Shady Cross

by James Hankins

  “Wait a minute,” Stokes said. “It was Chet who called me an hour ago?”

  “Yeah. He made most of the calls today ’cause he’s got the kid with him. I was supposed to make this call, send you to another pay phone in a pool hall across town, then call you there one last time at one forty-five and tell you to meet them at Paradise Park at two thirty, with the money and the evidence. That’s when you were supposed to believe the exchange was gonna take place, giving you forty-five minutes to get up there, which should have been enough time. But meanwhile, they’d have had almost two hours to get up there and get into place.”

  “And what happens if nobody shows at two thirty?”

  Carl hesitated. “Same thing that would have happened even if Jenkins did show, only they won’t be able to kill him, too, like we planned. Well, we thought we were gonna kill Jenkins. Guess it would’ve been you. But Chet figured that even if the father didn’t show for some reason, the big picture plan would still work. We wouldn’t get the money or extra evidence on Grote, but Grote would still go down for the kidnapping.”

  “So Chet’s definitely gonna kill the girl?” Stokes asked.

  Carl nodded. “After Chet saw the money, he was gonna shoot the father, then Grote’s guys, then the kid. Make it look like Grote’s guys killed the father and the kid, then got into it with each other over the fifty K, leaving both of them dead.”

  “And if nobody shows,” Frank said, “the shooting starts?”

  “Jenkins was supposed to show at two thirty, but if he’s not there by quarter to three, Chet kills the kid and the other guys. Either way, the cops will find the evidence DeMarco planted in Grote’s house and Iron Mike’s place. It’ll still look like a kidnapping gone to shit, one ordered by Grote.”

  Jesus Christ. Stokes said, “And you had no plan for calling things off—the girl’s murder or killing Grote’s guys—after they get up there.”

  “We didn’t think we needed one. Things had gone fine all day . . . well, we thought they had.”

  Neither Stokes nor Carl saw Frank’s next blow coming, though it didn’t much matter that Stokes didn’t see it, given that it was Carl, not him, on the receiving end. Frank had pushed off the desk where he’d been leaning, and with his body’s momentum behind it, his fat fist slammed squarely into his Carl’s already-crushed nose. The wet, crunching sound was terrible. Carl’s strangled cry of pain was nearly as bad. Frank stood back with his fist raised, apparently contemplating throwing yet another punch. Carl’s bloody chin dropped to his chest. He was out. Maybe dead. But no, Stokes could hear low, liquid, ragged breathing.

  “Idiot,” Frank said.

  He sat on the corner of the desk again. He looked at his son, slumped unconscious in the chair. A look of sadness touched his face. Stokes didn’t know whether he was sorry for what he’d done to his son, or sorry that his sons were such morons. Maybe it was a little of both.

  Nah, Stokes thought, it was probably just that his sons were morons.

  They sat for a moment in silence—silence but for Carl’s wet wheezing—until Stokes finally said, “What now?”

  Frank looked over at him. He sighed. “I think I have to kill you,” he said.

  Well, that sure as hell wasn’t what Stokes had been hoping to hear.

  “Why?”

  Frank shrugged.“Because you broke in here. Because you came to steal from me. Because you beat the hell out of my son,” which sounded a little hypocritical to Stokes. “Because you know too much about what my stupid boys have done.”

  “Why don’t we stop this? Killing the girl, I mean?”

  “You heard Carl. Can’t reach him on the phone.”

  “How about if we went up there?”

  Frank frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you and I drive up there. You tell Chet not to kill the girl.”

  Frank pursed his thick lips again. He shook his head.

  “No, I can’t get anywhere near this.”

  Stokes blew out an exasperated breath. “But you said you wanted to stop this. You said it could get messy if Chet goes through with it. You might be implicated somehow.”

  “True, but I will definitely be implicated if things go wrong and I’m found at the scene. Or stopped on the drive there with a wanted man, as you said you are. Or on the drive home with you and Chet after he’s killed Grote’s men, which I would still want him to do.” He paused, thinking again. “No, I definitely cannot be a part of this.”

  “I’ll go by myself then.”

  Frank laughed.

  Stokes looked at his watch.

  “It’s two minutes before two. That gives me thirty-two minutes before Jenkins is supposed to show up, plus the extra fifteen minutes Chet’s supposed to wait before the killing starts if Jenkins doesn’t show. Forty-seven minutes. If I drive a little over the speed limit, but not fast enough to get pulled over, I can make it up there just in time. It’ll be past two thirty, but I should get there before two forty-five, when Chet’s gonna start shooting people. Maybe I can stop him.”

  Frank narrowed his eyes. “I’m supposed to let you go and simply believe that you’ll go up to Paradise Park and try to stop my son?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Forget it. You’ll just take off and leave town. We’ll still have this mess on our hands while you’re out there somewhere knowing way too much about it all.”

  Stokes stared hard at Frank. “I could have just walked away a rich man hours ago. Instead, I chose to save that kid. I’ve been through a lot of shit today trying to do that. The cops are already looking for me for breaking and entering and murder. Soon they’re gonna want me on kidnapping charges—kidnapping a cop, no less. I’ve had plenty of chances to walk away from this since it all started, but I didn’t. I stayed, risking everything, because I want to save that kid. And don’t ask me why because it’s none of your business. But that’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna save her.” He paused. “If you let me go, I mean.”

  Frank thought for a moment. “How will you stop him?”

  “I’ll tell him what you said. That you don’t want him to kill the girl.”

  “You won’t hurt him? I mean, I doubt you could, if he saw you coming—you probably surprised Carl here, that’s how you beat him—but Chet’s different from Carl. He’s tougher. And while he’s certainly no genius, he’s smarter than his brother. He’s also not a bad shot. No, if he knew you were there, he’d get you.” Frank eyed Stokes. “But maybe you were thinking of sneaking around up there and shooting him in the back, something like that.”

  Stokes shook his head. “I’m not. I won’t have to. I’ll just tell him everything you said. He’ll recognize your words, right?”

  Frank considered this. “You could tell him I said he either listens to you or he goes into the lockbox.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That’s none of your business. But Chet will know I sent you.”

  “OK, lockbox, got it.”

  “What about Grote’s guys?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t give a shit what he does with Grote’s guys. I’ll take the girl and get the hell out of there. He can do whatever he wants after that. So what do you say?”

  Frank rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know . . .”

  “The clock’s ticking, Frank.”

  Frank opened his eyes and stared hard at Stokes. “I think you mean Mr. Nickerson.”

  “Yeah, of course, that’s what I mean. But the clock’s still ticking.”

  Frank scratched his neck.

  “OK,” he said. “I’ll let you go. Do what you can to stop this. I don’t want my son killing that girl. He may be smarter than his brother, but he’s still not always the best thinker. He could make a mistake, leave evidence behind. Like I said, no one’s gonna worry too much about a couple of thugs like Grote’s
men, but they’ll work hard to find the killer of a little girl. I don’t want Chet taking that chance.” He nodded to himself. “You go, Mr. Stokes, and stop him from killing the girl. Just the girl. You understand?”

  Stokes nodded.

  “And when you drop her off somewhere safe, do so in such a way that neither my sons nor I will be implicated. Are we clear on this?”

  Stokes nodded again.

  “After this is over,” Frank continued, “I think it would be best if you found another place to live.”

  “I’m not all that attached to the trailer I live in.”

  “I meant another city, preferably one very far away.”

  “I know what you meant. I agree. When this is over, you’ll never see me again.”

  Frank nodded. Stokes stood up, wincing as he did. He’d forgotten how hard Carl had fought before the head butt took him down. He ached everywhere. He walked over and picked his guns up off the floor. He tucked one into his waistband at his back, the other into his front pocket. Frank watched. Despite Stokes’s promise not to hurt his son, Frank watched him take the guns and said nothing.

  Stokes was ready to go. He didn’t need the $100,000 he’d tried so hard to collect, seeing as it was never actually about the money for Chet anyway. No, all Stokes needed was time, which he was rapidly losing. And as powerful as Frank Nickerson was, that was something even he couldn’t provide.

  Stokes nodded to Frank and walked out of the office. He wound his way through the mansion, finally reaching the front door. He’d originally planned to leave by the back door, through which he’d entered the house, but there was no need now. He opened the door and stepped out into the night.

  As he trotted down the driveway toward Charlie Daniels’s car on the street, it occurred to him for the first time—hit him with the force of one of Carl’s punches to his face, actually—that he wasn’t going to have to give up the money after all. It was right there, in the Camry’s trunk, waiting for him. Frank hadn’t demanded that he hand it over. And if Chet listened to Stokes and believed that Frank wanted the whole thing called off, Chet wouldn’t be expecting any money. And if he didn’t listen to Stokes and started shooting the moment he realized Stokes wasn’t Paul Jenkins, then Stokes was going to have to try to kill him, despite his promise to Frank Nickerson. And Grote’s guys, too, if Chet hadn’t already done it. Either way, if Stokes survived, he kept the money. And he’d save Amanda, too. All he had to do was get to Paradise Park before Chet killed the girl.

  Stokes was almost to the end of the drive, walking in the shadows of the big trees lining it, just thirty feet from his car, when a police cruiser pulled to a slow stop a few yards behind the Camry.

  TWENTY-NINE

  2:06 A.M.

  AS SOON AS STOKES SAW the police car, he stepped off the driveway and ducked behind one of the huge trees beside it. He peered around and watched a cop step out of the cruiser, hand on his gun, while his partner stayed in the car and spoke into a radio mic. The first cop, a big blond bastard who looked to Stokes like he was probably named Randy or maybe Todd, approached the Camry slowly. Stokes saw him unsnap his holster and draw his gun.

  “If there’s anyone in the vehicle, show yourself,” Officer Randy-Todd said. “Show your hands.”

  No one answered.

  “This is your last warning.”

  The empty Camry was silent.

  Randy-Todd touched his shoulder mic and said something too low for Stokes to hear. The cop in the car, who had dark hair and seemed to have a darker complexion, and who looked like maybe a Tony to Stokes, touched his own shoulder-mic and responded.

  Stokes knew what must have happened. Good old Charlie Daniels, everyone’s buddy at the trailer park, happy to help whoever was in need, had broken his promise to Stokes and called the cops. He no doubt told them that someone had stolen his car, but almost certainly left out that Stokes had given him a thousand bucks for the key. To top it off, he probably said that he’d gotten a look at the guy as he drove away and he looked a hell of a lot like Stokes. That son of a bitch.

  Officer Randy-Todd took a wide arc around to the side of the car, where he could see in through the window. He inched closer, gun at the ready. Stokes took a last, longing look at the closed trunk of the car, where his money was, and hurried as quietly as he could back toward Nickerson’s house. He kept to the shadows, finally breaking into a full run as he neared the mansion. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Officer Randy-Todd and Officer Tony were both by the Camry now. They were looking around for him. Any second they’d look his way, but before they did, he slipped around the side of Nickerson’s house and out of their view. He sprinted to the back door, which he’d left unlocked and ajar earlier, and hurried inside.

  He ran through the house, retracing his route to Frank’s office. As he did, he stole a glance at his watch: 2:10. Only thirty-five minutes to get to Paradise Park before Chet killed Amanda.

  I’m not going to make it.

  He pushed that thought aside and ran faster down the hall, through the dining room, to the office, where he found Frank sitting in his leather desk chair, his slippered feet up on the desktop, his ankles crossed. He was watching CNN on the big TV on the wall opposite his desk, eating one of the cookies Carl had carried in on a plate earlier. Carl was still slumped unconscious in his chair, squeezing out ragged breaths. When Frank saw Stokes, mild surprise touched his jowly face. Stokes saw that he had a milk mustache.

  “Shouldn’t you be speeding toward Paradise Park right now? You’re running out of time.”

  “We both are, remember? And yeah, I should be on my way up there, and I would be if it weren’t for the cops standing by my car.”

  Frank frowned and dropped his feet to the floor. The chair beneath him groaned in protest—or perhaps exhaled with relief—as Frank heaved his bulk out of it and moved over to a window behind the desk. Without moving the drapes—which were hanging nearly closed since Stokes had used their ropes to tie up Carl—Frank peered through the crack between them. He nodded.

  “They’ve probably called for backup,” Frank said. “And if by some chance they found the police officer you kidnapped and hid somewhere, the backup will be here very soon.”

  “There’s also a sergeant who’s got a hard-on for me about this guy they think I killed last night during a break-in.”

  “They think?”

  Stokes shrugged. “That’s what they say.”

  “Are they right?”

  “Do you really care?”

  “You’ve been a busy man lately, Mr. Stokes.”

  “Yeah well, I need to get busy again, and real fast, or Chet’s gonna kill that kid, which you said you don’t want to happen any more than I do.”

  Frank shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  “So distract the cops for me.”

  “I’ve told you how reluctant I am to involve myself in this matter.”

  “You’re already involved, like it or not. And you’ll be a hell of a lot more involved, and in something a hell of a lot more serious, if Chet kills the girl and either leaves evidence behind, or gets nailed by something someone saw or overheard as he and Grote’s idiots planned this thing.”

  Frank considered this.

  “How would I help you?” Frank finally asked.

  “Open the door, start yelling.”

  “What would I be yelling?”

  “Whatever. Just get them away from my car. Hell, tell them I broke into your house looking for money. They’ll believe that.”

  Frank pondered that. “They’ll want to come in. They’ll see Carl here.”

  Stokes looked over at Carl, unconscious and bloody, his arms and legs spilling out of the chair like those of a doll some kid had tossed there.

  “Tell them you heard noises, came down, and found him like this,” Stokes said. “They know I was
driving the Camry out there. They’ll think I broke in and beat him up for some reason.”

  “Which is true,” Frank said.

  “Yeah, whatever. Listen, I have to get going.”

  He looked through the curtains at the cops standing by their car, clearly waiting for their backup to arrive before beginning a more thorough search of the area.

  “So you’ll do it?” Stokes asked.

  “Yes, but think about it. There are two ways events could unfold. When I open my front door and call to them, both officers might come up here, either on foot or in their car, or alternatively, one will come alone while the other stays with your car. If they both come, you’re all set. But if only one does, the one who stays behind will be on high alert. He’ll either shoot you or capture you. He’s trained for this kind of thing. You’re not.”

  Stokes nodded. He thought quickly. “OK then. Give me the keys to one of your cars. You must have half a dozen or so in the garage.”

  “Four.”

  “OK, give me the keys to one of them, the fastest one—”

  “The Porsche,” Frank interjected.

  “—and I’ll wait by the garage. If both cops come, I’ll drop the keys and run through the shadows to my car and drive away, get a nice head start and lose them in the city streets. If only one comes, though, I’ll ‘steal’ your car, which you’ll realize at the same time the cops do, and I’ll drive away, only a hell of a lot faster because I’ll be in a Porsche instead of a Camry.”

  Which would mean leaving his money behind, Stokes knew, which would absolutely break his heart. He prayed both cops would come running.

  Frank was thinking the plan through. Stokes looked at his watch: 2:13. Goddamn it.

  I’m gonna be too late, he thought. I’m still gonna try like hell, but I’m just not gonna make it.

  “Come on, Frank,” Stokes said sharply, more sharply than Frank was likely accustomed to. But Frank just nodded.