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Back The Empress File Save as PDF
Chapters (20)
  1. Prologue
  2. CHAPTER 1
  3. CHAPTER 2
  4. CHAPTER 3
  5. CHAPTER 4
  6. CHAPTER 5
  7. CHAPTER 6
  8. CHAPTER 7
  9. CHAPTER 8
  10. CHAPTER 9
  11. CHAPTER 10
  12. CHAPTER 11
  13. CHAPTER 12
  14. CHAPTER 13
  15. CHAPTER 14
  16. CHAPTER 15
  17. CHAPTER 16
  18. CHAPTER 17
  19. CHAPTER 18
  20. CHAPTER 19

LuEllen said ten minutes max. I drove back to Ballem’s house and parked on the street near the entrance to the country club. Hill’s car was still in Ballem’s driveway, and I once saw a shadow on a curtain, moving across the living room.

Eight minutes. I started back. At nine minutes, forty-five seconds, I was a block from the entrance to the cul-de-sac. I stopped at a corner, reached back, and opened the right rear door. The only turn I had to make was a right turn, so it shouldn’t swing open

At ten minutes and ten seconds I rolled through the cul-de-sac a last time. I paused again at the end of Dessusdelit’s driveway. LuEllen popped into the backseat, staying low, and held the door shut with her hand.

“Get it?” I asked.

“Yeah, but I don’t know what I’ve got,” she said. “It’s the briefcase, but I didn’t find it until about a minute before your pickup. She had it hidden behind some built-in drawers under the linen closet.”

When we were well away from Dessusdelit’s, she screwed the dome light back in and climbed into the front seat. We were sitting at a downtown stoplight when she dug into the briefcase and came up with a handful of small white envelopes, the same kind I’d taken out of the wall cache.

“More stones?” I asked.

“A fuckin’ river,” she said, dumping a glittering tracery of light into the palm of her hand. “Diamonds. Emeralds. Some rubies. Jesus Christ, Kidd, there’s so many you could make a snowball out of them.”

“So she’s paid.”

“Oh, yeah. She’s paid.”

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 17

John walked down to the boat the next morning, just as we were getting up.

LuEllen had gone out to the main cabin, wearing only a pair of underpants and a T-shirt. I was sitting on the bed with my feet flat on the floor, suddenly bone-tired, when she called, apprehensively, “John’s coming.”

“What?” I stood up, pulled on my artist’s shorts and a T-shirt, and padded barefoot into the cabin. John was at the bottom of the levee wall, just stepping out on the pier. I went out to meet him, shading my eyes in the bright morning sunlight. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with Beethoven’s face on the front. He waved cheerily to the marina manager, then came right up to the boat.

“Hey, Kidd, how’s the work going?” he called in a voice loud enough for the manager to hear. He scrambled aboard, and we shook hands.

“I’m John Smith, Memphis artist,” he said quietly. He was sweating harder than seemed necessary, even with the heat. “We need to talk. I didn’t think you could risk coming to Marvel’s, and we don’t have time to go out in the country.”

“Come on inside,” I said.