by Sandra Brown
“I don’t know…”
Beside him, Elizabeth shifted. “I don’t want to wait here, Tom. What if that freak comes back?”
“Lady’s got a point. He lit up my car playing chicken with you two. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if he comes back to see if I’ve done just that—gone off to get help for you guys.”
“I only have one spare.”
“And I got one. Won’t be a perfect fit, but I got tools. We get it on, and it’ll hold you to a gas station.”
He glanced at Elizabeth, who eyed the Dude with a frown, then nodded. “Yeah. I want to get out of here.”
“Right. Okay.” He felt the weight of the knife in his pocket as he shifted to turn off the car. He had the keys in his hands, keeping them tight between his fingers. Neither the keys nor the knife would do much good if the gun-toting maniac came back, but it made him feel a little safer.
He shifted the keys to his left hand and grabbed Elizabeth’s hand. Her side of the car was sitting at an odd angle, and if she opened that door, she’d tumble out. “Just slide over. I’ve got you.”
He opened the door, and the Dude stepped back, then moved forward again as Elizabeth scrambled to get free. The Dude took her elbow. “Here ya go, ma’am. I got you.”
She flashed him one of her rare smiles, almost flirtatious, and Tom swallowed, feeling like an idiot because what the hell was he jealous about? He wasn’t. He was just on edge, was all.
“We’re newlyweds,” he said, showing the Dude his hand and his ring.
“Hell of a thing to happen on your honeymoon,” the Dude said. “Come on. My car’s a few yards back. We can get my spare and a jack.”
They started walking that way, Elizabeth using her phone as a flashlight. It barely cut through the inky black, but Tom could tell they were easing off the shoulder and onto the Texas rock and scrubby bushes. “You’re off the road?”
“Shit, yeah. Park on the shoulder and some sleepy-ass truck driver will rear-end you before you know it. There she is,” he said as Elizabeth’s beam caught the front edge of a truck, its bumper scraped with red paint.
Tom grabbed her hand and took a step backward.
“Aw, dammit. You found me out.” The Dude pulled a Rossi revolver from under his jacket. “What a fucking inconvenience.”
“Look, just—just let us go. I have money. What do you want? A thousand? Ten thousand?”
“Sounds like a start. But maybe I want the girl.”
Tom squeezed her fingers even as an invisible hand clutched at his heart. “You leave her the fuck alone.”
The Dude stepped closer. “Yeah? You’re telling me what to do? Who’s the one with the gun here?”
Tom swallowed. “That would be you.”
“And don’t you fucking forget it. Walk.” He waved the gun toward the darkness farther off the highway.
“No.” Tom clutched tight to Elizabeth.
“No?” The Dude thrust the gun out and down. Then blam! Rocks and sand went flying at Tom’s feet before he even had time to think about it.
“Are you fucking crazy?” Elizabeth screamed.
“Me? Crazy? Hell, no.” Blam! Another shot.
“Goddammit!” she screamed again.
“Hush.” Tom kept his voice low, calm. “Don’t provoke him.”
“That’s right, Liz. Don’t provoke me.”
A chill shot down Tom’s spine. “How do you know her name?”
“I think the more relevant question is what the fuck are you doing married to my girl.”
“Your gir—” But that was all he got out. He heard the crack of the gun, felt the push as the bullet hit him in the chest. He stumbled back. And in the soft glow of the light from Elizabeth’s phone, he saw her release his hand and pull her fingers free.
He landed on the ground and as he looked up at Elizabeth’s scowling face, he parted his lips to ask a question.
But the question didn’t come.
* * *
“Are you insane?” Liz snapped. “How long have we planned this? How much time did we spend working out every fucking little detail?”
“He pissed me off,” Eric said.
God save her from idiot lovers. “He’s fucking dead, you moron. How am I supposed to pull anything from his bank accounts when we don’t have his goddamn account numbers and access codes?”
The plan had been to get Tom in a hotel, get him tied up, get the information and then kill him. Eric would pistol-whip her, fuck her hard and then get himself gone while she called 911. After that, she could draw from the account without having to wait for all the probate bullshit, bullshit that would undoubtedly leave some of her money with his pedantic, pain-in-the-butt relatives.
Much nicer to be on her own with cash in her pocket, and his too-nice, I-don’t-have-to-work-and-can-stay-home-all-day-and-be-a-pain-in-your-butt body out of her life.
And then the brain trust here had to go and screw it all up.
“You’re still married. You’ll still get it.”
“Think, Eric! Think.” She pressed her hands to her temple, then scowled at him again. “And you smell like a damn brewery. Are you drunk? Are we seriously doing this while you’re drunk?”
He actually looked sheepish. “I was bored. You guys took your damn time.”
“Honestly! And quit waving that thing. You’re making me nervous.” She held out her hand and he slapped the gun into her palm.
“You got a real bitchy attitude sometimes, Liz. You know that, right? Sometimes you just need to chill. Go with the flow. It’s all gonna work out just fine, and we’re gonna be soaking in the sun on some foreign beach by the weekend.”
She drew in a breath, nodded. “Right. You’re right. I’m just a little freaked. I wasn’t expecting the backup plan.”
“That’s why they call it a backup, baby.” He’d been waiting in the truck at the turnoff to Balmorhea. She’d known she couldn’t push too hard, not and be Tom’s adoring little Elizabeth. So Eric had waited, and if they passed the exit, then he was supposed to come after them. Smooth as silk.
And in a lot of ways, so much better.
She smiled. “Sorry. I’m okay. You’re right. The account numbers were just to speed things up. No prenup. I’m his little wifey. I’ll get my share, easy squeazy. My share, and a lot of sympathy. Carjacked on our honeymoon? How fucking rotten is that?”
Eric spread his hands. “I’m the man.”
“That you are.”
“So, I need to get out of here,” he said. “But you gotta be a little fucked-up. Pistol-whipped and all that shit. Just like we planned at the hotel. Gimme the gun back.”
She held it out to him. “Don’t hold back. When you hit me, make it look good.”
“Shit, Liz,” he said, stepping close to take it. “Didn’t anybody tell you about not pointing that thing at people?”
Blam!
Even in the dark, she could see the blood spread across the bright white cotton of his shirt. She smiled as she watched him fall. “So sorry, Eric,” she said. “Nobody told me a thing.”
* * *
She realized her mistake right away. She should have let him fuck her, let him whack her on the cheek a few times to raise a huge bruise. Because now she was going to have to do at least a little damage to herself.
She’d tell the cops the carjacking story, but she’d say that when he was trying to rape her, she got the gun from him. Managed to shoot him, and then escaped in his truck.
Nice and neat, except for the fact that she didn’t have a mark on her.
She turned the flashlight app on and shined a light around the area. She found a rough rock and used it to rip her jeans, then she sat on her ass and dragged herself along the ground, wincing as the gravel and debris cut at her knees and hands.
She’d had a manicure before they left, but now she clawed at the dirt, fighting a pretend assailant who was dragging her off, ripping her cuticles, breaking her nails. Not really a problem, since she could pay for a
lifetime of manicures now.
She wasn’t looking forward to messing up her face—much easier to have someone else do it for her. She shined the light at Eric’s lifeless body. No help there. And as for her dear, departed husband… .
Her light found him, too, his shirt stained red, his eyes open in surprise, blood bubbles forming at his moving lips—
What the fuck?
She stepped closer. It had to be a trick of the light.
“E…za…beth.”
“Oh, shit, Tom. Why the fuck aren’t you dead?”
His lips moved again, but she couldn’t make out the words.
Dammit all, she didn’t need this shit. “Look, I’m really sorry. I mean, you’re an okay guy and all. But I’d have to slit my throat if I stayed married to you. Nothing personal. Really.”
Again, the lips moved. Again, she heard nothing.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She got closer. “What is it? You want to tell me the account numbers? You’re probably in a lot of pain. Tell me, and I can make it all go away.”
He nodded. Or she thought he did. Not that easy to tell, really.
She got down close to him, the gun in her hand. She could smell the blood. She’d thought Eric had got him in the heart, but now that she was closer, she could see he missed it. Probably got a lung, though. Poor guy was probably drowning in his own blood.
“Nine…ven…teen.”
“Hold on, baby. Say it slower, say it louder. Just say it, and I’ll make it all be over.” She bent closer, her ear near his mouth.
“Fuck…you…”
She jerked away, but it was too late. His arm was already up, that damn knife of his already out, and she gagged on blood as he thrust the blade deep into her throat.
Fucker! She screamed, or she tried to. She was gagging, choking, and with her free hand, she yanked the knife out, tossed it aside and clutched hard at her neck as warm blood pulsed out between her fingers. She was on her knees, swaying, her head like a balloon about to lift off into space.
Dead. He was fucking dead. She lifted the gun, got it right in his face, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing. Just click.
In front of her, through the haze of gray that was fast overtaking her, she saw her husband smile, and this time she heard his weak whisper. “Rossi’s a five-shooter, bitch.”
And as she tumbled sideways, her blood spilling out onto the warm Texas dust, she heard his voice one last time. The last words she ever heard. “Till death do us part, Elizabeth. Till death do us part.”
* * * * *
EXECUTION DOCK
James Macomber
Macomber moves the action along at a mile a minute but without any sacrifice to the heart of the story. ~SB
“No.”
Refusing to look at the woman lawyer seated across from him, Sarnath Dutta addressed his remarks to the male magistrate. “I have a superior order from the Sharia court of Jessore that I, as father, have all rights.”
“No, Mr. Dutta.” Katherine Price, senior partner with Loring, Matsen and Gould, leaned forward and just as pointedly addressed the dark-skinned Bengali man directly. “You married Mrs. Dutta in the United States. That marriage produced two children, now four and six. The marriage failed and divorce proceedings ensued, also in the United States. For good and valid reasons—we won’t get into the issues of abuse unless we have to—that court awarded sole custody to Mrs. Dutta. You received specific and, under the circumstances, generous visitation.”
Dutta interrupted. “That order—and that court—mean nothing.” He realized he was talking directly to Price and shifted abruptly to the magistrate. “No court can supersede the order of the Sharia court.”
Theodore Warrenton, Magistrate of the Inner London Family Proceedings Court raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He was an elderly man, semiretired from active participation on the bench and meticulously fair in his conduct of this hearing. He transferred his gaze to Price for a response.
“To the contrary,” Price countered, “you’re the one attempting to set aside existing valid orders. After the divorce proceedings, you flew home to Bangladesh to get that order. Then, under the pretense of availing yourself of your visitation rights under the very orders you seek to declare invalid, you took the children and left the United States. Fortunately, you were intercepted at Heathrow on an Interpol watch issued under the Hague Convention on the Civil Aspects of International Child Abduction.”
“Which does not apply to me as a Bengali. Bangladesh is not a signatory to that treaty.”
“Precisely!” Price seized on the point, and turned toward Magistrate Warrenton. “Perhaps the court is familiar with the term chutzpah?” The judge nodded slightly. Dutta bristled at the reference.
“The classic example of chutzpah,” Price went on, “is the man who murders his parents and then asks for mercy on the grounds he’s an orphan.” Warrenton smiled. Dutta didn’t. “It’s only due to the fact that Bangladesh is not a signatory to the Child Abduction statute that Mr. Dutta isn’t facing a warrant for his arrest,” Price argued. “He should hardly be allowed to use that loophole to justify his otherwise unlawful actions.”
“Unlawful!” Dutta scoffed. “My actions are fully consistent with this order and, most importantly, with Sharia law, which may not be set aside.”
“This is not a matter of setting aside Sharia law, Mr. Dutta,” Warrenton interjected. “As Ms. Price stated, the earlier orders of the United States court take precedence.”
“No!” Dutta remained adamant.
“Yes,” insisted the magistrate. “And this court so rules.” He began to dictate to the stenographer. “In the matter of—” Warrenton stopped when Dutta abruptly stood, banging his chair loudly against the wall. “Mr. Dutta,” the magistrate began forcefully.
But Dutta ignored him and stomped toward the door. The bailiff moved to intercept him but Warrenton waved him off. Dutta yanked the door open and left without closing it behind him.
Warrenton completed dictating his ruling then spoke to Beverly Dutta. “This order will be sent over immediately to Child Protection Service.” He looked at his watch. “It’s now 3:00 p.m. I know it’s difficult to wait another night but arrangements have to be made. I’ll set the time for their release to you at, say, 11:00 a.m. tomorrow. I trust that’s satisfactory?”
“Thank you.” Beverly managed a weak smile as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. The magistrate smiled gently back at her, then rose and left.
“And thank you, Katherine,” Beverly said, leaning over to hug Price. “I could never stand up to Sar on my own.” She looked down. “Maybe that was the problem all along.”
Though few would believe it, Katherine was old enough to be Beverly’s mother—she certainly didn’t look it—and she’d developed a strong maternal feeling for this young woman. She gently pushed Beverly’s shoulders back so she could look into her face, and told her firmly, “No, he was the problem all along.” She waved her hand vaguely to indicate the hearing room. “And if this doesn’t count as standing up to him, what does?”
“But I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” Katherine said. And it was. Dutta was despicable—a bully and serial abuser. It had been a pleasure to knock him down.
“Is it really over?”
“Well, he could appeal,” Katherine acknowledged. “But the judge’s order made it clear that you’re to take custody of the children immediately. Even if he appeals. And,” she added with emphasis, “you’re free to take them back to the States pending an appeal.”
“Will you come with me to pick up Sarah and Josh tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“I’m going over there now.” The CPS facility was only a few blocks away from both the court and Beverly’s hotel. “Do you want to have dinner later?”
Katherine reached out and squeezed Beverly’s hand. “Oh, I wish I co
uld. But John’s flying in and I’m picking him up at Heathrow.”
“Your fiancé?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a lawyer in your firm, too?”
“Uh-huh. Also a senior partner.”
“Have you known him long?”
“We’ve been colleagues at the firm for several years, but we just never seemed to get together. I understand it drove the office matchmakers nuts for years.” They shared a smile.
“Will he come with us tomorrow?” Beverly began to gather her things.
“I think he’d like that. He’s the strongest man I’ve ever known, but he’s got a soft side I just love. He’ll probably be as sniffly as we are.”
“How nice that must be.” Beverly’s tone was wistful.
Katherine reached out and took her hand. “Give it time, Beverly. As I said, it’s worth the wait.”
* * *
Katherine had hired a car and driver from an Aston Martin dealership just up Park Lane from the Grosvenor House for the trip to and from the airport to pick up John. As they walked into the hotel lobby upon their return, the striking couple were the object of admiring glances—Katherine tall, auburn-haired and head-turningly beautiful; John handsome, salt-and-pepper hair, a few inches taller than Katherine and a few years older.
They went up to their room and, when the bellman had left, fell into a long embrace.
“Hungry?” Katherine asked after a while.
“Very.”
“For food?”
“That, too.”
Katherine gave a throaty chuckle and turned away to order some wine and appetizers from room service. They settled onto the couch and turned toward each other, spending the next few minutes in an affectionate chat that sometimes bordered on the goofy. Room service arrived and the server arranged the wine bucket, glasses and food items on the low table in front of the couch and left.
“So,” John said after a couple of sips of Pinot Grigio, “the case went well?” He was familiar with the nature of it but they’d not discussed specifics. Katherine filled in the details including Sarnath Dutta.