Her eyes snapped back open and she stared over at the big man. “Who the hell are you?” She stood and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and shook him, snapping his lolling head back and forth. “Where’s your friend, goddammit? Where is he?” She kept shaking the giant’s head and watched as the light faded from his eyes and his body sagged as his heart finally ceased to pump.
Alice released the dead man’s shirt when she heard Elton cough up something wet behind her.
“Elton?”
She knelt next to the old man, placed her hands to his face. His eyes blinked open by her touch, then flickered shut. She watched a trickle of blood seep from what remained of his left ear.
“I’m going to get you help. Okay? Just hold on, Elton. Please, hold on.”
She grabbed the knife from the giant’s side, sliced the fish line free from Elton’s wrists and ankles, and gently eased the old man to the floor.
Alice bolted into the kitchen and yanked open drawers, sending silverware, tools, and cookware clanking to the floor. She finally found what she was looking for—she snatched up a roll of tape, grabbed a kitchen towel from its hook, then raced back to Elton’s side and gently eased him up to the sitting position.
“Need to stop the bleeding.”
Elton’s eyes fluttered open as she pressed the kitchen towel to the wound, then began to wrap a few layers of tape around his head.
He mumbled something.
“It’s okay,” Alice whispered.
The old man coughed, then spoke again, his voice a raspy croak. “Is that one of my good kitchen towels?”
She managed to smile at the old man. “I’ll buy you a new one. I swear.” She eased him back to the floor, turned his head so that the weight pressed down on the makeshift bandage, and the flow of blood appeared to taper off.
Alice picked up the phone and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking as she dialed 911. She gave the dispatcher Elton’s home address and told them to Hurry, please hurry.
She went back to Elton’s side, whispered into his ear that everything would be okay, then kissed him on the cheek. He tried to smile. Tried to speak again, but only managed to squeeze her hand instead.
With tears burning in the corners of her eyes, Alice began to search the giant’s front pockets. A wad of cash, a lighter, a set of car keys, some folded receipts. She tried to dig into his back pockets but he was too big, too heavy. She stood up, grabbed one of his massive arms, and pulled—her rib popped and flared, and she dropped his arm with a violent gasp.
She took a breath. Tried again, and finally managed to flip the man over onto his stomach. She dug into his back pockets. No wallet. Just a slip of old, tattered paper. Before she even unfolded the piece of paper, she knew.
Hands trembling, she opened the flier and stared down at the photo of herself, the smiling image from so long ago.
They’re going to keep coming.
Alice crumpled the flier in her hands and couldn’t hold back the tears as she picked up the dead man’s car keys.
* * *
Alice reached into a cabinet for a glass. Her hand rattled so violently that the glass slipped from her grip and shattered on the floor. She tried again. Grabbed another glass with both hands, pulled a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator, and poured some into the glass. She fumbled with the liquor cabinet door and found the bottle of vodka. Poured a few inches into the glass.
Everything was unraveling in her mind, coming apart like a papier-mâché piñata left out in the rain. She set the glass on the counter. Stared at it. Her entire body hummed with the want, the need for a drink.
She picked up the glass again.
Just one drink.
Then she stared over at Delilah, where the girl huddled against the wall and looked back at her with no judgment in her eyes.
They’re going to keep coming.
From outside the house, Alice heard the faint cry of sirens break the quiet that clutched the countryside by the throat. She looked down at her drink, then dumped the vodka into the sink.
She turned back to Delilah—Alice would ask the young girl to help with one last thing.
CHAPTER FORTY
SINCLAIR FOUND HIMSELF sitting alone, a circumstance he didn’t particularly savor. He’d been lingering in the diner for what seemed like hours. Smoking, observing, pretending not to hear the comments his presence elicited from other customers.
He perched in the same booth, sipped on a cold bottle of Budweiser, a cigarette burning in the ashtray beside him. Outside the diner’s windows, a steady rain came down, and judging from the darkened sky, it didn’t appear to be letting up anytime soon. He checked his wristwatch, glanced toward the entrance of Lucy’s, then picked up his cigarette.
Phillip should have returned by now, and Sinclair began to second-guess his decision in sending the big man to the exterminator’s house alone. But sometimes, like with a good hunting dog, he found it best to let the man roam a bit, untethered from his leash. Men like Phillip were wired with the occasional primal need to prowl on their own, left free from scrutiny and observation. Sinclair certainly hoped that his instincts had not been wrong in this particular task.
There had been a shift change, and a new waitress stopped by his table and smiled down at him. “Get you another cold beer, hon?”
Sinclair returned the smile. “Not at the moment. Thank you.” He watched her cross over to another table, examining her large backside with a clinical scrutiny. He crushed out his cigarette, glanced at his watch again, then tapped another cigarette from the pack.
“I could use a cigarette.”
Sinclair looked up at Alice. She looked like hell. Hair wild, cuts up and down her arms, her shirt dotted with blood, but her eyes were steady—focused and cold. Sinclair’s eyes flashed wide, and his thin fingers fumbled with the cigarette. He opened his mouth, attempted to say something, then snapped his head toward the front entrance of the diner.
“Your friend won’t be joining us.” Alice slid into the booth across from him and placed her elbows on the table.
He stared at Alice for a moment, his lips developing a slight twitch.
“I believe you’ve been looking for me.”
Sinclair kept staring at her, then finally extended the pack of cigarettes toward her. “You have cuts on your hands and arms.”
Alice tapped out a cigarette. “I’ll heal. The same can’t be said of your friend though.”
She lit a cigarette and Sinclair did the same. They both inhaled deep and blew out gray clouds of smoke, staring quietly at each other, scrutinizing, waiting to see what might happen next.
“This needs to end,” Alice finally said.
Sinclair forced a weak smile. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
Alice leaned forward. “Your big friend is dead. Two other friends of yours back in Harrisburg, dead as well. I think you might be running out of friends.”
“I have no friends.”
“No?”
“I’m simply passing through town. Perhaps you have me mistaken for someone else.”
The waitress stopped by the table again. “Anything for you, sweetheart?”
“A water will be fine.”
The waitress noticed the blood on Alice’s shirt and arms. “My goodness. You okay, hon?”
“Been fishing. I’ll clean up here in a second.”
The waitress didn’t seem all that convinced but placed a cocktail napkin in front of Alice and hustled away.
“Why don’t you have a beer with me?” Sinclair offered.
“I’m good.”
“You don’t look so good.”
“Neither do you.”
“Not a drinker?”
“Not at the moment.” Alice placed the cigarette to her lips, and her hand didn’t appear to be shaking. “Why don’t we just cut the bullshit?”
“Again, I’m not entirely sure what you’re alluding to.”
Alice sighed. “I have something you w
ant. Unless you don’t want it back.”
“You’re an attractive young woman, Alice. A little rough around the edges, but attractive nonetheless.” Sinclair studied her face, searching for something he couldn’t find. “Tell me, Alice. Why are you here?”
“Do we really have to play this game?”
He sipped his beer. “By your presence here, I’m assuming that the friend you keep referring to was not successful with his visit.”
“Depends on your definition of success. If it means beating a fifteen-year-old girl and torturing an old man, then, yeah, he was extremely successful.”
“Ah. He has a unique set of skills that are, unfortunately, necessary in my line of business. Occasionally, I’m afraid he gets a little overzealous with his technique.”
“You think this is funny?”
“On the contrary. I do not.”
“She’s a kid.”
“If the young girl was with you, Alice, then she was guilty by association.”
“You’re sick.”
“Please. This is merely business.” He tapped his cigarette on the ashtray. “You stole from me. My property. Made me chase you across four states. This is something that I don’t particularly want to be doing with my time.”
“So they deserved to be hurt like that?”
“To be perfectly blunt, yes. And you have good reason to be angry, Alice. As do I. But your friends were placed in harm’s way because of you. You understand that, right?”
“They didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Oh, but they did, Alice. As does anyone that has anything to do with you. It’s very simple. You made that fatal error when you decided to steal from me,” Sinclair said softly.
Alice’s entire body pulsated with a dull rage, growing by each moment she sat across from this man. She dug her fingernail into her palms, trying to repress the image of Elton on the floor, hoping and praying that he would be okay.
“Again, I must ask, why are you here, Alice? I’m curious. Why haven’t you involved the police in this matter—this situation we find ourselves in?”
Alice finally looked away. Just for a second. “Because I think we can resolve this between the two of us.”
“Ah. You prefer to clean up after your own mistakes, perhaps?”
“Something like that.”
The waitress delivered Alice’s water, then quickly retreated. Alice took a sip of the cool water, then drained the entire glass.
“I don’t imagine we have much time. And you better pray that my friend doesn’t die.”
“Praying is of little use to me, Alice.”
“You think you’re clever?”
“We are what we are.”
“I give you back your money and all this stops. That’s it.”
Sinclair lit a new cigarette from the one he still smoked. “Not quite.” He offered her another cigarette as well. She declined.
“What more do you want?”
“Well, simply stated, Alice, I don’t fully trust you. You are resourceful. Somehow, my three best men are no longer living members of society because of you.”
“Maybe you need a better caliber of people.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps I do.”
“You want your money back. I want this to be done. What more is there?”
“Insurance.”
“For what?”
“So that you return my money. Without incident.”
“And how do you propose that happens?”
“You will give my money back, Alice. That you will do.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the photo of Alice and Jason. He slid the picture across the table and placed it directly in front of her. “Your parents seem like lovely people. They truly miss you and are sick with worry about your well-being. Apparently, you’ve been gone for quite some time.”
Alice stared at the photo. She tried to look away, tried to force her eyes off the image of Jason—she knew that it would only make her weaker—but she couldn’t. She remembered the day her parents took the picture. It was Saint Patrick’s Day. Jason had just turned four and he was all amped up about eating green mashed potatoes and green chocolate chip cookies, drinking green milk, and wearing everything green right down to his socks.
She finally returned her gaze to Sinclair and watched the corners of his lips curl into a satisfied smirk. “You’re an asshole.”
“I’ve been called worse.” He tapped his cigarette onto the ashtray. “Now, I realize that you came in here thinking you held all the cards, Alice, but that is not the case. While it is true that I was extremely fond of Phillip—that was the name of the man that you somehow dispatched—we move on.” He picked up the picture and returned it to his pocket. “If you have lied to me and already involved the authorities, your parents will suffer. Believe me, I will make sure that they do. You will bring me the money, Alice. We will part ways, and your parents will continue to draw breath into their lungs. Do we understand each other?”
Alice felt her cigarette burn between her fingers, but she kept it where it was. She drew strength from the discomfort. “What’s your name?”
Sinclair hesitated by the personal nature of the question.
“What can I call you? Give me a fake name if you want.”
Sinclair finally smiled, enjoying the back and forth. “Sinclair will be fine.”
“Okay, Sinclair. Here’s the thing. You don’t trust me. I don’t trust you. But we need each other to tie up this final loose end. I think it’s better for both of us if we stay in each other’s company. Keep an eye on each other. I’ll take you to the money. Then we’ll part ways. That’s the only way we do this.”
He considered the proposal for a moment. Finally nodded. “I guess that would give us a little more time to become better acquainted. I must admit that I’m very curious about you, Alice. I’m sure you have questions for me as well.”
“I don’t.”
“So be it. I would prefer that you drive.”
“Fine.”
“One more thing, Alice. I am carrying a Smith & Wesson 9-millimeter pistol. I suggest that you don’t try anything foolish.”
“Got it. Thanks for the heads-up, Sinclair.”
He let out a sound that didn’t really sound like laughter, but, in fact, it was. “It’s good to keep our sense of humor in situations like these. Now, allow me to settle my tab, then we’ll go and retrieve my property.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THE UNLIKELY PAIR headed north on US 17. A fine mist dotted the windshield, but the clouds overhead, gray and menacing, threatened to crack open once again. The Grand Marquis ran smooth and powerful, hugging the road and sweeping by other cars and tractor-trailers as if they were standing still.
Alice drove, hands wrapped around the leather steering wheel, knuckles white as paper.
Sinclair perched in the passenger seat. In his lap, he held the small Smith & Wesson 9-millimeter pistol he had referred to, his right index finger snug around the trigger. A sign for the US 74/76 East whipped past the car.
“Where exactly are we headed, Alice? Where did you hide my money?”
“Someplace safe. We’re very close.”
“To Wilmington, I take it?”
“Something along those lines.”
“Your answers are often quite vague, Alice.”
“You prefer responses to be black or white?”
“Interesting. I’ve never considered that, but perhaps I do. It’s easier to evaluate an adversary.” Sinclair lit a cigarette. “Let me ask you … did you find what you were looking for when you ran away from your parents?”
Alice kept her focus out the windshield. Regripped the steering wheel. “Eventually.”
“That’s a good thing. Is it not?”
“Took me longer than I’d hoped.”
“Ah. Yes. As most objectives do. They can be very elusive. Especially ones of the emotional nature.”
Alice finally glanced over at him. “Like yo
u really give a shit?”
“Language, Alice. Is it really necessary to speak in such a crude fashion?”
“The language bothers you, but you don’t blink an eye at the fact that two innocent people were beaten and tortured back there? Kinda ironic, isn’t it?”
“Well, unfortunately, things of that nature come with the territory. I guess I’ve grown a thick skin. I’m sure you find me to be quite callous.”
“Doesn’t really matter what I think.”
Sinclair didn’t argue the point. “I’m in search of a little clarity about something, Alice. Did you kill Terry?”
“What?”
“Terry. The man you stole my money from. That Terry.”
Alice stared out at the highway. “Does it matter?”
“Perhaps not, but how does someone like you end up with someone like him?”
“Poor choices.”
“I guess we’re all guilty of bad judgment from time to time,” Sinclair admitted.
Alice glanced over at the pistol resting on his lap, the polished black steel gleaming with oil. “After you get what belongs to you, how do I know that you’ll leave my family alone?”
Sinclair gazed out the window and considered this. “It’s complicated, Alice. It really is. I wish that it wasn’t.”
“We just want to walk away from this. Nothing more.”
Sinclair nodded. “Understandable. I get that. I really do. The problem is this: you can identify me. And due to our present situation, I believe you would if I let you go. You can see the dilemma I’m in, can’t you?”
Alice didn’t have an answer.
“Well, Alice, all good things must come to an end, but all bad things can continue forever.” He took another puff on his cigarette, then flicked it out the window.
“Thornton Wilder,” Alice whispered.
Sinclair smiled at her. “I’m impressed, Alice. I didn’t realize that you were so well-read.”
“Used to be. Used to be a lot of things.”
“Yes. Haven’t we all.” Sinclair watched her for a moment. “It’s truly unfortunate that we met under these circumstances. Another place, another time, perhaps we could have discussed great literature, Alice.”
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