Harlan Coben

by The Best American Mystery Stories 2011

  Chrissie pounds the dash with both palms. She is angry.

  “Sinclair,” she says. “What the fricassee do we do now?”

  My cell rings. The caller ID shows the number of an attorney in Dallas, a rabid weasel hired by my ex to get even on the child support. I turn the ringer off.

  “We don’t know it was his game for sure.” I turn onto a gravel road that leads to a grove of wind-stunted live oaks. “Let’s keep a positive thought.”

  The truck shimmies over rain-carved ruts in the caliche surface.

  “Don’t worry, Chrissie. I-I-I-I’ll take care of you.” Danny bounces, presses against her shoulder, then chest. He doesn’t bounce back.

  “Are you copping a feel, you little pervert?” She elbows him in the ribs.

  Danny yelps, jumps away.

  On the other side of the live oak trees is a clearing at the base of a small hill. A double-wide trailer with a rotting wooden deck sits in the middle of the open area. The sides are faded metal, once white, half of the windows either broken or weathered plywood.

  “Nice place.” I park by a rusted-out barrel smoker.

  “You wanted somewhere to lie low.” Chrissie flings open the passenger door. “Next time I’ll get us a suite at the Motel Six.”

  We navigate the crumbling steps to the front of the trailer. Step inside.

  The interior has orange shag carpet that smells like cat piss. A purple leather sectional sofa. Avocado green tile in the kitchen area. Through the back window I can see a shed and a narrow path leading around the hill.

  I sit on the sofa, dump the contents of the canvas bag onto the wagon-wheel coffee table.

  A pile of currency dotted with the occasional chip and scrap of paper. And the envelope.

  Danny offers to count.

  “No offense, Dumbo.” Chrissie rolls her eyes. “But two plus two does not equal ‘a bunch more than two.’”

  Danny looks like she just kicked him in the nuts.

  “Go outside.” I point to the door. “Keep watch.”

  “I can do ‘rithmetic, you know.” He puffs up his chest. “I’m not s-s-s-stupid.”

  “Add up how long you’d last with Sinclair making s’mores out of your fingers.” I throw a handful of chips at him. “Now get outside.”

  He grumbles, limps out.

  I sort and then count. Twenties and fifties and the occasional ten-spot. And lots of hundreds. I open the manila envelope that had been sitting in front of the old guy and dump out another gi-normous pile of c-notes. Chrissie licks her lips, smokes.

  “Holy crap.” I gulp at the final tally. “There’s over sixty grand here.”

  “And this.” Chrissie holds up a key that looks like the kind used to lock a storage locker at a bus station.

  The key had been in the envelope.

  “What do you think it goes to?” Chrissie purses her lips.

  “Beats me.” I’d been expecting a take somewhere around five thousand.

  Chrissie drops the key on the pile of money. She takes the envelope and discarded scraps of paper and chips into the kitchen, drops them in the trash. When she comes back, she carries two bottles of Bud Light.

  “We can’t stay here.” I accept a beer. “That’s too much cash. They’re gonna come looking.”

  “This place belongs to my cousin.” Chrissie takes a drink. “No way Sinclair can find us here.”

  “Let’s go west.” I check the magazine in my pistol, sorry not to have brought more bullets.

  “You ever been west?” she says.

  I don’t reply. Neither Chrissie nor Danny has ever left Texas. I’ve been the farthest. I’ve seen the ocean at Galveston twice, New Orleans once.

  “We’re west of nowhere already,” she says. “And look what’s happened to us.”

  We could head toward California, but where? And then what do we do?

  “They won’t find us,” I say, more to myself than to her.

  Chrissie shakes her head, drinks beer. “I’m gonna call my parole officer, see if he can get me in one of those witness protection programs.”

  I head to the back. In the narrow confines of the bathroom, my cell vibrates, a text message from a number in the Waco area code.

  Give me envelope & ur partners. u can keep cash. Sinclair.

  That didn’t take long. Who knew it would be so easy to track down a stuttering gimp of a stickup guy and his partners?

  I flush, walk to the living area.

  Chrissie is still sitting on the couch. She holds her cell phone like it’s hot, looking at the front door, an expression of shock on her face.

  Danny stands in the entryway, his cell in one hand, pistol in the other.

  “S-s-sit by her.” He aims at me.

  “Easy, partner.” I raise my hands. “Let’s be cool.”

  “The mo-mo-money’s mine.” He wags the phone at me. “And Sinclair gets you two.”

  When I was about twelve—right before he left to get some Skoal and never came back—my old man told me to look out for Danny the Dumb-ass.

  “Anybody that stupid’s gonna need all the help he can get.” Pop cuffed me on the head and walked out.

  I suppose, looking back, I was a little unclear on the concept, because later that week some buddies and I knocked over a Porta-Potty while Danny was inside taking a dump. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Danny no longer looks stupid and befuddled. He looks angry. Hope he’s forgotten about the Porta-Potty.

  “Go in the kitchen.” He waves the pistol. “Both of you.”

  “You just told me to sit down.” I point to the sofa.

  Chrissie nods in agreement. Her face is white.

  Danny—saddled with the unfortunate nickname since grade school—frowns.

  Chrissie and I don’t move. Sweat beads on my forehead.

  Danny’s frown morphs into something else, a dark spot on the far side of his soul, the cold and brittle crevice where thirty years of insults and playground beatings have been brewing.

  His mouth twitches, eyes darken. He grips the pistol tighter, knuckles turning white, muzzle shaking.

  “I got the same message from Sinclair.” I hold up my phone. “He’s on to us.”

  Danny’s eyes narrow, finger tightens on the trigger.

  “Ah jeez, c’mon, Danny. Don’t shoot us.” Chrissie holds up her hands, voice panicky. “We’re your friends.”

  “F-f-friends?” He limps inside. “You treat me like d-d-dirt.”

  Neither of us responds.

  “How much?” He points to the money.

  “A lot.” I ease a step closer. “Enough to get us gone from this part of the world.”

  Danny stops by the table. “Where’s the envelope?”

  “In the trash.” Chrissie points to the kitchen, obviously ignoring the key that sits next to her pack of Capris, a few inches from the pile of cash.

  Danny turns that way but hesitates. Indecision etches itself across his face.

  “Put your piece on the table.” He waves his gun at my waistband. “And get the envelope.”

  “He’s not gonna let any of us go,” I say. “He’s just playing us against each other.”

  “Nuh-uh.” Danny shakes his head. “He’s gonna give me a job, a full-time gig at one of his cathouses.”

  Sinclair is not stupid. He’s offered the two things most important to Danny: steady employment and women who have no choice but to pay attention to him.

  My phone is still in my hand. It buzzes again.

  The same Waco number: Too late, sucker.

  “He’s lying to you.” Chrissie stands.

  “Shut up.” Danny’s face is red, mottled like a moldy tomato. “SHUTTHEHELLUP.”

  His phone buzzes, a text message. He looks at the screen and his face turns gray.

  I lunge across the small living area, grab for his gun.

  He lets me take it, offers no resistance.

  Chrissie runs to the door, slams it shut. Her phone rings,
a call coming in. She looks at the screen. “It’s my cousin.”

  Danny stares at me, a blank look on his face. He seems to get smaller, shoulders falling in on themselves.

  “Why are you calling?” Chrissie answers and peers out the remaining window, moving aside a gingham curtain. “I told you we’d be gone in a couple of days.”

  The room gets very quiet, nothing but the low rumble of the asthmatic air conditioner.

  “You told him WHAT?” Chrissie lets the curtain drop, looks at me. “‘Course I know what a blowtorch can do.” She rubs her eyes. “How long do we have?”

  I throw money in the bag. Grab the key to the storage locker.

  She hangs up. “Sinclair knows where we are.”

  Danny begins to hyperventilate.

  “What do we do now?” Chrissie lights a cigarette, takes one puff, and stubs it out.

  “He doesn’t care about the money. That’s what the messages said.” I look at her. “He wants the envelope.”

  “The key.” She nods, points to the item in my hand. “It was in the envelope.”

  A car door slams outside.

  “We give him the key, then.” I peer out the window.

  Sinclair Wachowski stands by the front of a late-model Chevy dual-axle pickup, beefy arms crossed. He’s wearing a faded pair of overalls and a wife-beater T-shirt. A large man, if by large you mean obscenely overweight, Sinclair would field-dress three hundred pounds if you were to gut him like a deer.

  “Stay here.” I hand Danny’s gun to Chrissie, leave the money on the table. “Cover us.”

  To one side of the truck stands a younger, fitter man about the same girth but taller. He’s holding a gun. His skin is ruddy and hairless, and he looks like a side of beef straining the thin material of his sleeveless T-shirt.

  “W-w-w-what do I do?” Danny says.

  “You’re going with me.” I push him toward the door. “Safety in numbers.”

  Outside, I blink at the glare. The key is in my pocket, gun in one hand.

  Sinclair watches us descend the rickety stairs, eyes like slits. He doesn’t move except to work his jaws around a wad of chewing tobacco in one cheek.

  A blowtorch sits on the hood of the truck.

  “I didn’t know it was your game.” I stop a few feet away.

  Danny is behind me, out of direct view, whimpering.

  “Uppity Czech trash, that’s what you are.” Sinclair spits a stream of brown tobacco juice into the dust. “Your old man thought he was sumpin’ special too.”

  His accent is pure Brazos bottom drawl, as country as smoked brisket.

  “I wouldn’t have hit one of your games.” I keep the gun pointed down, next to my thigh.

  “Give it to me.” He holds out a fat hand. “And the money too.” He smiles. “You didn’t think I was really gonna let you keep all that cash, didya?”

  I toss him the key, try to squelch my anger. I think about the Dallas lawyer, my bitchy ex-wife. The son I’m not gonna get to see anymore.

  “What the hell is this?” He holds up the key.

  I don’t reply. My skin gets cold despite the heat.

  “Hey, Danny the Dumb-ass.” Sinclair peers around my shoulder. “What is this bull crap you’re pulling, huh?”

  Danny moans but doesn’t reply. He leans against me like he’s gonna faint.

  “That’s what you wanted,” I say. “The key.”

  “You’re as dumb as Danny.” Sinclair shakes his head. “I don’t want some dang old key.”

  I blink, running through options, the adrenaline in my system making my brain mushy.

  Danny figures it out, once in a row.

  “You want the envelope,” he says. “That’s what your text said.” He pauses. “It’s inside.”

  “You better hope so.” Sinclair picks up the blowtorch, points to the trailer. “Let’s go.”

  The envelope is not inside.

  Neither is Chrissie or the money.

  The door on the shed out back that was closed is open now, the storage space empty.

  Sinclair takes my gun and watches us while his bodyguard, the slab of meat who’d been standing by the truck, searches the double-wide. After a few minutes, Slab-O-Meat returns to the living room and shakes his massive head.

  “Start talking.” Sinclair turns on the blowtorch, and a blue tongue of heat emerges.

  “Chrissie.” I lick my lips. “She was in on it. She took the cash and the envelope.”

  “That’s funny.” He turns up the flame. “Who do you think put me on to you two?”

  “Chrissie?” Danny looks at me. “She s-s-screwed us?”

  I nod, the fear a physical presence in the pit of my stomach, a lead brick that sits there.

  She screwed us and good. She came in late and screamed so there would be no way she could be tied to the robbery. She arranged the hideout and apparently the getaway car hidden in the shed. She told me the key was important, not the envelope itself.

  “Where is she?” Sinclair approaches, my gun in one hand, the blowtorch in the other.

  “I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Honestly, have no idea.”

  “That’s too bad.” He waves the blowtorch. “Because I really need that envelope.”

  I don’t say anything. All I can do is stare at the blue flame. The fire consumes my consciousness to a point that I almost don’t react when he tosses me my handgun.

  I catch the weapon, look at Sinclair and his guard.

  The Slab-O-Meat holds a pistol by his side but is not aiming it at me.

  “You’re gonna get that envelope back,” Sinclair says.

  I nod slowly.

  “If you don’t”—he holds up the torch—”then I’m gonna start on your toes and work my way up.”

  I look at my gun, afraid it’s a trick. The magazine is still there, a round in the chamber.

  Then I get it. Sinclair knows I won’t do anything. I’m just poor dumb Czech trash that’s been given a lifeline, a slim chance for redemption. His power and reach in my world is all-consuming.

  I start to shake and sweat uncontrollably.

  He smiles at me like I’m a three-legged dog, his face reflecting the utter self-confidence one gets when dealing with lesser life forms, a look of supreme control.

  I grip the gun, think about bringing it up.

  “That ain’t the way this plays.” Sinclair shakes his head. “You coulda taken me out a dozen times over the years, but you didn’t. You’re not gonna grow a set now.”

  I lower the gun.

  “Just in case you don’t get the gist of what I’m talking about,” he says, “I’ll give you a little demonstration on Danny the Dumb-ass.”

  Danny gasps, runs for the door.

  Slab-O-Meat grabs him with one hand, holds out a skinny arm. His other hand brings up the pistol my way. Danny yells, struggles.

  “Not like anybody’s gonna miss him anyway.” Sinclair walks toward my friend, blowtorch at the ready. He pauses, looks my way. “You ain’t got a problem with this, do you?”

  I hesitate, breath caught in my throat. Then I shake my head and wait for hell to commence.

  Two Weeks Later

  The darkness is all-consuming, even in the bright light of day. The permanent night that is in the center of my mind never rests. I have a tiredness about me that no sleep will ever cure, not even death.

  But I do have a goal, and that’s important, according to the guidance counselor at juvie lockup way back when and a self-help book I read one time. The counselor had said, “A goal is a good way to break free from lowered expectations that people place on you.”

  My goal is Chrissie, and I am as close as fleas on a pound dog to reaching her.

  I stand outside the end unit of a motel a block from the beach in Port Aransas, at the north end of Padre Island. Peeling paint, rusty window frames, a couple of old cars and sand in the parking lot. A flickering neon display that reads “Vacancy.”

  Early November, and
there’s only one occupied room and barely anybody in town, most places closed since the season ended months ago.

  I grip the shotgun and kick in the door.

  Sunlight spills into a darkened room that smells like cigarettes, burned metal, and sweat.

  Chrissie screams, pulls the sheet up to her neck.

  A man in his forties with a week-old beard sits in an easy chair by the desk. He’s comatose, mouth slack, eyes rolled back in his head. A bent and blackened spoon is on the desk next to a lighter and a syringe.

  “Where’s my money?” I cross the room and slam the barrel down on her legs underneath the sheet, aiming for a knee.

  She screams and babbles, words unintelligible.

  I let her cry.

  The guy in the chair doesn’t move, doesn’t appear to breathe. He is thin, cheeks hollowed. His skinny, needle-scarred arms look like twigs sticking out of a San Antonio Spurs T-shirt.

  “Please-don’t-hurt-me-please-please.” Chrissie shivers even though the room is warm.

  “The money,” I say. “And the envelope.”

  She cries harder, shakes her head.

  I raise the barrel of the gun.

  She holds up a hand. “D-d-don’t. Please.”

  I stop.

  She rolls off the bed, naked. Wraps herself in the dirty sheet, pads across the room to a dresser, limping from my blow.

  “Don’t try anything.” I shoulder the gun, aim at her torso.

  She shakes her head. Tears stream down her face. From a duffel bag on the dresser, she pulls out the envelope. She crosses the room and hands it to me. It’s empty.

  “Where’s the money?”

  “What money?” She wipes her eyes, sniffs. “Look around, willya.”

  A wallet sits by the bent spoon and the syringe on the desk. I open it. No cash. The ID reads “Joel MacIntosh, Parole Officer.”

  “He promised me we’d leave Texas,” she says. “We were gonna start over in California.”

  “Where did it all go?” I mentally slap myself as soon as the words leave my mouth.

  “Where do you think?” She points to the spoon. “Up his arm. At the dog track. Hell, it just blew away like the damn wind.”