours

When the phone rang in the suite at the Beau Rivage, Will pounced on it. Now that he’d given Ferris the go-ahead to call the FBI, he wanted to hear the man report that a fleet of helicopters was combing the forest around Hazlehurst, flying at treetop level over every road and path, not a dog or a cow moving unseen. He jerked up the receiver, aware that his sleep-deprived brain was slowly but surely slipping off its tracks.

“Will Jennings.”

“What are you doing answering the phone?” Hickey asked. “You expecting a call?”

“No,” he stammered. “I’m just ready to move. Ready to get your money and get Abby back.”

“That’s good, Doc. Because it’s time to leave for the bank.”

“I’m ready.”

“You sound sleepy. Cheryl’s got some pep pills if you need them. I don’t want you messing up because you can’t think straight.”

“I’m not going to mess up. But I need to talk to my daughter, Joe. I’m not going to the bank until I do.”

“Is that right? Huh. Maybe you should talk to your wife a minute. We just had a little social call at your house.”

Sweat beaded on Will’s forehead. “Karen?”

“I’m here,” she said.

“Are you all right?”

“Will, he just shot Stephanie Morgan.”

Will blinked, certain that he’d misheard. “Did you say-”

“You heard her right,” Hickey cut in. “She’s busy driving now. But if I hear any more bullshit about what you will and won’t do, the Lexus queen won’t be the only one who dies this morning. You follow?”

“Yes.”

“Now, what about this helicopter?”

Acid flooded Will’s stomach. “Helicopter?”

“You been talking to the FBI?”

Harley Ferris couldn’t possibly have gotten an FBI helicopter into the air and over Hazlehurst so quickly. It had to be coincidence. “Joe, I’m doing exactly what you tell me. Nothing else.”

“Let me talk to Cheryl.”

Cheryl was sitting on the sofa with her purse at her feet. She had gone downstairs to Impulse, a clothing store in the casino lobby that operated twenty-four hours a day, and bought a white lycra sheath to replace the torn cocktail dress. She took the phone from Will and began her litany of one-word replies.

“Yeah…No…Right…No, he’s cool…We’ll be there. No problem.” She handed the phone back to Will. “It’s showtime.”

“Thank you, Cheryl.” He hung up the phone. “I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

She stood and slung her purse over her shoulder. “You just remember you said that.”

The Klein Davidson Building was an elegant stone edifice in the affluent business section of north Jackson. It looked more like a town house than an office, but Karen knew its interior thrummed with computers churning out market quotes from around the world. There were four satellite dishes mounted on the flat roof in back, but Gray Davidson had hired an architect to construct a mansard roof to conceal them. Karen pulled the Expedition into the parking lot and parked two spaces over from Davidson’s Mercedes 560.

“You only want to be thinking about one thing in there,” Hickey said. “Your kid.”

As Karen reached for the door handle, an older woman parked beside them, got out, gave her a little wave, and walked into the office.

“Gray’s receptionist,” she said.

“Go on,” Hickey told her, uncovering the gun in his lap.

“I’m not taking one step until you let me call nine-one-one and report a woman shot at my address.”

Hickey held the gun against her ribs again.

“If you shoot me, you won’t get your money. All I’m asking is a chance to try to save a woman’s life. It won’t cost you anything.”

“She’s dead,” Hickey insisted. “I shot her in the pump.”

“You don’t know she’s dead. She has two small children, and I can’t live with myself if I don’t do all I can to help her.”

“You won’t be able to live with yourself if you kill your own kid, I’ll tell you that. And that’s what you’re doing if you don’t go wire that money.”

She turned to him, unable to remain silent. “You hate Will for supposedly killing your mother, but you just shot someone else’s mother. You orphaned two children. Can you explain that to me?”

Hickey expelled air from his cheeks in exasperation. “You’re going to pay for this later.”

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest. She expected to feel the gun barrel pressed to her temple, but instead she heard four beeps, one ring, and a click.

“Nine-one-one, emergency,” said a female dispatcher.

Hickey said, “A woman was just shot in the chest at number one hundred, Crooked Mile Road. She’s dying.”

Karen looked over at him, amazed.

“One hundred, Crooked Mile Road,” said the dispatcher. “Are you at that address, sir? I’m not getting a location readout.”

“I’m on a cell phone. The woman is lying in the driveway.” Hickey looked at Karen as though asking if he’d done enough.

“Sir, I’m showing that we already received a call for this emergency.”

Hickey’s jaw clenched. “When was that?”

“About two minutes ago.”

“Who called it in?”

“I don’t have that information, sir. But we’ve already dispatched an ambulance to-”