His eyes opened. “Hey.”
“I know you’re not asleep,” she said. “And you know we need to talk.”
He shifted and sat up in the bed, stuffing a pillow behind him to brace his back. “I know.”
She sat up beside him. “I’m having second thoughts here.”
“I thought you were the one who said we needed to go on. That it was worth the stretch.”
“I know. But, Sam, something’s seriously wrong here. You saw how Sally was. And William. They’re hiding something. Both of them.” She paused, not wanting to say what came next. “I’m worried they’ve shopped us.”
He shook his head. “No. Not Aunt Sally. She’d never—”
Rachel broke in. “She’s a grifter, Sam. Just like we are. If she thought it’d be in her best interest, she’d sell out…” Rachel stopped. She’d been going to say William’s name, but she knew it wasn’t true. “She’d sell out anyone but family. William’s the same way.” She took a deep breath. “She’d sell us out to the cops if she had to. Or—”
“Don’t say it.”
“I have to say it, baby. Maybe she’d shop us to the people that are chasing us.”
“No,” Sam said again. He leaned forward and buried his head in his hands, then say back up. “I can’t believe she’d do that. She was, like, not a mom, but a…a teacher you always remember. The one who helped make you the person you are.”
Rachel nodded. “I know. But think about the coincidence, baby. We show up here, and then this guy—” She was interrupted by a knock at the door. The two of them looked at each other, but it was Rachel who reached for the gun in the nightstand. She hated the look in Sam’s eyes, but she stuffed the pistol under her pillow anyway. “Come in,” she said.
Aunt Sally opened the door. Her hair was down, falling in a gray waterfall nearly to her waist, and her face looked worn and haggard. Rachel tucked her feet under her and patted the bed to indicate a place for her to sit. Her other hand never strayed far from the pillow. That wasn’t lost on the old woman. She smiled sadly. “I know you have a gun under there, sweetie.” She sighed. “To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t blame you if you shot me.”
“What’s on your mind, Sally?” Sam said, voice tight with strain.
Sally looked down, then back at Rachel. “I owe you an apology.”
Sam made as if to say something, but Sally held up a hand to cut him off. “We have a job to do tomorrow. I don’t know if we can do it. Not now.”
Rachel’s voice never wavered, nor did her hand leave the vicinity of the pillow where the gun was hidden. “Go on.”
Sally gave Rachel a wry smile. “I know you’re going to take this as just so much bullshit, but I have to say it.”
“You wish I was your daughter, or I remind you of yourself at that age, or whatever,” Rachel snapped. “Get on with it.”
Sally chuckled, then grew serious. “Okay. When that guy…that assassin…came to the house, Willie…Willie tried to bargain with him.”
Rachel’s voice was flat and deadly. Her hand moved closer to the gun beneath the pillow. “He tried to sell us out.”
Sally nodded and raised her head, her chin thrust out defiantly. “He was trying to protect me. I’m not going to ask him to apologize for that.”
“I don’t give a fuck about apologies.” Rachel reached beneath the pillow and took out the gun. She didn’t aim it at Sally, but the point was made.
Sally nodded as if the move was completely expected. “I know, hon. If you two want to walk away, I understand.” She leaned forward, her eyes intent on Rachel’s. “But we can still pull this off. Willie knows he fucked up by trusting that asshole, or the people behind him. He’s not going to do that again.” She leaned back and took a deep breath. “The sumbitch did stab him, after all.”
“So, tell me why I shouldn’t just go in there and shoot Willie right…fucking…now.” Rachel hadn’t raised her voice, but the last few words were delivered with vicious intensity.
“Rache,” Sam began, but Sally broke back in.
“Because he’s lying there awake,” she said matter-of-factly, “with a shotgun pointed at the door, and if he doesn’t hear my voice saying exactly the right things, he’s going to start blasting.” She looked at Sam, then back at Rachel. “And the worst thing about that, children, is going to be that none of us make any goddamn money. So, what say we call a truce, get this job done, and go our separate ways?”
“Why should we trust you?” Rachel demanded.
“Like I said,” Sally replied, “money.”
No one spoke for a moment. Slowly, reluctantly, Rachel took her hand off the gun. “Okay. That I can believe in.”
Aunt Sally nodded. “Good. Now get some sleep, y’all. We have a big day tomorrow.”
One of the things Fischer loved about working in the South was the ease of acquiring firearms. The guy he’d bought the Mini-14 from wasn’t inclined to ask any questions, once Fischer had flashed the wad of cash from the spare tire well. The needle tracks on the pale white boy’s arms might have provided a clue as to why, but Fischer wasn’t asking any questions either, and the lack of any background check on private gun sales meant neither party had to. Now a semi-automatic Ruger Mini-14 and three fully loaded thirty-round magazines lay under a blanket in Fischer’s back seat. Fischer preferred the Mini-14 to the AR-15s or AK-47 knockoffs some of his colleagues chose when using a long gun; it had the same rate of fire and lethality at range, but the AR or AK looked like a thug’s or a mass shooter’s weapon. They attracted unwelcome attention. The Ruger looked like your basic vanilla hunting rifle. No one wanted to ban the Mini-14.
He didn’t know if his quarry would be at the same address, but he didn’t know where else to start looking. When he cruised by the house, there were still lights on upstairs. The targets, who now included the old lady who’d shot him, must have figured he wouldn’t be back. Fischer smiled and turned right at the next block. “You don’t know who you’re fuckin’ with,” he muttered. He contemplated his next move. The big man was probably either in the hospital or dead. Either way, not a factor. He could try just blasting his way in and taking care of everyone in the house, but the thought of that old lady and that huge hog-leg revolver made him drop that plan. He’d need to set up on the house and take them as they came out. If only one came out, he’d take them down, then, with the odds more in his favor, he could rush the house. That would mean finding a way to watch the place without being noticed. He had a plan for that, one he’d seen used by another killer who’d made far more headlines than Fischer ever wanted to make. It was a plan that he’d adapted, even picking the same make and model vehicle as the D.C. Sniper.
He passed the house again and parked in an on-street space with a view out the car’s back window. After looking around to make sure there were no late-night joggers or dog walkers to observe what he was about to do, he got out, opened the back doors of the Caprice, and folded down the rear seats. He took the rifle and slid it into the trunk space, then climbed in to lie full length in the trunk with his legs sticking into the back seat. It was a little awkward pulling the blanket over his exposed legs to hide them from curious passersby, but he managed it, then turned back over and pulled the tape away from the hole he’d cut through the sheet metal over the license plate. Now he could see the sidewalk in front of the house and the steps down from the front porch. He also could shoot from cover or, if he needed a wider field of fire, pop the trunk using the interior release and come up shooting. He settled himself into place, the rifle under his hand, and waited.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The next morning, things began going wrong almost immediately.
Rachel was still in the bathroom when Aunt Sally came bursting in. Sam quickly pulled on the pants he’d been getting into and stood up. “Hey, try knocking.”
“He’s here,” Aunt Sally said. “The son of a bitch is an hour early.”
“What?”
Sam quickly pulled on his tie and began knotting it. “Why?”
“I don’t know. But you’re not supposed to be here. Not yet.”
“I know, I know.” The front doorbell rang as Sam pulled his tie tight. Rachel came out of the bathroom, dressed only in a towel. “What’s going on?”
“He’s here.” Sam sat on the bed and pulled on his shoes.
Rachel’s eyes widened. “Suddath? What the hell?”
The doorbell rang again. “Shit,” Aunt Sally said. “Sam, you can’t go out the front.” She gestured out the bedroom door. “The window from the master bathroom is right above the roof of the kitchen. You can drop down there and get into the back yard.”
“In a suit?” Sam picked his suit coat out of the closet and pulled it on.
“If you have to,” Aunt Sally snapped. “Now go.”
As she disappeared out the bedroom door, Sam and Rachel looked at one another. Then she leaned over and gave him a kiss. “It’s showtime, folks.”
It was Suddath’s preference to arrive at negotiations early. Often—not always, but often—it flustered the other side and threw them off-guard. Other times, it merely annoyed them, but that too could throw off their decision making. He heard a flurry of activity from inside and smiled. He was reaching to ring the bell a third time when Mrs. Morrison opened the door, looking more addled than usual. “Doctor Suddath,” she said, her right hand fluttering at her throat like a nervous bird. “Land sakes, you’re early.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry. Wasn’t the meeting supposed to be at nine?” It was another trick he’d learned: make the other side uncertain of their own memory. He saw it working as the old woman furrowed her brow. “Well…maybe. I’m sorry. Come on in the house. I’ll make coffee.”
“Thank you so much.” He followed her inside, smirking to himself. She led him into a front parlor and bustled off. He took a seat and pulled out his cell phone. Price would be annoyed and thrown off as well by being asked to come early, but that was part of the plan as well. He hit the number he’d programmed into the speed dial.
Sam was hanging by his fingers out of the window of the master bathroom when the phone went off in his jacket pocket.
“Shit,” he muttered and looked down. It was only a few feet to the sloped roof of the kitchen, so he let go and dropped, his knees buckling slightly. He nearly lost his balance, but managed to straighten up as he fished the phone out and looked at the screen. It was Suddath. “Hello,” he answered.
Suddath’s voice was curt and abrupt. “Change in plans. You need to get here now.”
“Now? Why?”
“Because I’m here now. Hurry up.” Suddath broke the connection.
“Asshole.” Sam picked his way carefully to the edge of the roof and looked over. It was a long drop to the ground, but there was a rusted fuel oil tank about half way along the wall. Sam lowered himself onto that flaking metal surface, praying the rotten metal wouldn’t give way beneath his feet, before jumping to the ground.
Sam looked down at his suit and grimaced. There was a huge gray smudge on his white shirt from brushing against something. He was trying to brush it off with his hands when the back door opened. Rachel’s hand and arm stuck out, holding a fresh shirt. Sam took it, whispering his thanks. He rushed through the change, but when he was finished he realized he might as well have taken his time. He couldn’t show up too quickly without causing suspicion. So he waited in the back yard, pacing, wondering what was going in inside.
The back yard was tiny, separated from the lot behind by a tall, well-trimmed hedge. The hedge and the back of the kitchen area formed a narrow, shaded corridor. Sam picked his way down that leaf-shrouded passage until he came to a shed that had been turned into a one-car garage. The door was open and Sam could see the nose and grill of a big car poking out. He took a closer look and saw that it was a harvest gold Lincoln Continental that nearly filled the entire shed. There was barely room between the driver’s side door and the wall of the shed for someone to get behind the wheel, and a passenger would have to wait until the driver pulled the car forward and out of the shed to get in. Another high hedge ran down the side of the lot, forming a narrow driveway connecting shed to street. Sam waited in that cool, hidden space, wondering how soon was too soon.
Fischer scowled as he watched the portly white man with the comb-over temples park his car and walk up to the house. He wanted to catch people going out, and now more were coming in. He took a deep breath and calmed his nerves. The key to the sniper’s job was patience. He’d see his target eventually. The wound in the back of his head was throbbing again, and his nostrils picked up a faint but definitely unpleasant odor. He put it out of his mind. Focus, he thought. Stay focused.
Angela Morrison came into the parlor just as Suddath was breaking the connection. Her hair was still slightly damp from the shower, but she looked as lovely as ever. He stood up and held out his arms to her. She glanced back over her shoulder to make sure no one was looking, then came to him. They embraced, and he thought he could feel her heart pounding against him.
“You’re early,” she whispered.
“I couldn’t wait to see you.” He gave her a hard squeeze that made her gasp and stepped back. “Price is on his way.”
She bit her lip. “I…he wanted to…to be with me last night. But I put him off.” She looked at him, eyes wide. “All I could think about was you.”
He smiled at her. “Did you get the other buyer’s information?”
“Yes. I haven’t contacted him, though.”
“Once this is done, we’ll have all the time in the world.” He sat back down.
She took a seat on the couch. “When we make the trade,” she said, “he’ll want me to go with him. To…to celebrate.” She lowered her eyes. “He’s already told me what he wants to do. With…with me. But I’ll put him off again. And then I’ll come meet you.”
His smile widened. “I have a better plan.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Before Rachel could ask what he meant, Aunt Sally came bustling in with the coffee. She’d gone all out, placing the good china cups on a silver tray. “Here,” Suddath said, “Let me take that.” Without waiting for an answer, he took the tray from her and set it on the table. “Thanks so much,” he said, picking up a cup. “Now. I’ve got an appraiser coming. Someone who can tell me if the item is the genuine article. I’m sure you understand.”
Aunt Sally frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean. Are you saying you doubt it’s real?”
Rachel broke in. “It’s standard practice, Grandma. We need to know how much it’s worth.” She looked at Suddath. “We want to be sure we get a fair price.”
“Just so.” Suddath nodded. “But until the appraiser gets here, do you mind showing the sword to me?”
Aunt Sally still looked disgruntled, but she went to a cabinet against the far wall and opened it with a key she had hanging around her neck. She pulled out a long object wrapped in red velvet. She carried it back to the coffee table, holding it out in front of her with the air of one presenting a holy relic. Rachel saw Suddath lean forward, eyes bright, as she laid it on the table and unwrapped it.
The leather of the scabbard was worn and the brass fittings pitted with age, but you could still see the gleam beneath. And there, just as predicted, was the dent where the Confederate minie ball had supposedly struck it.
“May I?” Suddath said, even as he reached. Aunt Sally just nodded. He picked up sword and scabbard and grasped the hilt. The dent in the scabbard caused the blade to stick slightly, but he gave it another tug and it came free. He drew the sword. Three feet of polished steel gleamed in the light. Rachel could see the letters “C.S.A.” stamped on the blade near the hilt.
“We kept it clean,” Aunt Sally said in a voice barely above a whisper. “All these years. First thing my mama did, first of every month, was take it out and keep it polished.”
“It’s beautiful,”
Suddath said. Rachel had to suppress a laugh. He hadn’t even looked at her that way. He was hooked for sure.
As he laid the sword on the red velvet beside the scabbard, the doorbell rang.
Fischer had been caught off guard again. His targets were supposed to be coming out of the house, not out of the bushes next to it. By the time he identified the man who’d stepped out of the bushes as one of the people he was after, the man had gone down the sidewalk a few feet and gone up the steps to the front door.
“What the fuck?” he muttered, then took aim as the door opened. As his finger tightened on the trigger, however, his shot was blocked by a black SUV that came down the street at just the wrong moment. When it had passed, the front door had opened and closed. The target had gone back inside. “Fuck. Fuck,” Fischer whispered savagely. He was about ready to say to hell with it, pop the trunk, and just go in and finish everyone off. The old lady couldn’t be carrying that gun with her all the time, and probably not with this much company around. He was reaching for the interior hood release when he noticed that the black SUV had pulled over and parked. Fischer gave it a closer look. There were two men sitting in the car, not moving. But they seemed to be watching the house as well. There was a sticker in the back window, showing a black cross with equal length arms poking out of a circle. He had to squint to make out the words that surrounded the symbol: WHITE PRIDE WORLD WIDE. A sticker on the bumper read BLOOD AND SOIL.
“Son of a bitch,” Fischer snapped. “Fuckin’ Nazis.” If he’d have known his targets were in with the fucking Nazis, he might have agreed to do the job for free. Well, he considered, maybe not free. But still. Another thought made him frown. If the targets were in with the Nazis, then why was the black guy he’d stabbed staying there? None of this was making any sense. He settled back into firing position. He needed to try and figure this out. But one thing he was sure of: given half a chance, he’d take out these Nazi fucks for free.
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