Rodman went in to the reception area first, Doreen behind him, Kelson behind her. The receptionist looked unhappy to see them again.
‘We’re here for Genevieve Bower,’ Rodman said, the way a deliveryman might say he’d come to pick up a box.
The receptionist fumbled with her phone. ‘I’ll call Mr—’
‘No, you won’t,’ Rodman said, gentle, and he took the phone from her. Then he moved past her desk into the hallway.
Kelson pulled out his pistol, and he and Doreen went into the hallway after him.
Stevie Phillips was coming from a doorway at the far end. He saw the three of them and froze at the sight of Rodman. Then he yelled, ‘Cushman.’
Greg Cushman popped out of a doorway across from him, followed by a man in a gray sport coat who looked enough like him to be his brother.
When a freckled man came from a doorway halfway down the hall, Rodman backfisted him in the face, and the man stumbled back into the room and stayed.
Cushman’s lookalike reached inside his sport coat, and Rodman said, ‘No, no, no – bad idea.’ Kelson stepped around Doreen, training his pistol on the man. The man dropped his hand to his side.
Phillips ducked back into the room he’d come out of and slammed the door.
‘Silly,’ Rodman said and, as Kelson held his pistol on the other two men, went to the door and tried the knob.
It was locked.
Rodman punched a spot above the knob with the heel of his hand. The door flew open.
He stepped in, and a gun fired at him, twice – a small-caliber pop, pop.
He jumped back out, hugged the wall, and looked at his belly and legs to make sure nothing had hit. He nodded at Kelson, and they switched places – Rodman watching Cushman and his lookalike, Kelson moving for the door.
Kelson went in, his finger on the trigger, his eyes blurring with fear.
The shooter – a guy who parted his long blond hair from over his left ear – was inspecting a little pistol, as if unsure whether it had misfired or he’d had bad aim. Genevieve Bower sat in a chair at one end of a conference table. She no longer looked drunk. She looked terrified. Phillips stood behind her and, when Kelson came in, locked his arms around her head as if he might snap her neck.
‘Put it down,’ Kelson said to the blond guy.
The guy hesitated.
Kelson shot a bullet into the wall beside him. ‘Please,’ he said.
The guy laid his pistol on the floor.
Kelson aimed at Phillips. ‘Move away from her.’
‘You’re out of your goddamned mind,’ Phillips said.
‘Yep,’ Kelson said, and shot again – into the wall beside Phillips.
Phillips tightened his arms. ‘If you leave now, maybe I let her live.’
Then Rodman and Doreen stepped into the room.
Doreen stared at Phillips gripping Genevieve Bower and said, ‘That sucks.’ She walked toward him. ‘I hate guys like you. You think because you’ve got a dick you get to piss on everyone. Guess what? I’ve seen a lot of dicks, and I’m not impressed. Guys like you, you mostly piss on yourself.’ She kicked him in the leg.
He eyed her like she was crazy, and he tried to move aside. He didn’t let go of Genevieve Bower, but he didn’t break her neck.
Doreen kicked him again. Harder. In the knee.
He yelled in pain and tightened his arms.
Doreen kicked him.
He let go and went after her. ‘Goddamn crazy bitch.’
Rodman moved in and slugged him in the face.
Phillips went down.
Genevieve Bower gasped for air. Rodman and Doreen helped her up. ‘Time to go,’ Rodman said.
‘Uh-huh,’ Genevieve Bower said, rocky on her feet. Then she faltered. ‘Uh-oh.’ She bent and dry heaved. She wiped her mouth on her arm and said, ‘Delicate tummy.’ She headed for the door.
Rodman and Kelson went out before her.
At the other end of the hall, Harold and Sylvia Crane blocked the way to the reception area. The freckled man Rodman had backfisted stood between them. His hair was almost as red as Doreen’s. He wore khakis and a white golf shirt that showed his freckled biceps. Blood spotted his upper lip. He held a short, thick wooden bar of some kind, and he seemed interested in using it as a cudgel.
‘You’re kidding, right?’ Kelson said.
Harold Crane said, ‘She stays here.’
Kelson asked Genevieve Bower, ‘You want to stay here?’
She shook her head.
‘She doesn’t want to stay here,’ he said.
The freckled man turned the wooden bar in his hands.
‘Stupid,’ Rodman said, and went for him.
The man smashed the bar against Rodman’s shoulder.
Rodman seemed to absorb the pain. He grabbed the man’s shirt collar and pulled him toward him. The man tried to hit him with the bar again, but Rodman punched his jaw. The blow drove the man against the hallway wall.
Harold Crane stepped aside.
Sylvia Crane stood in front of Rodman.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to her.
‘Do you realize what you’re doing?’ she said.
‘Yeah, I’m walking out of here with my friends.’ His voice calm, gentle.
She pointed a fingernail at Genevieve Bower. ‘She’s dangerous.’
‘Nah, she’s a frightened bunny,’ he said.
‘I can’t let you leave with her,’ she said.
‘I can’t see you stopping me.’
She looked like she would lunge at him. He gazed at her with his kind, heavy-lidded eyes. She stepped out of the way.
Kelson, Doreen, Genevieve Bower, and Rodman rode the elevator to the lobby and went outside. Rodman opened the sliding door on the van, and Genevieve Bower climbed in back. ‘No reason to advertise you,’ he said, then asked Kelson, ‘my place?’
‘See you there,’ Kelson said, and he and Doreen got into the Challenger.
They drove across the parking lot and on to the frontage road, heading toward the Interstate. When they hit Route 176, Kelson collected his thoughts enough to say, ‘Huh.’
Doreen put a hand on his thigh. She moved as close to him as the center console allowed. ‘I hope this is OK,’ she said.
‘Yeah, yeah, it’s good,’ he said.