by Dee Holmes
“I expected something to be happening,” Molly said in a low voice. The silence was too eerie.
“Something is. You just can’t see it.”
Hunt turned a corner and brought the car to a stop. Molly couldn’t see anything but a strip of road with a faded yellow stripe, trees and, off to her left, a streetlight that illuminated a cluster of six rural mailboxes. One had its flag up.
With the engine off in the darkened car, the quiet became thick and claustrophobic. Hunt leaned forward and lifted the cartons of coffee he’d purchased moments ago at a twenty-four-hour convenience store.
“Here.” He handed one to Molly.
She took the beverage, its warmth filling her hands. Sipping, she concentrated on her surroundings. In the stillness, Molly listened and watched for anything. A light. Motion. Noise. There was nothing.
Three minutes passed. Five minutes. They both drank; neither spoke. Ten minutes. Then Molly heard a sharp sound like twigs snapping. She focused on the source and saw a meager light.
“Hunt?”
“It’s Sullivan.”
No sooner was his name spoken than he materialized like a night phantom. He wore dark clothes, but there was no mistaking the shoulder holster. Molly’s heart leapt in anticipation. Obviously the police were prepared for a hit man to show up, and intended to make sure he didn’t fulfil the contract A sense of relief poured through her. Vern’s death would count for something if his intended replacement was stopped.
Hunt opened the car door and got out. The two men stood side by side against the front fender. Sean lit a cigarette and Hunt sipped his coffee.
He had left the window down, so Molly assumed this wasn’t a secret conversation. She slid over to the driver’s seat so she wouldn’t miss anything.
“Who’s the contract?” Hunt asked.
“Horace ‘the Horse’ Crackston. Once you gave us Grover, 827 BOS translated to mean 827 Burned Oak Street, and we knew Crackston was the target. He’s lived here off and on for a few years.”
“Crackston…Crackston…” Hunt mused. “Didn’t I read that he’s suppose to testify against some banker accused of laundering drug money for Wallace’s boss?”
“He’s the one. Crackston was a bagman for Solozi until he got picked up on a DWI and the cops found thirty grand in his vehicle. Solozi let him sit in the cell to teach him a lesson about getting arrested for stupidity. Crackston was pissed, and when an ace interrogator questioned him, he spilled his guts. The banker was arrested, but won’t talk except to proclaim his innocence. Crackston fingered him and became the state’s star witness.”
“And Solozi wanted him dead, so he sent Wallace.”
“Yeah. He still wants him dead—the question is whether Solozi will follow through with the original plan. According to our stoolies on the street, the contract is still a go. We know Crackston is here in the house. From what Francine told you and Molly, we know the hit that Wallace was carrying out was set for sometime before dawn. Crackston apparently plays in a weekly poker game that winds up at about 2:00 a.m. We think Wallace planned to kill him after .he returned home.”
Hunt shifted, folding his arms. “If he’s the state’s star witness, why wasn’t he in protective custody?”
“He was. East of here, in Worcester County. Until he got some flaky idea he wanted to talk to his girlfriend about the good old days. Called her when his guards were trying to figure out how Crackston could draw four inside straights in a row.”
“Good God, who were these guys? Retreads of the Keystone Kops?”
Sean chuckled. “They got too friendly and their instincts got fuzzy.”
“So the broad took the call, cooed about how she much she adored him and missed him. He got a hardon, blew the cover to meet her, and then she ratted on the poor bastard faster than the phone’s speed dial.”
“Don’cha love female integrity.”
“It’s a trip, all right.”
Molly scowled. The two of them could have been talking about mindless mushrooms.
Sean said, “Crackston also used to meet with a lot of his pals here, but they quit coming after the cops raided it a couple of years ago.”
“Crackston figured it was safe because it seemed risky.”
“It would seem so.”
“But Wallace knew where he was and apparently knew Crackston wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. He felt secure.” Hunt was thoughtful for a moment. “So if Wallace had the hit and the address, why the delay?”
Sean shrugged. “Maybe there wasn’t a delay, just Wallace’s particular timing. He went to see his sister, and from what you got, he planned time with his ex after he did Crackston.”
“At his convenience. Nice. No pressure, no hassle, just do the job and leave.”
“Wallace was the best,” Sean commented grudgingly. “He never missed and he never screwed up. The big boys knew that when the hour for the planned hit came, it would be done.”
“All right. Solozi wanted Crackston dead so he couldn’t testify against the banker. Solozi contracted Wallace to do the hit. Flash forward. Word gets back that Wallace died of a heart attack. Solozi had to be freaked.”
“Probably. But Solozi didn’t get where he is by getting rattled at the unexpected. His bottom line is eliminating Crackston. And since Crackston had been talking to the girlfriend who fingered him for Wallace, Solozi passed that same information on to a new shooter.”
“And you’re waiting on him,” Hunt said.
“Yeah.”
The two men fell silent. Molly leaned forward, anticipating the next question—waiting on him to do what? In fact, she had another question: did Crackston know someone intended to kill him? It struck Molly as odd that he’d stay where he was if he knew he was a sitting target. The police must have clued him in. With no answer forthcoming, she could only speculate.
Obviously Hunt preferred to pretend she wasn’t there and his old partner must have picked up some signal and agreed. What annoyed her was Hunt’s coldness, his shutting her out when he knew how desperately she needed to know what was going on. No doubt he was still angry about what had happened after their lovemaking. She shuddered again, thinking about his furious reaction. Good heavens, it wasn’t as if Hunt hadn’t known Sean would call. And he had been aware of how important it was to her to be here.
The two men chuckled, Sullivan grinding out his cigarette.
Molly couldn’t stand it any longer. “Sean, you said you were waiting on the shooter. Waiting on him to do what?”
Sean didn’t answer and Hunt didn’t respond, either. Surely they’d heard her. Frowning, she was about to get out of the car when Hunt stepped in front of the door, effectively preventing her from opening it.
“I gotta roll,” Sean said, then his voice dropped to a murmur Molly could barely hear. Something about an obstruction of justice arrest.
He walked away and Hunt opened the door. Molly slid back to her own seat, but she watched the path Sean took, and sure enough, in a few seconds she saw the light again.
To Hunt, she said, “Are you going to answer my question? Waiting on the shooter to do what?”
Hunt drained his carton of coffee. “To show up.”
“And?”
Hunt stretched his legs, moving to get comfortable. “Depends. Ideally, they’d like to catch him in the act.”
“Catch him in the act! The act is murder.”
“That’s what it is.”
His calmness infuriated her. “And you can sit there like this guy is making a social call?”
“Not my job to make a judgment. And no one asked my opinion.”
Molly wanted to shake him out of his disinterest. Piqued, she said in a clipped tone, “Oh, yes, Hunt the ex-cop. Heaven forbid I should forget that.” She turned in the seat. “Given that you’re going to sit here and do nothing, why did you come? I could have come alone.”
“No, you couldn’t have. Sean would have arrested you for obstruction of justice. You’re
a civilian. He’d rather take you in than have you get hurt.”
“How considerate of Mr. Sullivan,” she snapped.
If he’d heard her sarcasm, he gave no indication. Instead, he slid down in the seat, folded his arms and settled back as if he intended to take a nap. “Sullivan will give us the all-clear,” he murmured. “Take a deep breath and relax. When it’s all over, you can get a look-see at Crackston, and then we can go home.”
Arms folded, eyes narrowed, she asked, “Will he be dead or alive?”
He shrugged. “You never know. Crackston might get lucky and the shooter will go down first.”
First they wanted to catch the shooter in the act. Then whoever got lucky was the one who would live. All Molly could envision was her brother: Vern caught in the crosshairs between the cops who wanted ideal arrests and the target who might get lucky.
She sat rigid, her adrenaline pumping like an engine with a full head of steam. She glanced over at Hunt, but he hadn’t moved.
Dammit, she hadn’t come to sit in a car. She wanted to know what was going on, but most of all, she wanted the man who was supposed to die to live. If he did, then Vern’s death would have canceled the contract. She couldn’t change what her brother was, but she could change the effect of his death.
The cynicism of Hunt and Sean astounded her. Molly realized that if Vern was indeed the shooter, he would be treated with the same crass dismissal. My God, Hunt, too, would just calmly sit by and wait while her brother was…
Chilled, then hot, then chilled again, Molly determined she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t do more than wait for the outcome. Hunt had said Sullivan would give the all-clear, to take a deep breath and relax. Fat chance of that. Right now she was jumpy and itchy. She couldn’t just bide her time while all of this was going on.
Molly quietly opened her car door. Hunt hadn’t moved. Leave it to him to just fall asleep as if they were parked in Disney World, she thought irritably.
She had one leg out and was about to ease out the other when his hand clamped down on her arm.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I haven’t slept since I got mixed up with you. I asked you a question.”
Think. Think. Her heart thumped madly. “I have to go to the bathroom, if you must know.”
He straightened. “I’ll go with you.”
Aghast, she said, “You most certainly will not.”
“I either go with you or you don’t go.”
She jerked away him and got out of the car. He followed, taking her arm.
“I can walk by myself.” She shook off his hand.
Hunt shrugged but stayed close. The trees and the darkness offered more than enough cover for personal needs. Molly made sure she kept in sight of that tiny light in the distance.
Hunt stood nearby, watchful, and despite her annoyance with him, she grudgingly respected him. He wasn’t easily outsmarted. Her only hope was that the blackness of the night would be cover enough that she could gain some distance before Hunt could stop her.
But he had to have eyes like a cat, for when she tried to move deeper into the trees, he grabbed her none too gently.
“Dammit, Molly, knock it off.”
“Let me go.”
“So you can go down where Sean is? Not likely.”
“That man Crackston could die.”
“And so could you. Remember how you were roughed up by Pascale and his pals over that notebook?”
“I got away from Pascale.”
“Thank God. This time you’re staying with me.”
Instead of arguing, she stepped close to him, slipped her arms around his neck, stood on tiptoes and kissed him. Her tongue slid deep into his mouth, and he welcomed it with a silent promise to let her have whatever she wanted. His hands gripped her hips, angling her against him, and she felt him swell against her.
“Nice,” he murmured.
“I could make it nicer,” she said, nibbling on his lower lip.
He drew back, his eyes half shuttered. “Do it all, sweetheart, but you’re still not going down there.”
She scowled and pushed away from him. “You’re supposed to be so swayed by my kisses that you forget everything else.”
He chuckled. “I am. But I also know you. You want something, and you’ll use any means to get it.”
“You make me sound ruthless.”
“Just determined.”
She dropped her arms and stepped away, heaving a long sigh.
“Guess that means we’re not gonna get hot and serious here, huh?”
She heard the amusement in his voice. “I hate you, Hunt Gresham.”
“Yeah, I could tell,” he said pleasantly.
They started back toward the car when Molly jumped back.
“What is it?” Hunt asked.
“There’s a skunk.”
“Where?”
“There.” Already, she was stepping away from him. “Over there. Just to your left. Do something, Hunt…”
While his attention was diverted, she bolted.
Running back into the trees, dodging limbs, rocks and scrambling over the uneven terrain, she headed toward the source of that light. She ran, fearful of stopping, trying to listen for Hunt’s footsteps behind her.
Finally, out of breath, she halted behind a hedge. Leaning forward, her hands on her knees, she took long, deep breaths. Her eyes strained against the darkness, fully expecting Hunt to materialize and grab her.
In front of her was a clearing, then a road. Behind her were the trees, and she glanced around for that tiny light but couldn’t find it. Had to be here somewhere. Sean had come in this direction. Cautiously, she moved forward.
A rural mailbox stood by a gravel drive that led to a house. An outside light was on, and she wondered if this was the light she’d seen.
She stood still, hands on her hips. Nothing. No noise. No vehicles. Just a symphony of crickets. She moved over to the mailbox, but there was no name and no number. She opened it and found a few pieces of mail. Feeling as if she’d discovered gold, she took it and headed toward the house and the light.
Seconds later, she read the name, Lympton, and 793 Burned Oak Street.
Molly’s pulse rate jumped. At least she was on the right street, and 827 couldn’t be too far away. Quickly she returned to the box, replaced the mail and looked in both directions. Crackston’s house was on this side. She decided to go forward.
She hadn’t walked four hundred feet when she spotted two state police officers. Then she saw a shadowy movement, and another man appeared. Then, with a signal from one of the officers, the man slipped into the denseness of some trees. Sean was probably here, and by this time, Hunt. She worked her way closer, being careful to stay hidden.
She was about to move toward an unassuming house when two men she hadn’t seen earlier loomed in front of her.
Molly froze, plastering herself against a tree trunk.
The men blocked her way to the house, and she was trying to see a way around them when one said, “My stoolie says he’ll show.”
“Unless someone dropped a dime.”
“Crackston ain’t got a lot of friends lookin’ to save his ass. Fingerin’ the banker screwed him with Solozi, but if he could’ve kept his pants zipped, he’d have probably been okay. Instead he blows his own protection. Jeez, go figure on why he’d trust some broad.”
Low snickers. “So what’s your take? Think we’ll do them both clean and easy?”
“If Sullivan has any say. Crackston ain’t got the brains of a cockroach. My money is on the shooter. Weasel ain’t had a lot of misses, and zero arrests.”
“But he’s not ‘the Spider.’ God, that guy could bull’s-eye a target on a dark night with his eyes closed. Swear he could smell the scum. Didn’t need to see them.”
Molly was appalled. These were police officers and they talked as if they were in awe of both her broth
er and this Weasel. And here they were laying bets that Crackston wouldn’t escape alive!
She moved back and to her left. Then she heard a familiar voice. Hunt. She didn’t have to hear the words to discern the fury in his tone.
It was now or never. Obviously the police didn’t care if Crackston died, but she cared. Maybe he was scum, but he deserved a chance. No one should be a sitting target.
She carefully moved between some bushes and made her way toward the house. If Hunt caught sight of her, he’d probably handcuff her to him. All she needed was a few minutes. Warn Crackston about Weasel and leave. Simple.
The house was brown; the interior dark. The moon cast some light as Molly worked her way around to the back. She stood there by the closed door. Now what? Simple and direct, she reminded herself. You’re here to warn Crackston, not to become his new best friend
She tapped on the door. Even that muted sound vibrated in the night, and Molly had to tamp down her urge to run. No one came and she knocked again. When her second knock was ignored, she had the giddy thought that Crackston had outfoxed the cops. Maybe he had learned of the planned hit and taken off hours ago. Maybe he was smarter than anyone thought.
She was about to turn and leave when she heard a noise inside. She pressed her ear to the door, when suddenly it was opened and she was grabbed by arms the size of tree trunks.
Molly struggled, but a man yanked her inside and slammed the door. The sudden noise reverberated through the stillness like machine-gun fire.
He spun her around and gripped her chin as his eyes bored into her. Molly sucked in a breath. The man was huge, with a sagging, fleshy, full-cheeked face, his mouth turned down. His hair was oily, gingersnap brown and messy. A lurking viciousness shone in his eyes. She swallowed, and swallowed again. She hadn’t expected a neighborly grin, but perhaps another Pascale, who at least acted smooth and charming. Crackston neither grinned nor charmed. He was terrifying.
“Who are you?” he snarled.
Suddenly warning him—so important when she was picturing him as a victim—didn’t feel so smart.