There it is, the unmistakable high-pitched wail of a nearby police cruiser. Tank hears it, too, and it somehow yanks him out of his psychotic trance. Maybe the sound reminds him of his father, or maybe it just startles him. I have no idea, but I’m relieved to see him shaking his head and rubbing his ears, back from that dark place.

He lowers the gun and scoops the rest of his clothing toward him with his foot. Chad Billings hangs his head, puts his face in his hands, and cries like a newborn, thanking God and Tank for not killing him.

“Shut the hell up, Billings,” Tank says. He studies the empty Jack Daniels bottle lying on the grass. “You owe me a pint of whiskey. I want it within a week.” Shifting his gaze between Mandy on the pool deck and the other nine guys scattered across the lawn, he yells, “Listen up, kiddies. Don’t ever mess with Tank Foster again. If anybody talks about tonight, I’ll hunt you down one by one and eat you for dinner.”

The siren is getting closer.

Tank notices, grabs his clothes and the cigarettes. As we pass through the gate and reach the front yard, he stops to put his shirt and shoes on. When we’re on the sidewalk, I expect him to want to go run and hide, but he’s as casual as an old lady strolling through her flower garden.

“I like the feel of not wearing underwear,” he tells me, tossing his bunched-up briefs into a neighbor’s bushes. “I think I’ll roll this way from now on.”

“Tank, I think those sirens are coming for us.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, you just fired a gun in Blaine Heights.”

He lights two cigarettes, hands me one.

“Big deal. Nobody got hurt.” He smells his shirt. “Mandy was right about one thing, though. We smell.”

“You wanna go home? Wash up in some tomato juice?”

He thinks about it, looks himself over.

“Yeah,” he finally says, tucking the gun in the back of his waist and pulling his shirt loosely over it. “That’s probably a good idea.”

I breathe a deep sigh of relief, lower my head, and follow, knowing it’s not exactly the greatest time to bring up the stash and Sarah.

I mean, think about it. The guy has a loaded gun and has shown his willingness to use it.

Chapter_22

22

Maybe it’s because we’re suddenly in a hurry to get out of the Heights and away from the cops, but somehow we lose track of street names and find ourselves lost. The only good news is that the sirens quickly come to a halt, and I wonder if the police have showed up at Mandy Frack’s. For all I know, Tank Foster might be the city’s most wanted man.