“Oscar!” Sylvie shouts.
He’s already wobbled to his feet, his bad leg doing a poor job of supporting his weight, but he never gets a chance to raise his useless pistol before the report of Twitch’s shot echoes around us.
Pavan’s body jerks and his eyes lock on Twitch’s. Twitch blinks several times, then he gapes, his bottom lip trembling. Pavan places a hand on the guy’s shoulder, gives a small smile, and topples to the ground.
“Scott, move!” Oscar shouts. “Twitch, drop your weapon now.”
But I don’t move, and Twitch doesn’t drop his weapon. Still fighting to keep the bile down, I’m surprised to find the scissors in my hand. I try to remember when I grabbed them, but time isn’t working right. Neither is my brain.
Distantly, I hear Oscar shout for me to get out of the way again, but it’s too late for that.
I aim the scissors at Twitch’s gut and draw my arm behind me as a million images flash through my mind: the three of them standing here in the café earlier, Ryan with that smirk on his face; the flash of cold, gray metal and the stink of those first few rounds of gunfire when they went off; Maggie on the floor of the basement, my apron tied around her head; Oscar’s stricken expression when I came back with the unloaded gun; Mom’s exhausted fear when she pleaded with me earlier not to wake up my dad. And my dad, the constant mask of fury he wears on his face all the time and the stench of alcohol on his breath. The power in his bicep, the iron of his fist when it lands. The emptiness in his eyes when it’s all over. It’s the same emptiness I’ve seen in Twitch’s eyes all night.
I channel it all into my muscles. In a moment, I’ll unload the years of pain and fear onto this man, this murderer. Who deserves it.
I take a deep breath. In a moment, when this is over I’ll . . . what? Will killing Twitch remove the bullet from Pavan’s body? Will it rewind the clock to the moment these guys walked into the café and make them decide to go to the movies instead? Will it erase the pain in my stomach where my dad hit me this morning? Or delete—permanently—the images on the video only recently retrieved on my phone? Will it give my dad his job back?
If I give this murderer what he deserves, only two things will be different: he’ll be dead, and I’ll be a murderer, too.
What will I deserve then?
My stomach clenches, but this blow comes from the inside. I have to stop myself from retching. I have to let go of the scissors. I have to let go of everything.
Metal clangs on tile as the scissors slip from my wet fingers. I stumble back and trip over someone or something. Pain explodes in my cheek as my face hits the counter.
All the strength runs out of my legs. If I don’t do something, I’ll end up on the floor with Pavan.
But Sylvie is right there, her arms strong around me. “It’s okay, Scott. It’s okay.”
Nothing will ever be okay again, but I don’t know how to say that, so I nod and don’t complain when she hugs me even tighter. A moment later, she pulls away to study my face.
“You’re not going to pass out on me, are you?” Her voice is light, but her eyes are full of fear.
“I don’t think so,” I say, “but I’m not making any promises.” My head buzzes from the impact of bone against granite.
A groan comes from the floor.
“Pavan.” Sylvie bites her lip, looking at him, then me.
“Help him.”
She squeezes my elbows, then dives to the ground, where she pulls Pavan into her lap, cradling his head. He smiles up at her, but the smile turns into a grimace, then a cough that brings up stringy, bubbly ropes of phlegm.
“Shh,” she urges.
The room blurs around me as tears fill my eyes and I kneel at his side. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. If I had waited. Gotten the bullets, not just the gun—”
“Quiet, my boy,” he whispers. “I made this choice. Only I have responsibility for my actions, and I’m proud that my end is in service of friends.”
Twitch is still ranting, but I can’t think about the gun or the orders Oscar is barking or the bell ringing on my left. I can’t look away from the old man’s face, not until a voice jars me out of my daze.
“What the—?” Toto shouts. “Ryan, get in here. Close that door!”
Toto’s voice is too loud, and Twitch is too close to the edge. He shrieks, and the gun in his hand goes off, the bullet striking Toto in the shoulder.
“Shit.” Ryan gapes and Winny struggles against his grip on her arm.
“Scott!” she shouts.
I crawl, then stumble to my feet, trying to get to her, but Ryan’s already raised his weapon, and I freeze even though it’s not trained on me.
“I tried to stop them, Ry,” Twitch wheezes. “I—”
The shot silences him. A final breath eases out of Twitch’s chest with a long, gurgling sigh that seems like it will never end.
36
WINNY
NINE HOURS AND FIFTY-TWO MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING
As Winny emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped around her and water still dripping down her legs, she heard her mother’s voice. At first Winny thought her mom was actually in the kitchen, but then realized it was the answering machine.
“. . . be home in a few minutes.”
That couldn’t be good. Nothing short of an absolute emergency would compel her mother to leave the office during work hours.
A drop of water slid down Winny’s back, and she shivered. “Crap,” she muttered, running to her room to get dressed.
In less than forty minutes, her ride would come to bring her to the gallery. The only reason she agreed to be part of the art show was that it had been scheduled for a work day when her parents would both be busy, so she could sneak out of the house without them ever discovering she’d defied their wishes. Not only would they freak if they found out she was wasting her valuable time on painting—time she could have been spending building up her list of extracurriculars to beef up her med school application, never mind that she hadn’t even started college yet—but they’d wonder where she got the money for art supplies since she sure hadn’t asked them for it. They weren’t dumb; they knew how much canvases and oils cost, and there was no way they’d ever let her get a job. Or keep the one she got behind their backs.
Holy crap, did her mom know about the art show? No . . . no way she could know. Winny had been so careful to avoid giving the house phone number to anyone involved—the gallery curator, the other kids. She’d made sure to remove every tiny blob and splatter of paint from her hands before coming home. Her parents were well aware that they weren’t covering painting this semester in art class, so they’d ask about any traces for sure.
Yet Jeannette Sommervil was on her way home. Right now.
As the moisture evaporated from Winny’s skin, her mouth went dry. “So not good.” She still had to get ready. Her suit, the one her parents had gotten her for her college interviews, hung over the white bi-fold closet door, and Winny hadn’t made her bed yet, either. “Double crap!”
Dropping her towel, she slung on a robe and pulled the lime-green and turquoise duvet into place. Not perfect, but good enough. All she could do was get ready as planned. Maybe she could do her makeup and hair, but leave off the suit, so her mom wouldn’t notice. That might not give her quite enough time to dress when her mom left, though. She’d hoped to put on some mascara today, to give her eyes a little extra oomph, but with an ambush coming any minute now, there was no time. Sticking to her usual routine—blush and lip gloss—was probably safest, anyway.
Eyeing the clock, Winny calculated how much time she had left. If her mom didn’t get here soon, she’d be busted for sure.
Just as she secured the last section of her bun with a pin, the front door opened, and her mother’s voice echoed from the entryway, bouncing off the Brazilian cherry floors.
“Winsome, come down here this minute and tell me why you thought it was okay to lie to me and your father for months.”
“Triple crap,” Winny whispered, leaving the safety of her bedroom. “I am so busted.”
37
SCOTT
TWO HOURS AND SIX MINUTES AFTER CLOSING
The checkerboard tile digs into my knees, sharp pain like skewers shoved into my joints, but I can’t move. My left eye leaks a steady stream of liquid that I hope is only tears and not blood, but my cheek is on fire where it bounced off the counter. Blinking, I try to move my jaw, but something grinds in there.
“You need to get to a hospital,” Ryan says to Toto.
“Oh, hell no! No hospitals tonight. Not for you or me. Not for any of you.” He sweeps his arm in our direction, then starts pacing, one hand clasped over the bullet wound in his shoulder.
“Missed the heart,” Winny whispers.
Toto hasn’t stopped spouting curses since shaking off the initial shock of being shot. He hasn’t sat down once, either, which I hope is because of the adrenaline, but I suspect it’s actually because his wound isn’t very serious. Ryan, for once, sits quietly on a stool, not even trying to calm Toto down.
“What the hell happened to those guys?” I whisper to Winny, who kneels by my side and rests her cool hand on my back. Even before Twitch shot him, Toto had to be in bad shape. I don’t need a mirror to know his face looks worse than mine, and his white tee is covered in dirt and blood.
“Fight—” she says.
Toto lunges at us. “I ought to kill your asses right now.” Then he paces away, but I don’t feel any better. He’s like a caged tiger, getting more and more worked up, more frenzied. Soon, he’ll pounce.
“Fight with the Chef’s men,” Winny continues. “Some guy named Aaron. There were others, too.”
“What?” Oscar glances over to make sure Toto and Ryan aren’t listening to us.
“You mean the dudes who are coming here?” I ask, but Winny doesn’t answer because Toto is glaring right at us.
This is it. Forget their plans and the weapons they got for us to use. This is the moment when Toto throws all of that out the window. Even if his crazy idea had any chance of working before, it’s fucked now. He knows it, we know it. He has no more use for us.
But he spins and unleashes his fury on Ryan, instead. Beside me, I feel Winny’s shuddering breath of relief.
“So are you just going to sit there all night?” he says, getting into Ryan’s face. The guy is still slumped in a chair. “We have work to do. Unless you’re just going to take a beating and not retaliate.”
“Those guys kicked our asses. Don’t you think we’d better—”
“What? You got a little hurt, and now it’s too real for you? Don’t want to hang anymore?”
“I’m just saying—”
“There is no just saying. Those guys are coming here for us. We still owe them money.”
“Right. Money we don’t have.” Ryan doesn’t shift a muscle; it’s as though he might never move again.
“They don’t know that. And we have our army. Even if one of them is down.” He glances at Twitch’s body.
“Two,” Ryan says. “Don’t forget the old man.”
“You don’t think I see what’s right in front of me?” Toto bellows. “Come here.” He tugs Ryan into a corner to talk away from us.
What does it mean that I don’t even try to listen this time?
Winny fixes her gaze on Twitch’s still form. “Is he dead?”
Between the bullet wound and Pavan’s scissor strike, the guy has lost a ton of blood, but the flow has downgraded to a trickle. Oscar blots at Twitch’s slow-oozing wound with some of the discarded towels from his own first aid session.
“I think so,” I say. God, it hurts to talk. “He killed Pavan.” Not like I’m glad Twitch is maybe dead, even if he did shoot two people . . . it’s just that after everything, I don’t have enough emotion left to worry about what happened to him. Not if I want to stay focused on keeping myself going.
“This whole thing is so messed up,” Winny says.
I chuckle, then wince. “That was exactly what I was thinking.”
“Come on. See if you can get up, get to a chair. I’ll bring you some ice.”
“Those guys won’t like it,” I protest.
“I don’t care if they like it or not,” she says.
Then I remember how much the floor is hurting my knees, so I let Winny ease me up.
I want to thank her, to ask her how she can be so brave right now when all the world has fallen apart, but the energy to do those things is gone. I settle on giving her hand a squeeze as I settle into a chair.
Sylvie has been sitting by Pavan in a stunned silence this whole time. Once Winny gets me set up with some ice for my face—our captors didn’t even look twice in her direction when she rounded the counter to the freezer—she kneels by Sylvie’s side and whispers into her ear. Whatever she says, it works, because Sylvie joins me at the table.
Winny squats and takes Twitch’s wrist in her hand. “Oscar, you can stop now. He doesn’t have a pulse, and you’re bleeding again.”
He looks down at his thigh. “Shit. Okay. Yeah.”
“Guys . . .” Winny says in a small voice.
She stands, addressing us as if she’s a CEO running a board meeting, her palms pressing against the tabletop. Who is this Winny with the blood stains on her dress and that intense glint in her eyes and that grim pressing of her lips?
“Listen.” She takes a deep breath. “I might have made things worse. Or better. I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” Sylvie asks.
“Your note, Scott.”
“Yeah?”
“Wait!” Sylvie says. “You had a chance to give it to someone? A cop?” Like a kid about to tell Santa what she wants, Sylvie leans toward Winny, her expression crossing from the threshold of excitement to hysteria; but Winny shakes her head and Sylvie deflates.
“No, not to the police. To one of the Chef’s men. A woman, actually.”
“Wait a minute. What? One of the gangsters?” Oscar asks. “And how did you figure on that helping us?”
“I had to try. I couldn’t come back here without at least trying. ‘Greet the devil, and he eats you.’” She shrugs. “‘Don’t greet him and he eats you, anyway.’ There were no other options.” But her voice is suddenly less certain.
Oscar lays a hand on Winny’s arm. “No, you’re right. And I don’t see how anything can make this situation worse at this point anyhow.”
“If they know that we’re not involved with these guys,” she goes on. “If they understand what Toto’s plan is—”
“Maybe they’ll focus on Toto and Ryan, and let us go?” I finish for her.
“But we can’t let them get Ryan,” Sylvie says.
“Sylvie,” Oscar says, “are you for real? He’s involved in the death of three people. If it means you stay safe—you, and Winny, and Scott—God forgive me, then I’m all for seeing that guy with a bullet in him.”
Sylvie buries her face in her hands, sobbing. I wonder what it must be like to have someone you love do something so horrific. My father’s face swims in my mind. Good old Dad isn’t such a nice guy these days, but I can’t imagine him ever doing this. Then again, how can I really know? Could he be pushed to it? Maybe if his depression gets worse or the financial hole we’re in gets deeper?
Even so, if Mom’s life were at stake, or mine, or Evie’s, would anything hold me back from doing what I needed to, even if that meant taking down my own blood?
Sylvie is still crying, and I can’t look at her. I agree with Oscar. Ryan may be her brother, but hell, he chose to associate with these maniacs, so he gets whatever he gets. What did Winny say a minute ago? Greet the devil and he eats you . . .
“All right, kiddies. Break it up.” Ryan’s got a bruised temple—funny, the darkening smudge is just about the same spot where Dad got me the night of prom—but other than that, whatever injuries he’s suffered are invisible. “They’ll be here at three. We need to get ready.”
Toto slips in and out of the café, returning with a rolled-up blanket. He swipes an arm across the tabletop, and an explosion of glass makes us jump as the vinegar tang of Heinz’s ketchup fills the air. Another pop of shattering glass goes off when Toto swipes the salt and pepper shakers to the floor, making room for whatever he’s got in those blankets.
“One more load. You go,” he tells Ryan, then collapses to a chair, wheezing. He looks like shit. One eye is totally swollen shut, and the other is nothing but a slit. His face is bruised and covered with blood, and the white tee he wears is the perfect backdrop for all that red coming out of his bullet wound.
Winny’s trying to get our attention, but we can’t talk freely. Not now.
Toto and Ryan busy themselves unfolding the blankets, and when I first see what’s resting inside them, it’s like a cold stab of ice down my neck. So much matte black metal, the barrels, like half a dozen eyes, boring into me. The pair loads the magazines like robots, the bullets snapping and clicking into line, then they slap each magazine home.
When they’re done, eight automatic assault rifles lie on the white, linoleum-topped tables I’ve cleaned almost daily for the last two years. Coffee splatters and cupcake crumbs, dabs of cream cheese at breakfast and stray shreds of coleslaw in the afternoons; all that’s gone now, replaced by eight tools of mechanized death.
“Scott. Are you listening?” Winny asks.
“Huh?” I rub my temple. “Yeah. Sorry. Yeah, I’m with you.”
“I don’t think we have until three.” From the way Oscar and Sylvie gape at her, I’m guessing I missed this bit the first time around.
“So,” Oscar asks, “what time do you think they’re really coming?”
She swallows. “Soon.”
“Did you re-lock the front door, Ryan?” Toto asks at the same time.
Ten After Closing Page 18