by Ben Sanders
She would’ve seen the whole thing.
He couldn’t tell who the dead men were, and he hoped she was wrong. It couldn’t be her Perry, dead on the road. There were uniformed police running to the carnage, patrol cars starting up to chase the fleeing cab, and he knew the guy wasn’t getting far. No one was due a happy ending. Himself, maybe. But he’d had to kill a man, and he didn’t know if that would count.
It took him a minute to make sense of it, if ‘sense’ was the right word, but eventually the pieces fit: two guys had come for Dexter, but only one was lying dead in the kitchen. The other had lain in wait, and then caught a cab.
He stayed outside the house, not wanting to cause a scene, people up and down the street watching from their porches. There were paramedics there too, everyone kneeling by the bodies, like an odd group of supplicants to the dead. A minute later the call came down, a cop’s radio chirping with the news that Perry Rhodes was one of the deceased.
It shouldn’t have made it worse, but it did. The calamity was the two dead people in the road, but the fact he couldn’t face was that Marie was right there, and she’d seen it. Hers was small emotion in the tragic scheme of things, but it still made him wish it wasn’t Perry. Some other victim to take his place: a dead man no one knew, abstract horror that wouldn’t last.
He walked away from it all, west on Eighty-sixth toward the water, needing fresh air before he went back to the bodies. He didn’t get far. A Bentley coupé passed him, heading back toward Dexter’s, and he recognised the man at the wheel. It was the attorney he’d met that morning: John Fitzer, Tony Asaro’s man. Cohen figured Dexter Vine must be on Fitzer’s books as well. He turned and watched the car pull up beside the ambulance, a sharp little swing in against the kerb, and then Fitzer got out, buttoning his suit coat as he made for the front door.
He didn’t get there, of course, two officers intercepting him halfway down the path. Cohen headed back as well. He could hear Fitzer demanding admission, telling them his client had requested his presence, the cops giving him stony-faced noes in exchange, telling the lawyer that this was a crime scene.
He knew right then that Fitzer was the link they needed, the intermediary between Tony Asaro and Dexter Vine. Both men were Fitzer’s clients. He was the perfect confidential go-between. He took his time walking over, knowing that as soon as he looked the man in the eye, it would feel like vindication. There was no need to rush it.
He thought that with so many blue and red lights, it’d be obvious what had happened, but the ball hadn’t seemed to drop yet, and neither of the officers had used the D word. Cohen came up behind Fitzer on the shell path and tapped him on the shoulder, interrupting him mid-sentence as he proclaimed his right to speak to Dexter Vine. Fitzer turned around, and there we are—the double take as he recognised Cohen from that morning. He took a long second to recover, too, seeing Cohen’s expression, the look in his eye that said: I know you’re part of this.
‘Deputy, these men—’
Cohen cut him off again, staring with no warmth as he said, ‘Your client’s dead. I just killed him.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Marshall
The woman saved him.
He surfaced from a doze, or maybe it counted as out cold, given the blood loss. He could hear a noise somewhere, soft and indistinct, like an echo from a well. He concentrated, waiting for volume and clarity, and finally the sound resolved into ‘Ludo’. Someone calling it, over and over again. The lady upstairs. It was like a waypoint for his brain, restoring context after those first waking seconds of knowing nothing.
This is Ludo’s house. You have to get up. Chloe’s coming.
His leg and back were burning. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, but he couldn’t hear sirens. Maybe no one heard the shot, or maybe they just brushed it off as no big deal. There was no trace of light behind the duct tape. Coffin-dark. Ludo’s weight was still on him, but he’d held on to the gun—the trigger guard had snagged on his finger.
He could hear Ludo breathing, tiny wet sips of air. Marshall heard him say, ‘I’m here. I’m down here.’ A deathbed voice, no wind behind it.
Marshall turned his head, cheek peeling off the floor, put his face to the linoleum. Nose and forehead resting in blood. He tensed his stomach and groaned through clenched teeth and drew one knee to his waist. He felt Ludo’s weight shift slightly. The guy was huge, north of two-forty. Marshall felt pressure at his hips and shoulders—maybe an arm and a leg across his back.
‘Ludo, are you there? Ludo? Ludo?’
It was more indignant than plaintive. Marshall tensed again and drew the other knee to his waist, felt Ludo’s bulk slip off him. He knelt there getting his breath, head to the floor and his bound hands behind him, the pistol aiming backward. Like some weird prayer ritual.
He teetered as he came upright, balance at its very limit as he found his feet. The world swaying to the brink, and then slowly coming back to safety. A thirty-degree seesaw, according to his inner ear. He counted to ten while he recovered from the effort, feet planted wide to help equilibrium. A palsy quiver in one knee. He held the pistol by the barrel in his left hand, turned it until his right could grasp the handle. Even bound and blindfolded, he felt better with a finger on the trigger. Ludo had stopped talking, and the woman had gone quiet as well.
He toed about awkwardly, looking for the knife, but all he found was blood and his captor. There might be something else in a drawer, but it wasn’t worth the risk of staying here and being discovered. The mess was probably visible from the entry. Someone could walk in and kill him before he even had his hands free.
He stepped to his right and found what must be the cupboards beneath the counter, which meant the hallway was to the left. He pivoted slightly on one heel so he was pointed in the right direction, and then started across the room. Head throbbing on each step, vicious enough he thought his skull might split the tape.
How long were you lying there? You need to move—
The table juddered as he nudged a corner, but he made it to the doorway. He rested against the frame for a second, and then stepped into the hall, shoulder to the wall for balance. He bumped past another door, knocked a framed picture to the floor with a thud and a tinkle of glass. The debris crunched as he stepped through it, and then his shoulder found the stair balusters, a tight ladder pattern, like jail bars.
He moved forward and tracked the slope of the handrail with his forearm, and when he reached the end post he turned and started up the stairs. Clumsy, lurching progress, like the maiden voyage of some homemade android. Each footfall demanded forethought and labour. It was two minutes’ work reaching the top. He stood at the landing and listened. Snoring, and mutterings that must be sleep talk. Nothing from the kitchen.
He could feel one foot soaking in its boot, and he realised now he must have left a bright red trail in his path. Which meant there was no point trying to hide. He should’ve just stayed in the kitchen, looked for something to cut the tape. His brain was misfiring: this had not been a good move. But he couldn’t go back. Bound hands and a blindfold, he’d break his neck on the stairs.
He started along the corridor, using his shoulder-to-wall technique again, and he was only three steps past the landing when the car pulled up outside. A gentle thump of suspension as it turned into the driveway, the engine idling for a few seconds before it quit.
He said, ‘Goddammit,’ feeling an adrenaline surge, his heart leaping to a mad tempo. He took a breath and released it slowly through his teeth, tried to block out everything except his exit plan. No blood and no pain, no killer in the driveway.
Just think about how you’re getting out.
He heard the car door slam, and took another step, and there—he’d reached the first door. It was ajar, body odour venting through the gap. He felt the threshold with his foot, but it was carpet. He wanted a bathroom, and a bathroom would have linoleum.
A knock from downstairs. The killer—Chloe?—had manners.
He heard the handle rattle. Locked.
He kept moving, found the next door.
Closed.
‘Shit.’ Sounding like Ludo now, no breath in his lungs.
He let the gun hang from one finger by the trigger guard, turned so he could reach the doorknob. Too much blood on his hands: he couldn’t get purchase. It was like trying to spin a wet ball bearing. He arched backward and gripped the thing as hard as he could, a clawlike strangle with his thumb and forefinger.
He gnashed his teeth and twisted, and felt the mechanism twist a fraction.
‘Come on come on come on.’ Clenching the thing so hard he thought he’d bust a tendon.
He coaxed out another few degrees, and the door gave so suddenly he almost fell. He stumbled backward a step, caught himself before momentum laid him prone. He knelt and let his head hang, breathing carefully to a conscious rhythm, rose again cautiously once the floor stopped rocking.
He was still on carpet, but he knew from the smell he’d found the bathroom. There was a damp odour, maybe the shower curtain. He toed around cautiously like he had in the kitchen, trying to map the layout. There was a curved surface on his left, probably the bathtub, and when he leaned he felt the damp curtain on his cheek. He edged further into the room, wanting a vanity or a cabinet, something with drawers, something with scissors or a knife.
‘Ludo, is that you?’
The woman’s voice. Dopey, talking from a dream.
He edged forward again until he found the basin, the smooth chamfered edge of it against his thigh. There was some kind of cabinet beneath it. Cupboards or drawers.
He went down on one knee just as he heard a click from downstairs. She must have picked the lock. A faint creak as the door opened, and then a rattle as it caught against the chain. Not long now.
Marshall let his breath out through pursed lips, like facing a tightrope with no net. He let the gun dangle by the trigger guard and felt behind him carefully, trailing his fingers over the surface of the cabinet. The crisp edge of a faux-timber panel, a narrow gap between drawers, the thin, smooth hoop of a metal handle. There we are.
His breath was coming fast and shallow now, trying to match his heartbeat. He willed it slower, as if time was coupled to his pulse.
Silence in the house.
He snagged a finger underneath the handle like a tow hook, and dragged the drawer open slowly. A squeak and a scrape, and then from downstairs a clatter as the chain came off the latch. His mind’s eye saw it swinging, a pendulum in steel links, the door opening, and then that view from the entry: blood in the hallway, and blood leading up the stairs.
So which way would she go? He listened for a creak, heard nothing but the static in his own head. The kitchen would look like a Jackson Pollock in blood, so she’d go there first, surely. He heard a thud, like a heavy bag hitting the ground, and then the door closing with a precise metal snick.
He reached up over the top edge of the drawer and felt inside. A cardboard box, maybe Band-Aids. A mirror. No scissors. He gritted his teeth and hoped for silence as he eased the drawer closed, held the position and the wish as he tried the next drawer down. It came open with a mouselike squeak, and he felt the contents carefully, trying not to pant. He could picture himself from the door, taped blind and crouching, the easiest target you’ve ever seen.
But there’s still time—
He could hear creaking. Nothing that disclosed position, just the house’s quiet signal of motion.
Someone inside. Somewhere.
Coming for you.
He dragged his fingers gently through the drawer. An electric razor. A cord for something—
Finally, scissors. A big sturdy pair, steel and plastic. The dainty bathroom kind would be better: unwieldy might mean useless. He got his thumb and middle finger through the handles, an overhand grip with the point aiming at his elbow. He splayed his fingers, and the blades opened with a quiet scrape.
Now he could hear footsteps downstairs, slow but even. Cautious, but not about to flee at the sight of carnage.
So close. The backup plan was to fire blind if he couldn’t get free, but there was still time. If only he could slip a blade up between his wrists.
Do it, you’re out of time.
She was on the stairs now, he knew it. The cautious advance, heart in mouth, worried he’d be lying flat on the landing, ready for the headshot as her skull crested.
Nearly there. He arched his wrist and felt the strain through the back of his hand, and he staggered with the concentration as finally one blade slipped up between his wrists, and he cut the tape just as he tripped backward into the bath.
The shock of falling made him yank his hands free, and he threw the shower curtain back as he went over, a sing of metal as it swept aside. The gun clattered somewhere, and his head cracked against the wall. As his torso landed, he felt a scorching pain through his shoulder blade that seemed to reach his chest. It hit him then: he couldn’t find Ludo’s knife, because it was sticking in his own back.
His head was roaring and he was still blind, but somewhere out beyond the chaos he could hear the woman calling, and now someone was at the upstairs landing, the creaking right outside—
He needed the tape gone, but he couldn’t unwind it. No time. He flailed like a man drowning, found the scissors with his right hand, heard the gun scrape somewhere, knocked by his elbow. He reached again for the pistol and found the handle, the curve of the trigger, his left hand swinging it to the door as he raised the open scissors and scored the tip of a blade across his right eyebrow.
He knew he’d gone too deep, but he couldn’t afford not to slice it in one pass. He jammed a thumb in the shallow pocket above his right eye and felt the tape fold back where he’d cut it. He was still blind when the first shot punched through the wall—darkness for the bang, but when he tore the piece of tape down off his lid, his first image with restored vision was a narrow shaft of light, and with the second bang another joined it, this one slantwise to the first.
He’d lost the strength to keep the pistol level, and he slid lower in the tub to tilt the muzzle higher. The door was still open, and he saw her gun now at the edge of it, a boxy SIG, a P226. But there was blood falling off his eyebrow, and he blinked to clear it, swiped with his forearm, and there was Chloe Asaro in front of him, the SIG dropping, and Ludo’s pistol was too low, but he fired anyway—
The first shot hit her stomach, and the recoil lifted his aim so the second round hit her chest as she fell, and his third shot missed her clean. But two was enough. She was on the ground, and she wasn’t firing.
Marshall dropped the pistol, his arm giving him no choice. He could smell gun smoke and drywall, and a talc-like dust was settling. He gripped his knees one at a time like a paraplegic and pulled his legs over the side of the tub. The woman down the hall was well awake now, screaming ‘Ludo’ at the top of her lungs.
Marshall said, ‘You still alive?’
The wet enamel changed his voice, and the sound was fittingly weird. It was a bizarre phrase even with no backstory, but he could see them six years ago: cocktails at The Standard, in bed at the Soho Grand, in bed at the Hilton. And now this was the end point.
He rolled onto his stomach, shoved himself up onto his knees, and rose to his feet. His vision swayed and settled, as if rocking in a heavy fluid. Chloe Asaro was on her back, hips to one side, legs slightly splayed, like a parody of running. Marshall wiped blood from his eye and leaned a palm on the wall as he stepped out of the tub. The SIG was on the floor by her hand, but he worried if he bent down, he’d faint. He gripped the vanity where it narrowed along the sink, slid out a foot, and hooked Chloe’s gun out of reach with his instep. Her upturned hand closed feebly and then opened. He watched her face. For a few seconds she didn’t move, her mouth ajar and her gaze fallen to one side. Then, like a demon puppet, her eyes turned and found his.
He said, ‘I don’t know how much sleep I lost, worrying if you were OK.’
Her han
d found her midriff. ‘I’m not now.’
‘We could’ve talked. I didn’t want to kill you.’
He didn’t see how that would’ve worked, discussing things with Chloe while Ludo lay dead on the floor, but it was the truth: up until two weeks ago, he had no desire to find her.
Her lips moved, but if she spoke he didn’t hear. She’d be twenty-six or twenty-seven now, but the stress of hiding had aged her. She looked closer to forty than thirty, and dying wasn’t helping.
He said, ‘I can’t think of a worse ending. You hunting me down because I shot you, and this is where we’ve ended up.’
She didn’t answer. She was breathing shallowly through her nose, expression placid and funereal, as if resigned to the notion of dying.
Marshall leaned against the vanity, hands either side of him for balance. He said, ‘When you were looking for me, did you ever think back through it all? Like when we used to meet. Or were you just thinking murder all the time?’
She looked at the ceiling and blinked. ‘I can see it all now. But I think it’s too late.’
He didn’t answer. The shouts from the woman along the hall added to the sense of urgency, his feeling that the clock was in the red. He wanted to say something that would capture shared history, but he didn’t know how to encompass the arc: Chloe Asaro, lover to failed killer.
She said, ‘I didn’t see it going this way.’
That seemed to do it, meek and simple as it was. It was a hat-tip to a massive change, or maybe he just wanted meaning in everything. She was looking at him, though, and maybe it meant she could see it through his eyes.
He said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice. You fired first.’
‘Wait with me.’
He wondered if she would have done the same, sat there with him while he died. He said, ‘I’ll call an ambulance.’
He stepped across her and then staggered out and back along the hallway, a shoulder to the wall as a prop. When he reached the stairs he grabbed the rail with both hands.