Short for Winthrop.
“What’s the name of that place you moved to in King William County?” Buddy Lee asked.
“Garden Acres. Buddy Lee, what’s wrong?” Christine asked.
“Nothing.”
He put the handset back in the cradle. He got out of bed and went over to the teak cabinet in the corner. His clothes were in a clear plastic bag on the second shelf. By the time he had his boots on, the nurse he had waved away had returned.
“Mr. Jenkins, you need to get back into bed. The doctor wants you under observation for the next twenty-four hours,” she said.
“Darling, I’m walking out that door in the next ten seconds. If you need to tell the doctor I left against medical advice, well, I reckon that’s okay. But I’m not staying here one more minute,” Buddy Lee said. The nurse threw up her hands and grabbed his chart off the foot of the bed.
It took him a while to find his truck. Ike had parked it way out in the far end of the lot. Buddy Lee grabbed his key ring, unlocked the door, climbed in the truck. He flipped open the glove box. The big semiautomatic was in there. He checked the clip. It was empty. So was the chamber. Ike had been riding around empty-handed. The MAC-10 was in Mya’s car sitting in some good ol’ boys’ salvage yard. That was alright. He started the truck.
The engine clanged and shook as the truck struggled to idle. Buddy Lee reached behind the bench seat. He moved his hand carefully over the broken glass that had fallen in the gap.
When he found what he was looking for, he closed his hand around it and pulled it from behind the seat. It was an old wooden baseball bat with nails driven into it at regular intervals. His former co-worker Chuck called it a homemade mace. A lot of folks still paid in cash when he made his deliveries. He could have gotten a gun, but if he got pulled over by the DOT, he’d lose his job, go to jail, and his boss would probably have to pay a fine. This peacemaker seemed like a good alternative. He’d only had to use it twice. Usually pulling it was enough of a deterrent.
A baseball bat with nails. A tamper. A .45. It occurred to Buddy Lee that anything could be a weapon if you were dedicated enough. Even love. Especially love.
Buddy Lee pulled out of the parking lot and merged into traffic. He started to sing. It was a song his grandmother would sing at every funeral for a member of the Jenkins clan. When her time came they sang it at hers.
“O, death … O, death, Won’t you spare me over ’til another year,” Buddy Lee crooned as he rode down the highway.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Garden Acres was indeed in the middle of nowhere. The GPS had gotten him within ten miles of the planned community. From there, it was looking for real-estate signs that advertised lots for sale, which led him to a wide side road with a blacktop so smooth it looked like it was poured fresh every night. Buddy Lee had the gas pedal to the floor. His truck was barely hitting fifty. The motor cried out for mercy, but that particular emotion was in short supply tonight.
Buddy Lee turned onto Garden Acres Drive. A cloud of gray-and-black smoke billowed from his duals. The road was lined by pink rhododendrons and had a concrete gutter that ran alongside the road. Buddy Lee passed house after house that cost more than he had ever made, legally or illegally. Intricately landscaped lawns would have given Ike and his crew a run for their money, bisected by long paved driveways. Many of those driveways had brick columns with a mailbox built into its center. A few had gates. Most of them had attached two-car garages. There was stunning sense of conformity throughout the neighborhood. Like here was a standard architectural design that denoted affluence.
Buddy Lee brought the truck to a halt. Christine was one of those who parked her car in front of the garage instead of inside it. Buddy Lee thought Gerald probably had a work vehicle and a fun-time vehicle. No room for Christine’s gold Lexus.
Buddy Lee turned onto the driveway. He revved the engine a few times.
“One more time, ol’ girl. Give me all you got one more time,” he murmured.
Buddy Lee hit the gas. His truck, a used rambling wreck that he paid fifteen hundred dollars for six years ago, roared to life even as oil shot out of the exhaust pipe. Buddy Lee raced up the driveway. By the time he flew past Christine’s car and careened through the garage door he was doing forty-five. He smashed into a candy-apple-red Corvette parked next to a black BMW.
Buddy Lee undid his seat belt and climbed out of the truck. Beautiful brass carriage lights ignited on both sides of the front door, a wooden, barn door–style piece of art with wrought-iron corbels running across its face. It sat at the top of seven wide brick steps. Buddy Lee climbed those steps, gripped the Louisville Slugger with both hands, and smashed the nearest brass light to smithereens. He heard footsteps racing around inside the two-story mansion.