by Marcus Sakey
“How-”
“I watched Anna.”
“You said she hit the panic code.”
“Panic code is one digit higher than the regular code. Alarm companies do it so people remember when they’ve got a gun pointed at their head.” He made a slow turn, surveying the space. “All right. Tear this place apart.”
“Listen to me, this is a waste of time-”
“Would you just fucking do it?” Jack grabbed the back of a knockoff Eames chair and yanked the thing over. It flipped and slammed loud. His head hurt, and inside his chest he could feel something crackling like a downed power wire.
His partner stared. For a moment, Jack wondered if he was going to make a play. But Marshall shook his head, turned, and went down the hall to the kitchen, started looking through cabinets.
Good enough. Jack turned back to the room. There was a lock-back knife sitting on the coffee table. He opened it, saw that the blade was crusted with dried blood. Jack smiled, then dug the point into a sofa cushion and yanked, feeling the tearing shiver up his arm, the rich physical pleasure of it. He yanked out a handful of foam, then tossed the cushion and eviscerated the next. Slashed at the back, then reached for the bottom and flipped the sofa up on its ass.
He went to the bookcase and began shoving novels to the ground by the armload. Opened the cabinets below and scattered DVDs and board games. Went to the entertainment center, took hold of the TV, a big Zenith, forty inches easy, and yanked it forward. The thing hung for a moment on edge, wavering like a beast on the lip of a cliff, and then it plummeted. The picture tube exploded with a high-pitched pop, and glass crunched against the hardwood. He could feel his heart starting to go, his breath coming a little faster. It felt good.
In the bedroom he slashed the mattress in a dozen places, tore the pillows to clouds of wobbling feathers. Yanked the drawers from the dresser and upended them, then tossed them on the mauled bed, leaving the dresser to gape. He tore clothes from the rack in the closet, striped yuppie shirts and fancy sweaters. Ripped down a shoe rack, a dozen varieties of what looked like the same black heel clattering. Jerked the medicine cabinet off the bathroom wall. Ripped down the shower curtain. Used the lid of the toilet to shatter the tank, porcelain ringing loud, water pouring out to drench his pant legs, drown his shoes. A migraine had been formingbehind his eyes, but the destruction seemed to keep it at a distance.
The spare room was stacked with banker boxes, no furniture, like they’d had other plans for the room that never came together. One by one Jack tossed the lids and shook the contents out, bills and letters and tax returns flipping and fluttering like crazed birds. Yanked a bookcase off the wall. Found a box of photos and upended them, a dozen years of weddings and Christmases and quiet Sunday mornings spilling across the ruin of the den. He unzipped his pants and pissed all over them. Fuck Anna and Tom Reed. Fuck them eternal.
From the doorway he heard Marshall speak. “Unless that thing in your hand is a magic wand, I don’t think it’s going to help us.”
Jack shook himself dry, zipped up. His breath coming hard, steady and strong, even as his head throbbed. He wanted to spit in the eye of God. “Nothing in the kitchen?”
“There’s nothing anywhere, man. The money’s not here.” Marshall paused. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
Jack didn’t answer. He stepped into the hallway, looked around. The floors of every room were covered with broken glass and piled fabric, spills of paper and upended furniture.
“Let’s go.” Marshall spoke calm, steady.
“One more thing,” Jack said.
The pillar candle in the bedroom would do. He walked back to the kitchen, where pans and broken dishes lay strewn among multigrain waffles and Tupperware and butcher packages of steak. Every kitchen in America had a junk drawer. He found where Marshall had dumped it, rubber bands and batteries and take-outmenus, and kicked through to find a pack of matches. Lit the candle and set it on the kitchen table.
“What are you doing?”
It made sense. For the Reeds, this was the way the whole thing had started. There was a nice sense of circularity. Jack gripped the edges of the big Viking range and yanked. The base squealed against the tiles, and a metal flex-hose stretched out to the wall. He hoisted himself up onto the counter, maneuvered a foot around, then stomped the point where the hose met the stove. Again and again, the coupling bending, then, one more good hit, snapping free, the sweet fart stink of gas rising fast.
“Jack-”
“Let’s go,” he said.
Marshall looked at him, then at the stove. He shook his head and started down the hall. Jack followed, closing the front door behind him. They walked down the stairs, stepped out onto the porch. Jack felt better than he had in days. Destruction had, at least temporarily, transmuted the anger and frustration and grief into an almost sexual tingle. They started down the block.
After a moment, Marshall said, “It’s easier running together.”
Jack nodded.
“Somebody to watch your back, no worries about the other guy having been caught, making a deal. I’d rather we stuck together. But you need to understand something.” Marshall’s voice formal, like he was picking his words carefully. “I’m sorry about Bobby, but you need to let it go.”
“He wasn’t your brother.”
“That’s right. He wasn’t my brother.”
“You have a point?”
“Yeah.” Marshall stopped, and Jack turned to face him. “I’m done. I’m not disrespecting you or Bobby. But I’m done here.”
“We can’t run without the money.”
“Bullshit.” Marshall shook his head. “If we knew where it was, nothing would stop me getting it. You know that. But we don’t. So I’m going. You want to come, great. If not, you’re on your own.”
Jack narrowed his eyes. He and Marshall had known each other a long time, done a lot of work together. But in the end, everybody stood alone. “Might be that’s best.”
They stared for a long moment. Then Marshall shook his head, started walking again. Jack followed.
There was a bright orange ticket under the windshield wiper of the Ford. Parking without a neighborhood sticker. This town. Everybody playing an angle, even the government. Especially them. Jack dropped the ticket on the street, then pulled himself into the cab. Marshall got in the other side.
They could run without the money. But the thought of Tom and Anna winning? He’d rather pull out what was left of his hair than let that happen.
Yeah? Rather spend the rest of your life in a SuperMax? Twenty-three hours a day in solitary?
The thought came from a quieter part of him, and came cold. It chilled the destruction high right out of him. Had he climbed so far into his own head? He’d shot a cop earlier this morning. If he got caught, that was that. Everything else they’d done, he might have gotten away with for lack of evidence and witnesses. With a good lawyer, call it ten, out in four. But nobody walked after murdering a cop.
If only he knew where Tom and Anna were, knew whether they’d given up the money. Somewhere in this city, the two of them sat safe. He punched the steering wheel, hitting it hard. An image of Bobby popped into his head, ten years old and beaming as he rode wobbling down an alley on the bike Jack had stolen for him.
“How much was in the bag?”
Marshall looked up, his gaze quick. “Maybe ten grand.”
Ten grand. Plus they had the briefcase of drugs. They’d have to unload that wholesale. Call it another ten, twenty in all. Not something to retire on. Not money that would let him buy into a bar in Arizona. Not money that was worth his brother’s life.
But it was enough to get them the hell out of here, and to lie low for a while. Plan the next move. Get back to work. He sighed, said, “Count it, would you?”
“Sure. Sure thing.” Marshall’s voice sounding relieved. He reached behind the seat, pulled the bag into his lap. Jack sat and watched. Every time Marshall dipped into the black duf
fel bag, he came out with a handful of hundred-dollar bills. But soon the handfuls dwindled to pairs, and finally to single bills. Finally he zipped the bag and hoisted it by the handles, turning to put it away. The image reminded Jack of something. Something he’d seen recently. What was it?
It hit. “Wait.”
“What?”
He felt a smile beginning somewhere deep. Could it be? “The bag.”
“What about it?”
“It look familiar to you?” The smile pushed upward, bubbling from inside of him, and as it did, from behind came a sudden roar and the sound of a dozen windows shattering at once. They both turned to look as flame punched out the glass in a shimmering arc, the wash of heat physical even at this distance. Photographs and loose paper rolled in front of the blast of fire, twisting and looping like they were surfing the inferno. Even as the explosion faded and reversed, sucking air back in, yellow-orange tongues began to lick up the curtains. Jack could imagine the cashmere sweaters and Egyptian-cotton towels and high-thread-count sheets smoldering and twisting. Trickles of gray began to ooze out the broken windows, darkening with every moment as the house caught. A smoke alarm shrieked senselessly.
And as he watched Tom and Anna Reed’s pretty little world begin to burn, the smile broke free and bloomed on Jack’s lips, and he leaned forward to start the truck.
19
THE SAND WAS PITTED and scarred from rain. Beneath swollen skies, Lake Michigan rolled in steady slate curls. Anna wrapped her arms around herself against the wind. They’d been waiting in the tree line north of Foster Avenue Beach for twenty minutes, and the whole time, she’d been trying to figure out what to say, how to explain the simple mistake that had led them here, to a meeting where they turned themselves in to the police. She knew it wouldn’t matter, not in a legal sense, but she wanted the cop to understand. That seemed important.
It had been something in the touch of the money itself. The heaviness against her palm. Not greed, exactly. More like fantasy. A selective blindness to consequence. Holding that much money, it wasn’t part of life. It was the definition of surreal. So when it actually happened, she had already fallen down the rabbit hole. Everything else was just their attempts to deal with the twisted Wonderland they’d found themselves in.
“There he is,” Tom said. He nodded toward the low bulk of the shuttered concession stand, not yet open for the season. This had been their beach, a million years ago. Less crowded than most of the others, and without the meat-market factor. They used to bike over, set up folding chairs right in the edge of the surf, where the water frothed and tugged at their ankles. Read and nap in the sun, watch kids make sand castles. Now Detective Christopher Halden strode in front of the concession stand where they’d once bought hot dogs and Popsicles. He wore a dark gray suit and an expression she read as pissed from a hundred yards away. “Looks like he’s alone.”
Tom shrugged. “Not like he isn’t going to take us in anyway.”
She felt an icy shiver, wrote it off to the wind. Having finally overcome her money blindness, she wasn’t going to let a little fear stop her. “Let’s go.”
Halden saw them coming, turned to watch. Anna’s eyes were drawn to the big black gun, the way his right hand rested on it. She imagined what it must feel like to carry death on your hip, to walk around like it was no big deal. The air had that worm-and-dirt smell of a spring rain, coupled with a faint odor of rotting lake weeds. When they were ten feet away, Halden said, “You want to give me one reason not to arrest you both right now?”
“Actually, no,” Tom said. “We’re here so you will.”
The cop squinted at that, thrown off his game, eyes drawing to slits, lines furrowing in his cheeks. He looked like he was about to speak, hesitated, then said, “Go on.”
“You once tried to warn us about getting in over our heads.” Anna took a deep breath. “Well, that’s where we are.” Halden said nothing. She got the feeling that she was telling him something he already knew, that he was the sort to stay quiet until he saw the advantage in speaking. It made her nervous, made her want to watch her own words. “Everything has gone wrong. We’re in a lot of danger.”
“Yeah?” He stared. “So why have you been dodging me? The runaround is not generating fuzzy thoughts toward you.”
“I know.”
“You know, huh? Did you know that a cop got killed this morning at the mall?”
Anna put a hand to her mouth. Tom cut his eyes over to look at her.
“Maybe,” Halden said, “instead of talking in riddles, you better start with the part where you found four hundred thousand dollars.” He watched their eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “I know about that. I know a lot of things. You two have been lying to me.”
“We’re done with that now,” Tom said quietly. “We’ll tell you everything.”
The detective nodded, dug in his pocket, came out with his keys. “Good. Come on, you can ride with me.”
“Wait,” Anna said. “The reason we met out here. At the mall, Jack Witkowski, he had a cop working for him.”
The detective cocked an eyebrow.
“I know how that sounds,” she continued, “believe me, I do. But it’s true. That’s why we wanted to meet here, why we wanted you to come alone. You we trust, but there’s at least one cop working with Jack, and maybe more.”
Halden looked from her to Tom and back, eyes appraising. He put his keys back in his pocket, then reached inside his suit, came out with a pack of Winstons and tapped it against his palm to pop one.
Tom said, “You mind?”
Halden held the pack out, then produced a gold Zippo and fired both cigarettes. He snapped the lighter closed. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t.” Tom inhaled, then blew a stream of gray. “Quit last February.” The cop nodded. Stared, content to wait them out.
Anna took a deep breath. “We found the money when we came down for the fire,” she said. “It was hidden in the flour, in all the food boxes.” She told how it had been a game at first, strange and wonderful. How they hadn’t exactly planned to take it, but one thing led to another. She told him about hiding it, about paying down their debt. The drug dealer. Jack coming to their house. Their flight to the motel. The arrangement with Malachi.
“It was my idea,” Tom said, cutting in. “Setting Jack up.” Anna said, “We did it together.”
Her husband looked at her, his lips tight. Slowly he nodded. “We didn’t want anybody to get hurt. Anybody but him, I mean. But then that cop started shooting, and…”
“We never meant for anyone to get hurt,” Anna said.
The cop dropped the cigarette to the concrete, rested the toe of his dress shoe on it, swiveled once left, once right. “Nobody ever means for someone to get hurt. But it’s what happens when you’re over your head.”
“We know that now,” Tom said. “That’s why we’re here.”
Halden scratched at his chin. “You’ll make this same statement officially? You’ll sign it?”
Tom looked at Anna. She felt the weight of the moment, the formality of it. She put her hand behind his back, drew closer to him, the two of them standing like a couple before a priest. “We will.”
“All right.” Halden nodded. “Right now, the only person who knows you have the money is me. Let’s keep it that way. I’ll bring you in personally. You’ll talk only to me. Once you’ve made your statement and given me the money, even if you’re right and there are police involved, they won’t have a reason to come after you.”
“What about Jack?”
“Jack shot a cop.” Halden said the words clear and level, and she heard the meaning beneath them.
“And Malachi?”
“We’ll deal with him too.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Finally Anna said, “What will happen to us?”
“I’m not going to lie to you.” Halden rubbed his hands together against the chill. “What you did, it was wrong. Worse, it was dumb. But if y
ou do exactly what I tell you, help me close the Shooting Star, bring in Jack Witkowski and the drug dealer?” He shrugged. “That will matter. A lot.”
Relief flowed through her. She felt like a little girl escaping a spanking. They could get out of this. They’d done the right thing, finally, and could have their life back. It was the best she’d felt in days.
There was a sound of music, muffled. It took her a minute to recognize the theme from Hawaii Five-0, her ring tone. She dug out her phone. The caller ID read “Sara.” Anna glanced at Halden apologetically, said, “My sister. Let me get rid of her.” He nodded, turned to Tom, who said, “How does this work?”
“Hey,” she said, speaking as soon as she stabbed the button, “I can’t talk right now.”
“Anna! Oh God, he-” There was a burst of noise, like someone grabbing the phone, and then a rough male voice came on. “Do you know who this is?”
The world wobbled, the closed concession stand and wet sand and gray skies swirling and bleeding. She fought an urge to scream the breath from her lungs. “Don’t you-” She caught herself, realized the detective was looking at her. She had to tell him, get cops racing toward her sister’s house, oh Jesus, her nephew’s house-
Stop. This is the most important moment of your life.
“Don’t I what, Anna?” It seemed a terrible obscenity that Jack’s voice could hang in her ear while the real man stood in her sister’s home miles away. “Hurt her?”
Halden turned back to Tom, said, “Simple enough. You two come in with me, I’ll take you into an interview room, we’ll go through the story again.”
“Who was that?” Jack’s voice came quick.
If Halden realizes who you’re talking to, he has to act on it.
If Jack realizes who you’re standing with, Sara dies.
“No one,” she said. “I’m outside.” She wanted to step away, but was afraid it might make the cop suspicious. “What do you want?”
“Do we need a lawyer?” Tom asked.
“What do I want?” Jack laughed. “Your aunt’s secret recipe for chocolate chip cookies. What do you think?”