by David Kazzie
Ashley lifted the gun again, and then she lowered it. Carter was on his knees, his hands clasped together at his chest as if in prayer. Which they kind of were.
"Start talking," she said.
"See, I bought this SuperLotto ticket Thursday night," he started. "I was working late, and I just felt like doing it. I went down to that convenience store on 20th Street. You know the one?"
"I guess."
"Yeah, so I buy this ticket, and I'm watching the drawing in my office. I'm sitting there as the little balls come up. The numbers came up out of order, so I didn't realize it at first. But then they re-arranged them and I realized I'd won. Can you believe that, sweetheart?"
"That's amazing," she whispered.
"Yeah, so I've just been wandering around for the last day or so, just in shock," he said.
"That's amazing that you actually think I believe that load of bullshit," Ashley said. "You've been planning your little getaway with whatever-her-name-is."
Her finger slid back to the trigger and began applying the requisite pressure when a strange noise, the sound of exploding metal, behind her drew her attention. She looked back over her shoulder toward the foyer, where she saw a man she did not know standing with a gun pointed at her. The front door swung open behind him, smoking from where the doorknob had been shot off.
"Good evening," the man said. "I'm Charles Flagg."
* * *
Ten minutes later, Flagg finished tying each of them to a pair of Ashley's exquisite dining room chairs, which he had set back to back. Apparently grasping the gravity of their situation, the Pierces laced their fingers together. It was the first time they had held hands in years. Behind them, the magnificent Pierce family Christmas tree blinked uninterestedly.
"Well, this is just pathetic," Flagg said. "You disgust me, both of you. You'd made it. Don't you see that? Top of the food chain. Yet it wasn't enough. You just had to dip your toes back into the pool. You ever see any other creature behave like us? It's shocking, really."
He motioned to a picture of the twins on an end table. "It's a good thing your daughters aren't here."
"You lay a hand on them and I'll-" Carter started to say.
Flagg leaned in and slapped Carter lightly on the cheek.
"You'll what, tough guy?" Flagg said. "Relax. They have done nothing to warrant their termination. Yet. Quite the contrary, they're beautiful young women who have a lot to add to the gene pool. What I meant was that they'd be embarrassed by the example their parents have set for them. Just shameful."
"I really have no idea what you're talking about," Carter said. "You've got us confused with someone else."
"Do I?" Flagg said. "I guess you don't know anything about Julius and his little lottery ticket, then, do you?"
"Christ," Ashley said. "The one goddamn time you're honest with me."
This shocked Carter into silence.
Sensing an opportunity, Ashley sprung to her own defense.
"Then you don't really have any beef with me," she said. "This is between you guys. Please let me go."
"Really, Ms. Pierce," Flagg said. "I watched you take a shot at your husband here. Ever heard of transference?"
She shook her head.
"Never took a psych class in college?" he asked, stepping forward and kneeling in front of her. "Basic human behavior? Never wanted to nail that down?"
She was wide-eyed with terror now.
"Never mind," he said. "It's when you project feelings you actually have about one person or about yourself toward a third party."
She shook her head again.
"Come now, Ms. Pierce," Flagg said. "You're not planning a little rendezvous with some nice accountant or something like that once you get out of this terrible, abusive marriage you've been in?"
Now it was Ashley's turn to sit quietly.
"Was that your plan?" asked Carter.
"What do you want me to say?" she said. "Sorry? Or did you forget you're the one who's got a baby on the way?"
"Oh, bravo," Flagg said, looking back at Carter. "Just super. Knocked up some genetically inferior whore just so you could get your jollies."
"She is not genetically inferior," Carter said.
"Oh, now you're defending her?" she said. "You make me sick."
She looked back at Flagg.
"I wish you would shoot him," she said.
"Hey, I'm not the one who needs a narcotic supplement to make it through each day of this supposedly terrible life."
"Yeah, but I am the one who has to be married to a pompous ass like you. Every day I have to find a new reason not to smother you with your pillow."
"I never held a gun to your head to stay," he yelled. "You never complain about the new car every year or the condo at Park City, oh, no, you never seem to have any problem with that."
"Go to hell," she said.
"Shut up! Both of you!" Flagg bellowed.
Flagg's head was starting to throb. He had never encountered shallower or more self-centered individuals, or at least spent enough time with anyone to discover such depths of their inanity. It was as unnerving as having made contact with extraterrestrials.
"Mr. Pierce, I'm going to ask you only once," Flagg said, grabbing Carter by the nape of his neck. "Where is the ticket?"
Carter cut his eyes away.
"I don't know."
"Where's Samantha Khouri?"
"I don't know."
Flagg placed the silenced barrel of his gun against Ashley's temple and pulled the trigger. It was as if Flagg's gun whispered a terrible secret into her ear. Ashley was dead before she even realized Flagg had turned the gun on her, and her body listed to its side.
"Are you ready to talk?"
Carter vigorously nodded his head.
"Where is the ticket?" Flagg asked again.
With his late wife's blood and brain spattered against his neck and arm, Carter suddenly found himself seized with the desire to be very cooperative with Charles Flagg. It did not occur to him to grieve for his late wife. If he had had time to consider it, he would have been surprised to learn that the impact of her sudden death was heavily outweighed by the fear for his own life.
"Samantha Khouri has it," he said. "She'd just gotten fired."
"How did she end up with the ticket?"
"She stole it from Julius and took off."
"You sure you didn't have anything to do with all this?"
"I was trying to help Julius!"
"How, exactly, were you doing that?" Flagg asked. "I would really like to know."
"He wanted to help his family out," Carter said, making up every word as he went along. "See, Julius was from the projects, so it wasn't entirely clear who his family was."
"Are you suggesting that people from the projects don't know who their families are?"
"I was just saying–"
"You were just saying. I see."
"Right," Carter said, nodding his head like a windup toy monkey.
"By the way, where is Julius?" Flagg asked.
Carter took a chance that perhaps his visitor had missed the carnage at Todd's cabin.
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"No."
"You're not a very good liar, Mr. Pierce."
Carter took serious umbrage at this, given that he fancied himself an exceptional liar.
"You expect me to believe that you don't know where your star client is?"
"I really don't know! Maybe Samantha killed him!"
"Well, my friend, once again, Professor Darwin was right."
Flagg shot Carter Livingston Pierce in the forehead, and Carter no longer had to worry about Dawn the paralegal, the mortgage on the Park City condo, the money he owed his bookie, or the Kornheiser trial. Later, the first police officer on the scene of the Pierce murders would be struck by the look on Carter's face. It almost looked like he was smiling.
Flagg found Carter's cell phone in a small wicker basket on a table in the fo
yer. He scrolled through the extensive contact list and found the number he wanted. Without missing a beat, he pressed the SEND button and waited for his destiny.
* * *
Across the street and two doors down from the Pierce home, Samantha's Audi eased to a stop in front another behemoth house. She ducked low in the driver's seat, most of her face hidden by the door. She could see the front walk of the Pierce home and three vehicles parked in the driveway. She recognized Carter's Hummer and Ashley's car, but the other, a 1970s-style station wagon, was a mystery to her. It was painted fire-engine red and sported shiny whitewalls. She wasn't sure what she'd find in coming here, but she felt better taking action. Like she was helping Pasquale.
She wondered, not for the first time, when or even if this nightmare would ever end. Already, she had forgotten what her life was like before Julius knocked on her door Friday night. A thin film of nervous sweat seemed to be permanently glazed on her body. Her heart had been racing for days. And if she somehow crawled off of this shitheap, she would find herself on another one, this one called Unemployment. Why was she giving up this ticket again?
Her Blackberry rang, startling her. Before answering it, she checked the caller ID. Carter Pierce. Her heart leapt into her throat like a high jumper. Well, she thought. The time had arrived.
"Hello?" she answered as casually as she could.
"Your boss is dead," Flagg said.
The words cemented Samantha into silence. Snipping out her tongue would not have had as disabling effect on her power of speech.
"He was a gigantic pain in the ass," Flagg said. "Trust me, I've done evolution a huge favor. Huge."
"Carter's dead?"
"I see that I've got your attention," Flagg said. "I just want the ticket. If you agree to surrender it to me, I will leave you alone."
Samantha knew that this was, of course, an absolute and total lie. He'd confessed to killing Carter the way a man might announce he's taken out the garbage. She suspected he was simply giving her a chance to surrender it in a way that was a lot easier than having to hunt her down, break into her apartment and deal with all that. No one liked hassle.
"You think if you just hang on until Wednesday, you can cash it in and that will be that?"
His question was met with the soft hiss of the open telephone line.
Sam sat stone still, stunned by the news of Carter's death. For reasons that were unclear to her, she was having a hard time processing the news about her now-very-former supervisor. That struck her as odd, given that she thought that she'd seen him die two nights ago and had actually prayed for his death many times while in his employ.
Something about this telephone call unnerved her to her very core, as if she were on a conference call with the boogeyman.
Pasquale. She had to save Pasquale.
"You can have it," she said. "Just let him go."
"Let him go? I already told you that he was dead."
His words scraped against her heart like fingernails on brick. Her mouth opened, but then closed again without making a sound. The man's last sentence seemed pregnant with meaning, but she struggled to process it.
I already told you that he was dead.
He was calling from Carter's phone.
I already told you that he was dead.
Then it hit her. He already told her that Carter was dead.
He didn't mention anyone else. Was it possible that he didn't know about Pasquale? Was Pasquale still safe somewhere? She debated pressing the matter further, perhaps trying to set him up with a fake name. But if he bit on it, she wouldn't necessarily know for certain whether he had Pasquale or not. Plus, he would've mentioned the fact that he had another chip to play. She decided on another approach.
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Well, you'll never find me then."
"I'm watching you right now."
Her body rippled with fear. Was he inside the Pierces' house? Was he peering out at her through the blinds? Were all the Pierces dead? Was that his weird-looking station wagon in the driveway? Faaaan-tastic.
"Gotcha!" he said. "Trust me, if I could see you, you'd already be dead."
At precisely that moment, Samantha realized Carter's killer was in the house. That was his station wagon over there. Calm down, she told herself, calm down. She took stock of her situation. Her Audi was parked right behind a Ford Excursion, which was like a mouse using a skyscraper for cover. Even if he was looking out the blinds, there was no way he could see her. Time to get moving.
As she reached up to start the car, a slight flicker caught her eye. At first, she thought she imagined it, but as she turned her gaze toward it, in the Pierces' driveway, the flicker became more pronounced. She blinked twice, but it was still there. In the gloom of the evening, she realized what it was.
Ashley's car was rockin'.
Don't come a-knockin'.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sunday, December 23
6:47 p.m.
For two full minutes, Samantha kept her hand on the door handle, fully intending to open it and check Ashley's car. The fear was like glue, however, keeping her pasted to her seat. Was it possible that Carter had been the one who kidnapped Pasquale? It made sense. This other nutjob that had called her didn't seem to know anything about him. And Pasquale was right there, thirty yards away.
She wondered how long he had been in the trunk, if that's indeed what she was seeing. It was pretty cold out here, she knew that, and while the Mercedes was a nice car, she didn't think they came with heated trunks yet. The idea of him trapped in there like an animal made her sick to her stomach, but she told herself that if he was frisky enough to thrash around, then he was probably in good physical health.
OK, she was ready to do this. But as she started to tug on the door handle, she saw the Pierces' front door swing open. Gasping, she let go of the handle and slid down the seat, angling her head near the back edge of the driver's door to keep an eye on this new development. Flagg bounded down the steps of the Pierces' porch steps like a man on his way to work. To get to the red station wagon, he would have to make his way down the serpentine brick walk, out onto the asphalt driveway and past the Pierces' two vehicles. Right past the Mercedes.
Oh, please, please, don't let him see the car shaking. Oh, dammit, Pasquale, stop flopping around in there.
Flagg stopped.
Right at the bumper.
Sam looked around the neighborhood quickly, hoping to see someone who would notice that there were strange goings-on afoot, but there was nothing. Didn't these people ever leave their houses? Wasn't anyone out doing a little last-minute Christmas shopping?
Flagg paused and placed a hand on the trunk. When the car started rocking again, he pulled away, as if he had touched a hot stove. He checked the doors, which were locked, and quickly retreated back into the house. Samantha suspected he was going for the car keys. Before she could even form another thought, he was back outside. He pointed the key fob at the car, and the car's lights blinked twice. He repeated the gesture, and the trunk unlatched, swinging open slowly.
Even from here, she could see Pasquale sitting up for a look around, like a groundhog poking his head out to look for his shadow. Flagg came around the back bumper, his gun drawn, sending Pasquale back down into the trunk. Flagg made a circular motion with his free hand, apparently directing Pasquale out of the trunk. Pasquale climbed out slowly, swinging one leg at a time over the edge, his eyes never leaving the gun. Samantha could see that his hands were bound together, and his mouth was covered with tape. Quickly, Flagg sliced through the wrist bindings, and Pasquale pulled the tape off his mouth, wincing as he did so. Flagg directed Pasquale to his own vehicle and into the driver's seat. He was going to make Pasquale drive.
The police. She needed to call the police. They could come and rescue Pasquale, and whatever happened, happened. Her phone was charged; it was right there in her hand. She needed to save Pasquale. Nothing else mattered. Not the ticket, not Jamal Wheeler, not t
he untimely demise of Carter Pierce.
She pressed the 9, which beeped loudly.
Could the police save him?
She pressed the 1.
Who was this guy?
She pressed the 1 again.
She prayed this was the right move.
"911, what is your emergency?" answered a tired-sounding woman.
"I need to report a kidnapping," she whispered.
"Where are you, ma'am?"
"On Crestwood Circle. 681 Crestwood Circle. They're in a red station wagon. Please hurry."
"Can you give me any more information?"
"What else do you need? I gave you the address! Please, send a car now!"
"Ma'am, I've already dispatched officers to the scene. I'm just trying to gather some information. The license plates?"
"Okay, okay. The snow is too thick. I can't make out the plates."
"Do you see any weapons?"
"Yes, there's a gun."
"Do you know who the victim is?"
"Yes. His name is Pasquale Paoli."
"Where are you?"
"I'm visiting across the street for Christmas," she said. "I was just looking out the window."
"What's your name, ma'am?"
"I'd rather not say."
"And you're calling from 513-2617?"
They had her cell phone number. How long before they tied her number to the dead guy in the house?
"Yes, that's right."
The red station wagon rumbled to life just as Samantha heard the first hint of sirens in the distance. White rear taillights glowed in the darkness as Pasquale shifted into reverse, and the wagon eased back out onto Crestwood Circle. He straightened the wheels and headed north. Thirty seconds from now, they'd be out of the subdivision, and they would disappear.
The sirens continued to wail, but they didn't seem to be getting any closer. Samantha started to call 911 again, but she stopped at the second digit. She remembered the man's voice on the phone. It gave her the chills, and she started to wonder whether police could save Pasquale now. She had far less confidence in his safety now that they were on the run. She did believe very strongly that Pasquale's captor would kill him if he sensed even the slightest threat.