SEVEN

Fifteen minutes later, the Lexus came back from the opposite direction, cruised slow up the street, threw headlights on the front of the garage again. They were backtracking, trying to find where she and Larry had gone to ground.

She stood, legs cramping, leaned against the wall. Through the broken glass, she could see the Lexus out there, both of them sitting inside, thinking it over.

Almost night now, and no lights on the outside of the building. She was safe in here, out of sight, as long as they didn’t come in.

She watched, waiting, while they made up their minds. Then the Lexus backed out again, went to the corner and made a right at the wooded lot, headed back toward the house.

She gave it another ten minutes, in case it was a trap, the two of them parked around the corner, headlights off, waiting for her to show herself. Or coming back this way again, with bolt cutters for the gate chain.

She’d laid Larry out as gently as she could on the floor. Looking down at him, she had a sudden memory of the day they’d first met. He and Wayne playing cards at the house in Delaware, laughing and drinking, when she came in. He was an old friend, Wayne had told her, from back in the day. She’d guessed what that meant, and she hadn’t been wrong. A week later, they were prepping the Houston job. And then everything had gone to hell.

She took off her glove again, to close his eyes. No light there now. Just a husk, she told herself. The man inside is gone.

She pushed the duffel under the bay door, crawled out after it. The rain had stopped, and she could see the glow of the moon through the clouds.

Two of the drums on the side of the building were lidless, filled with trash, oil cans, and plastic bottles. She tipped one over, water and garbage spilling out. With the barrel half empty, she righted it again, wedged the duffel down into it, covered it with trash. She kicked away the garbage left on the ground.

It hurt to go back over the fence. Her joints were stiff, and her feet slipped from the wet links. There was no strength in her legs. She’d considered looking for a tool to break the lock on the front gate, go out that way. But she didn’t want to leave a sign someone had been there.

On the other side, she limped into the cover of the trees, knelt at the stone wall, and looked back toward the house. As she watched, the Lexus came fast down the driveway, hit the street, fishtailed, sped away in the opposite direction.

The smell of smoke. Flickering light in the bay window, then a gout of flame bloomed through it, began to crawl up the outer wall. Gasoline, she thought, and another of Glass’s road flares.

There was light in other windows now, too, the house full of flames, dark smoke pouring out. They would have left Charlie’s body there, maybe doused it with gas first. The fire would cover their tracks, destroy any evidence they’d left behind.

Flames rose in the backyard. They’d torched the cars as well. She heard the flat crump of a gas tank going up, then another. There would be sirens soon, police, firefighters. She couldn’t stay here.

A loud crack sounded from the house, and part of the roof gave, sparks rising up into the column of smoke. Flames began to lick out into the open air.

She sat back against the wall, trying to gather her strength. She was soaked to the bone, stiff and sore. Slowly, she got to her feet, one hand on the wall for support. Pain was deep in her hips and knees.

To the west, she could see the glow of the city reflected in the overcast. There’d be no cabs around here, no cars on the street to hotwire.

The rain had moved on. She saw flashes of lightning in the clouds above the city. How many miles away? No way to tell. And nothing for it. She walked.

*   *   *

She kept to the shadows just off the street, ready to hide if she saw headlights. She was limping, hips and back aching with every step, but the exertion warmed her, drove out some of the chill.

After a while she came to a block where the houses were lit, the yards small but neat. Urban homesteaders, gentrification on its way. A Honda Civic was parked at the curb. She looked in the driver’s window, saw a locking bar across the steering wheel, a blinking red light on the dash. She walked on.

There was a party on the next block. A two-story house with all the windows lit, music coming out, voices. The driveway was full, cars lining both sides of the street.

She watched from a stand of trees on the corner. Headlights came toward her, and she backed farther into the shadows. The car passed her, pulled to the curb a half block away. A couple in their thirties—the man white, the woman black—got out, the woman carrying a bottle of wine. The man locked the car behind them, and they went up the driveway to a side door of the house. The door opened for them, music and laughter spilling out.

She ran gloved fingers through her damp hair, knowing how she must look. The jacket was reversible, so she turned it inside out to hide the worst of the rips and stains. She brushed twigs and mud from her jeans, zipped the jacket higher. Then she crossed the street, walked up the driveway.

She went in without knocking, into a warm kitchen crowded with people. Trays of cold cuts and bread on the table, a sideboard crowded with liquor bottles, Sinatra coming from speakers somewhere.

People glanced at her, then turned back to their own conversations. They were all in their thirties, early forties, young professionals. She smiled as best she could, wound her way through them, took a wine bottle from the sideboard as she passed. The living room was just as crowded, the music louder here. A woman in a black dress and pearls looked at the bottle and said, “You must be psychic.”

Crissa handed it to her. “Bathroom?”

“Upstairs. Second door on the right.” The woman looked at her more closely. “Honey, you look like you’ve had a rough night.”

Crissa went by her and up the carpeted staircase. In the hallway, three people stood outside the closed bathroom door. At the end of the corridor a door was half open, light on inside.

She went in, and it was what she hoped. A bedroom, coats laid out on the bedspread. She eased the door shut behind her, started going through pockets. There was a set of Hyundai keys in the second coat she searched. She pocketed them, caught a glimpse of herself in a wall mirror. Her hair was matted and tangled, her face scratched in half a dozen places.

She went back into the hallway, forced a smile for the trio outside the bathroom, caught a whiff of marijuana from inside.

Back downstairs, the woman in black watching her now. Crissa nodded at her, went through the kitchen and out the side door.

On the street, she got out the keys, pressed the UNLOCK button. A half block down, a white Elantra beeped and flashed its lights.

She walked to it, got behind the wheel, started the engine. As she pulled away from the curb, she looked back at the house. No one had come out after her.

She waited a block until she popped on the headlights. Then she made a left, followed by another left, headed back the way she’d come.

*   *   *

There was a single fire truck outside the house, sending a stream of water into an upstairs window. No flames now, but gray smoke still billowing up. A Detroit Metro SUV was parked behind the fire truck, rollers on, their light reflected in the runoff water coursing down the gutter. Two uniformed officers stood beside it, looking up at the house, bored. They turned to watch her as she drove past.

She went up two blocks, then doubled back on a parallel street, headlights off, and drove back to the garage. The padlock on the front gate was intact. There was no sign anyone else had been there.

She parked on the sidewalk, left the engine running, got out. The air smelled of smoke.

There was a spare-tire kit in the trunk, a short-handled tire iron. She carried it to the gate, slipped the shaft into the rusty chain, wedged one end against a crossbar, then pulled hard with both hands. On the third pull, a link snapped, and the chain rattled loose. She threaded it through the gate, tossed it aside.

The hinges were rusty, squealing as she shouldered the gate open. The duffel was where she’d left it. She pulled it out of the drum, and for the first time noticed the hole on one side of the bag, a larger one on the other. A bullet had gone straight through.

She slung the strap over her shoulder, looked at the bay door. He’s gone, she thought. And it could have played out another way just as easily, you lying dead in there, or back in the house. But he’d gotten her out of there, just as he’d gotten Wayne out of that car in Houston.

She went back through the gate, put the duffel and tire iron in the trunk, shut it. Low thunder sounded in the west. She pulled back onto the street and drove away.

*   *   *

On the edge of the city, she found a phone booth outside a convenience store, called 911. She gave the location of the garage as best she could, said she’d seen men inside, heard gunshots. The operator was still asking questions when Crissa hung up. It had been risky to call, but she couldn’t leave him there, forgotten, alone.

At the airport, she parked the Elantra in a long-term lot, caught a shuttle bus to her hotel. She carried the duffel up to her room, left it on the bed.

The tremors were on her now. She undressed, showered in water as hot as she could stand, then sat in the tub, let the spray rain down on her. She closed her eyes, all of it running through her mind again. The punch of the AK round into her back. Gunshots in the dark. Larry bent over the duffel in the shadowed garage, still and silent. Charlie Glass, shot through the face, falling across her.

After a while, the pain in her back and hips began to fade. She was calmer now; the shaking had stopped. She turned off the water, toweled dry, wiped steam from the mirror and twisted to look at her back. There was a softball-sized bruise under her right shoulder blade, purple in the center, yellow at the edges. Not enough pain for a broken rib. She’d been lucky.

She dressed in sweatpants and T-shirt, then unzipped the duffel and spilled money out onto the bed. She pulled up a chair and began to count.

A hundred and sixty thousand in the bag. So the count they’d done at the house had been good. Eighty thousand of it was Larry’s share. It belonged to his people, if she could find them.

She went to the window, looked out at the night. Cordell and his partner were out there somewhere. Her fatigue was giving way to anger, at what they’d done, at herself for not reading the signs beforehand. For being too slow, for letting it all fall apart around her. For the deaths of two good men.

But there was nothing she could do about any of that now, nothing more to be gained here. She’d gotten away clean, with her share of the money. It would make no sense to go after them for the rest, even if she could find them. And there was little chance they’d come after her. They were amateurs who’d gotten lucky. They wouldn’t know where to start.

It was over. Time to go home.

She put the money back in the duffel, then stretched out on the bed, turned off the light, knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She still lay like that, eyes open, when pale dawn filled the window.