The Devil’s Share
Page 21
“You need some short-term money, let me know,” she said. “We’ll work it out.”
“Should be all right for a while. I’ve already cleared out my Ohio accounts. I’ve got some more stashed away, here and there. That last deposit helped. There won’t be any repercussions from that, will there?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“So what are you not telling me?”
She flexed the fingers of her left hand, felt the dull ache there.
“There was a little drama last night. I had a visitor.”
“Who?”
“Our military friend.”
He took a breath. “How did it go?”
“He won’t be coming back.”
A pause on the line, then, “And you’re all right?”
“Yes.”
“What about his employer?”
“He dealt with that himself. There won’t be any blowback.”
“So we’re clear?”
“We are.”
She heard him exhale. “They did some damage, though, to both of us.”
“They did.”
“I need to rebuild some things. My life had a structure before all this. That’s gone. And what I’ve got now won’t last forever. Comes down to it, who knows, a year from now, I might need some work.”
“I thought you were out of it?”
“I thought so, too.”
Got the taste for it back, she thought. Even with all that had happened. She watched waves roll in to the beach, sunlight sparkling on the water.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “But I think I’m taking a break myself. Maybe do some traveling.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. I just feel like I need a change, that things are different now.”
“What happened this time, it wasn’t your fault.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“I mean, nobody could have predicted it, right? Like you always say, nothing for it. So something comes along a year from now, maybe eighteen months, you need to give me a call.”
“All right,” she said.
“And maybe I’ll see you then.”
“Maybe you will,” she said.
* * *
She was at the gate at Newark Airport, waiting for her flight to San Antonio to be called, carry-on bag at her feet, when her cell buzzed. Rathka.
“I found a place I think you’ll like,” he said. “A little town just outside Paris. Another one of my clients owns it, was renting it out, but it’s empty now. And he won’t be going back any time soon.”
“Legal problems?”
“You could say that. Strictly white-collar, though. Pension fund issues. Won’t go to trial until next year, if it goes to trial at all. In the meantime, he’s hoping to generate some income.”
“To pay your bill?”
“The best never comes cheap. But you don’t have to worry about any of that. The title’s clean. Not much to the place, one bedroom, and it’s old. But it’s quiet, from what I understand. Might suit your needs. I can get you some pictures.”
“No need,” she said. “Make the deal. Give him three months rent in advance, starting next month. Then we’ll see what happens.”
Through the plate-glass window, she could see her plane drawing up to the jetway. Beyond it, in the distance, the Manhattan skyline.
“Given all that’s transpired recently,” he said, “what are your plans in the meantime?”
“Heading south to see our friend.”
“Is that wise?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you should take that time-out sooner rather than later. Stay clear of all this for a while. You’ve been putting a lot of money away the last couple of years. It’s time you started enjoying some of it, isn’t it? Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“I have responsibilities.”
“Nothing that can’t be handled long-distance. That’s what I’m here for, why you pay me.”
Passengers were coming through the gate now, filing off the plane. She looked at the boarding pass in her bandaged hand, the tattoo on her wrist just below it. She thought about what Wayne had said the last time she saw him. You shouldn’t have to live like that. You deserve better.
“You still there?” Rathka said.
“Yeah.”
“That place is ready now. I can have Monique book you a flight this week, tomorrow if you want. Why waste time?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do.”
The gate attendant was calling out seating groups over the PA. The outgoing passengers began to queue up in separate lines. The first group started through the gate and down the jetway, the ticket reader beeping as the attendant scanned their boarding passes.
She took a deep breath, looked out the window again. Someday, you’re going to have to make a choice.
“In the meantime,” Rathka was saying, “I’ll move some money around for you, keep it liquid, accessible. The dollar’s getting stronger over there, you’ll do all right.”
The last group was heading down the jetway, the gate area almost empty now.
“All you have to do is say the word,” he said. “I can put the whole thing in motion tomorrow.”
Final boarding call. The gate attendant looked over at her.
“Well?” Rathka said.
“Do it,” she said, and ended the call.
* * *
As the plane banked east, she looked out the window. Nothing but ocean below.
In the First Class seat beside her, a businessman in his forties was typing on a laptop. The flight attendant came back with their drinks, red wine for her, a gin and tonic for him.
“Long flight,” he said.
She looked at him. He was tanned, his black hair shot through with gray. He’d taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie, was using the folded jacket as a rest for the laptop. She saw the wedding ring on his left hand.
“Sorry?” she said. She put the wineglass on her tray table.
“It’s a long trip,” he said. “I used to do it once a month. Never got used to it. Eight hours is about three hours too long for me. You get over to the Continent much?”
“I’ve never been,” she said. “First time.”
“Business?”
“No.”
“Family there?”
She shook her head.
“Just traveling on your own?”
“That’s right.”
“Good for you. Best way to do it sometimes. You speak any French?”
“No.”
“You’ll be fine. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ get you pretty far in any country. You’ll find you pick up what you need pretty quickly.”
“I hope so.”
He nodded at her bandaged hand. “That looks painful.”
“Not so much anymore.”
“What happened?”
“Kitchen accident.”
“You must have a dangerous kitchen.”
The plane began to bank again. To the west, the sunset was painting the ocean bloodred.
“Seriously,” he said. “You’ll love it there, I’m sure. Especially if you’ve never been.”
She didn’t respond, ran her thumb over the tattoo on her wrist.
“Sometimes it’s the scariest things that pay off the best,” he said. “Anything worthwhile in life comes with an element of uncertainty to it, risk. At least that’s what I’ve always found.”
“You may be right.”
“Well, then,” he said. “Here’s to new adventures.”
She touched her glass to his, drank, then looked out the window again. The water was darkening with the coming night.
She finished her wine, set the glass down. She was tired now, and suddenly sad, for no reason she knew. He saw it in her, went back to his laptop.
She’d figure it out as she went, she thought. What to do tomorrow, the day after that, the weeks and months that wo
uld follow. Where it would all lead her.
She put her head back, closed her eyes, and flew on into darkness.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Wallace Stroby is an award-winning journalist and a former editor at The Star-Ledger in Newark, New Jersey. This is his sixth novel, following the acclaimed Kings of Midnight, and he lives in New Jersey. The Crissa Stone novels are in development for a TV series by Showtime. You can sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY WALLACE STROBY
Shoot the Woman First
Kings of Midnight
Cold Shot to the Heart
Gone ’til November
The Heartbreak Lounge
The Barbed-Wire Kiss
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Epigraphs
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
About the Author
Also by Wallace Stroby
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE DEVIL’S SHARE. Copyright © 2015 by Wallace Stroby. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover photographs: road by plainpicture/fstop; texture by Ceasart/Shutterstock; letters by Redav/Shutterstock
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-06575-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-7275-2 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466872752
First Edition: July 2015