Heaven's a Lie

by Wallace Stroby

  The door opens, and the couple comes out with the bank officer. There’s an exchange in Spanish she can’t follow. When they leave, the bank officer smiles at her and says, “You look like you could use some help.”

  * * *

  She shows her driver’s license, signs into the logbook. Berry takes her into the vault and uses his master key on her safe box. She goes through her keys to find the right one. Her hand shakes as she fits it into the lock.

  “Easy does it,” he says. The lock clicks. He slides out the shallow tray, carries it into one of the private coupon booths, sets it on the polished mahogany shelf. “Take your time. Just buzz when you’re done.” He closes the booth door when he leaves.

  Only a week since she’s been here, but it feels like a year. She folds back the tray’s hinged top. The money is as she left it, six banded packs of hundreds.

  She fills her pockets with cash, looks up at the smoke detector on the ceiling. Its green light blinks slowly. She’s worked it out in her head, but now she doesn’t know if she can go through with it. Then she thinks about Travis Clay out in the truck, waiting for her. The gun.

  She pulls out the single chair, takes another sheet of notepaper from her pocket, rolls it into a tube. The chair rocks as she climbs up on it. It creaks under her, and for a moment she thinks it’ll collapse.

  The Wawa lighter is cheap yellow plastic, but it fires up on the first try. She touches the flame to the paper.

  * * *

  He hears the alarm go off, a steady loud jangling and beeping. Through the windows he can see lights flash inside. There’s confusion at first, then people start to mill out onto the sidewalk.

  He lifts the Ruger, puts down the passenger window. You didn’t believe me, he thinks. You had to test me.

  He inches the truck forward, waiting for her to show herself, ready to fire through the open window. People cross in front of him.

  The sound of a siren close by, sooner than he expected. A police car, rollers flashing, turns into the lot. A secondary siren farther away, a different tempo. Fire truck.

  He lowers the gun. When the fire truck pulls in, he drives around it, swings past the police cruiser and pulls out onto the highway.

  * * *

  She’s the last customer out of the bank, firefighters rushing past her to get inside. There are two police cars in the lot now. More sirens warble in the distance.

  His truck is gone.

  Her pockets are bulky with money. She left the shopping bag behind in the booth. No one seems to notice as she moves away from the crowd and into the woods.

  * * *

  Driving, he fumbles with his phone, speed-dials her number. He’s been making a circuit, up the highway, then around a jug handle and back again on the other side, watching for her. Firefighters and cops are still standing around outside the bank.

  After six rings there’s no answer, no voice prompt. He throws the phone at the dashboard. It bounces off and lands on the floor.

  * * *

  Her cell buzzes. His number. She’s at the other end of the woods, looking out on a mall parking lot. He’ll be driving around, looking for her. Safer to stay here for now.

  She sits on a log, catches her breath. The phone keeps buzzing. She shuts it off.

  * * *

  “Pull up here,” she says. The taxi steers to the curb in front of the ShopRite.

  It’s dark out. She spent an hour in the trees, then crossed the mall lot to the theater, picked a movie at random. She took a seat in the back, gradually drifted into sleep as the adrenaline wore off. She woke when the lights came up, went back into the lobby and bought a ticket for a different film. She stayed awake for most of it but remembers almost nothing.

  The Subaru is still there at the other end of the supermarket lot. The police presence at the bank would have driven him away, but for how long? Is he somewhere nearby, watching the car?

  The driver is a middle-aged black woman in a yachting cap. She looks at Joette in the rearview. “What are we doing, honey? I’ve got other calls.”

  “That’s my car there by the clothing bins. Can you drive over, but take it slow?”

  She stays low in the seat, scans the lot as they cross it. As they near the Subaru, she sees the tires are flat, the chassis low to the ground.

  “If that’s your car, you need to call the police,” the driver says. “Someone did that on purpose.”

  “Can we just wait here a few minutes?”

  “You in some kind of trouble?”

  “A little bit.”

  “And you don’t want the police?”

  “No,” Joette says.

  She takes a breath, trying to brace herself.

  He’s gone. You pulled it off. Now go get what’s yours.

  She gets out, keys in hand, walks quickly to the Subaru. All four tires have puncture marks in the sidewalls. She opens the trunk, pulls out her suitcase, shuts the lid. There’s nothing else in the car she needs.

  Back in the cab, the suitcase beside her, she says, “Can you get someone else to take those calls?”

  “Why?”

  She takes two hundreds from her jeans pocket, leans forward and holds them out.

  “I need to find a place to stay. A motel. The farther away the better.”

  The driver takes the bills.

  “They’re real,” Joette says.

  “I see that. How far do you want to go?”

  “As far as they’ll take me,” she says.

  NINETEEN

  A​t nine o’clock, he’s parked alongside the dark restaurant on Route 35, cell phone on the seat beside him. He’s had three calls from Cosmo, hasn’t answered them or listened to the messages.

  He puts on the gloves, gets out. He follows the same path as last time, scales the fence, staying in the shadow of the trees. The windows of her trailer are dark, the carport empty. All he can hear is the low murmur of a television from the trailer next door.

  He listens under her bedroom window. No sound inside.

  The recycling bucket’s gone, but there’s a cinder block in the crawl space under the trailer. He drags it out, stands on it to look through the gap in the curtains. The bed’s unmade, the closet door ajar. The dresser drawers are back in place.

  He takes out his tactical knife, opens the five-inch blade. The storm window comes out easily again. He leans down and sets it against the side of the trailer.

  The inner sash is locked this time, as he expected. Closing the knife, he takes the roll of black electrician’s tape from his jacket, tears off strips and presses them against the glass just above the twist lock. Three horizontal lines crossed with an X.

  He pops the butt of the knife sharply against the X until the glass cracks. Shards of it come away as he peels off the tape, leaving a gap big enough to reach through. He folds the tape on itself, tosses it lightly onto the ground, puts away the knife. With his left hand, he reaches in, feels for the lock, his wrist at an awkward angle.

  Pain slices across his middle finger. He yanks his hand back. Blood begins to ooze from a horizontal cut through the glove. He looks in at an angle, and he can see the razor blade wedged into the base of the twist lock. That bitch.

  He reaches through with his right hand, careful to avoid the blade. It’s single-edged, so he can grasp it at its metal base, work it back and forth until it comes loose. He drops it inside, then undoes the lock, pushes up the sash. His gloved finger leaves a bloody smear on the frame.

  Inside, he draws the Ruger. The trailer is quiet, empty. The suitcase is gone.

  In the bathroom, he sets the gun on the toilet tank, turns on the light. The glove is slick with blood. He pulls it off, runs water over his finger. The puckered edges of the cut are white for an instant, then red again.

  He fumbles with a tin of bandages from the medicine cabinet. Two of them cover the wound. He pulls the glove back on, but there’s blood everywhere, drops of it on the sink and floor.

  There’s enough light comin
g through that he can see his way around the darkened trailer. All the windows have razor blades in their locks. On the kitchenette counter, an open package of Red Devil blades, gleaming and new.

  A wicker basket hangs on the kitchen wall. Inside are an electric bill, a balance-due notice—$350—for a brake job on the Subaru. More bills. An open envelope with the return address of Kingsley Gardens Care Facility in Galloway Township, an hour south. There’s a form letter inside, a notification for a Care Plan Meeting earlier that week. The resident’s name—Irene Kelly—and the time and date have been filled in with blue ink. He folds the letter, pockets it.

  No sense searching the trailer again. She’ll have taken any money with her.

  He opens cabinets until he finds what he’s looking for beneath the sink, a full pint can of paint thinner. It’ll do. He carries it back into the bedroom, splashes thinner on the bed, then in a trail to the living room. He notices that the photo from the end table is gone.

  He empties the can onto the furniture, tosses it on the couch, takes a skillet down from the kitchen wall. He fills it with cooking oil, turns the stove burner on high. It’s close enough to the window that the curtains will catch easily. The oil is already smoking when he lets himself out the front door. The light clicks on above him.

  “What are you doing in there?”

  A woman stands in the carport holding a cell phone. She’s wearing a sweat suit. Her gray hair is tied back in a ponytail.

  He smiles. “I’m looking for Joette. Have you seen her?”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend of hers. She was supposed to meet me here.”

  “I’m going to call the police.”

  “You don’t need to do that. She gave me a key. Did I miss her? How long ago did—”

  A crackling behind him, a flare of light in the kitchenette window. The curtains going up.

  The woman punches keys on the phone. He takes out the Ruger, points it at her. “Don’t do that.” His finger’s on the trigger. “Let it fall.”

  The phone clatters on the concrete. Lights go on in another trailer. A dog begins to bark.

  “Back away,” he says.

  When she does, he steps hard on the phone, kicks the pieces aside. Behind him, orange light flickers in the trailer windows. Glass pops and cracks.

  He backs away into the trees, the woman watching him. At the fence, he pockets the Ruger, climbs over.

  When he reaches the truck, he looks back. There’s a red glow and a plume of smoke over the trailer park, sparks rising up.

  Close this time. He almost got caught. He underestimated her twice today. It won’t happen again.

  * * *

  The motel is two miles outside Atlantic City, looking out across acres of salt marsh. On the horizon, the high-rise casino hotels glow against the dark sky, a neon Oz. An hour-and-a-half drive down here. She gave the driver another two hundred.

  She splashes water on her face at the sink, looks in the mirror at the deeper crow’s-feet, the tightness around her eyes from lack of sleep.

  Her suitcase is open on the bed, the money inside, along with everything she brought from the trailer.

  There it is. Your whole life in total.

  She takes out the framed picture of her and Troy on the river, props it up on the dresser. The only photo she took with her.

  Their wedding bands are in a gray ring box. She can’t remember the last time she wore hers, but she couldn’t leave them behind. She opens the box, sets it in front of the photo. All that’s left of what they once were. Her engagement ring was pawned long ago, against that first wave of medical bills. She never told him.

  Her cell vibrates on the bed. His number again. She answers this time, opens the line, hears muted traffic sounds.

  “That was pretty swift back at the bank,” he says. “You see that in a movie? The razor blades too?”

  Siren noise coming through.

  “Hear that?” he says. “No false alarm this time.”

  “What did you do?”

  “You’re running me around a little, I get that. Wouldn’t feel right giving it up without a fight. But some point soon, you’re going to realize it isn’t worth it. You’ll be begging me to take it back.”

  The sirens grow fainter.

  “What made you think you could keep it, anyway?” he says. “Made you think that was ever a possible outcome?”

  She looks at herself in the dresser mirror, the lines in her face. “I don’t know. I guess I just got tired of people taking things away from me.”

  He starts to speak. She powers down the phone, watches it go dark.

  TWENTY

  S​he sleeps fitfully, no more than two hours at a time. At dawn, she stands at the window and watches the sun rise over the salt marsh, lighting up the glass towers of the distant casinos floor by floor.

  A taxi takes her to the local Enterprise office, where she rents a Honda Civic. She buys a disposable phone at a drugstore, calls Brianna’s cell and leaves a message. On the way back to the motel, she stops on a low bridge, tosses her old phone into the water below.

  She’s in her room when Brianna calls back.

  “Joette, are you okay? The cops are here, talking to Baxter. They said something about a fire at your trailer.”

  The sirens.

  “You and Cara need to get your things together, get out of there. Is there someplace you can go?”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Can you stay with your mother?” Joette says. “If not, find another motel. I’ll pay for it. But you need to get away from there, soon as you can. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t have time to explain it all now. Listen to me, Bree, please.”

  “What about Singh?”

  “I paid you up for the month. You don’t owe him anything. Just get out of there.”

  “You got me worried now.”

  “I’ll check back with you in a couple hours. In the meantime, ask Keith to call me at this number. But don’t let anyone else know you talked to me. Not even the police.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Don’t be scared,” Joette says. “Just go.”

  * * *

  She watches Keith’s Denali come down the ramp into the casino parking garage. He’s an hour late. She flashes the Honda’s lights.

  He pulls into a space opposite her. She gets out, walks over. He unlocks the passenger door.

  “You a gambler?” he says when she gets in.

  “No.”

  “Then what are we doing all the way down here?”

  “Are Bree and Cara safe?”

  “They’re at her mom’s house in Howell. She’s visiting Bree’s sister down in Alabama, so she’s been away. We did what you asked, but I still don’t know why.”

  “You bring something for me?” she says.

  “We need to talk about that.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “You gonna tell me what you need it for?”

  “Protection.”

  “From who? You want a gun, get a license. Then go down to Walmart, buy any kind of gun you want.”

  “I don’t want a license,” she says. “And I don’t want anything that’s traceable.”

  “Traceable? What are you into here? And why did you ask me?”

  “I thought you could help. Was I wrong?”

  He reaches under his seat, comes up with an oil-spotted brown paper bag. “Keep it low.”

  She opens the bag, takes out the gun. It’s a small flat automatic, blue steel and wood grips. The sheen is dull, and one of the grips is cracked. She’s never held a pistol before. It feels light in her hand, more a toy than a weapon.

  “Colt twenty-five,” he says. “Careful, it’s loaded. You know anything about guns?”

  She shakes her head.

  “This one’s good for you. Doesn’t kick or make much noise.”

  He takes the gun,
pushes a lever on the butt and slips out the clip, shows her the shiny brass bullets inside. “Six rounds in there.”

  “What if I need more?”

  “You’re on your own with that.” He pushes the clip back in until it locks.

  “You tell Bree about this?” she says.

  “No.”

  “Don’t. What’s that on the side?”

  “Slide lock. It’s a safety. Keep it on until you’re ready to fire. There’s a grip safety too, so you have to hold the gun tight when you squeeze the trigger.”

  He draws back the slide halfway, shows her the empty chamber.

  “Nothing in there now. But when you do it all the way”—he pulls the slide back farther, and a bullet rises into position—“then a round pops in.”

  He lets the slide snap closed.

  “With one in the chamber and the safety off, you’re good to go. All you have to do is pull the trigger. It’s small-caliber, though. You shoot something, best keep shooting until you run out of bullets.”

  He hands her back the gun. Holding it, she wonders if she’s making a mistake. Doing something there’s no coming back from.

  She clicks the slide lock on, then off again. “How much?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “That’s too much.”

  “Like you know how much it’s worth?” he says. “Or what I had to do to get it this fast?”

  “Two hundred.” Pulling the number out of the air.

  “Price is five,” he says. “You asked. I delivered. You don’t want it, you don’t want it.”

  She puts the gun back in the bag, sets it on the console. “Thanks anyway. Sorry you had to make the trip.” She opens the door.

  “Wait a minute.”

  She looks at him.

  “You got it with you?” he says.

  She pulls the door closed, takes the hundreds from her vest pocket, peels off two, sets them on the console.

  “On second thought,” he says. “Whatever you need it for, I don’t want to know about it.”

  “I have something for Brianna, too.” She takes the check from her shirt pocket. “It’s for her and Cara, help them get settled. It’s made out to her, she can cash it at my bank. Tell her if she needs more, to call me. And tell her I’m sorry about all this, what I put them through.”