“Right as rain.” Ryan pockets the phone.
At the house on the corner, a car’s lights go on in the driveway.
Before Toto can pull through the intersection, we’re blasted on all sides by screeching tires. Two vehicles come at us from the cross street, and the one in the driveway just ahead careens our way, stopping nose-to-nose with Toto’s car.
“What is it?” I ask. “Who are they?”
Ryan leans between the seats. “Shit. Not good. Do you think it’s . . .?”
A tall, slender guy exits the car to our right, and Toto sighs. “Aaron. I should have known the sneaky bastard would be tailing me.”
“You mean they were just waiting for us? They knew you’d be back here tonight?”
“Must be.”
“Are you kidding me? Toto!”
“Just shut up.”
The guy comes around to the driver’s side and taps on the window with his knuckles, three sharp raps. “Mind joining me out here, gentlemen?” he calls through the glass. When he ducks to peer into the back window so he can give Ryan a wave, he spots me. “Oh, gentlemen and lady. Interesting.”
No more no more no more.
I can’t take any more tonight. My throat goes so dry, it clicks when I try to swallow. Whatever it is that can scare these awful, terrible men has got to be bad, and suddenly all I want to do is crawl onto the floor, curl into a ball, and cry.
“Out here, please,” Aaron says. “All of you.” The tall, black-clad man runs his hands through his dark hair, the streetlight spotlighting his sleeve of tattoos. More ink winds around his neck, where it disappears out of sight.
Three other men join him from the cars on either side of us, all smiling like we’re just running into a few friends at the mall or in line for a froyo at Pinkberry. The car blocking our path sits motionless, headlights off now, its tinted windows revealing no clue as to who lurks inside.
“We have more than two hours before our meeting,” Toto says. “What the hell’s this about?”
I try to stay behind the men, but everyone’s shifting from foot to foot, and Aaron circles us.
“What, no handshake? And who’s this little lady?” He leans close to me, a grin slicing his thin face. “A friend of yours, Toto?”
I catch a dark shape in my peripheral vision and reflexively I jerk my head up just as his fingers brush my cheek. “Keeping some good company these days, Toto. I approve.”
“She’s nobody.”
“Really?” Aaron’s smile deepens. “She doesn’t look like nobody to me. What happened to your last girl?”
Toto pushes between us, and I gasp for breath, my whole body shaking. Ryan’s hand on my arm is almost comforting.
“My girls are none of your business.”
Aaron holds both hands up. “Okay. No worries. I get it. Besides, that’s not why I’m here. Where’s our money?”
“Stop playing around.” Toto stomps, crunching gravel under his high-top. “We just talked to you barely an hour ago.”
“Let’s just say that the Chef started having second thoughts when you suggested a change of venue. You know the Chef doesn’t like surprises.”
“Like you ambushing us here isn’t a surprise?”
“Touché.”
“Listen, you go back and tell the Chef we’re straight so long as you give us until three, like you said.”
Aaron and the Chef. The guys they’re planning on attacking with the very firearms we just loaded into Toto’s truck. My heart races as I take him in, trying to imagine what it will be like when I’m holding one of the guns wrapped up in blankets in the back of Toto’s truck. Holding it and pointing it at this man. Or one of his friends—who appear to have vanished. I startle at the scuff of feet on asphalt. They’re still here, just in the process of surrounding us.
“Like I said, I’ll make good. Some other business came up that we had to take care of first, but now we can turn our attention to our dealings with you.”
“And explain again, why do we need an alternate meeting spot?” Aaron’s voice sounds bored and a little snobby, like he’s a patron at a glam hotel and Toto is his servant.
“The original place won’t work. I caught wind that a few other guys are going to be around there tonight. This new place I found is quiet.”
“Sounds romantic, especially if this little one will be there.” Aaron pushes Toto aside like he’s going to talk to me again, but Toto shoves him back. When one of Aaron’s men, a blond guy, launches at him, Toto doesn’t see him coming. They collide with a grunt, and Aaron is immediately on him. Another man, his shaved head gleaming in the street lights, gets up in Ryan’s face, and I’m suddenly free while my captors grapple with their enemies.
I run, not knowing where the hell I’m going, only that I need to be anywhere but here. My sandals slap the pavement, but I don’t even clear the beam of the streetlight before a hand, carrying the scent of garlic, grips my shoulder.
“Well, hello there,” says the hand’s owner. A woman’s voice. “You can’t leave yet.” She spins me to face her. The light forms a halo around her head, adding dimension to the honey highlights in gentle curls that frame her face, which have escaped from a knot at her neck. “Tell me, is there something I should know?” She taps a foot while I struggle to come up with an answer.
I suck in a breath and try to wet my lips, but my tongue is so dry, it sticks to the roof of my mouth. I have to swallow a few times just to clear my throat.
“That’s answer enough.” A line creases her smooth brow, and she flicks a quick glance at the men who are still brawling, oblivious to our conversation. She leans in close to whisper in my ear. “What are they planning? Tell me quickly.”
Toto and the blond guy are rolling on the ground now, and Aaron delivers a ferocious kick to Toto’s back. Ryan tries to jump in, but the bald guy seizes him by both arms.
If I’m going to do this, I need to do it now, but I still can’t get my mouth to work. Then I remember: I have the note Scott gave me. “Here.” It comes out in a hoarse rasp, but at least it comes out. The folded page is still there, and I slip it into the woman’s hand.
For the first time, I read what Scott wrote. Just three lines, seven words: Gang fight. Café Flores, Unionville. Call 911.
“They’re going to use us, the hostages. Help us. Please.”
She gives the little green and white slip of paper such a fast glance, I doubt she even read it. She shoves it into her pants pocket. “Well, I always did like to be fashionably early.” She throws me a wink, pivots, and clears her throat. The men freeze. Toto rolls on the ground, clutching his stomach and groaning. The bald guy still has hold of Ryan, clearly intending for the blond to land another punch on Ryan’s already bruising face, but he lets his hand fall to his side.
“Enough,” the woman says. “Let’s let these men be on their way. After all, we do have business to take care of later tonight. We need to keep them in decent shape. For now.”
When the bald guy lets go of Ryan’s arms, Ryan totters. I expect him to crumple to the ground, but he plants his feet and locks his legs, standing firm with an expression of defiance on his face.
“Later.” Aaron flutters his fingers in a goodbye wave, and he and his men slip into their cars, while the woman jumps into the one blocking our own.
Before she closes the door, she pops her head out. “Three, you say? We’ll be there, just like we planned.”
Ryan and Toto are in such bad shape, I have no idea how they’ll carry on, or if they even can, but I don’t care. I need to get out of here. The nearest houses are only twenty feet ahead. The one with the yellow roses—I’ll aim for that one. If I can get there and slip into the dark between the houses, I’ll be out of sight in seconds.
“Don’t even think about it. I’ll shoot you right here,” Toto says.
As if I’m some wind-up toy with a dying motor, I slow and stop, frozen. Chills streak up my back and my knees shake, but I can’t turn around, e
ither. Can’t face Toto’s gun pointed at me. All I can see is the family portrait from our dining room at home, now with one empty spot where the image of me used to be.
“Bring her back over here, Ry.”
Ryan’s moans of pain and the crunch of gravel behind me is all the warning I have, but at least I’m ready for his grip on my arm.
I swear, if I make it out of this, I’ll never let another living soul grab me this way again.
34
SCOTT
NINE HOURS AND THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING
Scott drove around aimlessly, brain whirring, barely seeing the streets as they stretched out before him. Hot June air blasted from the open car window and his mother’s voice echoed in his head: Maybe when you get out of here he’ll be better.
He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. It was bad enough when he was the victim, but now he was the cause, too? No way. He refused to let them lay that on him.
Who did you show this to?
He hadn’t intended to show the video to anyone. He’d just hoped it could maybe knock some sense into them if his dad could see what he looked like in one of his rages, could see the fear on his wife’s face, on his kids’ faces . . .
The pain.
Maybe then his dad would . . . what? Scott wasn’t so naive that he expected his parents to get down on their knees and beg his forgiveness, but he’d hoped it would trigger . . . something, even just an acknowledgment that their situation was seriously messed up.
But he could show someone. Child and Family Services. Or the cops. He shivered and sweat sheened his skin as his head went spacey, the way it did whenever Oscar forced one of his espresso supremes on him. He could do it if he wanted to. No one was stopping him from calling the police right now. His hands trembled so hard he couldn’t grip the steering wheel, so he coaxed the car to the side of the road. The scent of greasy fried onions filled his nose from the burger place halfway up the block and his stomach protested with a nauseous gurgle.
If Scott went to the authorities, they’d arrest his dad for sure. Little chips of sunlight fell on the sidewalk, filtered by the swaying leaves of the maples lining the road; he stared at them until they blurred together. All he’d have to do is call them, and the police would be knocking on the door of their ranch. His mom would answer with that rabbity look in her eyes.
“Is Jack Bradley here, ma’am?” they’d ask.
She’d gape and shuffle back a step, but never let go of the door. No way could she lie. She might be willing to bullshit her son, but she couldn’t pull that with the cops. Even if she did, they’d force her to turn her husband over. Who knew, with all the voices, maybe his dad would stumble from the living room on his own, his white toes sticking out from the bottom of his two-week unwashed jeans like pale fish.
They’d take his dad away and then Scott would be free. He could go to Florida or New York. Hell, he could do the progressive program right downtown and live at home. His mom would tell it like it was then. She’d apologize for taking her husband’s side and express her gratitude that she and her children were finally safe.
Scott dragged his gaze away from the sun-dappled street and focused on the phone in his hand. A two-inch crack spanned the screen, and behind that his reflection regarded him, that angry slash falling over the mirror image of his pale lips like a grin.
Scott hit the little green icon to open the telephone app, leaving a smudge of sweat behind. He didn’t even need to look up the local police number; he could just call 911 and report a case of domestic violence occurring at that very moment, one he’d only just barely escaped.
The familiar sounds pierced his eardrums as he dialed. One tone. Then a second. But his trembling finger froze over the screen before the third.
Was he really doing this? Once he hit the final digit, he couldn’t go back. Nothing would ever be the same.
But nothing was the same now. His family had been a mess for two years and it probably always would be. His house would forever be haunted by the memories of all those shouted words and the bruises that left Scott lying in bed, pain-sweat gluing his skin to his sheets.
What had Mrs. Sommervil said this morning? You better not wait too long. Opportunity has a way of escaping us if we don’t act.
He’d never get back the happy family they once had been. The dad who coached little league, even though Scott couldn’t play for shit, was dead. Same with the guy who’d surprise him at least once each school year with a hooky day just so the two of them could mess around all afternoon.
Something lodged in Scott’s throat, and the image of his dad’s tear-streaked face from earlier that day surfaced in his mind. He’d never seen his dad use his hands to hold back tears before, never seen him cry before. Those hands had been for teaching Scott to hold a baseball bat and tie his shoes. “Screw that,” he said. Screw the guilt and the nostalgia. There was nothing nostalgic about the days he had to miss school because he was too much of a mess to show his face in public. And all the guilt, well, that belonged to them, to his parents. His dad for causing those bruises and his mom for permitting them. It was a wonder he even managed to get good enough grades to graduate, let alone earn financial aid offers.
But the hot lava anger was gone. All he wanted to do was put his head down on the dash and sleep for a thousand years. If he did that, though—gave up, gave in—they’d win, and Scott would be stuck in this same hell for another year. Opportunity has a way of escaping . . .
He thought of the video’s brutal images, and it almost brought a sense of comfort. The video was his way out of this mess. He groped in his lap for his broken cell and swiped the screen to wake it up. It flickered once. Then again.
“Not good.”
A second later, the familiar grid of cheerful icons settled into place.
He jabbed the screen until he found the gallery icon, but the video folder was empty. “What the—?”
He closed it and tried again, then tried going through the folder icon directly. Still nothing. He ran a check of half a dozen other apps; some worked, some didn’t. He couldn’t access the video.
Opportunity has a way of escaping us if we don’t act.
His evidence was gone.
35
SCOTT
ONE HOUR AND FIFTY-EIGHT MINUTES AFTER CLOSING
Our plan sucks.
First, we wait for the last call—assuming there is a last call. Then, once that’s over, we make our move on Twitch. With an unloaded gun.
As if fate is on our side, for once, my familiar ring tone interrupts the silence.
“Who is this?” Twitch narrows his eyes as he looks at the closed blinds. “Who gave you this number?”
Now that he’s no longer distracted with his espresso, Twitch is freaking out, all paranoid, again. Ryan’s response is a Peanuts squawk on the other end.
“What? Ryan? Is that you?” Twitch laughs. “You had me scared there for a minute. Yeah, they’re here.”
We go through the now familiar routine, each saying a version of “hello, this is blank,” like we’re at some messed up meet and greet. All except Oscar; when it’s his turn, he says, “Bite me,” earning him a smack from Sylvie.
Twitch reclaims the phone. “Okay, see you in a few.” He turns his back to us and whispers, but too loudly, “And be careful who sees you. They know, Ry. They know about the introversions and extroversions. Don’t let them see you.”
Twitch is right back on his mumbled monologue as soon as he cuts off the call. The finger-tapping, too.
“This is it,” Oscar whispers. “As soon as we get him to drop his gun, Scott, you grab it. Sylvie, you run for the shells. We need to have two working weapons by the time those guys come back through that door.”
Sylvie shakes her head. “I still don’t like this. Your gun isn’t loaded, and what if he shoots you? And look at him.”
We all do. Twitch’s fists are clenched, one around the cellphone and one around the gun, which is aime
d at the ground. For now.
“What?” Twitch shouts at us. “What are you talking about? Did you tell them? Are you the ones?” He screams this last question right in Oscar’s face.
“Young man,” Pavan says.
“No!” Twitch lets loose a string of numbers in some kind of chant: “Nine-one-seven-six-five-seven-seven.”
“What the?” I mutter.
“They have the elixir and they won’t tell us where it is!” He grabs me by the shirt collar, somehow fisting the fabric along with my phone still in his hand, and pulls my face up to his. “They have the elixir!”
I blink against the spit and clamp my lips shut so none of that shit gets in my mouth. Twitch’s breath is sour mocha.
His other hand comes up, and the cold metal of the gun massages my cheek. Suddenly, there’s no more air in the room. No more in the universe. My head floats above my body, and my stomach muscles convulse. I’m about to puke. Twitch shifts his grip on the gun, and the metal digs into my neck.
“God bless you all,” someone says behind me, but I can’t say who. The statement is long and low and slow, like when I used to put the wrong size record on my dad’s old player as a kid.
“Young man!” the too-slow voice says.
Then Pavan is at our side, his hand groping in my waistband. For a second, his frantic motion pushes me closer to Twitch, who’s still shouting.
“. . . introversion control . . .”
“Oh my God. What’s he doing?” someone says, but my brain can’t latch on to who it is.
Pavan wedges himself between Twitch and me, then throws his elbow into my gut, right where my dad’s punch landed earlier. The jolt shocks my lungs back online. Gasping so hard my throat closes in on itself, I stumble backward.
Twitch’s eyes are locked on mine over Pavan’s shoulder, tracking my retreat, which means he totally misses the movement of Pavan’s right hand. Pavan clutches the scissors from Winny’s first aid job—which he just tugged from my waistband—and in one motion, he streaks them right at Twitch’s chest. The blades sink in with a meaty slice, a sound that will never leave my head as long as I live. And Twitch is screaming, shrill and loud. And I think I may be screaming, too, but I can’t tell. Our cries cut off the twang of the metal shears hitting tile when they slip from Pavan’s fingers, the horror on his face a reflection of the horror unfolding in front of our eyes.
Ten After Closing Page 17