by Mark Dawson
He looked down. A patch of blood. “No. I’m fine. It’s his.”
She turned to the front of the room and the splatter of blood across the bare concrete floor. Her face whitened as she took it in and what it meant. He could read her mind: the horror at what he was capable of doing, the ease and efficiency with which he had maimed the man. How did someone like him, so quiet and closed-in, explode with such a terrifying eruption of violence? How did he even have it in him? Milton recognised the look that she was giving him. He had seen it before. He knew that it would presage a change in the way that she felt about him. She was going to have to see more of it, too, before the day was over. Worse things. It couldn’t possibly be the same afterwards. Tenderness and intimacy would be the first casualties of what he was going to have to do to get them out.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s fine. I’m going to get us out.”
“Don’t worry? John––?”
“Are you sure you’re alright? They didn’t hurt you?”
“No. They just threw me in here. They asked me a few questions about you but that was it.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Who you are, what you do, how long I’ve known you.”
He took her by the shoulders. “I’m very sorry,” he said, looking into her eyes. She flinched a little. “You should never have been involved. I don’t know how they found out about you. They must’ve been following me.”
“I don’t understand why, though? Why would they follow you? What have you done?”
“Nothing.”
“What you did to that man––Jesus, John, you fucked him up––are you some sort of criminal?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“It’s to do with the girls they’ve found.”
“Which girls? The ones on the beach?”
“I know who did it.”
“Who?”
“Governor Robinson,” the other girl, Karly, answered. “Right?”
“Do you know him?” Milton asked.
“I worked for him.”
“And you had a relationship with him?”
She nodded.
Milton asked her to explain what had happened and she did: how Robinson had discarded her, how she had gone to Crawford for help and how the bikers had abducted her and brought her here.
“You know he’s dead?”
“No,” Karly said, her mouth falling open.
“What do you mean?” Eva said.
“This morning. They found him in his hotel room. They’re saying suicide, but I don’t think it was that. Robinson was seeing the three girls they’ve found up on Headlands Lookout. I’m guessing the same thing happened with them as happened to you, Karly.”
“He killed them?”
“I doubt he knew anything about it. Crawford found out about them, maybe they threatened to expose Robinson, and he covered everything up. I spoke to Robinson yesterday afternoon and told him I knew about him and Madison. I said if he didn’t go to the police and tell them that he was seeing her then I’d do it for him. The names of the girls came out this morning. If I had to guess, I’d say he found out. It wouldn’t have been difficult to work out what had happened to them after that. He went to Crawford and confronted him and Crawford killed him.”
Eva listened and, as he explained more, her disbelief was replaced with incredulity. “So who are these men?”
“They’re working with Crawford.”
Eva’s brow clenched angrily. “None of this has anything to do with me.”
“I know it doesn’t. They took you to get my attention. They’ve got it now but they’re going to wish they hadn’t.”
“John––look around. We’re stuck.”
“No, we’re not. These boys aren’t the smartest. There are plenty of things we can use in here.”
She picked up a utensil from the table. “A plastic knife isn’t going to do us much use against a gun, and I doubt they’ll let you come at them with a bottle again.”
He picked up a roll of duct tape from the table. “I can do better than a plastic knife,” he said.
HE DIDN’T KNOW how long they had. Two hours, Smokey had said, but it might have been more or it might have been less, and he wasn’t sure how much time had already passed. He had to make his move now. Milton went to the stack of beer, tore away the rest of the cellophane wrapper on the top tray and took out three bottles. He took the duct tape and wrapped each bottle, running the tape around it tightly until they were completely sealed. He needed to make sure the caps didn’t pop off. A little resin would have been perfect but that was asking for too much. This should work well enough. It was the best he could do.
He opened the microwave and stood the bottles neatly inside.
“What are you doing?” Eva asked him.
“Creating a diversion.” He closed the microwave door. “I’ve seen four men. One of them won’t be a problem, so that makes three. Have you seen any more?”
“No.”
“Karly?”
“Four, I think.”
“Did you see any guns?”
“He had a gun.”
“I mean big guns––a shotgun, anything like that?”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“I think I saw one,” Karly said.
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. Yes. I’m sure.”
They would be wary of him now. It wasn’t going to be easy.
“Both of you––get to the back of the room. In the corner. And when the time comes, look away.”
“What are you doing?”
“Trust me, okay? I’m getting us out.”
“‘When the times comes?’ What does that mean?”
“You’ll know.”
Milton set the microwave’s timer to fifteen minutes and hit the start button.
He hammered on the door.
Footsteps approached.
“What?”
“Alright,” he called out.
“What you want?” It was the red-haired biker, Orangutan.
“I’ll talk. Whatever you want.”
Footsteps going away.
There was a pause. Milton thought he could hear voices. They were muffled by the door.
Minutes passed.
The foghorns boomed out.
He watched the seconds tick down on the counter.
14.12.
13.33.
12.45.
Footsteps coming back again.
“Stand back,” Smokey called. “Right up against the far wall. I’m coming in with a shotgun. Don’t try and do anything stupid or I’ll empty both barrels into your face.”
Milton looked down at the microwave timer.
9.18.
9.16.
9.14.
It would be close. If they noticed it too quickly, it wouldn’t work and he didn’t have a Plan B. If the man did have a shotgun he would be hopelessly outmatched. Too late to worry about that. He stepped all the way back, putting himself between the microwave and the two women.
The door unlocked.
It opened.
Smokey did have a shotgun: a Remington. The room was narrow and not all that long. A spread couldn’t really miss him from that range and the man was careful now, wary, edging into the room, his eyes fixed on Milton.
Once bitten, twice shy. He knew Milton was dangerous. He would be careful now. No more mistakes.
That was what Milton wanted.
It was the reason for the demonstration earlier.
He wanted all of his attention on him.
“Change of heart?”
“What choice do I have?”
“That’s right, buddy. You ain’t got none.”
“What do you want to know?”
“The Governor––you tell anyone what you know about him and the girls?”
“The dead ones?”
“Them, that one behind you, any others.”
“No,
” he said.
“No police?”
“No police.”
“What about her?” he said, chin-nodding towards Eva. “You tell her?”
“No,” he said. “She doesn’t know anything.”
“You tell anyone else?”
“I told you––no-one knows but me.”
“Alright, then. That’s good. How’d you find out?”
“I had a chat with Jarad Efron.”
“A chat? What does that mean?”
“I dangled him off a balcony. He realised it’d be better to talk to me.”
“Think you’re a tough guy?”
“I’m nothing special.”
“I ain’t scared of you.”
“You shouldn’t be. You’ve got a shotgun.”
“Damn straight I do.”
“So why would you be scared?”
Milton glanced down at the microwave.
7.17.
7.16.
7.15.
“You want to tell me what happened to the girls?” he asked.
“Obvious, ain’t it?”
“They wanted money.”
“That’s right.” He flicked the barrel of the shotgun in Karly’s direction. “She wanted money.”
“And then you killed them?”
“They brought it on themselves.”
“Who told you to do it? Robinson?”
“Hell, no. Robinson didn’t know nothing about none of this shit. We took care of it on his behalf.”
“Crawford, then?”
“That’s right. Crawford and us, we just been cleaning up the Governor’s mess is what we been doing. He had his problems, y’all can see that plain as day, but that there was one great man. Would’ve been damn good for this fucked up country. What’s happened to him is a tragedy. Your fault, the way I see it. What you’ve done––digging your nose into business that don’t concern you, making trouble––well, old partner, that’s something you’re gonna have to account for, and the accounting’s gonna be scrupulous.”
“What about Madison Clarke?”
“Who?”
“Another hooker. The Governor was seeing her.”
“This the girl you took up to the party in Pine Shore?”
“That’s right. You all came out that night, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“You find her?”
“You know what? We didn’t. We don’t know where she is.”
Milton glanced down at the microwave.
6.24.
6.23.
6.22.
Come on, come on, come on.
“We don’t need to do this, right?” he said, trying to buy them just a little more time. “I’m not going to say anything. You know where I live.”
Smokey laughed. “Nah, that ain’t gonna cut it. We don’t never leave loose ends and that’s what y’all are.”
5.33.
5.32.
5.31.
Smokey noticed Milton looking down at the microwave.
“Fuck you doing with that?” he said.
“I was hungry. I thought––”
“Fuck that.”
He stepped towards it.
“Please,” Milton said.
The man reached out for the stop button.
He saw the beer bottles inside, turning around on the platter: incongruous.
Too late.
The liquid inside the bottles was evaporating into steam; several atmospheres of pressure were being generated; the duct tape was holding the caps in place; the pressure was running up against the capacity of the bottle. Just at that precise moment there was no more space for it to go. It was fortunate: it couldn’t have been better timing. The bottles exploded with the same force as a quarter-stick of dynamite. The microwave was obliterated from the inside out: the glass in the door was flung across the room in a shower of razored slivers, the frame of the door cartwheeled away, the metal body was broken apart, rivets and screws popping out. Smokey was looking right at it, close, as it exploded; a parabola of debris enveloped his head, the barrage of tiny fragments slicing into his eyes and the skin of his face, his scalp, piercing his clothes and flesh.
Milton was further away yet the blast from the explosion staggered him backwards and, instants later, the red-hot shower peppered his skin. His bare arms were crossed with a thin bloody lattice as he dropped his arm from his face and made forwards.
He looked back quickly. “You alright?”
Neither Eva or Karly answered but he didn’t see any obvious damage.
He turned back. Smokey was on the floor, covered in blood. A large triangled shard from the microwave’s metal case was halfway visible in his trachea. He was gurgling and air whistled in and out of the tear in his throat. One leg twitched spastically. Milton didn’t need to examine him to know that he only had a minute or two to live.
The Remington was abandoned at his side.
Milton took it and brought it up. He heard hurried footsteps and ragged breathing and saw a momentary reflection in the long blank window that started in the corridor opposite the door. He aimed blind around the door and pulled one trigger, blowing buckshot into one of the other men from less than three feet away. Milton turned quickly into the corridor, the shotgun up and ready, and stepped over the second man’s body. He was dead. Half his face was gone.
Three down.
One left.
He moved low and fast, the shotgun held out straight. The corridor led into a main room with sofas, a jukebox, empty bottles and dope paraphernalia.
The fourth man popped out of cover behind the sofa and fired.
Milton dropped flat, rolled three times to the right, opening the angle and negating the cover, and pulled the trigger. Half of the buckshot shredded the sofa, the other half perforated the man from head to toe. He dropped his revolver and hit the floor with a weighty thud.
He got up. Save the cuts and grazes from the explosion, he was unmarked.
He went back to the kitchen.
Smokey was dead on the floor.
Eva and Karly hadn’t moved.
“It’s over,” he told them.
Eva bit her lip. “Are you alright?”
“I’m good. You?”
“Yes.”
“Both of you?”
“I’m fine,” Karly said.
He turned to Eva. “You both need to get out of here. We’re in Potrero Hill. I’ll open the gates for you and you need to get out. Find somewhere safe, somewhere with lots of people, and call the police. Do you understand?”
“What about you?”
“There’s someone I have to see.”
44
ARLEN CRAWFORD waited impatiently for the hotel lift to bear him down to the parking garage. He had his suitcase in his right hand and his overcoat folded in the crook of his left arm. The car had stopped at every floor on the way down from the tenth but it was empty now; just Crawford and the numb terror that events had clattered hopelessly out of control. He took his cellphone from his pocket and tried to call Jack Kerrigan again. There had been no reply the first and second time that he had tried but, this time, the call was answered.
“Jack! Smokey!” he said. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“Smokey’s dead, Mr. Crawford. His friends are dead, too.”
“Who is this?”
“You know who this is.”
The elevator reached the basement and the doors opened.
“Mr. Smith?”
“That’s right.”
“What do you want, Mr. Smith? Money?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“Justice would be a good place to start.”
“Jack killed the girls.”
“We both know that’s only half of the job done.”
He aimed the fob across the parking lot and thumbed the button. The car doors unlocked and the lights flashed.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it. There�
�s no proof.”
“Maybe not. But that would only be a problem if I was going to go to the police. I’m not going to go to the police, Mr. Crawford.”
“What are you going to do?”
No answer.
“What are you going to do?”
Silence.
Crawford reached the car and opened the driver’s door. He tossed the phone across the car onto the passenger seat. He went around and put the suitcase in the trunk. He got inside the car, took a moment to gather his breath, stepped on the clutch and pressed the ignition.
He felt a small, cold point of metal pressing against the back of his head.
He looked up into the rear-view mirror.
It was dark in the basement, just the glow of the sconced lights on the wall. The modest brightness fell across one half of the face of the man who was holding the gun. The other half was obscured by shadow. He recognised him: the impassive and serious face, the cruel mouth, the scar running horizontally across his face.
“Drive.”
* * *
PART FIVE
Collateral
* * *
45
THE MEETING on the third anniversary of Milton’s sobriety was a Big Book meeting. They were peaceful weekly gatherings, the format more relaxed than usual, and Milton usually enjoyed them. They placed tea lights around the room and someone had lit a joss stick (that had been the subject of a heated argument; a couple of the regulars had opined that it was a little too intoxicating for a roomful of recovering alkies and druggies). Every week, they each opened a copy of the book of advice that Bill Wilson, the founder of the program, had written, read five or six pages out loud and then discussed what it meant to them all. After a year they would have worked their way through it and then they would turn back to the start and begin again. Milton had initially thought the book was an embarrassingly twee self-help screed, and it was certainly true that it was packed full of platitudes, but, the more he grew familiar with it the easier it was to ignore the homilies and clichés and concentrate on the advice on how to live a worthwhile, sober, life. Now he often read a paragraph or two before he went to sleep at nights. It was good meditation.