Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

Printed on the milk carton's side was a photograph of a missing boy. His name was Mitchell Thompson, and he had dimples and a wonderfully engaging smile. He had last been seen in Boise, Idaho, over two years before.

On the other side of the milk carton was a picture of his abductor. I looked at the abductor's name to see if they were related. The abductor wasn't identified. He was just another nameless face who had stolen a child.

I put the carton on a tree stump and positioned it so the abductor's photo faced me. Just looking at him made my blood boil. I took ten giant steps back.

For several minutes I practiced drawing the Colt from its holster. The clearing was filled with buzzing mosquitoes, and I was constantly having to swat them away. They were a necessary distraction—there was never a perfect time or place to use a gun. It was all about adjusting.

Then I loaded my weapon and practiced shooting the carton. People think shooting a handgun is easy, but in reality there's nothing easy about it. I held the Colt with both hands in front of me and my knees slightly bent. It was called the Weaver position, considered the most efficient way to shoot a handgun. I pulled the trigger until my weapon was empty.

My aim was lousy. I'd never been a great shot, and time had only worsened my skills. For every bullet that hit the carton, two missed it completely.

I kept shooting until I was hitting the carton every other time.

Hearing a sharp rustling of leaves, I lowered my weapon so the barrel was aimed at the ground, then looked over my shoulder. Kumar entered the clearing.

“Jack, how can you breathe in here?” he asked.

The air was dense with gunpowder. I picked up the empty casings scattered on the ground and tossed them into the can. Only a handful of bullets remained in the box. I dropped them into my pocket and left the clearing with Kumar by my side. We walked down the dock toward the bar.

“What is wrong, Jack?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“A man does not practice shooting a gun unless something is wrong,” Kumar said. “Tell me what the problem is, and I will try to help you.”

The sun had popped over the horizon, and the new day had begun. I considered bringing Kumar into my confidence, then decided against it. The things I knew would only depress him. And there was nothing he could do to make them better.

“Who said I was practicing?” I said.

“Please don't play games with me,” Kumar said. “I went to my office to do some paperwork. I opened the window, and heard you firing your weapon. I counted over eighty shots. A man does not shoot a weapon that many times unless he's preparing for a gunfight. Are you planning to shoot someone?”

Kumar's words had a powerful effect on me, and I realized he'd hit the nail on the head. Paul Coffen, Neil Bash, and Jonny Perez were more than just murderers. They were my mortal enemies, and I would kill them if I had to, just as I suspected they'd kill me if the opportunity presented itself. And as any cop would tell you, the first rule of a gunfight was to bring a gun.

“Yes,” I said.

“Is this person a criminal?”

I nodded.

“Are you scared?” Kumar asked.

“I'd be lying if I said I wasn't,” I said.

We had reached the bar. I put my hand on the door, then turned to look into my friend's face. His eyes were open wide. In them, I saw my own fear. Fear was a gift if you listened to it, and I touched the warm gun resting in my pocket.

“I'll be okay,” I said.

“What if you are shot? Or killed?” Kumar asked.

“Better not to think that way,” I said.

“But what if you are?”

I hadn't weighed that option. Yet, it was an easy one to consider. I had nothing of value to pass on. If I died, all my earthly possessions would probably end up in a Dumpster. Except one.

“If something happens to me, I'd like you to take care of Buster,” I said.

“You would?”

“Yes. He likes you.”

Kumar acted as if he was going to cry. Instead, he threw his arms around me and held me tightly against his body.

“May almighty God watch over you,” he whispered in my ear.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Las Olas Boulevard was Fort Lauderdale's answer to Rodeo Drive. The three-mile-long, tree-lined street was filled with pricey clothing boutiques and epicurean restaurants. A handful of watering holes were within my price range, but mostly it was stuff I only dreamed about.

Trojan Communications was located one block south of Las Olas in a dramatic two-story building made of chrome and tinted glass. The company's logo—a crooked T made from shiny aluminum—sat by the front entrance in the grass.

At eight-thirty, I pulled in front of the building and called Linderman. He was waiting for my call, and I gave him the address and told him that our suspect worked for the company. I didn't give him Paul Coffen's name, and he didn't ask for it. He agreed to meet me in thirty minutes and said he'd call if traffic was bad.