Alex Kava Bundle

by Alex Kava

  Charlie took the gun, keeping it low and out of sight but turning it over and over as if it were a new toy.

  Melanie wanted to grab it away from him. She wanted to tell Jared to forget it. She wanted to speed away and not give him a choice. Instead, she sat there frozen, continuing to grip the wheel, trying to ignore the trickle of sweat that slid down her back.

  “We’ve never had to use a gun before.” She finally found her voice, though it sounded like someone else’s, small and weak. But it was something she was proud of. Charlie and she had never used any kind of weapon. Unless you counted the wire clothes hanger Charlie used to pop the locks of Saturn doors.

  She checked the rearview mirror. Jared was transferring the contents of his duffel bag to the pockets of his coverall. “We’ve never had to use a gun before,” she repeated, this time a little louder.

  “I heard you the first time,” her brother said without looking up. “You don’t need a gun when you’re pulling off piddly little shit jobs.”

  She wanted to tell him that those piddly little shit jobs had kept her and Charlie off the streets and living quite comfortably for almost ten years. But there was no way she could stand up to Jared with her cheeks burning and her voice shaky. He didn’t seem to think they were piddly shit jobs five years ago. She met his eyes again in the rearview mirror, calm, dark eyes. How could he be so calm?

  “Remember everything I told you, Charlie?” His eyes never left Melanie’s.

  “Yup,” her son answered so quickly, so confidently that Melanie jerked around to look at him, shocked to find the red kerchief up over the lower part of his face and a black stocking cap pulled down over his forehead. All she could see were his eyes. She stared at him as he shoved the gun into one of the coverall’s oversize pockets, treating it as if it were something he handled every day.

  “Leave the car running.” Jared lifted his kerchief over his nose and mouth.

  Melanie looked from one to the other. Didn’t they realize how ridiculous they looked? Then suddenly she decided she wanted this over with, the sooner, the better. Of course, she’d leave the car running, and she reached to turn off the A/C.

  “We don’t need the engine overheating at a time like this.”

  “Good idea, Mel,” Jared muttered through the cloth, and his rare compliment actually seemed to soothe her a little.

  Jared hesitated, checking out the parking lot, craning his neck and looking in all directions. They were out of sight from the traffic and no one had gone in or out of the bank since they had parked. But how much time had that been? Melanie tried to remember.

  “Let’s go,” Jared said, and Charlie didn’t hesitate at all.

  She watched them in the rearview mirror cross the short distance to the front entrance. Her fingers drummed the steering wheel. Her right foot tapped uncontrollably. Maybe Charlie had gotten that habit from her. She looked away from the bank’s entrance for five or ten seconds. Glancing into the rearview mirror, she noticed that her lower lip was red and bruised from biting down on it. She tucked a strand of hair back up into the cap. And that’s when she heard the first blast, muffled but loud enough to make her jump. She sat forward, searching the surroundings, hoping to see a car backfiring. The next shots came fast, one after another, three, maybe four. She hadn’t counted. She couldn’t breathe, how could she count? Before she could react, she saw Charlie and Jared racing out of the bank’s entrance, their figures filling the rearview mirror. She sat paralyzed, unable or unwilling to turn around and watch them out the back window. Instead, she stared at the mirror, pieces of them rushing closer.

  Jared jumped in beside her. “Go. Go now. Get the fuck going.”

  “What happened? I heard shots.”

  “Just get the fuck out of here.”

  Charlie flew into the back seat as she shifted into drive and floored it, not even noticing the back door was still open until she saw in her side mirror that Charlie was hanging out, struggling to close it. She automatically slowed the car.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Jared slid across the front seat and slammed his foot on top of hers, pushing the accelerator and sending the car fishtailing around the access road. She swung wide to miss a semitrailer as she ran a stop sign, garnering a blast of his horn. The noise startled her and she jerked the car to the other side, throwing Jared up against his door. It took his foot off the accelerator.

  “Up ahead.” Jared pointed. “Back behind Sapp Brothers. I left a car for us, so we can dump this one.” But before Melanie could get to the intersection, she heard a siren. And before she saw the black and white in the rearview mirror, she knew it was coming for them.

  CHAPTER 15

  4:33 p.m.

  Melanie wished she could wake herself up. This had to be a fucking nightmare. Things couldn’t possibly have gone so wrong, so fast. Even her vision seemed blurred, the buildings and landscape a swirl of concrete and green speeding past the car windows. Only the buildings and landscape weren’t moving. She was. Fast. She was overwhelmed by a sensation of slipping and sliding as if out of control on black ice.

  Jared’s voice came to her in a muffled monotone. She could make out one or two words: “faster,” “turn.” It was difficult to hear over the whining sound that filled her head. Difficult, and yet she could hear Charlie retching in the back seat. He must still be on the floor. She couldn’t see him in the rearview mirror. All she could see were red and blue flashing lights and the cruiser’s grill so close that it looked like shark’s teeth ready to bite and swallow them whole.

  But through all the chaos she could still hear Charlie, her poor Charlie, retching and gagging. The sour smell of vomit filled the car, and Melanie felt her own stomach lurch. It wasn’t the smell of vomit that nauseated her. It was something else…warm and rancid yet almost sweet.

  “Get back on 50,” Jared yelled at her. “Get the hell out of this maze.”

  She took a sharp left only to realize it was another parking-lot entrance and not an intersection.

  “Fuck,” Jared screamed at her. “There. Turn there!”

  Where he was pointing looked like another parking lot. She missed the turn, jumped the curb and heard the sickening crunch of metal as the bottom of the car scraped the concrete. But the sound wasn’t as awful as Jared’s continued commands. He kept yelling at her to get back on Highway 50. She had no idea which way that was. She had lost all sense of direction. All she could see were buildings and parking lots and access roads. She twisted the steering wheel until the screech of tires told her to stop. The force spun the car around, almost a U-turn. And there on the other side of the cruiser barreling down on her was the traffic of Highway 50.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jared muttered, but he no longer dared to reach for the steering wheel or attempt to step on the accelerator.

  Melanie held her breath. She wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to become invisible. She wanted to get the fuck out of here and go home. The black and white began to skid, avoiding hitting her by mere inches, the cars so close she could see the officer’s face under the wide-brimmed hat. He was young. That much she could tell. And she thought he looked more surprised than angry. She heard another crunch of metal and squeezed her eyes shut, expecting to feel some impact, some repercussions. When she opened them again, Jared was twisted in his seat, staring out the back window.

  “You did it, Mel. You fucking did it.”

  She didn’t turn around. She didn’t look in the mirror. She didn’t want to know what she had done. Instead, she stepped on the accelerator and headed for the intersection. At the stoplight she hesitated.

  “South,” Jared told her. “Turn right. We want to leave Douglas County, remember?”

  She glanced at him and only then did she notice the front of his coverall was wet and stained. That was when she recognized the smell that filled the car. It wasn’t just Charlie’s vomit. It was blood.

  CHAPTER 16

  4:46 p.m.

  Platte River State Park<
br />
  “So you think I have no life?” Andrew revived the subject as he shoved aside his plate and drained his second bottle of Bud Light. He rarely finished one.

  Tommy sliced another chunk off his filet and stuffed it in his mouth. He had left his cell phone out on the table after losing the connection and trying to call back whoever had called him. He had pretended the phone call had been no big deal. Yeah, right. That’s why he kept glancing at it as if expecting it to ring. “I’m just calling it like I see it, Murderman.”

  “Murderman.” Andrew still smiled at the nickname Tommy and the other Omaha detectives had given him. Actually he liked it enough to use it for his e-mail address. That they had even bothered to give him a nickname had been a sign—an odd one, but still a good one—that the group approved of him.

  He sat back in the wrought-iron chair, part of the bistro set on the screened-in porch. They had chosen to eat out here despite the stifling humidity. Andrew glanced at the sky. If only it would just rain and get it over with, but the thunderheads kept their distance, preferring just to threaten. The wind, however, had picked up, and the breeze was refreshing. It brought with it the scent of pine needles and the lulling sound of cicadas.

  Andrew watched his friend devour a forkful of deli potato salad, following it with a bite of the garlic bread he had grilled alongside the filets. One thing Andrew had learned through his friendship with Tommy was that cops could eat no matter what the circumstances or surroundings were. He had watched Tommy chow down on a blood-rare porterhouse steak while showing Andrew Polaroids of a dismembered corpse.

  Watching his friend, he realized, not for the first time, how very different the two of them were.

  “You know, we probably wouldn’t have even liked each other as kids?” The beer was starting to give him a buzz.

  “I don’t know about that,” Tommy said. “You want that last piece of garlic bread?”

  Andrew shook his head. “Seriously, though. You played tackle football in the middle of the streets during the summertime. I hid between chores on the farm just so I could read.”

  “We didn’t play in the streets,” Tommy corrected him, getting up from the table. “We played in the parking lot behind Al’s Bar and Grill,” he added now from inside the cabin as he pulled the last two beers from the fridge.

  “You and your friends would have picked on me. You probably would have called me a sissy or a wuss.”

  Tommy handed him one of the bottles before sitting back down. “Kids do stupid stuff.”

  “Even now, you have to admit we’re pretty different. You’re South Omaha Polish dogs with kraut. You’re an usher or some fricking thing at Saint Stanislaus. You coach Little League for your four daughters.”

  “I see what you’re saying,” Tommy said. “You’re saying we reversed roles or something, right? You saying I’m the wuss now?”

  Andrew laughed. He knew Tommy was humoring him, indulging his buzz. The beer seemed to have had no effect on Detective Pakula.

  “You investigate murders. You step over corpses, collect maggots, poke around entrance and exit wounds. I just write about it.”

  “And you do a hell of a job.” Tommy held up another forkful of potato salad in a salute.

  “You deal in real life. I deal in make-believe.”

  “So what’s your point?” But there was no impatience in his friend’s tone, only curiosity.

  “I guess I understand why you think I have no life.”

  “Oh, I see.” This time Tommy sat back, finally realizing Andrew was serious and not joking around. “I didn’t mean your work. I meant your personal life. When was the last time you were in a relationship? Or wait, I’ll make it easier for you—when was the last time you got laid?”

  “I told you there was someone I was interested in.”

  “Oh, that’s right. A woman who’s already sort of involved in a long-term relationship. The one who lives about a thousand miles away.”

  “See, why do I tell you personal stuff if you’re just gonna make fun?”

  “I’m not making fun. Hey, I can see where it might be safe to want somebody who doesn’t want you back.”

  “Safe? Sure you don’t mean stupid?”

  “No, I mean safe. Especially safe for a guy like you.”

  “A guy like me?”

  “Okay, now don’t go getting postal with me.” Tommy held up his hands in mock surrender.

  “I’m not. Go on. Explain yourself.” Andrew grabbed his third Bud Light by the bottle’s neck and took a sip.

  “You keep saying you don’t do commitment, right? As soon as a woman starts showing any signs of getting serious you start running in the opposite direction. So, who do you choose to fall in love with? A woman who ain’t ever gonna get serious on you.”

  “So, if your theory is correct, I’m a real schmuck.”

  “Oh, yeah, big-time.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Actually, you’re not a schmuck. It’s evidently your method of survival.”

  “You’re saying I don’t really have feelings for this woman?”

  “I’m saying it’s safe to have feelings for her. You said she told you she’s in with this guy for the long haul.”

  “Maybe she’s confused.”

  “Maybe she enjoys jerking you around. You don’t think she gets off having someone like you pining for her?”

  Andrew sat back again, rubbing his jaw as if Tommy had just sucker punched him. The woman in question, an attractive redhead named Erin Cartlan, owned a small bookshop in lower Manhattan. They had met two years before when she introduced herself at Book Expo America and invited him to schedule a book signing at her store. She was attractive and witty, and he could still swear that she had been flirting with him that weekend though she denied it later, pretending not to know what he was even talking about. Since then they had maintained a sort of friendship, more professional than personal, although Andrew had to admit he constantly found himself hoping it would turn into something more.

  Tommy was staring at him, shaking his head. “Crap, now I’ve got you thinking about her. You won’t get any writing done.”

  “I think you just like to see me miserable.”

  “That’s my whole point. I don’t like seeing you miserable. You’re missing what I’m saying here. You seem content to pine for a woman you can’t have. You write about crime scenes and autopsies but pass up opportunities to see them firsthand. You don’t even want to eat the fish you catch.” He shook his head. “From where I sit, that’s not exactly living life to its fullest.”

  Andrew felt the heat crawl up his neck, but he kept the anger from his voice when he said, “I didn’t bring enough beers for this conversation.”

  “You know I’m saying what I’m saying ’cause I care about you. You know that, right? Oh, fuck.” Tommy grabbed for his belt, twisting the electronic pager attached so he could read the LED. “Sorry, buddy, something’s going on. I’m gonna need to take off.”

  Tommy grabbed his cell phone and started to leave but stopped at the porch door. “You sure you’re gonna be okay out here?”

  Andrew shrugged with his good shoulder then nodded. “Yeah, of course.” But he was still thinking about Erin and wondering how he’d ever fill those blank notebook pages now.

  CHAPTER 17

  5:15 p.m.

  Highway 50

  Melanie stabbed at the button on the car’s door, locking and unlocking it, then finally bringing down her window. She needed to breathe. She needed some fresh air, some relief from the smell of vomit and blood. She gulped down the warm, damp wind then, grabbing her baseball hat before it blew away, she punched the button for the window to close.

  “We need to backtrack,” Jared told her, sitting sideways in his seat and watching out the back window.

  She saw the gun in his lap, his finger still on the trigger. In the rearview mirror she watched for Charlie. The gags and awful retching had stopped. Occasionally she saw his head bob
up into view.

  “I said we need to turn around.” Jared’s voice had returned to calm and demanding. “We need to dump this car.”

  He reached into the back seat, and Melanie thought he was checking on Charlie. Instead, he grabbed Charlie’s gun by its nose, holding it as though it was contaminated. He opened his window and tossed the gun, flinging it into the grassy ditch. He kept his own gun in his lap while he reached into the back seat and pulled up his duffel bag.

  “Turn around up here,” he told her again without looking at her or the road.

  She heard the duffel bag’s zipper, but she kept her eyes on the highway, glancing in the rearview and side mirrors, watching, expecting at any minute to see them fill with blue and red flashing lights. The highway divided up ahead—he must mean the next intersection. She could see the road sign indicating the turnoff for Springfield. Oncoming traffic had tapered to a few cars. She could do a U-ie without much fuss. She started to slow down, watching the line of traffic behind her, some cars already moving over to the temporary passing lane to pass by them. She felt relief that none of the cars looked like police cruisers, yet the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach warned her it was pushing their luck to head back into the line of fire. But she had to trust that Jared knew what he was doing.

  “Forget about it,” Jared said suddenly. “Just keep going.”

  “There’s not that much traffic. I can do it.”

  “Fuck it. Keep going.”

  And then, as they got closer, she saw it. On their left at the Phillip 66 Station was a black and white, Sarpy County Sheriff’s Department in bold print on its side. She hadn’t noticed it before because it had been partially hidden by the gas pumps. Now, as they drove by, there it was.