by Paul Cleave
He lifts up his hand and points his palm at her. She stops talking.
“If you say anything, I’ll hurt you,” he says.
“Who does the wheelchair belong to?”
He steps in and uses the back of his hand to strike her. The impact knocks her onto the ground. She looks up at him.
“Get up,” he tells her.
She gets up.
“Talk again and it will be worse. You understand?”
She nods.
“Now get in the car.”
There are two cars in the garage. One is Charlie’s. The other is a dark blue four-door sedan. He opens the passenger door of the sedan for her. She climbs in. As he moves around to the driver’s side she contemplates locking the doors, but with all those tools to choose from, it’d only be a matter of seconds before he forced his way in. He climbs in, immediately telling her to shut up again even though she hasn’t said a word. He tells her to be still while they wait for the darkness to arrive. She slowly nods. They wait silently in the car as it gets darker outside.
She’s more scared now than she’s ever been.
Scared of the dark.
Scared of Cyris.
Scared of Charlie.
She says nothing as she waits beneath the glare of the fluorescent lights.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The problem with sleep is you never quite know whether the nightmares are real. Bad things are happening. People are dying and I’m the reason, and I can’t seem to wake myself. The sad part is that this is no dream.
I sit up and stare at my bedroom wall where a few slivers of sun rise slowly toward the ceiling. I try to shake the tiredness off, but it begs me to stay. My sunglasses have fallen off and are resting on the floor. I use my T-shirt to wipe away sweat that’s layered across my body. I glance at my buzzing alarm clock and the red numbers say it’s time to go to work.
The tiredness fades as I dress in my fatigue gear, but the nightmare remains. I put on my vest and load up the pockets. A quick scan in the mirror to make sure everything looks okay tells me nothing is okay. If I show up dressed as G.I. Joe he’s going to know something’s up. Getting the fatigues is turning out to have been a dumb idea. I strip back down and dress more casually. The night is warm, but I put on a jacket to conceal my gun, and anyway, it’ll be cold up on the pier. I tuck the Swiss Army knife into my jacket pocket. I drag the money from the ceiling and rest it on the living room table.
Our meeting is over two hours away so I get something to eat. I grab a packet of instant pasta from the cupboard. Just add water and a microwave and eight minutes of my time, which I use up unloading and then reloading the gun over and over just to make sure the bullets are still in there. I dish out the pasta and sit down at the table in the silence of my house and slowly eat it, thinking of dead men walking toward gas chambers after their last meal. Maybe I should have cooked something better. A roast dinner, or I could have ordered pizza or Chinese. The pasta tastes okay, but I think with my current appetite even a gourmet meal would taste bland. I dump the dishes in the sink and I’m about to wash them when I realize it’s pointless. I could be dead by tomorrow. The confidence I had at the beginning of the day when I arranged to have my back door fixed has gone the way of the dinosaur.
When there is an hour to go, I grab the gun and slip it inside my jacket, sliding the magazine in next to it. I take a handful of extra bullets and drop them into a different pocket. They click against each other as I walk. I probably won’t need the extras. If I can’t kill him with the first seventeen shots there won’t be much hope of killing him with the following seventeen. I grab the rest of my gear, which consists of the binoculars I bought yesterday and now also a flashlight, some rope, and Landry’s handcuffs. I hold the handcuffs and stare at them for a few seconds, putting them into context, the context being I was wearing these when I thought I was going to die. I picture Detective Inspector Bill Landry’s corpse turning gray in the river. He’s probably turning a color I don’t ever want to see. Something between white and purple. His eyes are open and milky white as the sun beats down on him. His skin will be slipping off, his body bloating, the insects will be. .
I can feel my pasta starting to move in my stomach.
Time to move.
I load the money into a dark blue canvas bag, which I put into the back of the car. I leave for New Brighton a little earlier than I needed to, so I drive a little slower. The sky is clouding over and I can’t see any stars, can’t see the moon. I park right opposite the pier. I watch my watch for a while. Then I grab the canvas bag and the rest of my gear, and head back up the sandy steps. The day has gotten colder than I thought it would. The wind is stronger. It feels like there’s a storm coming.
The library is closed, the lights off. There are a few fishermen still on the pier, the same kind of guys I saw earlier today, some of them drinking beer, some of them drinking out of bottles with paper bags around them, all of them smelling like cigarettes and fish guts. I walk among them, making eye contact, strolling boldly. They look at me and look away. They can feel, as I do, the change within me, and they sense this the same way a dog senses fear. I stand at the end of the pier and gaze out at the water. It’s rougher than it was this afternoon and the vibrations through the concrete are stronger. The air tastes of salt. I turn my back to the water and lean against the rail. Beware: Action Man is here.
The guys with the fishing poles are in the process of packing up. The way the weather is changing, they’re probably thinking the same thing I’m thinking, that within the hour the skies are going to open. There are others on the beach still walking, most of them with dogs, but they’re moving quickly now, some of them even breaking into slow jogs. Across the road cars are starting to pull away. The day is over for all these people.
I rest against the railing and stare out at the lights of the city. They represent life and activity-and so much ignorance. The pier is empty now and this suits me fine. It will also suit Cyris.
I push off from the railing and walk back halfway to the start of the pier. I stop at a garbage bin a hundred yards away from the library. I stuff the rope and flashlight into it, loading them onto half a dead fish. I keep the gun in my pocket. The wind is making my eyes water. I stay by the bin and I wait and I watch the road.
The killing hour is coming early tonight.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
He likes to drive in silence because silence is golden. His mind is busy with thoughts, and when he spells them out, when he follows them, they all have the background music of one of his wife’s cartoons. When he thinks that he wants to kill Charlie Feldman, he’s thinking it lyrically. It’s annoying. In the past he’s tried getting headphones for his wife, so she can just listen to her cartoons without the need for him to hear them, but the headphones make her scream and cry and thrash about like a fish out of water. So right now his thoughts of cutting Charlie open and getting paid his dues are coming in a sing-song voice.
The headache came back not long after he woke up. And his stomach isn’t any better. The bravest thing he’s done all day is resist the urge to take another shot of morphine, but what he did do was take more anti-inflammatories and over-the-counter painkillers. Okay, that’s not all he did-he brought some morphine along with him. He doubts he’ll need it, but one thing he learned in the army is it’s best to take a gun and not need it than don’t take one and find yourself getting shot at. Same logic applies to pain medication. The result of what he has taken since waking is he still has the headache, but at least his thoughts are his own. Mostly. But there are still random thoughts slipping in there. When he looks at the woman he wonders how she would taste if he bit into her. The hate between them would surely make her taste sour. He knows that’s not normal. She’s looking at him, looking at him, looking at him as if he’s crazy, and he hates that look, and he hates the crazy thoughts even more. He can’t wait for all this to be over.
When they get to the pier he kills the motor. He ha
s very little to say. So does she, apparently, but that’s because he hit her earlier and told her to shut up. He knows he’s going to have to kill her at the end of all this because she knows who he is and where he lives. She is what the army would have called collateral damage. Feldman is too. So was the cop. And the lawyer. It’s been a collateral damage kind of week. All that matters is getting paid. Years ago he might have thought different. But after his wife was hurt, he learned people don’t give a shit about you when you need help. It was only a matter of days after Macy tried to kill herself that he figured out the whole world could go and fuck itself.
He leans to his side. He takes out his cell phone and his wallet and puts them into the glove compartment. He never takes them on a job. He would never take the risk of leaving one of them behind by accident. The next day’s headline would be Killer Leaves Driver’s License at Scene.
“Let’s go,” he tells the woman.
He wraps a towel over her wrists to hide the handcuffs. He pulls her across the driver’s seat and outside. It’s gotten pretty windy over the last fifteen minutes. Feels like rain is on its way. He looks at the pier, but it’s too dark to see if anybody is on it. Feldman is out there somewhere, he can feel it. His car isn’t here. In fact the only car here is. . he looks at the Holden. The Holden. It looks familiar, but he has no idea where he saw it last, if indeed he did. Of course there are probably ten thousand identical ones within twenty miles.
They cross the road. He keeps looking back at the Holden. Something about it bugs him.
They walk toward the pier as the wind begins to pick up around them.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
They cross the road, Cyris glancing at the Holden that was parked outside the shopping mall last night, and I’m starting to wonder if he recognizes it. He can’t. Too many of them on the roads for that. There’s nobody around now. The beach is ours. For all my planning we may as well have been back out in the woods.
They disappear from view as they reach the steps. I take the pistol from my pocket and tuck it into the waistband of my pants around the back. The wind is getting stronger, whipping the sand up much higher now. I’m thankful for the jacket. Cyris and Jo reach the top of the stairs. He lets the wind push the side of his overcoat out so I can see the shotgun beneath. It looks like Landry’s Mossberg, except it’s shorter. Either it’s a different weapon or he’s cut off part of the barrel. I hold my ground. Jo has her arms in front of her with a towel over her hands. No doubt they’re tied together.
He smiles at me when he’s within talking distance. “Glad you could make it, buddy.”
I look at Jo. No obvious signs of assault. “You okay?”
She nods, but doesn’t say anything.
“She’s just peachy, just peachy,” Cyris says.
Jo is still wearing Landry’s pants and jacket, and she’s still wearing her bra beneath it. I try to think of that as a good sign. They stand next to each other, about fifteen feet from me. The wind makes it difficult to hear. Jo lets go of the towel over her wrists and the breeze catches it like a kite and yanks it into the night.
“Unlock the handcuffs,” I shout, looking at her hands.
Cyris pulls the keys from his pocket, turns toward her, then turns back to me. The wind has his scraggly black hair standing on end. The grin on his face tells me he’s about to do or say something he thinks I haven’t expected. He raises the keys in the air and they follow the path of the towel.
“You bastard,” I yell, moving to the side of the pier and looking over the edge. All I can see is black sand and water and I can’t tell which the keys have hit. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“Stop pissing around, partner, and give me the money.”
“The money’s here. Let her go.”
“Looks like we need to develop some trust.” He pulls a knife from his pocket and touches the blade against Jo’s face. I’ve seen how quick he is with that weapon.
I put the bag of money down and step back. “It’s all there, I swear.”
“On your life.” He laughs. I don’t get the joke. “Take another step back,” he says, and I do, so now I’m three feet or so away from the garbage bin.
He pushes Jo forward until she’s level with the bag. He points the gun at her and forces her to crouch down and open it. She follows his instructions, and holds it open so he can see inside. One hundred thousand dollars, stacked neatly, looks back out at him.
He looks up from the money. “Very good,” he says.
She does the bag up and stands back up.
“Now let her go.”
He shoves her in the back, and I manage to catch her before she falls. I realize I should have let her fall and drawn my pistol instead. I realize he’s done this so I would instinctively react to catch Jo rather than whatever else it was I had planned.
“One more thing, asshole,” he says.
I look up knowing exactly what it is I’m going to be seeing, and then seeing exactly what I feared it would be. He has the shotgun pointing at us.
“We had a deal,” I protest, stalling for time.
“A deal, uh huh, we had a deal, and I upheld it, partner. I gave you the woman, I gave her to you in one piece. Untouched, just like you wanted her. What in the hell is your problem?”
I start maneuvering Jo behind me, away from the blast of the gun. I keep pushing at her, reaching behind myself, knowing Cyris will think I’m doing one thing when I’m actually doing another. He thinks I’m being noble. I’m just reaching for my gun.
“You’ve got your money. Now leave us alone.”
“No.”
My fingers curl around the handle. One false move and I could shoot myself in the ass.
“I called the police,” I say.
“Bullshit.”
“They’re watching right now.” I slowly pull the gun upward before putting my finger into the trigger guard. At the same time the breeze whips a load of sand off the beach into our faces.
“I’d better put on a good show.” He pumps the Mossberg. The shell crunches into place.
“I have more money.”
“How much more?”
“Fifty grand.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
I can see he wants to. His head is slightly cocked to the side as if the sound of dollar signs crunching inside his mind is heavy. He’s contemplating what he can do with a hundred and fifty grand. Then he smiles. He has finished contemplating.
“I can get it for you.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
He lowers his gun. Just slightly, but it’s all I need. They say money can’t buy happiness, but they’re wrong. A make-believe fifty thousand dollars has just brought me all the happiness I need.
I bring my arm around, not wanting to fire a gun in public, but not knowing what other option I have. The gun appears in one smooth, sweeping movement that makes Cyris’s eyes open wide. I pull the trigger and the gun must be in full automatic mode, because within a second the clip is empty and the recoil has pulled the gun upward and it’s pointing at the sky. Cyris’s shotgun sounds like thunder, then metal rain fills the air as pellets from the cartridge spray across the railings, but I don’t feel the tug of any impact. The gun falls out of his hands. I must have hit him. I pull the trigger on my gun again, but it’s empty.
He has one arm hanging by his side, but he reaches down to the shotgun with his other one. I run to him before he can get to it, and he realizes that’s how it’s going to be, and he stands up straight and throws a punch at me that I manage to duck. I crash the gun into the side of his head. It jags off his skull and Cyris cries out as his head snaps sideways. The momentum from his swinging punch tugs him forward and he crumples into a heap next to his shotgun. I kick the Mossberg further away. I kick the knife away too. I step back and study him. He’s perfectly still. I kick him. He doesn’t move. But I’ve gone through this before with him.
Jo moves up behind me. “Is he
dead?” she asks.
I shake my head. I dig into my pockets for Landry’s handcuff keys and pull them out. We try for a few seconds to undo her cuffs, but it’s obvious the key won’t fit. “You should go and search for the keys.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no chance of finding them,” she says.
“There’s no chance of finding them if you stay up here,” I tell her.
“Charlie. . what are you going to do?”
“I’ll come down in a minute, okay?”
“Charlie?”
“I’ve got a couple of things to do.”
She slowly nods. “You don’t have to do this, Charlie. We can take him to the police.”
“If he ever gets away he’ll come after us. You know that, don’t you? Or in ten years when they let him out for good behavior. It’s either him or us, Jo. What do you want me to do? Let that happen? He has to pay for what he’s done.”
She doesn’t answer. Instead she raises her cuffed hands over my head and embraces me. We hold each other while I keep my eyes glued to Cyris. He’s not moving. We let go and she runs along the pier as the wind helps her along.
Sand flicks my face and I use my hands to shield my eyes. So much of it is in the air I can’t even see the beach. I have no idea how we’ll find the keys. As I walk toward Cyris I load the magazine of the Glock back up. I find the switch to change it between full auto and single shot. The urge to kill Cyris is with me, and it’s the sort of urge I want to give in to. I don’t doubt he’ll come after us when he’s released from prison after spending the appropriate amount of years that balances the scales for killing at least four people. I grab the rope and Landry’s handcuffs from the trash bin.
I want to kill him. The plan has always been to kill him.
I just don’t think I can.
I guess I knew that all along. It’s why I have the handcuffs. And the rope.