End of Story

by Peter Abrahams

“Tell you later.” He handed her the flashlight. “Keep this on Frankie, that’s all you have to do.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear, causing so much static in her brain she hardly heard the words. “Don’t want to scare him off. I’ll be close by. Everything’s cool.”

  He moved away, silent, and vanished.

  Ivy stood beneath the willow tree, the flashlight off. This was where it had happened, also at night—Betty Ann meeting Frank, driving off with the duffel bag of stolen money. She could picture it. The river had probably made these same sounds: sucking, near the bank; gurgling, out in midstream.

  Ivy listened for other sounds—a car, footsteps, the rustle of clothing—heard nothing but the river. She rehearsed her line. Let’s see the money. Easy to remember. And after that? Harrow would appear. Mandrell would reveal the whereabouts of Betty Ann. He would reveal it one way or another, probably take a beating in any case. Ivy was prepared for that, but Harrow turning up like this was bound to shock Mandrell, probably shock him into giving up his information pretty quickly. All he’d want would be to get away, back to Les Girls and the life of Jake McCord.

  And that would be that. Would they actually end up with the money? Ivy didn’t want it, but would Harrow? Maybe some equation was at work, trying to find a balance for those seven lost years. A hundred grand seemed a little puny when you put it that way, but how much money could possibly—

  What was that? Had she heard something, a car, maybe? Ivy peered down the road, saw nothing. She faced the woods, waiting for a glimpse of headlights through the trees, but none came. As for the sound: she didn’t hear it anymore. Just the river, sucking at its bank, gurgling farther out…and now making another sound as well, soft and rippling. Ivy, turned, gazed out at the water.

  A boat took shape in the darkness, came gliding in, barely moving as it touched the boat ramp, swinging sideways, rocking to a stop. A big, open powerboat twenty feet long or more, with no one aboard but a single man at the control console. He grabbed a line, climbed over the side, tied up to a cleat at the side of the ramp. Then he looked up and went still; he had good eyes, seeing her like that. What light there was reflected off his platinum hair: Frank Mandrell.

  “You’re early,” he said.

  An easy line to remember: Let’s see the money. Ivy opened her mouth to say it, but that wasn’t what came out. Instead she said, “Where’s Betty Ann?”

  “Huh?” he said.

  Ivy had forgotten all about the flashlight, even though she had it in her hand. She switched it on.

  “Hey,” said Mandrell, shielding his face. He wore a full set of foul-weather gear, as though expecting a gale.

  “Where is she?” said Ivy. “That’s all I want to know.”

  He came up the boat ramp. “Why?” he said.

  Ivy backed up a step or two.

  “And get that fucking thing out of my face,” he said.

  Ivy lowered the beam a little, centering it on his chest. “She met you right here and took off with the money. Now you’ve got that stupid strip club. So there’s no way you don’t know where she is.”

  He came closer. “You’re getting me confused, little lady,” he said. “First I took you for a simple blackmailer. Now this strange line of talk. Makes me wonder who else is in on our little secret.” Somehow he was now standing right in front of her.

  Ivy didn’t remember him being this big. Now, maybe a bit late, she spoke her line. “Let’s see the money.”

  He gazed over her shoulder, across the dirt road and into the woods. “How you found out in the first place would be another question.”

  “A hundred grand,” Ivy said. “Have you got it?”

  Mandrell’s gaze moved down to her face. She didn’t like the look in his eyes at all. He reached inside his foul-weather jacket, withdrew a banded stack of bills, not very thick.

  “Doesn’t look like a hundred grand to me,” Ivy said.

  He smiled. “That writer story was pretty convincing,” he said. “A convincer like that might have a few other ideas going on.”

  “Not me,” said Ivy. “I just want the money.”

  He waved the stack of bills. “Ten grand here,” he said. “Down payment. To be on the safe side, I got the rest close by.”

  “Where?” said Ivy.

  “A short boat ride away,” said Mandrell. “Fun. How about we get going while it’s still nice and quiet?”

  Ivy pointed her beam down at the boat. From this angle, higher up the ramp, she could see the deck. Some nautical-type stuff lay in the bow, like coiled rope and a big anchor; and some not-so-nautical stuff, like four or five heavy dumbbells and rolls of duct tape.

  “I’ll wait here,” she said.

  Mandrell laughed. “Not an option,” he said.

  Ivy backed away. Then, from behind, she heard footsteps. Harrow, thank God. She turned, shone the flash across the road. Two men came out of the woods, side by side, caught in the circle of light: Vic Mandrell and that huge pal of his.

  Ivy thought: They found him. I’m alone. She took one running step toward the road. The huge guy turned out to be very quick, blocking her way before she could take another.

  “Who’s up for a little boat ride?” Mandrell said.

  “Sounds good,” said Vic.

  The men formed a circle around Ivy, closed in.

  At that moment, a voice spoke. It came from above, like in some biblical tale.

  “No boating tonight.”

  They all looked up. Vic had a flashlight, too. He shone it at the willow tree. Harrow sat on a thick, low branch, that rolled-up blanket from the pickup in his lap.

  Mandrell recognized him at once and rocked backward, as if dodging something hard thrown his way. Harrow laughed that soft, delighted laugh.

  Vic said, “What the hell? Is that—?”

  “Step aside, teacher,” Harrow said. “And keep that light on Frankie, if you don’t mind.”

  Ivy darted past the huge guy, into the road.

  “Grab the bitch,” said Frank Mandrell.

  The huge guy lunged for her. Blinding light flashed from inside the blanket—blue for the tiniest instant, then hot red—plus a boom, and the huge guy pitched sideways as though knocked over by a killer wave.

  “The light,” Harrow said.

  Ivy stabbed the beam around, tried to find Mandrell, but it landed first on Vic. He had a gun in his hand, was starting to raise it. That was as far as he got: another blast came from the willow tree and Vic’s face disintegrated in bloody airborne bits.

  Mandrell crouched at the shadowy edge of the light, wobbly now from Ivy’s shaking hand, and pulled out his own gun, bigger than Vic’s. He pointed it at the willow, but in the darkness there was nothing to see except its mushroom-cloud form. Mandrell turned and aimed the gun at Ivy, an expression on his face of pleasure in the offing.

  An idea came to her, simple but maybe the best of her life: she switched off the light. Mandrell’s gun flashed. She stood where she was, untouched. Then, from the base of the tree came a thump, followed by running footsteps.

  Ivy’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, only it wasn’t so dark now. The subtle predawn milkiness that they’d all been blinded to by the intensity of the flashlights was now spreading across the sky, and in that light Ivy saw Mandrell running toward the boat, Harrow close behind. Harrow had a shotgun—the shotgun from cabin one?—in his hands, had it by the barrel with the butt raised high. Mandrell was making a whimpering noise in his throat, like some frightened animal. Harrow swung the butt down so hard on the back of Mandrell’s head that it whistled in the air. Mandrell slumped face-first into the water. Harrow dropped the gun, went in after him.

  Ivy went in, too. Harrow was on top of Mandrell, pressing him under.

  “Stop. Stop.” He had to stop. This all had to stop.

  But Harrow wouldn’t stop. He was growling, cords of muscle standing out all over his body.

  “S
top.” Ivy tugged, pulled, yanked at him. Finally she got a handful of his hair and jerked it with all her might. He went slack, turned to her, no recognition in his eyes.

  Mandrell came up to the surface. Ivy cupped the back of his head—all slimy, and soft where it should have been hard—in her hands, held it above the surface. His eyes were open. He coughed up some water. Harrow leaned toward him, teeth bared.

  “For God’s sake, stop,” Ivy said. “He’s got to tell us about Betty Ann.”

  Mandrell stared right at her. His mouth opened. “Is something wrong with you?” he said. Then blood came pouring out, unstoppable.

  Thirty

  After that, they were on the move. Ivy didn’t see much for a while, couldn’t get past a dark blur that was unspooling just behind her eyeballs. Her memory recorded a few things only: Harrow tossing Mandrell’s body lightly, like it was filled with straw, into the boat; Harrow untying the line, and the boat drifting away downriver; Harrow picking up the shotgun. They crossed the road, not running, although Ivy formed the impression of tremendous speed. At that point, with her in the middle of the road and Harrow already starting up the path that led to the pickup parked by the broken-down shed, Ivy glimpsed a little movement just to her right. She turned in time to see the huge guy, a bloody mess, raise his head an inch or two off the road. His eyes shifted slightly, found hers, sent some sort of message. Ivy didn’t know what that message was; but it had nothing to do with hatred, revenge, greed, crime, any of that.

  She kept going.

  Because—because what was the alternative? Telling Harrow? What would happen after that? Ivy didn’t want to see it. And she could think of no other plan: which was why she left the man on the road, still alive. A few steps later came an unpleasant sound her mind refused to identify at first, and then did: sirens, on the way.

  They got in the pickup. This time Ivy stayed at her end of the bench seat. Harrow drove away from the broken-down shed. Her body was still in the grip of the sensation of way too much velocity, like a roller coaster taking the last big drop, although the speedometer needle never exceeded the limit. They passed through the scrubby woods, onto blacktop, then back on dirt roads; Ivy totally lost.

  “Where are we going?” she said.

  “We’ve got options,” said Harrow.

  “Like?”

  He made a little sound, half laugh, half snort. “We’re starting to sound like an old married couple,” he said.

  The remark stunned her on many levels, but three were apparent at once. First, how did he know things like that, the sound of old married couples? Second, what was going on in his mind, that he could have such a thought so soon after what had just happened? And third, he was right.

  Ivy stared straight ahead, through a windshield dirty with dead bugs and bird shit. “Did you use me back there?” she said.

  “Use you?”

  “As a lure.”

  “Come on,” Harrow said. “You found Frankie all by yourself. And didn’t you tell me they were outside your place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Think Frankie was going to leave it like that?” She didn’t answer. “Happen to glance inside that boat?” he said.

  “Yes,” Ivy said. If not for Harrow, she would now be at the bottom of the St. Lawrence, weighted down, most likely forever untraceable.

  “So what are we talking about?” Harrow said.

  They drove on in silence, crossing a highway, back onto a dirt road. Dawn broke around them, but not very bright, the clouds low and heavy.

  “What about Betty Ann?” Ivy said. “I thought she was the point of the exercise.”

  Harrow looked over. “That’s where it went wrong,” he said.

  “One way of putting it,” Ivy said.

  “Things happened in the wrong order,” Harrow said. “Like in your story, the scene where Vladek goes to the job interview.”

  “I don’t want to talk about my story.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “What happens now,” Ivy said. Was there anything else?

  “In what sense?” Harrow said.

  “For God’s sake,” said Ivy. “How are we going to find her? Find her and prove your innocence—what’s left of it, before—before…” She couldn’t bring herself to voice the chaos waiting at the end of that sentence, or more likely that was already happening.

  “We’ll have to think a bit, that’s all,” Harrow said. “Which is why it’s good we’ve got these options.”

  “Maybe I’m stupid,” Ivy said. “Go over them for me.”

  “Nothing stupid about you, teacher,” he said.

  “And stop calling me that,” Ivy said, her voice rising. “I don’t want to hear it again.”

  “I mean it with respect,” Harrow said. “But whatever you say.”

  They were on a two-lane highway now, winding up through steep hills, snowflakes drifting down, way too early in the year. A few cars came toward them around the bend. Harrow switched off the headlights—just the one, Ivy remembered. The cars went by, the last a state trooper. He had a coffee cup in one hand, didn’t even glance at them.

  Harrow laughed that low laugh. “No reason they know I’m gone, not quite yet,” he said. “They’ve still got work to do. Nothing to tie you to me, or us to Mandrell. Maybe they’ll think the three of them went down in some drug thing gone bad.”

  As long as the huge guy dies soon, before the police get to him: that was Ivy’s immediate thought. And yes: Die soon. Because otherwise she was just like everyone else in Harrow’s life so far, no help. He was capable of violence, yes, but only in self-defense, or in her defense. He’d killed three killers. Horrible, and she knew her mind wasn’t going to let go of what she’d seen, but she had to hold on to fact one: he was innocent of the crime that had started all this. What had happened at the boat ramp could be explained, as long as they found Betty Ann.

  “Anything left to eat?” Harrow said.

  That stunned her, too, but only for a moment. She had to toughen up, and fast. “Just an apple,” Ivy said, feeling inside the bag.

  Harrow bit into it. “Never seen this kind before,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Pink Lady.”

  “Best I ever tasted.” He tossed the core out the window. There was blood on his hand.

  His body relaxed a little, a hungry man who’d just taken the edge off his appetite. “First they put things together,” he said. “Then comes the search.”

  “I know,” Ivy said. She was starting to shake. Had she been in shock? If so, she was coming out of it; and fear was taking over. She hugged herself.

  “A search like this is an inflating balloon,” Harrow said. He didn’t seem scared at all. “The center is where whoever it was went missing. Then it expands and keeps expanding. Trying to get away now, that’s what they’ll expect. So the best option is lying low, letting the skin of the balloon pass by.”

  The image made sense to Ivy. “And Betty Ann?”

  Harrow sighed. “Which will give us time to put our heads together on that,” he said. “While we’re lying low.”

  “Lying low where?” Ivy said.

  “You know where,” said Harrow. “It’ll be like one of those retreats.”

  She laughed. One of those laughs with bitterness in it; she heard that distinctly.

  He reached across, touched her knee, very lightly, but the electric feeling went through her just the same. “Let’s not fight,” he said.

  A childish remark, or possibly teenage: Ivy knew that, but couldn’t help responding to it anyway. “Did you bring the money at least?” she said, thinking somewhere along the way they might need it.

  “What money?” Harrow said.

  “The ten grand,” said Ivy.

  “I’m not a thief,” Harrow said.

  That was the whole point. Ivy slid over next to him.

  Back in cabin four at Wilderness Lake, under the rose-colored duvet, in that little world of its own: at first a wo
rld in motion and then still, except for the snowflakes outside the window.

  “Claudette showed me the Valentine’s Day card you gave Betty Ann,” Ivy said. “The one about the longest fall and the softest landing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You must have really loved her.”

  “Must have.”

  So quiet in cabin four on Wilderness Lake that Ivy actually heard a snowflake make the tiniest thump against the window. “And now?” she said.

  He faced her, his eyes looking tired for the first time since the escape. “Far from it,” he said. Then came a little smile. The rest—You’re the one or I’m in love with you or something like that, he left unspoken, but Ivy heard it anyway, in her mind.

  His eyes closed. So did hers.

  Ivy slept a deep sleep, dreamless until the end, when her mother started whipping up some icing in the electric mixer, and Ivy sat up on the counter, waiting to lick the mixing blades.

  Then came a sudden, violent motion next to her, like an eruption. Ivy awoke, startled. Harrow was halfway across the room, headed for the window. From not far away, and getting louder, came the whap-whap drone of a helicopter. Harrow peered up through the glass. The wound on his back looked red and sore.

  “State police,” he said, stepping away from the window.

  The sound grew louder, for a moment or two loud enough to vibrate the cabin roof, then quieted and finally faded to nothing.

  “Thank God we didn’t have a fire going,” Ivy said.

  Harrow turned to her, uncomprehending.

  “Or they’d have spotted us,” Ivy said. “From the smoke. This way, it’s just a vacant camp off-season.”

  “And that red car of yours?” Harrow said. Parked right outside the cabin.

  Ivy jumped out of bed, threw on her clothes.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “We’re leaving, right?” Ivy said. “In the pickup.”

  “Won’t work,” Harrow said. “They’ll have roadblocks up in an hour, even less if he’s radioing in.”

  “But maybe we can get out first.” She could hardly keep from running out the door.