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Holly rushed into the room and hugged the dog.
“Hi, Daisy,” Grant said. “Holly, where’s the gun?”
Holly went into the bedroom and came back with her Beretta and two clips. “You think we can risk using the phone to call Harry?”
“We can’t,” Grant said.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t remember his cellphone number. I had it programmed into mine, and that’s in the back of the van now. Where’s yours?”
“In my purse, back at the clubhouse.”
Holly picked up the phone, dialed nine, and got a dial tone. She dialed a number she knew by heart.
“Hi, this is Hurd,” the machine said, “leave a message.” Holly hung up and dialed another number.
“Wallace,” he said.
“Thank God you’ve got your cellphone.”
“What’s up, Holly?”
“Everything.” Then she stopped herself. If someone was listening, she couldn’t blow the imminent arrival of the FBI. “Call your former workplace,” she said. “And order a six-six-six.”
“Where?”
“You know where. I’m heading for where you found the shell casing.”
“Got it.”
Holly hung up.
“What’s a six-six-six?” Grant asked.
“Doesn’t the FBI have a six-six-six?”
“No. What is it?”
“It means everybody converge with everything they’ve got. Devil’s drill.”
“I hope they don’t think it’s a drill.”
“I hope they don’t start shooting at the FBI,” Holly said, “but we’ve got to get somebody here.”
A car’s lights flashed across the windows, and there was the crunch of gravel in the driveway.
“Let’s get out the back way,” Holly said, crouching and running. “Come on, Daisy.”
64
Holly ran out the back door, through the bushes, across a road, and into more bushes. Two minutes later, they could see the landing lights of the runway, ending almost at their feet. Ed Shine’s King Air was sitting on the ramp, near the middle of the runway, and two pilots in white shirts were walking around the airplane, as if to preflight it.
“I don’t suppose you’re a good enough shot to hit the tires of that airplane from this distance,” Holly said.
“How far is it?”
“The runway is six thousand feet, so three thousand, give or take.”
