THIRTY

The house was easy to find. Eddie drove past, saw the mailbox, the number. A light on the garage, like she’d said. Fresh tire tracks running up the driveway. Nothing but woods around it.

The next house was a half mile down on the same side, no lights on and no cars in the driveway. He came to an intersection with a blinking yellow signal, made a right, the road taking him deeper into the woods. At another intersection, he turned again. No houses back here. He looked at the odometer, estimating the distance, slowed. He would be somewhere behind the house now. Far off through the trees, he saw the glow of the garage light.

He nosed the Mercury into a stand of fir trees, cut the lights and engine. He waited there, the window down, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. No other sounds. He got out of the car, popped the trunk.

The shotgun was cold through the gloves. He took extra shells from the bag. The Star was in his right-hand pocket, the Ruger in his left. He touched his pants pocket to make sure the razor was there, shut the trunk, locked the car with the keypad. He looked off into the trees. The garage light would make a good landmark, keep him from getting lost.

The shotgun at his side, he headed into the woods.

*   *   *

Crissa popped the cylinder of the .38, rotated it to check the rounds again.

“How many times you going to do that?” Chance said. He was standing by the kitchen window, looking out.

“Sorry. Nervous habit.” She locked the cylinder back into place. The burning in her stomach was worse.

“I was thinking,” he said. “We should have something on the floor. Is there a shower curtain upstairs?”

“No good. When we clean up afterward, I want to leave this place the way we found it. We’ll have to take our chances.”

“I saw a blanket out in the garage. If it’s heavy enough, we could use it to carry him, then leave it in the trunk with him.”

“Okay.”

He tucked the automatic into his belt, the jacket covering it.

On the porch, he looked back at her. “Hey, Red?”

“Yeah?”

“If this goes bad…”

She waited.

“Never mind,” he said.

*   *   *

Eddie made his way through the trees, keeping the light in front of him. He could see the house now, a faint glow in one window. The woods had thinned, so he went slower, watching his footing, feet already numb from the cold.

He came out of the woods behind the garage, staying away from the light. He looked in a side window, saw the car inside, a screwdriver wedged into the ignition, wires hanging from the steering column.

With his back to the wall, he looked around the corner of the garage. A man came out of the porch and into the yard, stepping carefully. He was trying to follow a trail already there. So there were at least two of them inside.

The man crossed the yard, headed toward the garage. Eddie raised the shotgun.

*   *   *

The burning in her stomach had become a stabbing pain. She could taste the lunch she’d had hours ago. When Chance left, she went upstairs to the windowless bathroom, closed the door, turned on the light.

Another spasm in her stomach, and then she was kneeling in front of the toilet, gagging. She vomited twice, mostly fluid, then dry-heaved until the spasms stopped. Her face was wet with sweat.

She drank water from the faucet, spit, drank more. Then she flushed the toilet, took a hand towel from a shelf, wiped everything down again. Get yourself together, she thought. Work the plan.

*   *   *

When the man was almost at the garage, Eddie came around the corner and aimed the shotgun at his chest. “Stop.”

The man squinted, trying to see past the garage light. Eddie came forward, his finger tightening on the trigger. The man took a step back.

“Whoah,” he said.

“Are you Chance?”

“Who are you?” His hands were in view, but he kept taking slow steps back, trying to put distance between them.

“Yeah, I guess you are,” Eddie said. “She in there?”

“Who?” Chance said.

“She bring my money?”

Chance raised his hands, still backing away. “I think maybe you got the wrong place.”

“Call her. Get her out here.”

“I’m going to turn around now, and walk back to my house.”

“Your house, huh?”

“And then I’m going to call the police.”

“Go ahead.”

Chance took two more backward steps, then turned, started toward the house. Eddie let him go, knew what was coming.

Halfway to the house, Chance turned fast, a gun in his hand. He aimed, twisting like a duelist to offer less of a target.

Eddie fired. It blew Chance off his feet, dropped him facedown in the snow, the gun flying away. Eddie worked the pump, the spent shell flying out, waited for him to move again.

*   *   *

She jumped when she heard the blast, grabbed the .38. In the back bedroom, she looked out on the yard, saw Chance on the ground, motionless. There was a man standing beside the garage with a shotgun.

She fired, blew out the center of the window, then fired again through the hole she’d made. Snow kicked up near the man’s feet. He looked up at her, raised the shotgun.

*   *   *

Eddie saw the woman at the window, the muzzle flashes, heard the pop of a round passing close by. He fired just as she backed away. Buckshot took out the rest of the glass, billowed the curtains. He pumped, fired again, shredding the window frame. Wood splinters and glass fell onto the porch roof.

Chance was moving, crawling toward the house, the snow turning red beneath him. Eddie pointed the shotgun at him, then let the barrel drop. He walked over, planted a foot on Chance’s back to hold him there, touched the muzzle to the back of his head.

Eddie looked back at the house, the second-floor window.

“Two ways this ends,” he called out. “You decide which.”

*   *   *

She sat on the floor, back to the wall, cold wind coming through the shattered window above her. She opened the .38, pulled the spent shells out, thumbed new ones in, fumbling with gloved fingers.

Glass crunched under her feet as she stood, moved away from the window. Santiago called up to her.

“You know what I came here for. That’s all I want.”

She went downstairs and into the kitchen, moved to the window. She got her first clear look at him in the garage light. A big man in a trench coat and sweater. He had a foot on Chance’s back, a pistol-grip shotgun to his head. He leaned forward, and Chance groaned.

“He’ll live. Long as no one gets stupid. You want him, come get him. But you need to toss that gun out here first.”

When she didn’t answer, he said, “He’s going to bleed out here soon, that what you want? You get him inside, you might be able to do something for him.”

She went out onto the porch, staying low in the shadows.

“You need to come out here,” he said. “But throw that piece first. This thing’s got a hair trigger. You take another potshot at me—or anyone else comes out of that house with you—and he’ll get it first, then you.”

“There’s no one else.”

“All right, then. Come on out.”

She pushed the porch door open, stood at an angle to it.

“Right there’s good,” he said. “Lose the gun.”

She tossed the .38 into the snow.

“Okay,” he said. “Come get him.”

He stepped away, watching her. She went to Chance, knelt. He was breathing shallowly, his eyes closed. She got an arm under his, tried to lift him out of the bloody snow. He gasped. She set him back down, opened his jacket. On his upper right side and shoulder, the sweater was torn and black with blood.

“Get him up.”

“Bobby,” she said into his ear. “We need to get you inside.”

He half-opened his eyes.

“Come on,” she said. “You’ll be all right.”

She switched sides, away from the wounds, got his arm around her shoulder. She stood slowly, taking his weight. He moaned, gripped her tighter, finally straightening his legs.

“There you go,” she said.

When he had his feet under him, she began to walk him toward the door.

Santiago bent and picked up her .38, pocketed it.

“In the house,” he said.

Chance was fading in and out, but still walking. Santiago followed them in.

“The kitchen,” he said. “Right there on the floor is good.”

She got him through the door just in time, his legs going loose again. She eased him to the floor. Her gloves were slick with blood, a dark smear of it down her coat.

“Turn around,” Santiago said. “Let me get a look at you.”

When she did, the butt of the shotgun came at her in a blur. It thumped into the side of her head, and suddenly she was facedown on the floor.

“Stay there,” he said.

The room seemed to spin around her, and she felt a surge of nausea. She saw him set the shotgun on the floor, go through Chance’s pockets. He took out the two pair of flexicuffs, looked over at her. “These for me?”

Chance groaned.

“You stay right there,” Santiago told him. He picked up the shotgun, came back to her. She was seeing double from her left eye. The warm muzzle touched the side of her face.

He put a knee in her back, pinned her there, patted her down. He took away her pick set and pocketknife, left the loose shells.

“Anything else on you I should know about?”

When he set the shotgun down, she bucked hard against him, trying to throw him off. He put a forearm across her throat, pulled back until she couldn’t breathe. “Don’t fight me.”

She felt her arms being pulled behind her, plastic cinching around her wrists. This is it, she thought. You lost your chance. He’s going to kill both of you.

She looked over at Chance. He lay facedown, not moving. Blood was spreading slowly across the floor.

Santiago stood, kicked her left ankle. She drew it in reflexively and he knelt on her calf, brought her feet together, bound her ankles with the other pair of cuffs. She heard the ratcheting as he drew them tight.

He moved around in front of her, squatted, showed her the shotgun. “You know who this belonged to?”

She watched him, the double vision lesser now.

“Your friend Hector. I took it off him.”

From a pants pocket, he drew out a straight razor with a bone handle.

“And this, I got off your buddy Stimmer.” He opened the blade. “I used it on Hector for a while. I can use it on you, too.”

He held the blade in front of her face. “The money.”

Time, she thought. You’ve got to buy time. She breathed deep, looked at him. He tapped the flat of the blade against her cheek. She winced, closed her eyes.

“Look at me. Or I’ll take those eyelids off.”

She opened her eyes.

“The money,” he said again. “It’s here, right?”

She nodded.

“Where?”

“In the car.”

“The one in the garage?”

“Yes. In the trunk.”

“Good girl.” He stood, folded the razor, put it away, picked up the shotgun.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

*   *   *

He walked through snow to the garage. He set the shotgun on the car roof, opened the driver’s door, got in, looked at the ignition. It was a professional job, the screwdriver as good as a key now. When he was done here, he’d take the car, drive it back to where the Mercury was parked, save himself another trip through the woods.

He looked in the glove box, felt under the seats, then pulled the trunk latch.

*   *   *

Rolling onto her back was easy. The double vision in her left eye had faded to a faint blurriness. She crabbed across the floor, got her back against the refrigerator. Chance lay silent.

The floor was wet from the snow they’d tracked in. She pushed with both feet, locked her legs, her boots scrabbling for traction. The refrigerator swayed back, something clanging inside. She pushed harder, until her back began to slide up the front of the door. In a few seconds, she was standing.

She shuffled her feet toward the stove, her fingers finding a burner knob. She pushed, twisted it all the way.

Looking back over her shoulder, she saw the right front burner start to glow. Slowly, it went from a dull red to a deeper orange. A wisp of smoke came off it, from dust and disuse.

She clenched her fists. The gloves would give some protection, but not for long. More than anything, she would have to keep her balance. If she fell, it was all over.

The heating coil was bright now, and she could feel its warmth. She stretched her arms as far back as they would go, held her breath, and pushed her wrists into the burner.

*   *   *

He opened the overnight bag, saw the money inside, dumped it out into the trunk. Banded stacks; fifties, hundreds. He pushed them around. Ten grand at most.

“Lying bitch.”

He pulled back the trunk carpet, looked in the wheel well, beneath the spare. Nothing.

He could use the razor on the woman, get her to tell him where the rest was—if there was any. But then he would have to figure out how to get it, start all this over again, only this time alone. It wasn’t worth it. Better to take what was here, cut his losses, go back in and kill them both.

*   *   *

She could smell burning plastic now, the stink of smoldering leather. Smoke drifted up behind her, the burner scorching her right hand through the glove. She shifted to get a better angle, cried out as bare skin touched the heating element. Pain rushed up her right arm, watered her eyes.

She pulled her hands away from the burner, could smell her own flesh burning. She’d seen a paring knife in the silverware drawer. If she could get through the wrist cuffs, she could use it to cut through the ones on her ankles. It wouldn’t be much of a weapon, but it would have to do. She had no other chance.

She looked behind her, trying to center the cuffs on the edge of the burner. She bit into her lip, tasted blood, and pushed down hard.

*   *   *

He put the money back in the bag, zipped it up. It would have to do.

He shut the trunk, got the shotgun from the roof. When he left the garage, he used the butt to break the light fixture on the wall. The yard went dark.

The snow around him seemed to glow in the moonlight. He walked back to the house.