by Lisa Unger
“Holy shit.”
A huge pile of cash, banded into stacks of ten thousand. The smell of it, that special aroma of ink and paper and a million hands drifted up to his nose.
“What the fuck?” said Chad, looking at Paul. “Where? How?”
“It was just like you said it would be,” said Paul. “Those skulls were sleeping when we got there.”
“No one got hurt?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He zipped closed the bag. “You went alone.”
Paul shook his head. “I had to cut them in.”
“Who did you bring?”
“Better you don’t know, right?”
Chad nodded, though he had a pretty good idea. There weren’t many guys you could call to help you rip off a drug dealer in the middle of the night. Men who were trained, reliable, had that certain dark ethic you could trust. A code of right and wrong that not everybody shared.
“How much?”
“A hundred grand each.”
“So that’s four each for you and me,” said Chad.
“I don’t want any of it,” said Paul. He was leaning on the car, looking out at the highway. Up above, the sky was clear and riven with stars, just a few thin clouds drifting in front of the sliver moon.
Relief warmed Chad’s shoulders, shifted into his belly. He was free, free of that debt, that burden that he carried, thought about, couldn’t get out from under. He wouldn’t be able to pay it off right away, and this money would have to stay hidden for a good long while. But he’d be able to do it, get them to a better place. She would forgive him; they’d move on.
“Don’t be crazy,” said Chad. “Take the money. You did all the work.”
“I did it for you, for Heather and Zoey,” said Paul. “I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I have no family. I don’t even own a house.”
Paul got a particular tone when he talked about Heather and Zoey, a softness that never touched his voice otherwise. Chad knew how he felt about Heather. Of course, he did; he wasn’t stupid. But Heather belonged to Chad, and he to her; it had always been that way, and all three of them knew it.
“I’ll keep it at the house,” said Chad. “Half of its yours. It’ll be there waiting for you, like a savings account.”
Paul nodded but didn’t look at Chad.
“Where are you going to hide it?”
Chad looked at the money. “That crawl space we discovered between the house and the barn. I’ll pile a bunch of crap in front of the wall under the stairs. Why? You think someone’ll come looking.”
“No,” said Paul. “It was clean. And you had nothing to do with it.”
Chad thought a minute. All that money.
“A hundred grand going to be enough to keep your guys quiet? Keep them happy and from sniffing around in a few months asking for more,” asked Chad. “They knew what the whole haul was?”
Paul seemed to consider.
“It was your find and my plan,” he said finally with a shrug. “They were just the muscle. They’re good.”
“It was clean?”
“Yes,” said Paul again. “It was clean.”
“You okay?” asked Chad. He closed the trunk and faced Paul.
“Just tired,” he said. “You know you can’t spend it right away, right? Pay those bills off slowly, work overtime. Don’t call attention to yourself.”
“Of course, I know that, big brother,” said Chad. It had always been like this. Chad had a problem, Paul fixed it. Paul gave advice, Chad took it. There was no one else he’d ever trusted or counted on in the same way, not even his dad.
“But settle that other debt first,” he said. “And remember you promised. No more.”
Paul meant the bookie. Chad was into the guy for a couple grand—bad bets on fights, games, horses. Buster had been patient because Chad was a cop, but he was starting to make threats. Chad was most embarrassed about that, how he’d used his overtime money to try to make more to pay off debts and lost that, too. What a mess. But he was done with all that. Done for good.
Chad raised his hands. “I swear to God.”
“Take care of them, Chad,” said Paul. Something dark had crept over Paul’s features, an etched sadness that opened a gully in Chad’s center. “Get yourself out of trouble. And take care of Heather and Zoey, or so help me—”
He stopped, shaking his head, let the sentence trail.
Chad stood before his friend, his brother, and saw Paul’s anger, his disappointment, saw that Paul had brought himself low because of the trouble Chad had gotten himself into. Chad understood that Paul had done it for Heather and for Zoey. He didn’t know what to say, bowed his head with shame. After a moment, Paul patted him hard on the shoulder.
“Get the money out of that trunk and go home to your family,” he said.
Chad stood a moment, toeing the ground, searching for words to express his gratitude, how sorry he was. But instead he said nothing. He lifted the heavy blue canvas bag, transferred it to his own trunk. Paul was still standing there as he pulled from the rest stop and went home.
thirty-seven
Raven grabbed the canvas handle and started to tug. It was heavy, and she had to use the strength in her legs to move it from where it had obviously been sitting for a decade. Moving it released all the dampness and mold that had gathered beneath it and within its deep folds. Her sinuses tingled and she stifled a sneeze, but more than that, her heart was thumping with effort and excitement. What if? What if? What if? She didn’t want to open the bag. What if it was filled with paper? Or a dead body? (It would smell, right?) Or something worthless like old clothes, books? As long as it was closed, it could contain anything.
With effort, she got it back to Troy, who pocketed his dead phone and got up to help her and then started sneezing. He folded his nose into the crook of his arm—one, two, three.
“What is it?” he asked with an exaggerated sniffle. He knelt down beside it.
“This is it,” she said. “It was right inside the door. This must be it.”
Both of them stared. “Did you look inside?” he asked.
She shook her head, then reached for the thick metal zipper and pulled.
“Holy shit,” said Troy, sinking back onto his heels. “Oh. My. God.”
Raven thought of all of those cartoons, where the lid of a treasure chest opened and light radiates out. There was no glow except the flashlight she’d tilted up against the wall and which Troy now shone on the bag. Money. Thick stacks of bills wrapped in white and orange bands.
“No way,” said Raven. “No way.”
Troy laughed a little, nervous, uncertain. He reached out a hand to touch the money, but then he drew it back.
It felt as if she were dreaming, that it couldn’t be quite real. A dream that started with sneaking into the city and meeting Andrew Cutter, one of those long, twisty messes that makes absolutely no sense when you wake up. She reached into the bag and pulled out a stack. It was soft and heavy in her hand. It had so much energy, that energy of possibility—what you could do, what you could buy, who you could be.
“We have to get out of here and call the police,” said Troy, breaking rudely into the spin of her imaginings. He gently took the stack from her hand and tossed it back into the back where it lay soft and dark. The envelope slid into the dark of the bag.
“It’s blood money,” he said. He wore a deep worried frown, such a rare expression. “People died for it. It’s tainted.”
Something came up from deep inside her. At first it felt like anger, because that was her go-to emotion. It was red and hot, burned fierce and bright, lashed out, pushed people away, defended. She was safe behind it; no one could get to her there. But it smoked out fast in front of Troy, fizzled, and died before it burst into flames. Beneath it was the thing she didn’t want to feel, that black hole of sadness that sucked in everything even light. It was so much scarier than rage. You could lose yourself in that black place.
The bag
of money gaped between them, and her thoughts spun.
The cafeteria on Friday. When Clara sat across from her, Raven had been reading. “Hey,” she said. Raven smiled; the kids had been nice so far. She told her mother that she didn’t like it. But it was okay.
“So,” said Clara. “Does your mom have a blog?”
Raven started to shake her head. Claudia had tried to protect their privacy. But some people back in New York had figured it out anyway. It was only a matter of time before stuff like that got around, especially in a small town like this where no one was doing anything.
“Makeovers and meltdowns dot com,” she said. “Cute.”
Raven didn’t know why Clara didn’t like her. But that’s when she saw it, that mean glint that some girls got. There was a faux niceness, a smile that tricked, a tone that dripped sweet as honey. But it was a mask. Underneath was something cold, sharp as a razor.
“If I was her, if some animal had raped me? I’d have had an abortion.”
The word hurt like a slash to the face. It stung and started to bleed while Clara’s friends twittered nervously, though the blonde one looked a little disgusted by her friend, uncomfortable. Raven felt that heat. That white sweater, that faux earnest expression. It wasn’t an accident; she did flip the tray and the red viscous (disgusting) sauce sprayed like gore. She got all of them—hair, faces, pretty clothes—and watched as their expressions turned from superior and gloating to horrified and embarrassed. It was a comical shift, one that made Raven laugh out loud. It wasn’t until they were being led down the hall by the gym teacher that despair set in. Why didn’t she? Why did Claudia have her?
Ella’s implication that she should find her real family. Had she used those words? Maybe not, but that’s what she meant, right? Andrew Cutter’s rejection; even he didn’t want anything to do with her. The people who died in her house. Her mother who tried so hard to make everything right.
Now, with the blood money between them, and the swirling mess of sad-mad churning in her gut, the tears came. She almost never cried. Troy cried more than Raven did. He was a highly sensitive person; a good commercial could make him cry. But now a big sob escaped her, and then Troy was in close, wrapping his arms around her.
“It’s okay, Raven,” he whispered in her ear. “You’re okay.”
He knew that she wasn’t crying about the money, that it was the whole tangle of everything, that unsolvable puzzle of her life. She never had to say anything to him. Somehow he already knew. I’m highly sensitive. My mirror neurons are in overdrive, especially with you.
“You’re just Raven,” he said. “Smart, funny, wild, the best friend ever. Nothing else matters. Really.”
He lifted a hand to push back her hair, to dry her tears. Then, so softly, he kissed her. It was a surprise and it wasn’t; it was always just about to happen. There was a salty sweet moment, her heart fluttering like a bird in the cage of her chest. She kissed him back, and he smiled that Troy smile.
“Okay,” he said. “Wow.”
The light changed, darkening from above. They both looked up to see a stranger peering down from the tunnel opening. An electric bolt of fear shot through Raven.
“Isn’t that sweet?” he said. “Young love.”
His face was hard, skin rough. His eyes were cold.
“Who are you?” asked Raven, grabbing Troy’s wrist. Her voice came out high pitched, afraid. “What are you doing up there? This is private property.”
“What do you have down there?” he said, a wide smile making his face even uglier.
“None of your business,” she said, summoning courage. But her voice wobbled and she still sounded like a scared little girl. Troy had a protective arm around her waist. He squeezed a little, which she took to mean he thought she should be quiet.
“I think it is my business,” said the stranger. “Because you have something that belongs to me, speaking of private property.”
That’s when she saw the gun, black and menacing in his hand.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. This time she sounded stronger, more sure of herself, even though she wasn’t at all. She was shaking all over. Troy was pulling her backward.
It slowly started to dawn who the stranger was, what he wanted. The money. The murders. The men who weren’t caught. Oh, God. This wasn’t happening.
“It’s Raven, right?”
She spun, startled to her core to see another man slipping from the shadows of the other direction, from inside the tunnel where the money had come from. He must have come in the door in the basement.
Where was her mom, then, if that was true? Fear started a boil in her middle. Troy shone the flashlight on him, and Raven saw that it was the handyman Josh.
“We called the police,” said Troy. He’d made his voice deep, not the soft pitch that she was used to from him. “When we found the money, we called them. They’re on their way, so you should go before they get here.”
“Oh, really,” said the stranger. He pointed the gun at them and Raven felt chills move down her body. “You weren’t going to keep it?”
“Your mom,” said Josh. “She’s a nice person. We don’t want to hurt either one of you.”
“Where is she?” said Raven. Her voice was tight, her breath growing ragged with panic. They were trapped, no way up or back.
“She needs help,” Josh said, edging closer. Raven drew in a frightened breath. What did that mean? That she needed help. “You need to let us take what’s ours and go. And when we’re gone, you can call for help for your mother. But you’re never going to tell anyone what happened here today.”
She found herself nodding, because he was nodding. She wasn’t stupid. Josh moved closer, closer, until he was standing right in front of her. He wasn’t like the other man, who was climbing down the ladder, gun still in his hand. He was softer, less angry looking. But there was something not nice about his eyes.
“There are people who want this money,” he said. “And they’re not good people. If you ever say a word, they’ll find you. They’ll kill you and your family. Is that clear?”
She was still nodding. She didn’t have a voice. She was just thinking about how her mom needed help and how she had to give it.
When the other man was on the ground, she could smell him, cigarettes, body odor. He came in close, his eyes glancing over her the way male eyes always did—hungry, assessing as if she was something they wanted, but not a person. There wasn’t enough space down there for all of them. She felt sick—fear, the smell of tobacco, of damp and mold.
“Okay, look. We didn’t call the police. Just take it and go,” said Troy.
He pushed Raven so that she was behind him, between his body and the wall. “We never saw you. You weren’t here, and we didn’t see the bag.”
The stranger edged toward the bag as if he didn’t trust them not to lunge for it, for him, as if they would when he had a gun in his hand. Troy backed them farther away, until Raven was against the cinderblock and he couldn’t go any farther.
The man edged closer and looked down into the bag, then he shot a look of glee over to Josh.
“I told you,” said the stranger.
Josh just nodded, his face grim. “Let’s go.”
Raven knew the bag was heavy. But the man lifted it easily.
“You climb up,” the stranger said to Josh. “I’ll hand you the bag.”
Josh hesitated, looked at Raven and Troy. The whole encounter stayed surreal. Raven felt numb, her limbs filled with sand. Beneath the shock, there was a hard pulse of fear, a terrible tension. Don’t leave us down here with him, she thought.
“You go first,” said Josh, as if he heard her. “I’ll hand the bag up to you.”
The two men stood staring at each other, a stand-off. The way the light fell on them, she could see for the first time that they each had black eyes and bloody noses.
“Have it your way,” said the stranger. His lips curled up in a nasty un-smil
e. Raven knew somehow, she just knew, if Josh left her and Troy down here with the other man, he’d kill them both. Her whole body was tense, lungs tight.
The other man put the bag down and climbed up quickly. He reached down for the bag; Josh handed it up. It disappeared from view.
Josh turned quickly and whispered.
“Go,” he said. “Fast. The door on the other side is open and your mom needs a doctor. Don’t tell anyone what happened. They will kill you; I won’t be able to help you.”
Before they started to run, the door above them slammed closed, leaving all three of them down there. They heard the click of the lock, then boots running.
“That fucker,” Josh said.
The flashlight flickered, browning out then coming back on. Josh turned and ran back into the darkness of the tunnel from where he came. Raven and Troy followed, terror a big knot in her throat. The closer they got, the narrower the tunnel became until they had to get to hands and knees. Raven could see the light up ahead.
“Mom!” Raven yelled. “Mom!”
Troy panted behind her. They got closer and closer to the light; they were almost there. Then the light ahead started to die, and the door, their only way out, closed and locked, as well.
“No.” The word came out a hoarse and desperate yell.
Josh banged pointlessly on the door. “Don’t do this,” he yelled. “Rhett!”
The flashlight chose that moment to die completely, and they were cast into pitch-black. Raven started to scream.
thirty-eight
Claudia dreamed about Ayers.
“Get up, Claud,” he was saying. “You can’t just lie there. She needs you.”
“I can’t,” she said. God, her head was pounding; her limbs were so heavy. “I’m sorry.”
She wasn’t apologizing for not being able to get up. But for everything else.
“Don’t be sorry, darling” he said. Cool, rational, like always. “Just wake up.”
It was actually her fault. The reason she and Ayers didn’t make it. She could see that now. At the time she thought it was him. Most people assumed that it was him, that he couldn’t handle what had happened to her, that he couldn’t accept Raven, that maybe on some primal level, he didn’t want Claudia after she’d been violated. Or maybe, they assumed, she didn’t want him, or any man ever again. People made a lot of assumptions about trauma, about rape, about men and women. Old ideas and attitudes clung to the DNA, even if intellectually or culturally we think we’ve moved on.