Sam rubbed his hand over his face. The idea of Rachel and Aunt Sally surrounded by cops was nerve-wracking. He didn’t text back; he’d figured she’d gotten a second to message him without the cops noticing, but he couldn’t guarantee the same would happen if she got a reply. It did, however, free him to get up and move about the house. He went downstairs.
The rug where Sally had cradled William was rolled up to one side of the entryway. Sam could see the blotches where blood had soaked through. There was more blood spattered on the walls of the small space and crusted on the sidelights and door. I got him, Aunt Sally had said, and it seemed as if she had. But he’d gotten away.
He sat down in the easy chair and stared out the window, feeling like shit. First Finch in St. Louis, and now William here. Was this going to be how it was from now on? Were they going to put anyone they worked with in danger? There were some cons that could be run by two people, but they were small and low-paying. For the bigger games, you needed a bigger team. How could he bring other people in without warning them: “Oh, by the way, the Mob is actively trying to kill us. Long story, but practice ducking.”
He sighed and looked at the clock. It was going on four in the morning. He knew he should try to get some sleep. He didn’t know how he could. But the moment he lay back down on the bed, exhaustion took him down.
He awoke to the buzzing of his phone on the antique nightstand, this time the longer and more insistent buzzing that meant someone was calling. He looked over to the other side of the bed. Rachel was lying there, sound asleep. He must have been more tired than he thought not to have heard her come in. He picked up the phone and looked at the screen.
It was the mark, calling him back.
Sam didn’t know what to do. They’d just been swarmed with cops, not to mention someone trying to kill them. How could they go forward like that? And wouldn’t they need William for the rest of it? But he couldn’t pull the plug without talking to Aunt Sally and Rachel. Not answering might be the same as pulling the plug. He decided to go forward—for now. He quickly slipped out of the bedroom door and into the hallway before answering. “Hello?”
“Mr. Price,” the voice said. “This is Doctor Suddath. You’d called earlier?”
“Yeah,” Sam dropped into the character he’d been creating the past few days in his head. Now it was time to make it real. “I hear you and I are interested in a certain piece of memorabilia.”
The voice became colder. “And how would you know that?”
“It’s my business to know things like that, Doc,” Sam said. “You can look it up. I’m online as Southern Pride Antiquities.”
“I did a little preliminary online research.” Suddath’s voice was still wary, but there was a degree or two of thawing there. “You have some impressive pieces.”
Sam mentally thanked William for seeding “Price’s” bogus reputation where Suddath could find it and think he’d done so on his own. “Thanks. But nothing as impressive as the Stonewall sword. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“If it is what they claim it is…”
Sam broke in. “I can tell you all about it. And I have a proposition for you.”
The frost was back. “What sort of…proposition?” The man pronounced the last word with distaste.
“We can talk about it at my place of business. Did you get the address off the internet, too? Here, let me give it to you.” Sam read off the street and number. “How about three o’clock today?”
“I don’t know…”
“Just hear me out. This could end up being profitable. For both of us.”
“Fine,” Suddath said. “Today at three.” He hung up the phone without saying good-bye.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rachel was sitting up, stretching as Sam came back into the bedroom. She blinked at him through eyes that clearly hadn’t been closed long enough to get the rest they needed. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Sam sat on the bed. “How are you?”
“Tired.” She moved over and put her arms around him. “Long night.”
“That’s putting it mildly. How’s William?”
“Out of surgery. He lost a lot of blood. There may be…” She paused and took a deep breath. “They’re worried about permanent brain damage.” She squeezed him tight.
He reached over, put a hand on her shoulder, and squeezed back. He lay back on the bed and she snuggled against his chest. “How’s Aunt Sally?” Sam asked.
She shook her head. “Amazing. She never broke character.” She looked up at him. “I think it’s how she’s dealing with it. By the way, if anyone asks, William’s the handyman and driver. Been in the family for years. He sleeps over sometimes—on the couch, of course—so she can get an early start on her shopping. It’s right out of Driving Miss Daisy.”
“Did she come back with you?”
Rachel shook her head. “Still at the hospital.”
“For the handyman?”
Rachel took a corner of the sheet and dabbed at her eyes. “He’s been with me fo’ yea-ahs,” she drawled. “He’s jus’ lahk family.”
Sam had to laugh at the broadness of the imitation. “A little bit over the top. But then, so is she sometimes.”
“Hell of it is, she makes it work.” She lay back down on his chest. After a moment, she raised her head back up. “Oh! Who was that on the phone?”
Well, he thought, as good a time as any to bring it up. “That was the mark. He wants to meet.”
She raised up on an elbow. “Good. You went ahead and set it up, right?”
“Yeah. Didn’t know what else to do. I mean, I’ll understand if you want to bail out…”
She shook her head vigorously. “No. Sally was clear about that. We go on.”
“Are you sure? Is she? I mean, the cops…”
“The cops will look around, check the hospitals to see if anyone’s been treated for unexplained gunshot wounds, maybe ask the neighbors a few questions. Then, if they don’t have anything in forty-eight hours, something else will get their attention and they’ll move on. That’s what she said. And you know what? She’s right.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. It’s risky.”
She propped her head on her hand. “Sam, this job is always risky. But it’s worth the stretch.”
“Yeah, but tonight…I realized again just how bad it’s gotten.”
She sat up. “So, what are we going to do? Quit? I’m going to get my real estate license and you’re going to get a job selling Volvos? That’s going to stop these people?”
“If we can make enough to go somewhere they won’t think to look…” Sam said, then shrugged. “We could make a life.”
She shook her head. “That’s someone else’s life. Not ours.” She reached out and took both of his hands, looking into his eyes. “Baby, we know how this is going to end. It’s going to end badly. We fucked up. We made an enemy we couldn’t afford to make. Not if we expect to live. But we did it. What’s done is done. We’re dead people walking. I’ve accepted that. The best we can hope for is that we go together, or at least that I go first so I don’t have to live any part of my life missing you.” Her laugh was almost a sob. “I know that makes me a selfish bitch. But I’ve accepted that, too. In the meantime, I’m going to go on living. I’m going to go on doing what I do. And I want to keep doing it with you, for as long as we can.”
He felt his throat closing. “I love you so much, Rache,” he choked out before she silenced him with a kiss. They held the kiss for a long sweet minute before they were startled by sounds from downstairs.
“Is that…” Rachel said.
He nodded. “Pots and pans.”
“Amazing.” She slid out of bed and grabbed a robe. “You think she’s really cooking breakfast? After all this?”
“If she is,” Sam said, “it would be disrespectful not to eat it.”
Breakfast was indeed in the process of being made when they g
ot downstairs. The smell of brewing coffee filled the kitchen, and Aunt Sally was already laying strips of bacon into an iron skillet on the gas stove. “Hope you kids are hungry,” she said in a bright, cheerful voice with just the slightest hoarseness to betray her exhaustion.
“Sally,” Rachel said, “sit down. You must be dead on your feet.”
Aunt Sally turned to them, still smiling her grandmotherly smile. “I’m fine, shug.”
“Really, Sal.” Sam got up and pulled one of the chairs out from the Formica-topped kitchen table. “Take a load off.”
The old lady seemed as if she was about to make an issue of it, but fatigue finally won the day. She stumbled a bit as she reached the table, then nearly fell into the chair with an involuntary sigh of relief.
Rachel moved to the stove to keep an eye on the bacon. She noticed the carton of eggs on the counter. “Hope everyone likes their eggs scrambled. Only way I know how to make them.”
“Sounds great.” Sam reached out and took Aunt Sally’s hand. “How’s William?”
Sally closed her eyes. She rocked back and forth slightly, and Rachel thought she might actually collapse and go face down onto the table top. But she opened her eyes and took a deep breath. “He’s out of surgery. Resting. Not on a breathing tube or anything. So that’s good. But no one knows where we go from here.”
Rachel crossed the room and put her hands on the old woman’s shoulders. “He’ll pull through. He’s strong.”
Sally patted her hand absently. “He is. He is.” She turned in her chair. “Check that bacon, will you, hon?”
Rachel smiled. “On it.”
“So,” Sam said, “the mark called. I set up the meeting. Like we planned. But I didn’t know if this changes anything. I didn’t know if we were going ahead.”
Aunt Sally had been staring blankly into space. Sam’s words didn’t sink in right away. “Hmmm?” she said, then came back awake. “Of course we’re going ahead.” She frowned in vague irritation. “Why wouldn’t we?” Her eyes came back into focus and she grimaced. “It ain’t like we have health insurance. We need cash, William and me. Fast.”
Sam took a deep breath. “Sally, I know I said it before. I can’t say it enough. I’m sorry for all the trouble we brought on you.”
“Oh, hush,” the old woman said. “Trouble’s going to find people like us. Sooner or later.” She sighed. “I am going to miss this house, though.”
“How do you mean?” Rachel was picking the strips of bacon out of the frying pan and placing them on a paper towel she’d laid on the counter. “Are you going to have to sell it?”
Sally gave her a tired smile. “Can’t sell what you don’t own, hon.” She looked around the kitchen. “This here place belonged to an old couple who got killed in a car wreck, four or five years ago. Only living relative is a grandson, workin’ some job for a bank in Singapore. Never gets back to the States.”
“So, you’re squatting,” Rachel said, not without a touch of admiration.
Sally nodded. “You know it as well as I do, hon. People like us…we don’t own real estate. I figured out a place a while ago where we can move to. Just didn’t think we’d need it this soon.” Her mouth cracked open in an enormous yawn. When it was done, she stood up. “Now if y’all will excuse me, I’m gonna go lay down for a spell.” She tottered off toward the door.
“But…” Sam called after her.
“You’d started breakfast…” Rachel chimed in.
The old woman didn’t seem to hear them. She plowed on, implacable, out the door. They heard her feet on the stairs, slowly mounting up the staircase to the bedroom.
Sam and Rachel looked at each other. They started to laugh.
“We better get to work,” Sam said. “We have a lot of bacon to get through.”
Rachel nodded, still laughing. “You can do the eggs, though.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Fischer had forgotten how badly scalp wounds bled. He’d gone through the whole canister of wipes. They littered the floor of the car, and he knew if he got stopped by the police, he was going to have a hell of a time explaining them. And still, he felt the slow trickling wetness on the back of his neck. He reached up and ran the tips of his fingers gingerly across the wound, sucking in his breath as the touch made the pain flare white hot. His fingertips came away sticky.
“Fuck,” he said under his breath. He couldn’t go back to the hotel like this. He couldn’t get bandages without attracting attention. He needed some place to lay up till the bleeding stopped. Then maybe he could figure a way to make himself look unremarkable.
His aimless driving had taken him out onto Highway 64. This early in the morning, it wasn’t yet jammed with commuter traffic. A light rain had begun to fall. A brown sign by the side of the road caught his eye. JORDAN LAKE.
Fischer smiled. A state park. Perfect. Parking, trash cans to dispose of these bloody towelettes, maybe a secluded bathroom to clean up in. This early, on a rainy weekday morning, there wouldn’t be the usual family groups or tourists, only the occasional lone jogger or meditator seeking solitude. That might prove handy if he needed a quick change of clothes or vehicle; no one would start searching for someone like that for hours. Fischer intended to be done with his job and out of here within hours.
He took the exit and followed the signs through the gates of the state park. The gate was unattended. It struck him how quiet and serene the place seemed, so close to the urban center. He found a parking lot with a single car and parked at the other end, close to a large brown trash can. After looking around to make sure no one was watching, he got out. Standing up brought on a wave of dizziness and nausea so severe he had to lean against the car and wait for it to pass. Thankfully, it did. He quickly scooped up all the bloody towelettes, stuffing them into the receptacle. He returned to the car and inspected the seat. What he saw made him grimace. Blood was smeared on the headrest, the top—basically the whole seat. This car was a rolling trove of evidence against him. He’d bought it in Baltimore from a mom-and-pop used car lot under a fake name and made some modifications that he always liked to make to his vehicles. Now he’d need to get rid of it, destroy it, purge it of all trace that might be used to identify him or link him to any other acts he may have committed. Fortunately, this part of the country was well supplied with rivers, lakes, even farm ponds where a vehicle could be disappeared without a trace, at least long enough for him to be far away by the time they were discovered, if they ever were. For the time being, though, he thought he might be able to get the car, and himself, clean enough to pass a casual inspection. He’d spotted a cinderblock restroom building down a gravel walk. The lake was a couple of hundred yards away, across a sandy beach. The water was silver in the wan light of the overcast morning, stippled with the drops of light rain that continued to fall.
Inside, he found a paper towel dispenser. He pulled a handful of the rough brown towels from the metal box, then walked over to the sinks and soaked them in the feeble flow of the tap water. Gritting his teeth again, he dabbed the back of his head to try and wash the blood away. The pain this time was worse than before, nearly knocking him to his knees. When his eyes could focus again and he looked at the towel, he frowned. There was some sort of white matter on the towel he couldn’t identify. He began to wonder if he’d been hit worse than he’d thought.
Fischer braced himself on the porcelain sink and took a deep breath. He wished for another mirror so he could see exactly how bad the wound on the back of his head was. If wishes were fishes, he thought, beggars would ride…no, that’s not…he felt a numbness spreading up from his feet. He looked around desperately, the animal part of his brain scanning for a place to hide. The best he could see was a toilet stall across the room. It looked as if it lay a thousand feet away. He staggered toward the open door, barely making it inside and locking the door before he collapsed onto the stool and passed out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sam go
t to the shop shortly after noon, using the key Aunt Sally had gotten up and given to him before heading back to the hospital. Southern Pride Antiquities was located in one of the few 1930’s era downtown buildings that hadn’t been bulldozed for high rises or taken over by trendy restaurants. Sam was glad he’d thought to get there early; the long glass-topped display cases were covered with a thin layer of dust. The mysterious proprietor who William had blackmailed into letting them “borrow” his business and websites had apparently been gone for a while. Sam got busy cleaning the place up. He found a vacuum cleaner in a closet next to the tiny office in the back and ran it over the threadbare carpet. He didn’t mind the work; it helped him get into character. By the time he was done, he was completely into the head of Winston Price, dealer in Confederate memorabilia, a slightly seedy, desperate man without too many scruples. When Suddath appeared at the door, Sam greeted him with a slightly clammy handshake and an ingratiating smile. “Doctor, thanks for coming.”
Suddath looked around the store. “Impressive collection.”
“Thanks, thanks.” Sam re-locked the door. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No. Thank you. I’d like to get to business, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a full schedule.”
“Of course. Come on back to the office.” Sam led the mark back to the office. It was sparsely furnished, with only a cheap wooden desk, an office chair with nylon stuffing leaking from one side, and a single wooden client chair. A poster of a Confederate battle flag and the words “HERITAGE NOT HATE” completed the decor. Suddath took the client chair with an air of impatience. “So. What exactly is your interest in the sword?”
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