He found the keys, the money clip he knew would be there, the phone, and the wallet. The fancy man’s face crawled beneath Lancaster’s palm, wanting to plead for his life, wanting to relate to these men somehow. Probably worried about getting sliced, getting raped. Poor son of a bitch had no idea. It would be quicker than that, God only knew how painless.
“That all?” Lancaster said.
Terry nodded. Lancaster didn’t say anything, so Terry spoke up. “I’ve got it all.”
“Shoes,” Lancaster said.
“What?”
“Check his shoe size.”
Terry knelt, half-expecting a knee to the face from one of them. He slipped the guy’s shoe off, maroon sock held up trying to avoid touching the floor. Terry found the tag.
“Eleven.”
“Yeah, okay. Maybe. Put it down.”
Terry placed it beside Lancaster’s foot. His partner slipped off his flip-flop and stuck his foot in, struggled a little. Terry helped snug it over Lancaster’s bare heel.
“Not bad. It’ll do,” Lancaster said. Then he pulled his cast away, grabbed the guy’s shirt, and slammed him backward against the wall, his head smacking, echoing, bouncing. Lancaster pulled him forward, built momentum, and bashed the guy’s forehead against the edge of a urinal pipe. It went red and dripped on the porcelain, and the fancy guy spasmed before going still. Lancaster worked off the other shoe while Terry checked for a pulse.
“Still alive, barely.”
“Maybe he’ll live, maybe not.”
“We don’t know if he’s got family out there or what.”
Lancaster’s grin turned Terry’s stomach. “You want to go look? Easy enough to find out.”
“Let’s just go, all right? I’m happy enough you didn’t kill him.”
“Adds to the variety of charges, you know?” Lancaster leaned on the wall while trying to push is way into the other shoe, finally giving up, walking on the heel as he passed Terry. “It’s one thing to kill. Now this guy might be a vegetable, a retard or something. Worse than dying, if you ask me.”
Terry followed him out of the restroom, looking around for signs that someone heard, or maybe a wife or girlfriend waiting. Nothing. Lancaster walked gimpy on the heel of the boat shoe, saying he would fix it in the car. As they reached the Audi, beautiful piece of work, black A4, another vehicle’s lights pulled in from the interstate. Then another right behind. Terry and Lancaster hopped into the car before anyone got a good look, pulled out of the parking spot, then eased the Audi back to the road.
The car was a 5-speed, fine interior, bad-ass engine. The type of car anyone would notice coming into a rest area. Terry loved this machine, but wished for the Camry instead, paranoia pretty much taking over whatever control confidence used to play in his thinking.
“Any more stops?” Terry said.
Lancaster clucked his tongue, rolled his head around before reclining the seat. “Not until the hotel. I’ll give her a call when we get closer.”
“How are you going to call her? They check in under her real name?
Lancaster rolled his head Terry’s direction, lazy glance. “I’ve got magic, you know. Big magic. I see all.”
Then he laughed and slapped Terry’s shoulder, said, “She told me her room number, dumbass.”
Terry waited a long time before saying, “Those people will find the guy back there. They’ll remember this car.”
“Then you’d better get busy looking innocent.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
When he came back from the airport, Alan was surprised to see a couple of things—Norm alive and asleep in one of the beds, and Lydia looking gorgeous again, hair brushed and untangled, face washed. Megan had been busy. Or it was Lydia reasserting herself, playing with the little girl’s mind like it was putty, shaping her to help get back at Alan for that slap.
Lydia’s face held a peaceful expression tightly, as if moving it would cause it to crack like dry clay. Her eyes told him nothing. Megan sat on the edge of the empty bed on the side nearest Norm. Her arms were over-straight, elbows pointing inward, the bones sharp at the angle. She rocked back and forth.
Alan waggled a couple of fingers at Norm. “What the hell’s this? You take pity on him?”
Megan stood. “He got out on his own. What were we supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. Fuck, he can’t be okay.”
“He might make it.”
Alan said, “A couple hours ago, you wanted to drown him. Now you’re his guardian angel?”
She stepped closer. “All right, then what can we do? You seem to be in charge, I guess, so tell us how we should handle poor pathetic Norm.”
Alan wanted to backhand her across the room, chase her down, beat her until the tears were real, the bruises dark, smart-ass bitch. She deserved it. She deserved it so much. She did. He couldn’t touch her.
Instead, he twisted his hips, shouted to Lydia, “Sweetie?”
Lydia’s eyes narrowed, her face ticking as she bored an imaginary hole through Megan. “We don’t have a choice anymore.”
“We can leave him asleep, can’t we?”
“And if they find him before our plane lands?”
Alan nodded, then grabbed a pillow off the empty bed and straddled Norm, pressed the pillow over his face with all the force and pressure he could. His muscles tensed, breathing strained, holding on against the thrashing man beneath him, the shrieks of little Megan trying to pull him off. Her hands felt like a light breeze and had no effect at all as he pressed the pillow down, down, harder, down, hold on.
Norm kicked, not able to buck Alan off. Norm thrashed and hit, didn’t have the power. His head pivoted left right left right left—
Then weaker.
Then weaker still.
Nothing at all.
Alan kept the pressure up. It wasn’t heat of the moment anymore, or displaced anger at Megan, or a reflex caused by fear. For once, he made a real choice to kill—Norm was a problem. Alan had two tickets for Miami leaving in about two hours, and he was going to be on that flight with one of these women, preferably Lydia, and that meant getting rid of two inconvenient leeches. Better now when the redneck fuck was defenseless than when he was awake and energized.
The difference between “dead” and “passed out” was maybe three more minutes. Alan kept the pressure up, the girl now beating, scraping with her nails, yanking his hair, kicking. And when his arms threatened to give out, he yanked the pillow away.
Norm stared up at him with startled wide eyes, bulging and bloodshot, his lips parted, his pale skin mottled. No breath.
Alan felt sick, turned his head to the room behind him. Megan had sunk to her knees, crying in heaves, barely able to breathe. She didn’t care about him, Alan thought. She’s crying because she’s next.
He dismounted, stood between the beds, inches from Megan. Something burned on his neck. He pressed fingertips back there—stung—and looked at them. Blood. She had scratched him good. Then he grinned.
“Sweetie?” Lydia said.
“Yes, babe?”
Lydia was quiet a long time, emotionless, pale. Then, “Where are we going?”
Alan pulled the tickets from his back pocket and held them up. “Miami. It’s a good place to start getting lost before we go somewhere else.”
Lydia’s face lit up the way a Princess’ might if she were told the Queen was dead. “Come here.”
Alan stepped over Megan, who was now quiet, listening as her fate was decided. He eased towards Lydia, knelt in front of her chair.
“My leg is itching, Alan. Do like you used to. Please, it’s itching so bad.”
Like a veteran mime, he smoothed his palms over the phantom leg, the shape of the prosthetic burned in his memory as he imagined it there in front of him, knowing Lydia saw it too, as sure as there was nothing there, it was there. Her warm living leg. Alan started with the foot, eased up her calf.
“Tell me where. Here?” he said.
“H
igher than that. It’s hard to pinpoint.”
His hands rounded the knee, slowed as he went along her thigh. “Closer?”
“God, baby, you’re right there. On the inside. Yes, that’s almost, almost, so—you’ve got it, don’t move.”
His fingers scratched lightly in circles. His other hand rubbed the outside of her thigh. Something he was coming to understand, mind over matter, because for a moment, seeing the way Lydia believed her legs were there, her hands there probably ruffling his hair, Alan thought he really felt flesh. It was nice, reminded him of childhood days in church, the women in their knee-length dresses wearing white pantyhose, turning already beautiful legs into sculpture, masterpieces. Didn’t they know how sexy this was, and they dared come to church like this? An affront to holiness.
When they first picked her up, Megan was wearing white stockings.
Lydia’s head was bowed like prayer, eyes closed. She usually didn’t close her eyes, because to keep the illusion, she had to watch.
Alan thought about white stockings. Megan wore hers on real legs. Skinny, scarred, but goddamnit, real.
His fingers stopped scratching. Lydia’s eyes popped open.
She said, “What are you thinking?”
“Tomorrow. Just about tomorrow. We can look around, you know. Replace the prosthetics.”
She looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“The ones we lost.”
“Everything’s where it should be, see?” Lydia said, and her expression was one of a woman pointing her toes, admiring her long arms. “See?”
He played along for the moment. Tonight was tonight and tomorrow would be tomorrow. New rules, new game.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was thinking of someone else.”
Her smile returned. “Those tickets. I did see two, right? You know all along it would only be two. You and me against the world.”
Alan nodded, couldn’t help grinning.
The phone rang and all the fantasies popped like balloons. Lydia and Alan turned to the phone on the nightstand between the beds.
Megan lunged for it, answered, “Hello?”
Alan didn’t get up and bat it out of her hands or grab her or muzzle her lips with his huge hand, those choices running through his mind simultaneously. Instead, he held his breath.
Megan listened a moment, then spoke like answering an interview. “Yes. Yeah, that’s it. Sure. The same, I told you already. Oh no, no, nothing, I didn’t mean it. Yeah, me too.”
She hung up, then stood. Face bright and puffy from crying, no more tears, no more little girl theatrics or outbursts. She was calm, cool, and in control.
Alan turned to Lydia, her lips trembling mad. He said, “We’ve got to get out of here.”
TWENTY-NINE
Lancaster flipped the cell phone shut and pointed off to the right. “You can see the sign from here. Turn in, find the car, find one sixty-two, and I guess we win.”
“You don’t think they’ll fight back?”
“Sure, Crabtree will. I’ll gut shoot him. The gimp woman is a fucking doorstop, man. I was thinking, if you want, you can fuck her before we kill her. I want her to die slow, helplessly, like leaving her upside down on the toilet or something.”
Terry said, “Jesus,” and turned his attention to the planes taking off from the dark field, the rumble and the lights, a smaller jet landing on the opposite side.
“I said right, asshole. You’re going to pass it.”
Terry looked right and saw the motel, pulled hard right and bounced into the parking lot.
“Go around the side,” Lancaster said, leaning forward in his seat, face inches from the windshield. He mumbled a little mantra, “One six two, one six two, one six two, shit!”
Terry rounded the side of the main building in time to see Alan Crabtree leaning into the passenger side of his car, belting the limbless woman in her seat. Megan stood on the sidewalk with her arms crossed, behind her the room door wide open. Crabtree looked up, then backed away, slammed the door, and rushed around to the other side. His girth got in the way and he bounced off the fender and the hood ornament as he jogged to the driver’s door.
“Ram him, goddamnit!” Lancaster said. He was frantic, shaking his gun, having to lay it down while he lowered the window.
“I’m not ramming the guy, come on.”
“Block him in, or something.”
“You’re not going to shoot him in the parking lot, are you? We wouldn’t make it five blocks.”
Lancaster turned to Terry, lifted the gun and bapped him on the shoulder with it. Terry flinched left and hit the brakes, the car stuttering. Burning, torn skin, he wanted to cry. He threw the car into park and flung the door wide open before Lancaster could say anything.
“He can get around,” Lancaster shouted.
Terry stood outside the car, hands on his hips, taking a deep trance look at everything in front of him. Megan ran for their car, saying something he couldn’t understand. Crabtree backed out of the spot too fast, barely in control as he shot forward and missed the other car only by swerving.
Lancaster opened the door but closed it again as Crabtree drove past, then Lancaster was out of the car with a gun aimed, cheeks puffed out wide. He went from sure-shot to maybe to lost the chance within five seconds. Megan ran to Lancaster’s side, her words lost in jet backwash until the last few seconds.
“—the airport in two hours.”
Lancaster stared at the road. “Where they going?”
“Miami, at first. If you want him, you have to get him before they get there. They plan on getting lost.”
“Get to Miami or the airport?”
“Pretty much the same thing now, right?”
They seemed at ease with each other talking like that, but they didn’t hug or kiss, Terry noticed. They had something else, like they knew to hold the affection for later. They had the same mind about things, the same intensity. This little alternachick understood the new Lancaster better than Terry did.
“So,” Megan said, “We get the hell out of here because they left a dead guy in the room and we don’t want anyone to get a good look at us.”
“Who’s dead?” Terry said.
“Norm, the little guy at the hospital? I thought I had killed him but then he was alive and I thought it was, like, a sign.” She patted Lancaster’s shoulder. “See? He came back to tell me I was okay. Then that fat asshole smothered him.”
Lancaster nodded, then yelled “Fuck” and stomped the ground in his new boat shoes. A dark expression over the roof of the car, aimed at Terry. Then, Lancaster shot around so fast before Terry could take off running. Lancaster grabbed him, shook hard. Terry lost his footing and went down, Lancaster’s fingers still twisting his shirt front, the collar rubbing Terry’s neck raw like fire, and Lancaster pulling him inches away from that awful face, wrinkled and twisted and sunken.
“I’m going to hurt you,” Lancaster said, dead flat calm. “I’m going to hurt you in a way that will make you never question me again, or treat me like I’m a mindless thug who works for you instead of us being equal partners.”
“Please, man, I never—”
“I mean it will hurt and it won’t stop for a long time. I might make you my bitch, literally, and then keep at you like I’m waiting for you to spill troop movements and secret codes.”
“Time to move,” Megan said loudly. She hopped in the backseat of the Audi.
Lancaster let go of Terry’s shirt and backed away, still staring at him without blinking. “That wasn’t idle threat, bro. It’s going to hurt worse than anything ever, and I promise, if we still haven’t been caught after taking out Crabtree, your ass is mine. Now drive us to the airport.”
Terry walked to the car on reflex, his mind painting big pictures—arrows and Exit and This Way Out and more arrows flashing like neon pointing in every direction except towards that Audi. Still, he dropped into the driver’s seat as Lancaster eased into the other side. Megan move
d forward, wrapped her arms around Lancaster’s shoulders. Terry glanced in the rearview at Megan’s face snuggling the back of Lancaster’s head with an impish grin like a manga character.
“Let’s roll, partner,” Lancaster said, his good hand covering Megan’s little fingers on his chest.
Terry didn’t know which one of them Lancaster was speaking to. Not me, he thought. Not for much longer.
THIRTY
It was a silent ride. It probably shouldn’t have been. Alan needed a plan, and Lydia didn’t have one ready. Go straight to the airport? They would be sitting ducks. Drive around the area for another hour? Even if they did, what if Terry and Lancaster went straight to the airport and waited?
This part of town was crowded with chain restaurants, motels, small businesses falling apart from the signs to the paint jobs to the bad parking lots, lot of troublemaking kids out wandering the streets trying to look like gang members even though the kids were scared of the real thing if they were to see them. It wasn’t touristy New Orleans, the sprawling underclass suburbs, sinking into the Gulf of Mexico at the same rate as the rest of the city.
Alan stopped at a red light and kept checking his rearview. He was sweating again and having chills. He cleared his throat constantly, kept his eyes ahead, not risking a glance at Lydia’s disappointed frown. He’d seen enough of that to last a lifetime.
Finally she said, “Once we get there and get through security, they won’t let anyone in the terminal without a boarding pass. We’ve still got a head start.”
Alan nodded.
“No luggage to check,” she said.
“We tell them it’s an emergency, last minute trip, and we’ll buy some overnight stuff at the airport.”
“That’s a good idea. Okay. Sweetie, we’re going to be fine, so breathe easy, calm down.”
“The little bitch was working with him the whole time. She wanted us dead. And we let it happen.”
Lydia’s voice was calm when she said, “You’re the one who didn’t kill her in the ambulance and cut her to pieces. You were the one who let her keep tagging along. There’s not much I can do unless you listen to me.”
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