“Don’t get caught and we’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, I’ll put that in my notes.” He reached for the deck of cards and fanned it out on the table.
He drew the seventeenth card from the left and flipped it over. It was the two of clubs. He finished what was left of the last Danish and wished he had another.
___
The casino pool was shallow and wide, surrounded by chaise lounges on one side and a fabricated fiberglass cliff face on the other. The sun was just high enough to crest the trees. It was too early for Byron, especially after cutting loose all night, but Lonnie convinced him they wouldn’t get a spot if they waited, and he was right. The place was teeming with people.
On one side, a short water slide emerged from under the trees. Lonnie, flanked by children, lowered himself into place and scooted himself into the flow with a strawberry daiquiri in his hand. The slide dumped him into the shallow receiving pool. His head went completely under, but he managed to keep his drink aloft, like a red periscope.
He popped up with his hair flat against his face and crossed the pool to the seat where Byron was lying out, faceup, in his popsicle swim trunks. His eyes were closed, his fingers interlaced across his chest, cradling a blue aluminum beer can-bottle that looked like alien technology emerging from his breastbone. Alongside the chair was a folded-up towel with both of the manila envelopes of money sitting on top. Byron knew it was a risk, but he wanted to keep the money close. When Byron heard Lonnie approach, he kept his eyes closed but slid his hand down and rested it on the cash.
“This place is great,” Lonnie said, setting his drink on the pool deck. He used his hands to squeegee the water from his beard and hair. “You gotta do the slide.”
“Don’t gotta do nothing,” Byron said, taking a swig of his beer.
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I know exactly what I’m missing. I’ve watched you go down that thing like a dozen times.”
“I don’t know why you brought that money down here,” Lonnie said in a whisper voice. “There’s a safe in the room. I figured out how to use it.”
“They’re worthless.”
“What?”
“When you get back up there, press the lock button until it says SUPER, then press all nines,” Byron said.
“Then what?”
“Then you lose your money. Anyone can get into those things.”
“Whoa. How’d you learn that?”
“Cellmate. He says everybody working here knows it.” He patted the money. “That’s why the cash stays right here.”
Lonnie took his drink and pushed off the pool wall and drifted to the fake waterfall. He turned under the cascade and watched people of all shapes and sizes move around. Most of them were on a cheap vacation, not on the lam. Lonnie felt safe here, like nobody would dare do anything right out in the middle of it all. Byron was just lying there, not moving, which made sense because he was crashing. Lonnie watched his brother set his beer on the concrete next to his chair. He looked at the old palm trees, which were starting to blow around as the day heated up.
Lonnie took a few more trips down the slide, then swam over and told Byron he was going to unwind in the hot tub.
“It’s ninety-five degrees, numb nuts.”
“I like it anyway,” Lonnie said, then he swam across the pool like a skinny white frog and disappeared into the grove of trees that surrounded the hot tub. Byron felt the dryness of his mouth and sucked on his teeth to get the saliva going. He was bonking hard, but he didn’t want Lonnie to see it. He settled himself and thought about how he got here.
A guy he knew inside gave his name to Scissors, who called him on the phone, out of the blue, like some telemarketer. He said his employer was out of options and needed some help that lay somewhat outside of the law. Byron said he wasn’t interested to see if he could crank up the price. When Scissors assured him it was good pay, Byron asked, “How far outside?”
Scissors explained that Bruce Cluff, some local guy, was in the possession of certain maps and catalogs he had made of an area called the Swallow Valley. This guy’s employer was interested in purchasing said maps and catalogs, but Cluff refused to even hear his employer’s offer. The employer had already set certain processes in motion, processes that the employer was not interested in shutting down.
“They got maps on the internet,” Byron said.
“These maps are . . . unique,” Scissors said. “You will be compensated for your time.”
“For stealing some maps?”
“Let’s think of it as liberation.”
“I haven’t told you my rate,” Byron said. He was stone broke and wondered if the man on the phone knew that.
“The rate is not what you say it is, but it’s market price. Trust me. It is fair.”
“And you get to say what’s fair?”
“There are other names on our list.”
“And since mine’s Ashdown, you’re starting with me.”
“Abernathy, Aguirre, Albertson, Alsopp, Anderson, then you.”
“I get it,” Byron said.
“The thing is, it can’t look like the maps were singled out to be stolen. My employer requires discretion.”
“You can have ’em fast, cheap, or secret. Pick two.”
Scissors named the fee, which was so high Byron didn’t think to negotiate, which was exactly the plan, and when he figured that part of it out, it got under his skin. Eventually, once everything bent over and went south, Byron began hatching a plan of his own, a kind of insurance policy. After they tested the map, he took that one from the roll and left it in his closet back home. Some of that treasure was going to be his no matter what else happened.
Across the pool, a lifeguard gave three short whistles. Byron looked over and saw Lonnie running along the deck. He jumped into the pool and ran through the shallow water. A second lifeguard shouted, “Hey, man! You don’t run. Everybody knows that.” Lonnie slowed, but his face remained panicked.
“He’s still here!” Lonnie shouted, pointing behind.
“Who?”
“Scissors. Over by the fence.”
“Inside or outside?” Byron tried not to panic.
“Out. Watching me. Come look.”
“I’m not going over there. That’s what he wants.”
“You have to, so I know I’m not crazy.”
“You’ve been drunk since last night.”
“You’ve been tweaking since—never mind. Come look. If it’s not him, I’ll shut up forever.”
“Forever?” Byron pulled himself up from the lounge, bent down and took the envelopes, then he followed Lonnie. As they walked, one of the lifeguards took off his sunglasses and said, “Keep him under control.”
At the midway point, Lonnie said, “There he is.” A hundred feet past the pool deck was a ten-foot-high iron fence that separated the end of the courtyard from the parking lot. Scissors stood right in the middle, gripping the bars. He was in different clothes: a yellow golf shirt and white slacks. When he saw that they had seen him, he waved, then put his hands in his pockets and strolled away without looking back.
“Why’d he do that?” Lonnie asked.
“He’s a freak.”
“Well, it sure freaks me out.”
“He’s just trying to make us think he’s onto us. But he’s got to take the maps to his employer.” Byron put the last word in air quotes. “He just wants us to lay low.”
“Why wouldn’t we? This is awesome,” Lonnie said.
“Let’s go back,” Byron said.
“Back home? Is that a good idea?”
“Back to the chairs, you idiot.”
When they got to their place at the pool, a woman was standing next to one of the lounge chairs. She was wearing a navy blue one-piece with fishnet across the cleavage. “What is she doing here?” Byron asked.
“Don’t you remember? She stayed the night with us,” Lonnie said. “Her friend is here, too.” H
e pointed to a skinny woman lying facedown a couple of lounges over. The first woman was bent over, undoing the buckles of her sandals. Byron copped a look down her swimsuit and thought about last night. Across her chest was a tattoo of the word DESTINY interwoven with thorns and flowers that looked like they’d come from another planet. They had partied. Very little of it was clear. When she could not undo the buckles on her shoes, she sat, leaned over and tugged them off.
When she noticed Byron and Lonnie, she said, “We showered.”
“Sure. So did we,” Byron said, stepping astride his chair and collapsing backward into it, which startled the woman who was lying on her stomach. Her frizzed-out hair was dull, with a green dye job that was faded almost all the way out.
Lonnie got situated in his chair, and the four of them were set out in a row: girl, boy, boy, girl. Byron undid his ponytail and regathered it. He put the envelopes behind him, in the small of his back. The woman on Byron’s side put her hand on Byron’s thigh. Her acrylic nails were covered in tiny flowers and jewels, and she used them to tickle the hair on Byron’s leg. Byron looked over at her and saw the names BRADEN and HAILEE inscribed on the inside of her forearm.
“I didn’t bring any sunscreen,” she said. “I’m gonna burn.”
“We all are,” Byron said, watching to see if Scissors would show.
Lonnie tapped the other woman on her bare shoulder. “Hey,” he said, “I don’t remember your name.”
“Leia,” she said. “Like the princess.”
“She’s a general now,” Lonnie said.
___
After three o’clock, the sun drilled through the west windows of Dalton’s office and started burning up the wall from floor to ceiling. He’d been trying to do paperwork for hours, but the day had been chewed up by interruptions. At three thirty, the white bar of light came even with Dalton’s eyebrows, and the glare disturbed his work enough that he wrote a note reminding himself to request an awning.
In an attempt to save himself, he left his office, drove to town, got a late lunch, and ate it in his Bronco. Before he was finished, the phone rang. It was Karen.
“Pat,” she said. “I’m trying not to be that person.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s okay that I have to keep calling you about the house or okay that I’m trying not to be the person who has to keep calling to remind you about selling the house?”
Dalton set down his pickle. “Both?”
“Please remember that this is what we agreed to.”
“You need to have a little charity.”
“Do not do this, Patrick.”
“It’s going to happen, but not today.” He lifted his potato chip bag and looked inside: all that was left were crumbs and pieces. He poured them into his mouth. “You can come back and live in it,” he said. “I’ll move out.”
“That’s not what we want. I’ve been through that.”
“We? I haven’t heard the kids say they don’t want to live here. Put them on. I want to hear it from them. If that’s what they really want, I’ll list it this afternoon.”
“They’re at ballet.”
“Okay, then tonight.”
“Patrick.”
“Have them call me. I’m sorry. I’ve got to go find out how my dad’s best friend died.”
“I thought it was a suicide.”
“I’ll get to the realtor as soon as I can,” he said, then ended the call.
On the way back to work, Dalton watched a guy in a silver Sebring roll through his stop. Normally, he wouldn’t have worried about it, but he was procrastinating and this was a perfect distraction.
The man’s name was Nicholas Szczesny, from Las Vegas. He wore a yellow shirt and white pants, like he’d just come off the golf course. He was polite and soft-spoken, said he liked this little town, but he was used to driving in Vegas, which is a bit more aggressive.
Dalton said that’s how it was for him after driving in Iraq.
“When were you there?” Szczesny asked.
“2010,” Dalton said. “Did a second tour in Afghanistan. You?”
“2004, a little before that, a little after.”
Dalton looked down and saw a small tattoo of a skull with a bayonet sticking out of the top on the man’s forearm and decided not to ask any more questions. He took his license and registration, looked him up, and saw that his record was clear. He came back and said, “I’m going to let you go with a warning. People around here aren’t always paying attention, so a full stop can make a difference.”
The man smiled. “Attention must be paid.”
“Have a good trip.”
The man drove off, and Dalton returned to the public safety building. When he got back to his desk, he found a stack of requisitions and a Post-it reminding him not to forget to sign the overtime. Ten emails later, he tried getting back to work when a call came through from LaRae. It was five o’clock. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Sorry for what?” Dalton asked.
“I know you asked not to be bothered, but it’s Janey Gladstone. She insists.”
“On what?”
“Talking to you.”
“About?”
“She says something weird is going on at Raylene Cluff’s house.” Dalton made two fists—one he set on the desk and the other tightened around the phone. He wasn’t much of a decorator, but he’d set up a few things directly in his line of sight: a picture of Karen and the kids, a shelf with some trophies from high school, a shadow box with his military medals, a photo collage of him holding up a variety of fish he’d caught over the years, and one large photo of a coho salmon he caught in Nunatak Fiord in Alaska. He’d set all these things up to be a place for his eyes to go when he didn’t want to yell, punch, or kick anything. Today he focused on the coho. He caught that thing eight years ago, right after he got back from Afghanistan. It took him forty-five minutes to land it. Weighed thirty-three pounds. The guides shipped it home for him on ice. Cost him a hundred bucks to do it, but he didn’t care. He never ate it. It was still in the freezer.
“Sheriff,” LaRae asked, “are you there?”
“Yeah, put Janey through,” he said.
There was a click, a span of silence, then the sound of rapid breathing. “Janey, this is Sheriff Dalton.”
“I am at their house, not really at, but in—inside it,” she whispered.
“Whose house?”
“The Cluff home.”
“After I said not to?”
“I came over to get some personal things for Raylene.”
“We could have sent somebody over.”
“Well, there’s a reason they call them personal things, Patrick.”
“Fair enough.”
“I believe I have found myself in an extraordinary situation. Somebody is here who should not be.”
“Somebody besides you?”
“I came down here to the basement because that’s where the laundry is, and I heard a clatter outside, so I went to the top of the stairs and looked around and saw that somebody was climbing up the outside of the house. There was no ladder, just his legs. I went back down, but I can hear him clomping around up there. It comes through the ductwork.
“Where are you now?”
“By the chest freezer.”
“Hang up and hide,” Dalton said.
“Hide? Where?”
“Someplace you can get comfortable. You might have to be there awhile.”
“Now you’re scaring me,” Mrs. Gladstone said.
“I am hanging up now so we can get someone over there.”
“Can’t someone keep talking to me?” Mrs. Gladstone’s voice was thin.
“How about LaRae Knowles? Would you talk to her?”
“Yes, I can do that,” Janey said.
“Okay, hang on.” Dalton put her on hold and rang LaRae. When she answered, she said, “I am so sorry. I know you said to hold your calls.”
“That’s fine. I need you to keep ta
lking to Mrs. Gladstone. Tanner and I need to get to the Cluff house. Sounds like somebody is breaking in.”
“That’s really weird,” LaRae said.
“It is.”
“I’ve got it,” she said and pulled the call back to her phone.
Dalton hung up and left through a side entrance. He radioed Tanner from the Bronco and told him where to meet. He tore through town with his lights on but no siren. Time stretched out as he worried. In cop shows they always cut this part down to a couple of shots, never showing how the drive gives a person enough time to suffer through a hundred possible outcomes, catastrophe piled on top of catastrophe. There were more ways for this situation to go wrong than he was willing to imagine.
Tanner was waiting for him when he arrived. He had his sidearm unholstered and was wearing his body armor, which amped up Dalton even more. “The street is clear. Nothing weird going on. I ran the plates on these cars.” He pointed to the three vehicles on the street. “They all belong to the people who live here. That one is Janey Gladstone’s,” he said, pointing to a white Buick.
“Tell me this is nothing,” Dalton said.
Tanner shrugged. “I’d rather be ready.”
Dalton called in the situation, and the dispatcher asked if they needed backup. Dalton said, “I got everybody here with me at the moment.” Tanner chuckled.
They walked up to the house and split. Dalton continued down the driveway toward the carport, and Tanner went through the bushes and around. After a few minutes, Tanner came across the radio. “There’s a ladder here, hanging in the garage. You think the burglar returned it to where it goes?”
“Not likely,” Dalton answered.
“Then it looks like we’re dealing with somebody who can climb better than I can, which means we’re also looking at a different story than the one we thought.”
“Don’t say it.”
“You think the guy is still in there?”
“I don’t want to find out by having him shoot first,” Dalton said.
“If we crouch here all day, we’ll regret it,” Tanner said. “Meet me at the back door.”
Dalton came around the house, and Tanner was standing at the back stairs with his weapon pointed in the air. “Who goes first?” he said.
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