“You were so adamant about getting down here. Getting that hard drive. Justice for the kids.”

  “I still am.”

  “But?”

  “But I think we should move a little more slowly. Everything that happened did so because we didn’t take our time and plan things out. We ran, and even panicked a little. And it cost us. I think we should go a little more slowly. Do this right.”

  I pursed my lips. “So what’s that mean?”

  “That means we stay put for the time being. In the morning, you call back your buddy Bertram and arrange a meeting. That way you can pick up whatever it is Rogan left for you. If it leads us to the data, we’ll take it and go from there.”

  “If?”

  “Yeah,” she frowned. “If. You said he was a cop and he was trustworthy.”

  “Ex-cop.”

  “Yeah. So how d’you think an ex-cop—especially one who’s trustworthy—will respond to a pair of wanted fugitives from the law just showing up on his doorstep?”

  She had a point.

  “Besides,” she added, “we’re paid up through the week, and I intend to enjoy this room as much as possible.”

  “All right.” I bent forward and kissed her, tilting her chin to mine. “Guess you’re the boss.”

  “That I am,” she hugged me again. “That I am.”

  ***

  I didn’t sleep much the rest of the evening. I let Mel have the bed while I took over her laptop and stayed up till dawn reading the news. Six weeks is a long time to be unconscious, and I wanted to catch up on everything.

  It took a bit of searching, but I found Hector’s arrest record and located the jail where they’d stashed him. His trial wouldn’t be for another few months—as soon as the court’s docket cleared.

  I also found out what the press knew about me. For one thing, it was clear to all that I was alive again. They’d also fingered me for setting the fire at Vic’s house, and wondered why I’d been involved in getting people out. My favorite commentary came from a talking head who struggled to psychoanalyze me from a distance. He actually figured me out reasonably well.

  Especially when he came from the angle of wanting to get my kids back. After that, his analysis fell apart. He had Mel and I pegged as a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, driven into a life of crime by the illiberal forces of modern day capitalism. He blamed everything on big food corporations—basically declared that if we all went back to eating raw foods and locally grown vegetables, none of this would have happened.

  He wasn’t far off in that respect. But the rest of it—especially the part where he thought we were coming down to Florida to escape the country—that’s where he was way off base.

  Still, I wrote his contact information down on a scrap of paper and tucked it in my front pocket. He might come in handy when it came time to publishing what was on that hard drive.

  My last task was researching Bertram himself. Mel’s point about Bertram’s trustworthiness gnawed at me. I wanted to find out whether or not he was as trustworthy as he came off. Any dirt on him might give me enough leverage to keep him in line, should I need to use it. Then again, any dirt on him only increased the likelihood that he’d double-cross us first chance he got.

  In the end, I couldn’t find out much more about him beyond what I already knew. I’m not nearly the internet junkie that Mel is, but I know how to Google someone. Bertram just didn’t raise any alarms.

  Mel started stirring about six. I couldn’t tell from our room whether it was daylight or not, but figured it had to be. She murmured in her sleep, and then started crying. Then she said, “No. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell Gerrold.”

  I frowned and watched her. On a whim, I asked, “Don’t tell him what?”

  She frowned in her sleep. It was cute. “About the baby.”

  I admit, my heart skipped a beat. “What baby?”

  She opened her eyes with a gasp, and then looked right at me, disoriented.

  “What baby?” I repeated.

  “Huh?”

  “You said, ‘Don’t tell Gerrold about the baby.’ What baby?”

  “Huh?”

  “You were talking in your sleep.”

  She sat up, rubbing her face and messing up her hair. “What time is it?”

  “Little after six.”

  She pushed out of bed, wandered into the bathroom and used the toilet. A moment later, she came back out, rubbing the tattoo on her neck. “I need coffee.”

  “Sure.” I moved to the coffee pot and started making some. “You gonna tell me about the baby?”

  “Just a dream, honey.”

  “Oh. You sure?”

  She gave me an irritate look. I grinned and turned on the coffee maker. Once it started brewing I said, “So. We should call him today.”

  “Yeah. Coffee first.”

  “Okay. I’m gonna get my shower. Then after breakfast. All right?”

  She nodded, and I kissed her on my way to the bathroom. Once I closed the door, I stared at myself in the mirror.

  Why was Mel dreaming about a baby?

  Chapter 41

  I didn’t find any answers to my question in the shower, nor during breakfast afterward. Mel ate quickly and took the bathroom after me, which left me facing the phone alone.

  It’s been six weeks. Does he even still have it?

  My hand hesitated over the receiver, as if unwilling to lift it from its cradle.

  There’s only one way to find out.

  I picked it up, forced myself to dial.

  Bertram answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

  “Bertram?”

  After a long breath, he said, “Wondered when you’d call. Took your sweet time, didn’t ya?”

  “Wasn’t my choice.”

  “Right. Everything happens to you, doesn’t it?”

  “No. Not everything. Would it help if I had a note from my doctor?”

  “Whatever.”

  “You still got it?”

  “Yeah, I still got it. Whaddya think?”

  “Think it’s been six weeks, and maybe it’s too hot to handle.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  “Have you looked at it?”

  “Yeah. Several times.”

  “And?”

  “And what? I keep waiting for you to come take it off my hands. It’s not like I want anything to do with it.”

  “Okay. Let’s arrange a meet.”

  Mel came out of the shower just then, towel-drying her hair.

  “Where d’you wanna meet?”

  “Someplace public enough that I can see you coming, but private enough that no one else can see me.”

  “Huh. Sounds cryptic.”

  “I hear you were a good cop. So look at it from my perspective. What’s a good cop likely to do if someone like me shows up at his door?”

  He snorted. “So if I’m a good cop, I double-cross you and turn you in. But if I don’t do that, then I ain’t a very good cop, am I? Geez, Gerrold. Just talking to you makes me feel dirty.”

  “That’s now how I want it.”

  “Bull crap. Everything that’s happened to you is a natural consequence of your own dumb choices. Your life is exactly what you have made of it, my friend.”

  “Fine. You’ll get no argument from me. But I am trying to make it better.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Look, Rogan had five years to turn in that data and bring those SOB’s to justice. And if he’d have done what a good cop should have done, I’d still be in prison. His inaction means I have to be responsible to do what’s right, ‘cause ain’t no one else stepping up to do it. Including you.”

  There was silence on the other end for a moment, and I’d begun to fear he’d hung up when he said, “Fine. Just call me when you figure out where you wanna meet. And just for the record, I won’t double-cross you. Scout’s honor.”

  I hung up and looked at Mel. “Guess we’d better get busy.”

  ***

  After an hour of haggling back and forth, we identified our meeting spot: Friendship Fountain, in the middle of Jacksonville’s River Walk. It was perfect, sandwiched right between the wedge of routes 13 and 90, and providing multiple routes of escape from both road and river. Mel and I left to make the arrangements, which took the better part of the morning, and then I called Bertram from a burner phone once we were set up.

  I took my spot on a park bench and waited for Bertram to arrive. My right hand rested comfortably against the .38 special I kept there. Just in case.

  I didn’t have to wait long. He showed up about five minutes before he was to arrive, meandering around the fountain. When he saw me, he kept walking as if he didn’t recognize me. Once he passed by, I rose from my bench and followed. “Bertram,” I called.

  He turned, caught sight of me, and swore. “You had some work done.”

  I smiled. “You got it?”

  “Yeah.” He reached into his pocket. I stiffened, expecting a gun. Instead, he pulled out a small, manila envelope and handed it to me.

  I frowned. “This is it?”

  “It’s what he left for you.”

  I opened the envelope and peered inside. Frowning, I turned it over. A brass key dropped onto my palm. Attached to it was an address on a Post-It note. I felt my pulse quicken, especially when I read the address. “Okay. We’re done, then.”

  He smiled beneath his mustache. “Not quite. I thought about what you said, about being a good cop. I ain’t gonna double cross you, but I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I didn’t try to bring you in.”

  As soon as he uttered the words, I pulled out the gun. “I ain’t going nowhere with you. You’re not even a cop anymore. Retired, remember?”

  He nodded, smiling broadly. “‘Course I remember. That’s why I called for back-up.”

  I swore, glancing up and spying first one, then two, then a half-dozen plainclothes cops bearing down on me. “How’s this not a double-cross?”

  “‘Cause I’m giving you a head start.”

  I pushed a breath through my nose, and then put the gun away, turned, and ran for the docks.

  Men converged on me from both sides. I leaped over the railing, took the steps two at a time, and practically dove into the boat we’d tethered at the pier. Behind me, men’s footsteps pounded on the dock, ordering me to freeze.

  The engine already running, I tossed away the line and hit the gas, then ducked below the gunwales as gunshots whizzed over my head. I stuck the barrel of the .38 over the side and fired several shots upward.

  The boat bucked as it coursed over the waves. I peeked up, and saw the dock receding far behind me, lined with a half-dozen frustrated looking cops. One of them spoke into a radio.

  I sat up and grabbed the tiller, aiming diagonally for the far bank.

  Two minutes later, I heard the helicopter. A glance skyward revealed the police helicopter bearing down on me. I angled the tiller, bringing me portside, and made a beeline for the bridge. As I neared it, I bent forward and yanked the gas line free, spilling fuel over the bottom of the boat. The engine cut out and sputtered to a stop. My momentum carried me forward.

  I took out my lighter, lit it, and tossed it to the floor of the boat. Flames gushed up as I leaped clear.

  The cold water embraced me. I turned, surfaced, and stared as the boat—roiling with black smoke and shooting orange flames around it, floated clear of the bridge on the other side of the river.

  Hope that takes them a while.

  I turned, stretched my arms for the concrete pilings, and swam. I found my way to the steel rungs of the access ladder and climbed.

  The trick to climbing a high distance is to not look down. I didn’t, but I couldn’t resist a glance to the right where the helicopter hovered over the wreckage of the boat. A police boat was en route, as was a fire boat from downstream. My hands and legs burned from the effort.

  The upper end of the access ladder ended at a narrow catwalk. I stretched across to it, relieved when my feet once more stood on something more solid than a steel bar.

  Another ladder, and I was on the bridge.

  A car swerved over to me and came to an abrupt stop. The rest of the traffic had slowed as people paused to look at the wreckage I’d left for them in the river below. I opened the door and climbed inside.

  “Did you get it?” Mel asked.

  “Yep.”

  “He brought it and double-crossed you anyway.” She hit the accelerator, peeling away from the site of the crash and heading toward the city.

  “In all fairness, he did warn me.”

  She snorted. “Generous of him.”

  “And predictable. Good call.”

  “So,” she breathed. “Now what?”

  I fished the key from my pocket, shaking the water off my hand. “Now we find out where this leads.”

  She glanced at it. “A key?”

  “To a safety deposit box. And get this: guess what bank it’s at.”

  Her eyes widened. “The bank?”

  I nodded. “The very one that son of bitch wanted me to blow up.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “Carlos is part of this. Has been from the beginning.”

  “So that’s why he came after us.”

  “Uh huh. It also means the bank probably had nothing to do with it all.”

  “That’s the DEA’s problem, now.”

  “Yeah. Probably make things uncomfortable for them for a while, but they’ll get over it. We’ll get what we need, and then use what’s in this box—if it’s what I think it is, to bring them all down. In the meantime, we’ve got something else to do.”

  “And that is?”

  “Hector.” I turned and met her eyes. “We owe him.”

  “Okay.”

  “So we’re gonna bust him out.”

  She looked at me sidelong for a moment, and then grinned. “All right. Let’s do this.”

  The End

  ###

  The Spilled Milk Trilogy concludes in A Glass-Half Full, coming soon.

  ###

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  Other Works by Michael J. Scott

  If you want more by Michael J. Scott, check out these other novels and series, available in print and online at Amazon.com

  Jefferson’s Road:

  (These are political thrillers about the downfall of

  America and the beginnings of a second Civil War.)

  The Spirit of Resistance

  Patriots and Tyrants

  The Tree of Liberty

  God And Country

  A More Perfect Union – coming soon

  We the People – coming soon

  Janelle Becker Books:

  (These are psychothrillers about a Special Agent with the FBI’s

  Behavioral Analysis Unit who specializes in religious-based crimes.)

  The Coppersmith

  Topheth

  Puzzle – coming soon

  Jonathan Munro Adventures:

  (This is a Christian Action Adventure series with

  a focus on archaeology and ancient languages.)

  The Lost Scrolls

  The Elixir of Life

  The Music of the Spheres – coming soon

  New World Order:

  (A Young Adult Dystopian series about escaping

  an oppressive bureaucratic system of death.)

  Turning

  Anarchy – coming soon

  The Dragon’s Eye Cycle:

  (A “Sword and Sorcery” fantasy series about an ex-Sheriff who relies

  on forensics to investigate murders rather than relying on magick.)

  Eye of Darkness

  The Blood-Eaters’ Coven – coming soon

  Spilled Milk

  (An anti-hero thriller about father-turned- domestic

  terrorist who battles government corruption. Badly.)

  Spilled Milk

  A Glass Half-Empty

  A Glass Half-Full – coming soon

  Descent

  (A tale about alien abductions and government cover-up.)

  Nicholas

  (An origin story of Saint Nicholas, combining history with legend.)

  The Wizard of the Sky Pirates – coming soon

  (A teen story about—yup, you guessed it—wizards and sky pirates.)

  The Issachar Initiative

  (A series about a secretive agency that assists the government

  in addressing world events that have apocalyptic overtones.)

  Rock of Ages – coming soon

  Connect with Michael J. Scott online at:

  Facebook

  Twitter: @AuthorMichaelJS

  MichaelJScottBooks.com

  ###

  Author’s Note

  When I first encountered Gerrold Smith and Mel Cooper (Anderson?), I had no intention of turning their story into a three-book set. It was only an attempt to write a novel in a single month. Took me a little longer, but seven weeks remains a record I’ve yet to repeat.

  Now, two books in, I’ve got a much better sense of who they are and what they’re trying to accomplish. Admittedly, Spilled Milk is grittier than my other novels, though Jefferson’s Road cuts a close second in that regard. It’s not anywhere close to being a “Christian” novel, except in the sense that I, a devout Christian, wrote it.