by Marcus Sakey
No. Bennett had always said that the trick was to be very careful until it was time to act boldly. Coming in wasn’t careful. Which meant—
Daniel Hayes crossed her row, all the way at the end, the bright print on his shirt slipping between the tables of diners.
Belinda glanced around. No sign of Bennett. She’d have to move anyway. She touched the pistol through her shirt, then started forward as fast as she dared.
5
After the crowded halls of the food court, the maintenance hall was a stark change. Painted institutional gray and lit by fluorescents, it screamed “employees only.” Daniel stepped into it and around the corner. The hall ran thirty yards before turning the corner. There were a couple of doors near the end, closets maybe?
Halfway down, two men leaned against opposite walls, talking in Spanish. They glanced up at Daniel, then went back to their conversation. Damn. The place was perfect, other than these two.
So get rid of them. He walked over, said, “What, you guys don’t have jobs to do?”
A guilty look flashed across one of their faces, but the other said, “We’re on break. Who are you?”
“Excuse me?’ Daniel raised an eyebrow. “You think this place manages itself?”
“You’re not my boss—”
“Believe me, I am. This is a working market, boys. You’re on break, fine. But don’t be cluttering up my hallways.”
For a moment he thought the man might push him, but then the old power dynamic took over. White man with attitude trumps Hispanic in an apron. A shitty fact of life, maybe, but he’d worry about moral righteousness later. The guilty one said, “Sure, sure, no problem.” They began down the hall, one of them muttering in Spanish, “¿Quien se cree? Mamón presumido.”
“Y cuidate lo que dices, pendejo,” Daniel replied over his shoulder, then did a double-take. Huh. I know Spanish. Cool.
Focus. There wasn’t much time. Before heading into the hallway, he’d walked a couple of circuits of the market, wanting to make sure that the killer was able to follow him. It had been incredibly hard not to look back, knowing that his wife’s murderer was behind. Soon enough, you’ll get a look at the fucker. A look and more.
He raced to the end of the hall, tried the left-hand door. A janitor’s closet, mops and pails and brooms. The door on the other side opened into a small employee bathroom, the tile dingy, a roll of paper towels sitting on the sink.
Make a stand here, or go back out and see what’s around the corner?
Daniel opened the janitor’s closet again. A dark, private place. So long as he didn’t dawdle, he could do anything he wanted here. All he had to do was lure the man in.
He smiled and set to work.
5
Belinda lost Daniel, then, as she rounded the end of the row, saw him vanishing down an employee’s hallway. She took a moment, scanned the crowd. Hundreds of people, the static noise of overlapping conversations, of forks grinding plates and chairs scraping concrete. But no sign of Bennett. Maybe he hadn’t seen Daniel head down this way.
It doesn’t matter. You’re Belinda Nichols. You’re a dangerous woman with a loaded gun. And the man you’ve been looking for just went into an empty hallway.
She took a breath, started forward. A couple of Hispanic guys walked out of the hallway, one of them pissed about something, the other trying to make a joke. Belinda let them pass, then started down the hall.
The floor was tile, the lighting bright. About thirty yards away, the hall turned another corner, maybe out to the trash? Perhaps this whole thing had been a game. Maybe Daniel had known he was being followed, wanted to lose them in the crowd. He could be doubling back right now, heading for his car.
She hurried down the hallway, her sneakers squeaking on the floor. When she was almost to the end, she noticed that the door on the left wall was open a crack. She slowed, glanced behind her, nerves popping like firecrackers. The light inside the door was out, and she couldn’t see much but shadows and shapes . . . and a green and blue pattern. One a lot like the shirt Daniel had worn.
He’s hiding in the closet.
Belinda hurried forward, reached for the handle, and yanked the door open.
5
Daniel had never known his heart could beat so loud. He half worried the killer would hear it. He squeezed his eyes closed, took a deep breath. You get one shot at this.
The mop handle felt right in his hands, the wood smooth, the finish worn off by a thousand nights of cleaning. He listened, knowing the man was coming, wanting him to, but scared too, the fear a taste in his mouth.
Footsteps, and a squeak like tennis shoes.
He held his breath, choked up on the stick. Come on, come on.
The footsteps paused. Then suddenly they were hurrying, and he heard the sound of the door opening.
Now.
With his left hand he ripped open the door to the bathroom and lunged out, the makeshift bat cocked back, ready to take the killer’s head half off, to beat the man helpless. He swung as he stepped out, taking aim at the temple of the—
It was a woman. Lithe, slim, and wearing a baseball cap.
5
Belinda yanked open the door of the janitor’s closet, the light flickering on as she did, so that she could see brooms and mops and a sink with a slow drip, a drop of water trembling at the faucet. A bucket stood just inside the door, the broken handle of a mop sticking straight up, a black Hawaiian shirt with blue and green parrots draped over the top, the whole thing like an anemic scarecrow. What the—
There was a noise behind her, the scrape of a door, and she whirled, one hand flying to her belt, fumbling against the gun as Daniel Hayes surged at her, a mop handle in one fist. She flinched back, watching that arc of wood whistling toward her with more than enough force to bat her arm aside. She could imagine the snapping sharp pain that would numb her hand, then the smack as it hit her head, stars and comets and the world hopping.
Only the blow never landed. At the last second Daniel pulled it, twisting awkwardly to bring the club whistling over her head. Momentum kept him going, following through like a batter at a pitch, and he stopped, arms up in an awkward backhand pose. He froze. His fingers opened, and the stick clattered to the floor.
Belinda lowered her hands. Daniel stared at her. It looked like he was trying to speak but had forgotten the muscles. He blinked, gaped, blinked. Managed to twist his lips into motion. “You?” His voice dry and thin. “But. You’re—”
“Dead. I know. I’m so, so sorry, Daniel.”
And then Laney Thayer stepped forward and threw her arms around her husband.
ACT TWO, PART TWO
“People always think something’s all true.”
—J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye
S
omeone had hooked electrodes up to either ear and slammed waves of electricity through his skull. His brain was static and noise. Questions surged on that buzzing sea, thoughts tumbled and spun. The mop handle slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a hollow clatter.
His wife was alive.
Dressed in a plain T-shirt and jeans, her hair now blond and pulled through the back of her baseball cap, a splotchy mark like a bruise running up her cheek and across one eye, but all of that no more concealing to his eyes than tissue paper. There were the high cheekbones, the pale pink lips he’d kissed a hundred thousand times, the long graceful neck, and the eyes, the eyes, bright and alive.
The connection between body and mind strained. He felt like a marionette with half the strings cut, a jerky, drunken thing. Was he going mad, really mad? Had all of this been some crazy dream? How could she possibly . . .
He blinked, swallowed, made his lips move. “You? But. You’re—”
“Dead. I know. I’m so, so sorry, Daniel.” Emily Sweet’s voice, the one he’d followed home from the edge of death. And then Laney threw herself at him, her arms ringing his sides and squeezing, her body fitting tight, the smell of her, that ol
d familiar smell of home.
His wife was alive. Alive, and in his arms.
The wife whose loss had driven him to suicide. The woman he had fallen back in love with only to realize she was gone. Somehow she had crawled out of the underworld to stand in his arms.
A choking sound wrenched from his chest, and he pulled her tighter. She responded, crying and laughing against him, her skin warm, and the charge running through his body was like a swim in ancient waters, like finishing a screenplay, like over-proof bourbon and an expensive cigar, like making love for the first time. He could flex his arms and knock down the world.
“I thought you were. My god, how— Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” Her words tumbling against his chest. “I wanted to find you, but you were gone, and I couldn’t go to the police, he had to think I was dead, it was the only way.”
“The only way to— What do you mean?”
“We have to go.” Laney pushed back from him, glanced down the hall. “Bennett’s here.”
“What’s a Bennett?” His fingers tasted the softness of her arms.
She cocked her head, said, “Huh?”
“I don’t know what—”
“Bennett, Bennett, the guy who.” She stopped. “Are you okay?”
“Well . . .”
Someone laughed out in the common area, and the echo of the sound made her jump. “Later. Let’s go. You have to trust me.” Laney’s eyes entreated. “Can you trust me?”
Nothing made sense. His wife back from the dead. Scared. Someone named Bennett was here. That must be the killer. The one he had been trying to trap. Only it had been Laney. And she wasn’t dead, so there wasn’t a killer. But then, someone had come after Sophie. And Laney was saying— He blinked, said, “Of course.”
“Hurry.” She grabbed his hand, their fingers lacing with easy habit; he could remember the way they slid together, but there was no time to savor it as she tugged him down the hall. The fluorescent lights a blur, his heart singing. They rounded the corner, stepped back into the market proper.
And directly in front of a man with a gun.
“Hello, kids,” the man said. “Miss me?”
Laney’s fingers tightened on his, hard enough that he could feel the fear humming in her skin.
“You look good for a dead woman, sister. You made a hell of a cleaning lady too.” The guy seemed relaxed, like he was chancing on old friends. His black shirt and pressed slacks, his neat hair and bland expression juxtaposed against the pistol to create a shattering dissonance. What had Sophie said? He was so calm. Smiling, always smiling. I think he could have done anything to me, and then gone on about his day. Not felt a thing about it.
“Bennett?” Daniel asked, knowing the answer.
“The one and only.” The man had his back to the patio area, gun held low and out of sight, and none of the hundreds of people behind him seemed to have a clue what he was doing. “Let me guess, I look different than you expected. Taller, and with a bigger cock.” He smiled, turned back to Laney. “Speaking of my cock, it’s nice to see you again, sister.”
“I’ll scream,” Laney said.
Bennett shrugged. “Go for it.”
She opened her mouth, hesitated.
“Thought not. You scream, maybe the man who comes to rescue you is a cop. And you don’t want to be talking to any police, do you?”
Daniel turned from one to the other. He felt like he was lagging behind the conversation. By the time he’d processed one set of words, the next had come and gone. It had to be a blackmail thing, he’d put that much together, but the way this guy was goading Laney, it seemed like he knew her personally. And what was she doing? Why not scream? “Why don’t we want to be talking to the police?”
Bennett laughed. “I love it. Why do you think, Dan?”
“I have no idea.”
“Sure you do—”
“No, I fucking don’t. But if you don’t stop pointing a gun at my wife, I’m going to . . .”
“What? You’re going to what? Kill me?”
“Stop it,” Laney said. “You can’t shoot us. If you do, you don’t get the necklace.”
“I don’t have to shoot both of you, sweetheart. For your next role, how about life as a widow?” The pistol swung half a degree to center on Daniel’s chest.
She stiffened. “No.”
Daniel wanted to act, to do something, but he didn’t know what. It had felt right to threaten Bennett, but jumping him would be suicide. The man may have been all smiles and ease, but the pistol was steady, and his finger was inside the trigger guard.
“I want what I’m owed, sister. Then we can all get on with our lives. I promise.”
“I remember what your word is worth.”
“Oh, snap,” Bennett said. “Ouch. I’m cut to the quick.” His smile could have curdled milk. “Let’s go. Back down the hallway.”
“I don’t think so.” Laney’s right hand blurred to her shirt and came out with a gun of her own.
What the fuck?
Bennett snickered. “You can’t shoot me, Laney. Any more than you could go to the police.”
“I’m not going to shoot you,” she said. “I’m going to put you in the spotlight.” Then his wife pointed the pistol skyward and pulled the trigger three times fast.
The crack of gunfire was unbelievably loud, setting his ears ringing. For a moment, nothing happened, just silence and the slipping smile on Bennett’s face.
Then the screaming began. Chaos hit as if God had flipped a switch, everyone lunging into motion at the same time. People threw themselves to their feet, upended tables, sent chairs clattering. Everyone went in different directions, tangling with one another as they searched for an exit or looked for the source of the gunfire. Dropped glasses shattered on the concrete, and somewhere someone shrieked, a high-pitched sound like steel on his teeth.
Laney’s hand grabbed his and yanked. “Run!” He caught a split-second look at Bennett’s face, fury and calculation mingling, the gun hand coming up, and then the pull of Laney’s momentum snapped him into motion. He started after her into the maelstrom, people shoving and shouting. Laney’s slim frame was no match for the chaos. He shook his hand free of hers and took the lead, lowering his shoulder and tightening his arm, bull-rushing a hole for them, adrenaline and panic powering their flight.
But even as he ran, his mind was racing faster. What the hell is going on?
5
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Bennett spun on his heel, took in the scene, mob mentality at its worst. Most people were trying to escape, but some would be coming this way, wannabe heroes and security guards, maybe even cops. Laney and Daniel took off, and instinct brought his pistol up, tracking their retreating backs. Ten feet, child’s play. One shot, two shot, red shot, blue shot.
Only morons play a losing hand. Killing them wouldn’t get him paid. But it might get him caught. He tucked the gun away. Laney and Daniel disappeared into the crowd, bobbing heads in a sea of frightened humanity.
You’ve gotten smarter, little girl. You’re not the wide-eyed kid I remember.
He turned and sprinted down the maintenance hallway.
5
They’d fought their way to the edge of the market, one of the gates in sight, the river of people now moving mostly in one direction. A woman fell, and Daniel bent to haul her to her feet before she was trampled. A man behind him shoved past, his knee connecting with Daniel’s shoulder as he rose, almost sending him tumbling. Daniel shoved him, then fought forward.
“This way!” Laney slid past, quicksilvering through the crowd. He followed, and then they were through the gate and into the western parking lot, a lane of cars backing onto Fairfax.
Laney turned to make sure he’d made it. The neck of her shirt was torn, and she’d lost the ball cap. She still held the gun in one hand, like she’d forgotten it was there.
“Put that away,” he said, and she looked startled, then hid it under her shi
rt.
“Let’s go.” She turned toward the north lot.
He grabbed her arm. “No. This way.”
“What? Why?”
“Just trust me.”
For a moment he thought she would argue, but she nodded again. They ran south, away from their cars, the space opening as people spread out. Hit Third at a sprint, the street a mess, cars spun the wrong direction, a collision in the center lane, running people scrambling over hoods and between bumpers, horns screaming. They darted across, came to a black wrought iron fence on the other side. “Come on,” he said, and cupped his hands for her. She stepped into them, grabbed the top, then jumped over. He followed, the metal digging into his stomach as he balanced and dropped.
They were in a huge apartment complex. It seemed strangely familiar, tall towers surrounded by town houses, the whole thing landscaped and organized. Curious children stared from the playground at the corner.
Laney was running again. The streets angled in spokes from the towers, every intersection looking the same, but she seemed to know her way, and he followed, panting now, his shoulder throbbing where he’d been kicked. After they had gone maybe half a mile, Laney slowed to a jog, then a walk. She didn’t even seem to be breathing hard. “I left my car back there,” she said.
“I know,” gasp, “me too.”
“So why did we come this way?”
He stopped, laced his fingers over his head. “Bennett wasn’t in the spotlight anymore.”
Laney narrowed her eyes. “He went for our cars.”
“That’s what a smart bad guy would do.”
She stepped forward, put her hands on his cheek. “That’s my brilliant writer husband.” Then she kissed him, and everything else—the horns in the distance, the police sirens drawing closer, the crack of gunfire, the sun in the sky, and the ground below—went away.
A long moment later, when he could breathe again, he said, “I’m so glad you’re not dead.”
“Me too. You, I mean. I thought Bennett— When I couldn’t find you, I thought maybe he had.”
Daniel shook his head. “No. I wasn’t in L.A.”