Windfall

by Byron TD Smith

  “Ron figured they could trace the cash if I spent it or deposited it in a bank. Well, the three of us came up with a plan to clean it up and invest it well. It was clever and simple. But I could never get a credit card. I couldn’t get a license or even open a bank account in my new name. Bernadette Pruner didn’t exist.

  “Besides moving into Richardson Street, Kevin always kept to himself. That was just his way, according to Ron. But Ron and I took each other on as family. You know, not one time, ever, did he steer me wrong. And he always referred to the nest egg we built as mine. Never his or ours.”

  As Bernadette thought of Ron, lying in the hospital, her body recalled all those young feelings of security, peace, and comfort. In the intervening decades, sure, she had grown confident that she was capable and could survive on her own. A part of her now felt her safe harbor beginning to fade.

  “Hen figured out how you laundered the money,” Frieda said.

  “Did he?”

  “And I figured out you ran away in 1971. That’s why we were coming to talk to you.”

  “Is that so?” She nodded slowly as this sunk in. It was all inexplicably unsurprising. “You’re as clever as your uncle, aren’t you?”

  Frieda gave her a proud smile. Then, “Do we have to call you Paulette now?”

  “No, dear. My name is Bernadette.” Some of her stoicism was returning.

  “Do you miss your sister?”

  “I do,” Bernadette said, “and I don’t. I have a family here, with Ron, Bonnie, Jane, and all of you. I’ve seen pieces of Angie online, and it looks like she’s made a pretty pleasant life for herself.”

  “Can we call the hospital and find out if Henry’s okay?” Frieda asked, her eyebrows drawing together.

  “Of course,” Bernadette said, embarrassed to have been so wrapped up in recounting her past. She picked up the phone to call the hospital.

  “Maybe you could get us some water, too,” Bernadette said, dialing.

  Frieda disappeared into the kitchen.

  As the sirens grew louder, Bernadette allowed her mind to play with the memories of those years. She danced between being a girl of Frieda’s age in Portland, as her mother came home to change uniforms for her next job, and being a young woman of twenty-one, signing legal documents that she barely understood in a lawyer’s office with Ron.

  “Do you know what I’ve learned about family, Frieda?” she said. The phone in her hand made the sound of ringing on the other end.

  Frieda didn’t answer.

  “Frieda? I said, do you know what I’ve learned about family?”

  Frieda stepped around the corner of the entryway to the kitchen. Behind her stood Jack Keller, holding a large hunting knife to her throat. Keller’s arm that crossed Frieda’s chest ended in a broken, twisted hand.

  “What do you know about family?” he asked.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Henry and Tess heard the sirens from blocks away as they approached Richardson Street. Police cars blocked the street and a dozen or so people stood around, staring up at 1584. Tess turned before the house, parked at the café, and they ran together across the street.

  “There!” Tess shouted, pointing at one of the police officers standing next to a police cruiser. “Constable Tipton.”

  Hearing her name, Tipton turned. “I thought you were at the hospital,” she said.

  “We were,” Henry said. “Where is Frieda?”

  “I spoke with Bernadette,” the police officer said. “She and your niece were in an accident here, with Jack Keller.” She pointed at the off-white K-car, its engine still ticking. “Frieda’s inside the house now. How come you didn’t call us yourselves?”

  Henry ignored the question and looked at the scene. It was the car Frieda had described, only it had embraced the telephone pole, the bumper sunk deep under the hood. There were dark, wet spots on the surrounding asphalt, and the front seat was smeared with blood. Police officers had all the car doors open. With gloved hands, they were clearing the papers and garbage from the car and putting it all in clear plastic bags.

  “Where is Frieda?” he asked again, his voice cracked with fear.

  “Your niece and Bernadette made it safely from the car to the house. They were alone and locked in her apartment when we arrived.”

  “She’s okay?”

  “She’s okay.”

  Henry realized he was panting and took in a deep breath.

  His phone rang. The caller ID read Rachel Duran. He sent her to voicemail.

  “Why are we out here? Can’t we go inside?” he asked.

  “No.” Tipton looked up at Bernadette’s apartment as she spoke. “I have no idea how he managed it, but Keller is with them in the apartment.”

  “What?” Henry’s hands flew to his head and pulled at his hair.

  “He wasn’t there when Bernadette called for the police,” Tipton said. “We’re still determining how he got inside. Witnesses say they saw him just walk in the front door, but that doesn’t explain why she’d let him in. We’ve tried calling her number, but no one’s picking up. We don’t know what he wants at this point. A negotiator is on her way.”

  “A negotiator?” Henry asked in disbelief. His mouth hung open as he looked at the house.

  “We are considering this a hostage situation, Mr. Lysyk. We have to assume that Keller is armed and dangerous.”

  Her saccharine, soothing tone had the opposite effect.

  “This is crazy,” Henry said. He strained to see something in the second-story window and turned his attention back to the car. “And you’re sure that Frieda and Bernadette are okay? Whose blood is that?” he asked, pointing at the accident.

  “Keller’s,” Tipton said. “When I spoke with Bernadette only twenty minutes ago or so, she said that they were fine. I think it’s safe to assume the blood is Keller’s.”

  Henry looked at Tess for help. He didn’t know what she could do about this that he wouldn’t be able to. But he knew that, of all people, she wanted to end this as much as he did. Tess reached out and held his arm in reply.

  “I’m going inside,” Henry said. “I can trade myself for Frieda, or both of them.”

  Constable Tipton’s shoulders drew back. Sympathy left her face, and she spoke in a dry monotone voice. “You two have done enough for today. I understand that you want to help. You’re going to leave this to us. This is what we do. What I need from you are your statements about what happened at the hospital.”

  A loud slamming noise came from inside the house, as though someone was breaking down a door with a battering ram. People on the street looked up at the windows. Henry followed their gaze; nothing had changed.

  “What the hell was that? We have to go in now, right?” Henry said.

  “We don’t know what that that was,” Tipton said. “We have to wait for the negotiator.” She may have intended for her tone to be calm, reassuring. But, to Henry, it was having the opposite effect.

  The hammering noise rang out again, then again. It continued for a minute in a slow rhythm.

  “You must be joking,” Tess said. “You’re not even going to phone inside the house to make sure that everyone is okay?”

  “The negotiator will be here any minute, and it’s important they make the first contact with Keller. I can tell you that we are also reaching out to Keller’s ex-wife”

  Henry’s phone rang again. Sarah Lysyk.

  Voicemail.

  “Did you call Frieda’s parents?” he asked.

  “Her aunt.”

  “Jesus!” Henry shouted.

  With no further patience, Tipton added, “Now, I’m sorry. I have to direct this scene. You need to give your statement to one of my colleagues.” She pointed at a young uniformed officer, holding a paper coffee cup, leaning against one of the patrol vehicles, and laughing with a server from the café. His uniform bore the word Reserve across his back. Tipton shouted, “Chan!”

  At the sound of his name, Chan looked back and
waved. He handed the woman his cup and put his hat back on.

  Turning away from Tipton, Tess whispered, “Forget that. I’m not talking with that kid.”

  “And I’m not waiting for some negotiator or ex-wife to arrive,” Henry said. “An ex-wife will not help the situation here.”

  The banging restarted; slower, but persistent.

  “I need to do something.”

  “Follow me,” Tess said, and headed off down the sidewalk.

  Henry kept up her pace, which would have been normal on any other day.

  They got as far as two houses down the block before Tess strayed from the sidewalk, stepping over a short rock wall into the yard and heading around the side of the house. They exited the back yard via a wooden gate into the alley. “Voila,” she said.

  The alley was empty. It was a shock to the senses compared to chaos on the Richardson Street side of the homes. Without a sound between them, each knew what the other had in mind, and they ran down the alley toward the back of 1584.

  Tess opened the gate only wide enough to look through. Both of them peered up at Bernadette’s window on the east side of the second floor. They knew there was no back door.

  “I figured that we’d climb through one of your windows to get in.”

  “Someone’s beaten us to it, though.” Henry pointed at the stack of Adirondack chairs beneath one of the east side windows.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  “It’s okay, Jack,” Bernadette said, holding her hands and the phone out in front of her. “You don’t need to hurt her.” A small, quiet voice came out of the receiver.

  “Hang up,” Keller said.

  Bernadette placed the phone in its cradle in one slow, smooth motion.

  “You had a family, and you ran away.” His voice was a growl. “You abandoned your mother and your sister. But it wasn’t enough for you to destroy your own family. You had to steal our money and destroy mine.”

  “Jack.” Bernadette forced herself to hold his gaze and to not look down at Frieda. “I didn’t know whose money it was. No one knew. I can’t change the past, but I can do my best to help you. Your money is here. Your money is in this house.”

  Keller’s broken hand lowered as he relaxed his hold on Frieda. Blood dripped onto the floor.

  “Are you lying?” he asked, the anger in his tone softening, weakening.

  “No, Jack. This is the truth.”

  “Show me.”

  “It’s in the wall. We need to cut a hole.”

  “Where?” He looked around as though he would be able to see some evidence of patchwork. An unfamiliar expression appeared on his face; something she hadn’t seen before. She thought he appeared hopeful.

  Bernadette pointed to the living room wall that backed onto the kitchen. “There,” she said without hesitation.

  Keller staggered to the wall, dragging Frieda with him. She had not made a single noise since reappearing from the kitchen.

  Bernadette stole a glance at Frieda. She willed a message to the small girl.

  We are going to get out of this. It’s going to be okay.

  Frieda’s stiff body twisted about as Keller moved, her wide eyes locked on Bernadette.

  Keller tapped the wall in several places with the handle of his knife. “How do we get it?”

  “It’s painted and plastered over. We’ll need a hammer or something.”

  He looked at her through squinted eyes. “I’m not giving you a hammer,” he said, proud to have identified a ruse.

  “It doesn’t have to be a hammer,” Bernadette said. “It just has to be hard and heavy. I could get a cast iron pan, if you let me.” She motioned with her chin to the kitchen.

  Keller weighed this. Instead, he backed up to the door of the apartment, blocking anyone’s exit to the hallway. He was still closer than Bernadette to the kitchen as well; if she tried to make it to the pantry stairwell, he would catch her easily. He let go of Frieda and gave her a push with his knife hand. “Go get a pan,” he said.

  Frieda disappeared into the kitchen. In the living room, Bernadette heard cupboards and drawers opening and closing. Frieda came back holding a dark, cast iron pan. She held it out for Keller, who said, “Go to it, little girl.” Frieda moved the chair away from the wall. “If you want to see your mom again, you’d better hope that this old bitch isn’t lying.”

  Frieda looked at Bernadette, who nodded. “Watch your eyes, dear. It’s like a hard clay stuck to some boards.”

  The young girl pulled her cloak off over her head and handed it to Bernadette. Bernadette felt something stiff tucked in the folds of wool as she held it in her lap.

  Frieda took a batting stance next to the spot where Bernadette had pointed, wound up, and slammed the side of the pan into the wall. A spray of plaster flew off into the room. After several swings, larger pieces fell away and onto the floor, stirring up more dust into the air. The slats of wooden lath behind the plaster appeared. Frieda stopped to shake out her hands.

  “Keep going,” Keller said.

  Bernadette watched Frieda twist her body like a golfer cocking a swing. She unwound rapidly, the edge of the pan rattling the exposed lath and breaking away a good-sized flat sheet of plaster. The more she chipped away, the faster the rest fell free of the slats.

  Frieda stopped, pressed her face close to the wall.

  “There’s something in there.” She turned to look at Bernadette, who felt like she was watching her own soul being invaded, all her stories crumbling. Her truth had been hiding in the wall for so long.

  For almost half a century.

  “It’s okay, dear. There’s a bag back there.” She looked at Keller who appeared mesmerized by the slow reveal of the wall’s secrets. “Carry on.”

  The outline of the bag behind the lath slats became visible, as Frieda cleared the plaster.

  “Break the wood,” Keller told Frieda. The thirteen-year-old girl took a great swing at the slats in front of the dark shape and succeeded only in dropping the pan from her hands.

  Frieda wrung her hands and shook her head. “I don’t think I can.”

  Keller walked over to Frieda, gave her a great shove and said, “Move.”

  Frieda backed up to where Bernadette stood. Keller leaned back on his right foot and shot it forward, putting his body into the kick. His foot connected with the slats between the vertical studs of the wall. Wooden pieces broke loose, and he knocked them to the floor. He wound up and kicked again. This time, his kick was so hard that Bernadette heard the oven move on the other side of the wall. He hit the wall like this twice more, each time stopping to knock away the jagged ribs that blocked him from the dark shape. With every blow, the oven creaked and groaned in the kitchen. Finally, the hole was large enough for Keller to reach in and pull out the bag.

  The blue canvas duffel bag caught on the wood and snapped more slats as he forced it out of where it had lain for almost half a century.

  Had she really expected to never see it again?

  As Keller pulled it from the wall, Bernadette recalled the weight of the bag in her arms so many years ago.

  Just over twenty pounds. It hasn’t changed at all.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Henry sprinted across the grass. He was certain that Tess would follow, but as he scaled the Adirondack chairs to the window, he looked back anyhow. Sure enough, she was right below him.

  “Do you hear anything?” she asked.

  He listened for a moment at the window. “No.” He lifted the blinds. The room was bare, and through the open door, it looked to Henry as though the next room was empty as well. He climbed in and stopped to listen again. Hearing nothing, he leaned back out the window.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  Tess showed him her middle finger and scampered up the chairs like a mountain goat. Before he could protest, she already had one leg swung over the windowsill. That was that.

  “Have you been in here before?” she asked.

  It was an inverted l
ayout to Henry’s apartment but covered in dust and devoid of signs of occupancy. The bare apartment felt to Henry like a haunted version of his own, and he shivered.

  “First time.”

  “Well, we can add this to the growing list of weird things.”

  They walked in quiet, measured steps through the apartment to the front door. Torn pieces of newsprint littered the floor. Henry looked at them as they stepped past, half-expecting these to be his missing crosswords.

  “Wait,” he said. “Here’s the plan. If we assume Bernadette’s door is locked, there’s no barging in. I’m going to go upstairs. I’m going to let Keller know that I want to exchange myself for Frieda. You wait at the bottom of the stairs and help her get out, okay?”

  Tess thumped his chest with her fist. “No. She needs you. You get Frieda out. I’ll stay there with Bernadette.”

  Henry felt the stalemate in her strength. She stood with her feet planted shoulder width apart, as though she were physically preparing not to budge.

  She started to speak, but he held up his hand. Tess slapped it away. “Don’t shush me,” she said. “We can’t both go in there.”

  “Stop it! No. Be quiet. There’s a noise.” He dropped his voice to a whisper.

  They listened. A scratching sound came from across the apartment. Tess darted into the kitchen and they froze again. The scratching repeated itself, from the pantry. Henry cautiously opened the door, ready to swing a punch.

  Shima shot out of the pantry as though he were on fire. His claws scrabbled on the hardwood as he cornered and ran into the bedroom, without so much as a hello.

  “That was not what I expected,” Henry said.

  Tess tapped Henry on the shoulder. She pointed wordlessly at the spiral staircase.

  Keller turned to face the room and knelt next to the bag on the floor, setting down his knife to open it with his good hand.

  Bernadette backed up and pushed Frieda behind her, toward the bathroom. Keller’s head snapped up in their direction.