Big Trouble

"Who's they?" asked Greer, although he was pretty sure he knew, from what John had told him.

"Some scumbag, goes by 'Snake,' " said Walter.

"Him and another scumbag was here when we got here, me and my partner. He had a gun, which is how I got ... I mean, they surprised us. They took this guy's daughter"—he gestured toward Arthur—"and some little guy with a beard. The little guy carried the suitcase. They took our car. My partner went after 'em with this guy's wife."

"Where'd they go?" asked Greer.

"Airport," said Walter. "MIA. The scumbag said he was gonna catch a plane."

"He say where to?" asked Seitz.

"No," said Walter. "Fact is, Monica, that's my partner, was just guessin' it was MIA."

Greer and Seitz looked at each other.

"Whaddya think?" said Greer.

"I think we go to MIA," said Seitz.

"Me, too," said Greer. To Walter, he said, "Keep this man in custody for us, will you?" He turned to go.

"Hey!" said Walter. "You can't leave me here like this!"

"I'm sorry," said Greer, "but we gotta go."

"BUT I'M A POLICE OFFICER," said Walter.

"I know that," said Greer. "I know you're an excellent police officer, because I can't think of any other explanation for the fact that you're handcuffed to an entertainment unit that's handcuffed to a man who thinks a dog is Elizabeth Dole. But we really gotta go." With that, he and Seitz went back into the house.

"COME BACK HERE GODDAMMIT!" yelled Walter.

Arthur was still watching Roger. "She's gonna get me," he said. "I can feel it." He turned to Walter. "She's gonna get you, too."

"Herk! Herk!" said Elizabeth Dole.

"Turn right!" shouted Snake. "You can't see the fuckin' sign?"

The stolen police cruiser was northbound on Le Jeune, in the far left lane. Eddie, who had been too busy watching the road right in front of him to notice the Miami International Airport sign, yanked the wheel to the right, swerving across three lanes of traffic, cutting off a cab that braked, tires screaming, then spun sideways into the path of a battered 1963 Ford pickup truck carrying a large wooden crate. The truck hit the cab broadside and plowed it ahead a few feet, then came to a smoking stop. The impact caused the crate to topple out of the truck bed and onto Le Jeune, where it was sideswiped by a Toyota Tercel, breaking it open and releasing its occupants, eight goats. The goats had been destined for sale in Hialeah, for use in ritual sacrifices by practitioners of the Santeria religion, but for now they were free goats, wandering among the swerving, honking traffic.

Oblivious to the chaos he had caused behind him, Eddie veered onto the airport access road, where he was confronted by a parade of signs displaying information about parking, rental-car returns, terminals, and other matters Eddie knew nothing about.

"Which way?" he asked.

Snake, who was also not a frequent flyer, studied the signs, looking for some reference to the Bahamas, but seeing none.

"Just keep goin'," he said.

"OK," said Eddie, "but up here we gotta pick a road, Arrivals or Departures."

To Snake, it seemed like a trick question. On the one hand, he thought maybe they should go to Arrivals, because they were arriving at the airport. On the other hand, they wanted to depart from the airport, so maybe they should go to Departures. Snake thought about asking the girl, but he didn't want to admit that he didn't know, plus she looked pretty much zoned out. Finally, he decided just to take a stab at it.

"Departures," he said.

"Departures it is," said Eddie, swerving again.

When Detective Harvey Baker arrived at the Herk address, he noted that the driveway gate was lying across the sidewalk, and that the police cruiser wasn't there. He parked on the street and walked up the driveway. The front door was open. He stood on the doorstep for a moment and listened; there were footsteps coming toward him through the house. Removing his revolver from his shoulder holster, he stepped to the side of the door and waited. The two men emerged from the house, walking quickly.

"Hold it," said Baker. "Police."

The men stopped and turned to face Baker. The taller one sighed.

"We're FBI," he said.

"Can you prove that?" asked Baker.

"If you let me get out my badge, yes," said Greer.

"Very slowly," said Baker.

Greer took out the badge wallet and flipped it open. Baker glanced at it and bolstered his gun.

"I'm Detective Harvey Baker, Miami PD," he said.

"I'm Agent Greer," said Greer. "This is Agent Seitz. I don't want to be rude, Detective, but we can't stay."

"Can you tell me what's going on here?" asked Baker.

"To be honest," said Greer, "no."

Greer and Seitz started down the driveway. Baker followed them.

"Hey, wait a minute," he said.

"We don't have a minute," said Greer, over his shoulder.

Baker grabbed Greer's arm and spun him around.

"Well, make a minute," Baker said.

"Detective," said Greer. "We're dealing with an extremely important federal matter here, and I'm very sorry, but we don't have time to explain it to you." He and Seitz turned and started walking again.