Norm said, “I can tell her if you don’t feel like it.”
Another of Lydia’s daydream images blasted away. Not the clean-cut man in a suit, contacts instead of his thick glasses. He really didn’t get it.
“Norm, please get a bottle of strawberry water out of the refrigerator for me, okay?”
He sprang from the couch, smiled wide and thought he was doing her a favor. She really wanted him out of sight for as long as possible. There wasn’t any strawberry water in the kitchen at all. She knew he would keep looking and looking until he was absolutely sure.
The nurse kept standing there, barely moving a muscle except her head—the tiniest nod Lydia had ever seen, aimed right for her, a message from God.
She would have sent her own message—Drop dead bitch—if she wasn’t so afraid.
EIGHTEEN
Terry was watching a dating show set on a cruise ship when Lancaster woke up. They were in a decent enough chain hotel on the beach in Gulfport, twin beds and cable TV. Half a Subway sandwich was wrapped up on the table. Terry wolfed down the other half and hoped Lancaster would be strong enough to eat.
Lancaster said, “I want to shave my head.”
“What?”
“My head, my hair. When I’m dreaming, I see myself with dark hair. Then I remember it’s all dyed right now. I don’t like it.”
“It’ll grow out.”
“Yeah, that takes months. I want to shave it and start over now.”
His voice was stronger than Terry expected for a guy still recovering from surgery. Lancaster slept during the ride, stirred enough for Terry to help him into the room, then passed out again. Terry went to a Rite Aid for lots of painkillers, probably not strong enough to really help, and some beer. They sold cheap beach clothes, so he bought a few pair of swim trunks and T-shirts. Then he grabbed the sandwich and came back to the room. Two hours of TV—Dr. Phil and local news and Shipmates.
“It’s not a bad idea. They’ll be on the lookout for us again, anyway. You shave your head, I try brown dye, maybe a touch of red,” Terry said.
“Faggot.”
Terry roughed his fingers through his spiky-do and pretended to get interested in the TV show. He hoped Lancaster was just kidding. He didn’t feel anything sexual for the guy, not at all. Still, he hadn’t fucked a girl in a year and spent most of his time with Lancaster. Then he stayed to help the guy instead of following their emergency plan—run.
Neither spoke for a while. The couple on Shipmates hated each other and traded nasty little barbs over a candlelit dinner. Finally, the guy tossed his water on the bitch after all this “You’re not as much man as you think you are” shit she was saying. Terry laughed.
Lancaster said, “I’m sorry.”
“What’ve you got to be sorry for?”
“The name calling, a joke.”
A shrug. “Didn’t bother me. Wasn’t funny, though. No one ever said you were a laugh riot.”
Another stretch of silence lasted through two commercials.
Lancaster propped himself on his good elbow. “Why didn’t you take off, anyway. We always said if one got caught, the other bolts. Right?”
Terry kept his eyes on the screen. “Nothing came to mind, you know. What, get the cars on my own? Run games without backup?”
“Anything’s better than getting caught. Still, you’ve got balls of steel. Holding the gun on that cop? I’m proud of you.”
“My story wasn’t going over and once they went out to the woods, that would’ve been it. Finished. So I stuck around. I didn’t want you in some drug haze rolling over on me anyway.”
Lancaster barked. Pretty damn close to a bark, anyway. “I don’t even know your real name! You don’t know mine. That’s how we arranged this whole thing, remember? Impossible to give each other up.”
Terry turned his head. Lancaster was on fire, breathing too hard. If it hurt, he hid it well. “You said it, not me. Can’t give each other up. Want some Aleve?”
After shaking his head, Lancaster eased himself down. Then he said, “All right, give me one.”
Terry shook one of the painkillers from its bottle and stepped over to the sink, got a cup of water. He took both to Lancaster, placed the pill on his tongue, then slid his hand behind his friend’s neck. He lifted Lancaster’s head and tilted the glass just so. Lancaster swallowed most of it.
Terry placed the cup on the nightstand and sat on the other bed.
“I’m not mad or anything. You took some risks, and that’s okay,” Lancaster said.
Terry figured that was the closest thing to a Thank You he was going to get. If the roles were reversed, Lancaster would’ve been long gone, leaving Terry to his fate. It depressed Terry to realize it, letting it take hold in his brain. Without Lancaster, he was a half-decent slick talker with some good ideas. Meet up with the wrong crowd or a bad sucker, lights out Mr. Terry. He needed the brawn more than Lancaster needed him. On his own, Lancaster was a lone wolf, taking what he needed, no questions asked, no consequences. A rock hard killer.
Terry stared at his sleeping partner for a long time, resenting his dependence on Lancaster, yet so glad to have him safe and sound.
*
He slipped into sleep and dreamed about Crabtree, who was always small in his dreams. Not thin small but overall, like half-scale. The guy was a clown, a little whimpering mite. This time the half-scale Crabtree was shooting Lancaster again and again and there was so much fucking blood. Lancaster was a video game character, fractured pixels pouring more blood than he could possibly have in his system. Terry watched it happen and hated it, unable to make himself stop it, the way dreams sometimes freeze us into their programs.
Crabtree went from blubber to Lee Marvin in a matter of weeks. It didn’t make much sense. They knew the guy was an odd job man, nickel and dime stuff, but a killer tied in with an ecstasy dealer? The rumors were saying something about him being a top-notch hit man. Terry had been out of the loop and thought it was a lark. Now he wanted to ask around and find out. Otherwise, this fat little bastard was going to waste both of them.
In the dream, Crabtree reduced Lancaster to a bloody pile. Then he turned to Terry, still frozen. The fear wasn’t in getting shot; it was in Crabtree being the one doing it. But he didn’t shoot. He floated. Closer and closer, that bubble of a face on fire like it was when he slammed into the van window. Closer.
Something touched his shoulder.
Terry shouted, swung the sheets wide and sat up in bed. The room was dark except for late afternoon sunlight streaming through a slit in the curtain, enough for Terry to see a Lancaster-shaped blob standing by the bed, bare-chested and mostly bald. Little patches of hair he missed looked like weeds on concrete. His eyes were too bright.
“Calm down. But wake up,” he said.
Terry rubbed his face and yawned. “What are you doing? You shouldn’t be standing up.”
“Had to piss, then got tired of seeing the blonde in my hair. I told you once.”
Lancaster didn’t look tired or injured except for the cast holding his arm together. He scared Terry a little, the head-shaving being so impulsive like maybe getting shot changed the way Lancaster looked at things, no more sitting back and waiting.
“What do you want?” Terry said.
“I was just thinking about what you said, Crabtree coming to look for us and how weird that was. He’s scared we’ll tell the cops?”
“He probably thinks we’ll blackmail him. I guess I figured we would, too.”
“Then he won’t stop looking. What if we got in touch, met somewhere in public, and told him we’d let it all go away for a flat fee? Or that we’ll lock it away and he can owe us a favor.”
Terry thought this was too much thinking from Lancaster. Guess he had to do something while shaving his head.
“I don’t get it,” Terry said. “Out of sight, out of mind, right?”
“I want to get out of here, too. Florida, man. Fuck Michigan or wherever it is you
said. We go down to Tampa and set up shop. First priority, though, is settling this with Crabtree.”
“Settle what?” Before those two words left his mouth, he already knew the answer.
Lancaster mumbled. “I run away from this, word’ll get around. What good will I be? If I fuck up Crabtree real good, word’ll be in my favor. Simple payback, that’s all I’m saying.”
“So all that about the favor or pay-off—”
Lancaster grinned like the devil and looked twice as mean. “Bullshit. I’m going to break things on him. He’s going to bleed. You know, when I’m done, he’ll still be alive.”
Terry nodded but was thinking Lancaster had stepped over the line, the one that he usually didn’t mind toeing, no matter how close. From now on, Terry was second fiddle, a little like Crabtree. Somewhere along the way to Tampa, he needed to disappear and stay gone. But he knew he wouldn’t. His stomach lurched and he tumbled out of bed.
“I don’t feel too good man.”
“Probably that sandwich meat.”
Terry stumbled into the bathroom and flick on the light, shut the door. He squinted at the sudden brightness. He caught his breath. Sickness subsiding. Then he opened his eyes—hair in the sink, hair on the floor, a cheap razor on the back of the toilet. Blood was smeared on the tile, on the toilet, in the sink. More than a few nicks, it looked like Lancaster had gouged himself pretty bad. Terry remembered the dream. He turned on the shower, ice cold, and stuck his head under until he felt in control again, at least for a few moments.
He heard Lancaster through the door. “Hurry up so we can get out of here. I’m sick of this room.”
NINETEEN
Lydia followed Alan into the bedroom, leaving Megan with Norm. He never found the strawberry water, so he fell back onto the couch, hands in his pockets, looking bored. Megan went over and sat near him, knees together and posture perfect.
She said, “Why are you looking for these two guys, anyway?”
“It’s a long story.” Norm shook his head. “I don’t think I should tell you anyway.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not exactly legal.”
They were quiet. Lydia and Alan talked in the bedroom, their voices not carrying. Norm couldn’t keep his eyes off the little nurse when she looked away. He always blinked or turned elsewhere when her blank face turned to him. She slipped off a shoe, rubbed her foot up her leg, then crossed over her knee. She flexed a toe in the stocking and ran it down Norm’s shin.
“I’ll let you fuck me if you tell me the story,” Megan said.
“You’re lying.”
“No, really. I want to know why you’re chasing Lancaster and his friend. If you tell me, I will take off all my clothes and let you do whatever you want with me for a little while.”
Norm laughed. He shifted around and couldn’t keep his hands still. Megan’s toe never stopped moving. She had cute little feet, Norm thought.
“How old are you?” he said.
“Twenty-two.”
“You look younger. Can you prove it?”
Megan smiled, her cheeks like the girl from Spider-Man. It was the first Norm had seen from her, so tasty this way. She smelled really clean, all soap and no perfume. Norm’s hand dropped to his lap.
Megan said, “I didn’t bring ID. And who cares anyway? It’s not like I’m going to tell. Don’t I sound like you can trust me?”
Norm leaned towards her and whispered, “I don’t have any condoms.”
She whispered, “And?”
Norm liked her eyes and he couldn’t get over the smell, Jesus, like pure pheromones, plus the toe and the stockings and her tight little body.
He told her, “It started when Alan bought his car.”
*
Alan gathered the things Lydia would need from her bedroom—her pills, catheter bags, extra clothes—while she hovered nearby sighing and hoping he would catch the signal.
He did. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, sweetie. Nothing.”
“We don’t have time for that.” Alan sat down on the bed. Lydia puffed her straw, creeping closer until their knees touched. She felt terrible, scared, but was putting up a little act to look sad as well. Alan was so different, so in charge. She wanted to remind him who had made him that way.
“It’s moving so fast,” she said. “Where are we going and how long will we have to stay? All my money is tied up here, and they’ll be tracing if I try to move it. We can’t let Norm and that girl in on what we’ve got together.”
Alan put his hands on her thighs, leaned forward and kissed her lips. It was soft and simple. He pulled away and she willed her plastic hands to reach for his. They didn’t move.
“We’ll lose Norm as soon as you want, if that’s what you mean. He’s going to cause problems, I can tell. He’s a selfish prick.”
Lydia nodded. “Let’s, you know, get a little distance between us. Maybe when he falls asleep in the car.”
“I was worried you were interested in keeping him around. Maybe my replacement.”
“Him? You’re joking, right? It’s all business.”
“Look at me, though. This is all right with you?” Alan pinched fat on his side.
“Have I ever done anything to make you think otherwise?”
He smiled. “Jesus, I love you.”
“The nurse, I don’t know. Maybe we can do them both at the same time.”
“Do?”
“Alan, don’t make me say it.”
There was a flash of light outside the window along with engine noise. Someone pulling a car into the driveway. Alan went to the window and peeked out.
“Cops,” he said, the old Alan breathing it out like he was already handcuffed.
Lydia stuck her emotions into deep freeze. “Get the other two. Here’s what we do.”
TWENTY
Half a minute after banging on the front door, the three officers and one detective were greeted by a cute college-age girl in an old nurse uniform, white stockings, and black loafers that looked too big for her.
“Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for Lydia—” the detective checked his notepad, “Whipps.”
“Come in and I’ll get her.”
The officers came in and spread out in search mode. The detective followed the girl out of the foyer into the living room, where Lydia sat in her chair waiting for them with a pleasant face.
“Miss Whipps?”
“Miss, sure. I’ll take that. What’s going on here.”
“We need to have a talk. I’m Detective Broussard.” He was a black man in his thirties built like a linebacker. Dark skin, fast eyes, and a deep Southern voice that weighed every word. “Did you rent a car recently?”
Lydia laughed and turned to Megan, who smiled in spite of pretending to tidy up the room. Lydia said, “My arms and legs are fake. I can’t move them. My assistant does the driving, and for me that means a special van. I wish I could rent a car and just go away.”
The detective laced his fingers under his chin. “Who did this to you?”
“The doctors. That was to save my life. See, it was a car accident. Why would you think someone would actually do this to me?”
“Well, your husband’s murder—”
“You did your homework. So you also know he was my ex, and we weren’t on good terms. He was a lying prick.”
Broussard glanced at his notes again. “This rental car, your husband’s name and address were given. The clerk doesn’t remember because it was a busy day. Did your assistant rent it?” He nodded at Megan.
“She has her own car, never had problems with it. I’m sure she didn’t.”
Broussard sat on the edge of the couch near Lydia and spoke low. “Maybe she did it without telling you, you know? Identity theft, that sort of thing. It’s a big fad right now, and in your condition…” He leaned back and made a noise like Hmph?
“You think so?”
“Could be. The problem is it w
asn’t her driving the car. Two guys, one fat, one kinda wiry looking.” He held up a black and white security camera shot of Alan and Norm as they left the emergency room. “You know these guys?”
Lydia asked Megan to bring the photo closer. It was on copy paper, washed out and hard to see clearly. She did, holding it half an inch from Lydia’s face. Broussard didn’t like it, her face hidden from view like that.
Lydia’s voice from behind the photo said, “No, I don’t think I do. The little one looks familiar in a vague sort of way.”
“So you do know him?”
“I said no. I was thinking aloud, that’s all, trying to help.”
Megan handed the photo back to Broussard, who moved it to the bottom of his pile. He handed another shot to Megan, grinning at her while he did. “Would you mind showing the lady this one, then, please?”
“I’m right here,” Lydia said. “You can speak to me directly.”
“Yes I know, but this one you’re going to love.”
The shot was of Megan in her white nurse’s dress exiting the ER.
Broussard said, “She followed them out not even a minute later. Remember, these are stills from a video, so we can show you the whole thing if you prefer. They stole an ambulance, all three of them, and that ambulance is down the street. Maybe you should tell me what’s really up here.”
A gunshot blasted from outside the open window. Broussard had quick reflexes, moved so goddamn fast that the shot missed his head, skimmed his shoulder. He was on the floor shouting for help. Megan crouched behind Lydia’s chair.
“Get out of my way, I can’t steer,” Lydia said.
One uniformed cop took cover behind the couch and drew down, firing out the window. He barked, “Officer down! Officer down!” into the handset on his shoulder.
Broussard pulled himself forward on his elbows infantry-style. Another shot from outside hit his thigh. He grunted and kept moving until he cleared the couch and rolled behind it, a smear of blood trailing him.
“Where the fuck are the rest of you?” Broussard shouted at his cops.
*
Alan had sent Norm outside with a .38, told him to only use it in an emergency. He should have told the guy what he meant by that. He had knocked out the second cop nosing around the house, sneaked up behind him in the kitchen after leaving the first one in the guest bathroom, hoping to get all four and pile them in the ambulance before they woke up. Alan needed time, man, more time to get everything ready.
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