“Is that right?”
“Yes. It’s something a man would carry. A sailor maybe, or soldier. But I don’t think you’re either of those, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are a serious person, though. I can tell.”
She didn’t respond, looked out the window at the traffic passing by, the sound of the wipers lulling her. She felt herself drifting.
“So,” he said.
She opened her eyes. He was watching her again. “What?”
“Forgive me for asking, I know it is none of my business, but you have made me curious.”
“About what?”
“The bag. What is in it?”
She met his eyes in the rearview. “A million dollars.”
He laughed, nodded. “A million dollars. How is it they say? Oh, yes. ‘Good one.’” He laughed again. “A million dollars. Very good, indeed.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Back home, she dropped the duffel on the floor, broke out a new cell from its plastic packaging. She activated it, punched in Rathka’s number.
Monique answered. “Miss Hendryx, I think Mister Rathka’s been trying to reach you. Please hold.”
Crissa carried the phone to the sliding glass door, opened the blinds. Rain pocked the surface of the inlet, the water gray and churning, the same color as the sky. In her mind, she saw blackened, twisted embers smoking in the rain, grinning skulls buried in ash.
When Rathka came on the line, he said, “I’ve tried calling you. There was no answer.”
“I switched phones. What’s wrong?”
A pause on the other end of the line. Silence. She felt her stomach tighten. “Tell me.”
“It’s our friend in Texas. Something happened.”
“What?”
“That situation I told you about, with another inmate. It came to a head. In a bad way.”
She closed her eyes, drew in breath. “Is he dead?”
“No. He’s a little beat up, but he’ll be okay, as far as that goes. What I know, I got from our guard. Apparently, there were some threats made yesterday afternoon by that other inmate. Made where others could hear them. Our friend didn’t respond, just went back to his cell. Then last night, right before lockdown, he went down to where this other inmate was playing cards, in the common room. He had a knife made from a bed spring. At least, that’s what they’re saying.”
She breathed in, out. “What happened?”
“They got into it right there. In front of witnesses, a pair of guards, security cameras, the whole thing.”
“Did Wayne kill him?” Conscious she had used his name for the first time, not caring.
“No, but close. They medevaced the inmate out to a hospital not far from the facility. I checked earlier today. He’s still in intensive care.”
“Will he live?”
“No one knows right now.”
“What about the hearing?”
Rathka didn’t answer. There was no need to.
She felt light-headed, moved to the couch, sat. She had a vision of Wayne walking down the tier, moving toward his fate, taking control of it, not letting his future be decided by someone else.
We were so close, baby, she thought. So close.
She opened her eyes, felt the water there, blinked it away.
“I’m sorry,” Rathka said.
“He did it for me.”
“What?”
“He told me I should move on. That I should forget him. That it was better that way.”
She looked at the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. You were wrong, baby, she thought. You were wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Are you still there?” Rathka said.
“Yeah.” She looked out at the rain.
“I’m expecting some more news from our guard soon. Maybe something about the other inmate’s condition. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway. Not anymore.”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind. Let me know what you find out. I’ll have this number for a few days.”
“I will. And again, I’m sorry.”
“I am, too,” she said, and ended the call.
* * *
She sat on the couch, watched rain sluice down the sliding glass door, listened to it drum on the roof. The duffel full of money was at her feet, the bag with Jimmy’s cut beside it. She would take it to him tomorrow maybe, tell him everything that had happened. Tell him about Wayne.
For months, she’d lived with the hope that with enough money, enough luck, he would be out of there, back with her. Then, one day, Maddie, too. The three of them together at last, a family. All of that gone now.
Wind rattled the glass. A low howl filled the room.
But she was through running. Through waiting for something that was never going to come, that she couldn’t have. This was her life now. Not something in the future she could put together, piece by piece, like a puzzle, trying to make everything fit.
This was it. There was nothing else. And no more running. If anyone came looking for her, they could find her here.
She took out the Tomcat, eased back the slide to check the chambered shell. It was a good weapon after all, solid, dependable. She set it on the arm of the couch.
Rain blew against the glass. She put a hand over the cold gun. Tomorrow she’d call Rathka back, set up that new account for Maddie, start moving money around. She had enough of it now, all she needed for the moment. Enough to buy a new name, a new set of papers, a start on a new life.
But that was tomorrow. Right now there was just the gray sky, the wind, the darkening room, the bag of cash at her feet, the gun under her hand. All she had in the world. All she might ever have. And not enough.
ALSO BY WALLACE STROBY
Cold Shot to the Heart
Gone ’til November
The Heartbreak Lounge
The Barbed-Wire Kiss
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
KINGS OF MIDNIGHT. Copyright © 2012 by Wallace Stroby. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Stroby, Wallace.
Kings of midnight / Wallace Stroby.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-00037-8 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-5116-6 (e-book)
1. Crime—Fiction. 2. Female offenders—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.T755K56 2012
813'.6—dc23
2011045371
e-ISBN 9781429951166
First Edition: April 2012
Kings of Midnight Page 21