“Hurry!” Sylvie shouts.
A second later, I’m behind the table blockade. So is the last of the Chef’s men. Oscar grapples with him while I work Scott’s phone. The battery is down to ten percent, but reassuring tones sound when I hit those magical three buttons. When the operator comes on, I say, “We’re at Café Flores in Unionville. There are men with guns. People are dead. Come now.” Then I lay the phone on the floor, shielded by the tables, so the dispatcher can listen in on all hell breaking loose around us.
The Chef watches her guy fight her battle, then raises a hand, flicking it in Aaron’s direction. “You come with me. We’ll have the guys out back finish this off. We can’t be found here.” Without another word, she and Aaron flee into the night.
Scott stands at Oscar’s back. “What do I do?”
“Get them out of here.” Oscar drives a knee up into his opponent’s gut, but it’s Oscar’s bad leg, and they both fall, Oscar landing on top, the guy’s gun clattering at their feet. “Try for the back door,” Oscar grunts through the effort it takes to keep the guy down. Meanwhile, Sylvie snatches the thug’s gun. Oscar moves to his knees, blood collecting behind his plastic dressing. “If that doesn’t work, take them downstairs, or the kitchen. Anywhere but here. Now, Scott, do what I say. For once, just listen.”
“Okay. Okay.” Scott rushes to us, just as Ryan streaks at me and Sylvie, his eyes crazed.
“You couldn’t just give me the money?” He seizes his sister by her throat and thrusts his face—so red, white splotches stand out on his cheeks—into hers. “Now look what you caused.” His whole body shakes as what can only be pure hate rolls through him.
“Hey!” Scott shoves Ryan’s shoulder, getting his attention before ramming his temple with a fist in the same bruised spot from the scuffle with Aaron and the Chef’s guys out by Shelly’s house.
Ryan staggers back, but then lunges at Scott. “You.” Ryan aims his own blow, but Scott ducks away easily and shoves him. Ryan can’t keep his feet. He goes down, and that’s when I catch the red seeping from his stomach.
“He’s been shot,” I whisper.
“Shot?” Sylvie tries to go to her brother, but Scott gets in the way, shoving us toward the back of the café, toward the employee door.
“Go!” he shouts.
“No. Wait!” Sylvie cries, but Scott has her hand and tugs her out of the room with me on their heels.
I throw one last look at the brawl behind me. Oscar is still wrestling with one of the Chef’s guys. The door swishes in my face and we’re standing in flickering shadows.
“Winny!” Scott urges. “Now.”
I let him pull me into the belly of the building, though I can’t drag my gaze from the door. On its last inward swing, I catch a glimpse of Ryan as he struggles to stand.
The door has stopped moving for now, but it will open again, because for Ryan, this fight isn’t over.
Any second now, he’ll be coming for us.
40
SCOTT
TEN HOURS AND SIX MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING
Scott sat on his bed, three sheets of paper clutched in his hand, though his brain wasn’t registering the meaning of the words printed there. Three sheets, each with the best news of his life. There was sunny Florida, where he could study psychology and maybe even get into their grad program later on for another five to seven years of higher education. That would be a full decade away from this place.
Then there was the huge school in New York, the most expensive, but they’d also given him the best package—half of his tuition and room and board covered. That still left a hefty chunk to make up on his own, but Scott was no stranger to skimping and scrounging. He tried to imagine himself walking the streets of the city, popping into trendy coffee shops with his laptop—
The fantasy cut off there, because Scott didn’t have a laptop. While all his future college friends would do their papers at the local Starbucks or the Village Blend, he’d be holed up in the cave of the computer lounge. Hell, he barely even had a cellphone after the fiasco with his parents. Scott dug his thumbnail into the sizeable crack now adorning the screen of his only real piece of tech. It was the story of his life these last couple of years.
Shuffling the sheets of paper, he read the third letter. The best news of all.
And the worst.
A full ride for four years. No work study. No student loans. Just a solid education. He could get his undergrad degree with only the relatively small expense of books and materials, with one exception. Nowhere on the letter did it say anything about room and board. The local commuter college—perfect for the non-traditional student with plenty of online and blended classes for added flexibility, particularly helpful for the working parent—didn’t have dorms. He could go to school for free, but he’d be stuck here for another four years.
His mom’s footsteps in the hall warned Scott that the torrent he’d unleashed this morning hadn’t dried up yet. It had to be her, because his dad never put on shoes anymore these days. His bedroom door slammed open, the little coil spring on the baseboard letting out a ting of protest.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she fired off before she’d even crossed the threshold. “Why would you behave that way toward your father?”
He bolted up from the bed. “What’s wrong with me? How about what’s wrong with you? The evidence was right there on the screen in front of your face. How can you still defend him?”
“You know the strain he’s under—”
“Him? We’re all under pressure. Face it, Mom, he’s not getting better on his own. It’s not just his temper, either. He’s more and more depressed every day.”
Tears overflowed her eyes, and she had to look away. “You can’t stop loving him just because he’s had problems these last couple years.”
Right, because turning into a drunk only recently made it okay. Never hitting your son in the first sixteen years of his life meant you could do whatever the hell you wanted to him after that. Like saving up a lifetime’s supply of asshole points to use them all at once.
“I can be angry with him for hurting us. Literally hurting us all.”
“Maybe when you get out of here he’ll be better.”
“Are you kidding me? Are you trying to say this is my fault?” What did she think would happen if he left home, took away their family’s extra income, and his dad didn’t have good old Scotty to torture? Who did she think would take the brunt of his anger then? “I’m doing everything I can to help out here. Do you think I like working so much? Giving up most of my pay?” He waved his busted phone in the air. “Here’s more money down the drain. You can’t pretend this isn’t happening.”
“He’d never hurt me or Evie.” Her voice lost steam as a flicker of uncertainty flashed across her face.
“You really believe that? Fine. I’ll leave. Right now.”
“Scott—”
He didn’t stick around to hear more. Storming down the hall, he stuck his head into the kitchen where he found his dad with a tumbler full of amber liquid on the table before him. “I’m taking the car.” He reached to pluck the key ring off the hook on the wall.
“Like hell you are.” His dad started to rise, but Scott was already through the front door.
41
SCOTT
TWO HOURS AND THIRTEEN MINUTES AFTER CLOSING
We’ll get out through the back. Stay behind me.”
“But, Scott.” Winny chews on her lip. “The Chef said something about guys back there.”
“They’re long gone. Hell, maybe she was bluffing.” But I slow my pace. What if Winny’s right? Every step along the way tonight, I’ve just jumped into things, risking my own neck and everyone else’s in the process. Not this time.
Sylvie’s not paying any attention to our debate, too focused on every bump, crash, and shout coming from the café. “I can’t leave him in there.” I don’t know if she means Oscar or Ryan, but I don’t ask. Maybe she doesn’t know h
erself. She tries to return the way we came, but I grab her.
“Sylvie, you can’t go back out there.”
“Oscar wants you outside and safe,” Winny says, and I’m transported to class the last week of school, when she blew everyone away with her abstract art project. The calm authority she gave off, the way she addressed each class member, one at a time, as she discussed her work. She brings that same calm presence to the chaos now. “The cops are coming. I called them. You’ll only get hurt back there. At least this way, you have a chance, and you might be able to help us.”
Sylvie nods and lifts the hem of her polo to wipe her face.
“Besides, you’ve got the only gun.” I put my arm around Sylvie’s shoulder and draw her toward the tiny vestibule off the hallway that leads to safety.
“Huh?” Sylvie raises her hands, both clenched around the pistol grip, and looks at them as if she’s never seen them before. “Holy crap. You’re right. Scott, you take it.”
I shove back when she tries to press the gun into my hands. “No, you keep it. I’ll take the lead. Sylvie, you guard our backs.”
There’s no window in the back door, so the only way to tell for sure that the coast is clear is to open it. The lock twists easily enough under my fingers, but the click has my teeth on edge. I wait an entire count of thirty, but the door remains still and shut. “Okay,” I whisper. “Sylvie, get ready with the gun. We’ll stay behind the door so we can shut it if we need to. Okay? Winny?”
She nods. “Be careful, Scott. Please.”
“Go easy. Just an inch or two.” The knob turns as silently as the motion of the hinges—thank God I didn’t forget to hit these with the WD-40. I start by easing it open just an inch. And then another. I pause for a couple of deep breaths. We’re feet away from either freedom or more torment. I almost don’t want to know which.
Winny nods at me.
Time to do this.
“One,” I mouth, “two, three. Now.” I pull the door open a good two feet, catching surprised cries from the other side. The men at the foot of the short set of stairs come racing at us.
“Shut it, Scott!” Winny’s right there with me, adding her weight to mine, and we slam the door in their faces just before they hit it with the full force of their four-hundred-pound combined weight. I throw my shoulder against the steel door, absorbing their attempt to ram it open. “Shit!” They manage to nudge it, but weren’t expecting even that small success, and we bang it shut before they can redouble their efforts. Winny is ready and twists the lock before they can land a second blow, and this time, all they get for their efforts are bruises.
“Downstairs!” Winny heads the way we came, but a second later, she freezes. I collide into her back, nearly sending her flying right into him.
Ryan.
I catch her before she can tumble forward and shove her behind me. “Ryan, man, come on. They’re gone. It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“There is no other way. It was always going to end like this. When you got out of bed this morning, Scotty-boy, it was already too late.” His face is cast in flickering darkness, but he extends one arm, and the weak spill of light coming from the tortured halogens is more than enough to make out the gun in his hand, and it’s aimed at my chest.
“Tonight was set in stone twenty years ago. You should have thought about it before you ran out on us.”
“Huh?” I say.
“Enough, Ryan.” Sylvie is right at my back.
“Almost, big sis. Almost, but not quite.”
“Put it down.”
“In a minute. This will be over fast.”
“Don’t you think you’ve killed enough people tonight?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That wasn’t me. Those guys—” He waves his gun hand behind him, where the struggle continues, but is maybe losing steam. “They did this.”
When he turns back our way, his hand remains at his side. It’s not a big improvement, but my breath comes a little easier without that weapon pointing me in the face.
“And whose idea was it to come here?” Sylvie asks. “Whose idea to prey on your family? The only people who ever tried to stand up for you?”
“Scott,” Winny whispers in my ear. “Do you hear that?”
I close my eyes and strain to listen past Sylvie’s and Ryan’s raised voices.
“Sirens,” Winny says.
My eyes snap open. She’s right. If we can hold out a little longer . . .
“Are you kidding me? You can really stand there and say that? What did you ever do for me, Sylvie?”
“When are you going to grow up and stop thinking everyone owes you something because life treated you hard? I left, okay. I admit that. But Dad was the one who did the rest. Dad. Not me.”
“The screwing up of Ryan was a group effort.”
“We’re all screwed up, Ry. But about what you did here tonight? All the steps you took to be out there, storming our restaurant at ten after closing? Do you see it? Picture it in your head. You, at six years old, on a path that led you to my door tonight. Look at all the times you could have chosen something different. Every chance life gave you. Dad—hell, even me—we might have put you on that path to start with, but you were the one who walked it and ignored the signs that could have led you someplace other than here, with a frickin’ bullet in your stomach and two kids cowering in front of you. I’ve tried to fix you way too long. It’s over. No more. You’re on your own.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, just like I’ve always been.” He raises his gun.
This is it. The corridor is so narrow. There’s nowhere else to run. Just like at home, there’s nothing to stop this weapon from getting me.
It’s inevitable, and it’s a fight I won’t walk away from.
“Scott, move!” Winny shoves in front of me.
“No!”
“I said move. Now!”
I pinwheel my arms to keep from going down on my ass. “Winny, don’t—”
Gunshots silence my sentence. First Sylvie’s from behind, and a split second later, Ryan’s from in front of me. Twice. It happens so fast and so slow. I have time to feel the breeze of the bullet tickle my cheek as it passes.
“Winny!”
Is she shot? Am I shot? I’m pretty sure the first bullet zipped by us. But Ryan’s second, where did that one go? I get my arms around Winny so she won’t crash to the linoleum. For all I know, Ryan’s second bullet is lodged somewhere in my body; I can’t feel it, not yet. Just Winny’s warmth against me. Why did she do that? Why’d she put herself between me and a madman with a gun?
The sirens roar on the other side of the café wall, followed by new shouts. The cops are here. It’s all over, but they’re still too late. Lights dance in my vision as I wait for Winny’s muscles to let go, for her weight to pull at me. Or for the pain to blossom somewhere inside me. For us both to crash onto the floor. No matter who took the bullet, I’m not letting go, so if one of us falls, we’re both going down together.
Then Ryan crumples to the floor.
A clatter of metal at my back makes me jump, and Sylvie’s gun slides into my foot. She runs past her brother to the café. “Oscar!”
“Silv?” he answers. His voice is weak, but he’s alive.
Winny and I are alone, except for the dead man, but still I don’t let go of her. One arm firmly around her waist, I move my other hand to the spot over her heart and press her to me while I wait for reality to crash in on us with the force of an automatic handgun. “Are we hit?” My breath brushes her neck. I clench my eyes shut against the pinpoints of light—like fairy lights—dancing in my vision to the drumbeat of my pulse.
Winny hitches a breath and brings a hand to rest over mine, holding me closer to her. “I don’t think so.” She spins, struggling to maneuver, because my arms are still wrapped around her, and runs her hands over my arms, my chest, my shoulders, my neck. “You’re okay too, Scott. We’re okay.”
I take a huge gulp of air,
like I just jumped into a cold shower. Instead of growing brighter, the pinpoints of light recede.
“I think Sylvie got him first and he missed. Both shots missed.”
“You’re okay? We’re okay.” I lift her up and spin us around.
She’s crying into the crook of my neck, and slowly, I ease her to her feet. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”
She’s laughing. “Yes! I’m fine. I’m great!” With both hands twined around my neck, she stretches to her tiptoes and places a kiss on my lips.
I inhale in surprise, cherry vanilla, but this time, her sweet scent is tinged with salt. I don’t know how it’s possible, but I pull her more tightly against me, lifting her again, trying to feel as much of her as I can. We stared death down moments ago, and now I feel more alive than ever before.
“Who’s in there? Identify yourselves.”
The lights are back, but instead of fairy twinkles, I’m assaulted by a blinding LED.
“Put down your weapons,” the officer shouts.
“We don’t have any,” I call.
We turn, hands up, and I never imagined that move would feel so cheesy even with a dead man lying only a few feet away. “We’re unarmed,” I say. “I work here. She’s a customer. We got caught up in . . .” I can’t begin to think of what to call this. “He . . .” I point to Ryan. “He attacked us.”
“Holy Jesus! Are you kids okay? Come on. We’ve got a fleet of ambulances on the way. We’ll check you over. But go the other way, through the kitchen, so you can avoid the . . .” He inclines his head toward Ryan.
I nod and reach out for Winny’s hand. Her fingers curl around mine, and we follow the officer’s orders, heading through the silent and gleaming den of stainless steel before facing what lies beyond the doors in the café. Suddenly, I’m afraid to go out there, to see any more carnage. I turn to Winny. “You ready?”
“No, but . . .” She laughs.
“What?”
“If he thinks we couldn’t handle walking past Ryan, wait till he hears who carried Maggie downstairs.”
Ten After Closing Page 20