15

TWO HUNDRED MILES TO THE SOUTH, OTTO SAT AT A BAR IN O’HARE International Airport. Not even ten a.m., and he was the only customer. In front of him was his second drink of the morning, an old-fashioned made with rye whiskey.

He swiveled around on his barstool. A row of windows overlooked one of the airport runways. He looked out at the planes taxiing and taking off. In the distance, he saw the downtown skyscrapers rising high into the morning sky, although the only ones he recognized were the Hancock Center and the Sears Tower, or whatever the hell it was called now. Beyond that, hidden by the city’s skyline, was the corridor of Lake Shore Drive, the chasm of Lake Michigan.

Chicago. Such a beautiful city, so much to see and do, but he hadn’t had time to enjoy it. His trip was a functional one, a trip to give him a rock-solid alibi for the night of Devon Peterson’s murder.

He doubted the police would connect him to the murder. But if they did, his ass was covered.

THE INKJET PRINTER WHINED AS IT SPIT OUT A SHEET OF PAPER. ONCE IT went silent, Gary grabbed the sheet from the paper tray and read the message typed on the front.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Foster,

I heard about your situation and it broke my heart. I’d like to donate this money, two hundred thousand dollars cash, so you can pay for the treatment and medical care you require.

This is an anonymous donation, and I would please ask that you respect my wish to keep my identity a secret.

Thank you for understanding. My prayers are with you.

Sincerely,

Your White Knight

Standing in Tyson’s bedroom, Gary slowly nodded. For the first time all day, he felt his spirits rising. He had the feeling that maybe, just maybe, everything would be all right.

The day had been rough, one of the hardest days of his life. He tried to forget about the murder, but it was impossible to move past the horror of what he’d done. Guilt and remorse had gnawed away at him like a ravenous parasite. As the day dragged on, those feelings only intensified. No matter how hard he tried, it was impossible to ignore the awful reality that the world was now less one human being because of him.

Then there was the paranoia about the police investigation—the crippling, debilitating paranoia that plagued him all day long. He’d been glued to his smartphone, obsessively checking local news sites every few minutes for any breaking news about the murder. His chest tightened every time he refreshed a page, certain that he’d see his picture with WANTED superimposed over it once the site loaded. Thus far, there was nothing new, but that did little to reassure him. The police could have plenty they hadn’t made public yet.

Everything combined to wreak an all-out assault on his sanity. It left him wondering if he’d ever be able to live with what he’d done, ever be able to look at himself in the mirror again, ever be able to go back to a normal life.

But the money, Gary hoped, would be the lifesaver he needed. Halfway across town, there was $190,000 waiting for him in a storage locker—combined with the earlier down payment, they’d have all the money they needed. And the money, after all, was the reason he’d done what he’d done. The money gave them a chance to save Beth’s life. The money would make this all worthwhile.

Gary read over the note a second time, a third time. It looked good. He knew that such a large sum of money would attract attention—not just from Beth and their close friends but from the media, maybe even from the authorities. He needed an explanation for the money, and decided that an anonymous donation was the easiest way to explain it. After getting the money, he would put it and the note in a nondescript paper bag and “discover” it resting on their doorstep when he returned home.

It was the best explanation he could come up with. Detailed enough to sound legitimate, vague enough to make it nearly impossible for someone to disprove.

Gary folded the note and slid it into the pocket of his jeans. He walked out of Tyson’s room into the hallway.

Beth was in the living room, holding her phone to her ear. She motioned Gary over.

“That would be great,” she said into the phone. “Thank you. I appreciate this so much. . . . Yes, I’m looking forward to it.”

She ended the call and smiled—a genuine smile.

“Who was it?” Gary asked.

“I think I have some good news. That was a lady from the local community center. She heard about everything that happened with me and wanted to talk about hosting a fund-raising dinner.”

“That’s great.”

“We’re meeting with her tomorrow. First thing in the morning.” The smile stayed on her face. “Finally, some good news.”

She talked a little more about the meeting and Gary listened, though he knew full well there was no need for the fund-raiser. They’d soon have all the money they needed, every last cent. He just liked seeing how enthusiastic she was. That enthusiasm had been missing during the gloom and doom of the past week.

When Beth finished talking about the fund-raiser, Gary hugged her and grabbed his keys off the living-room table.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I have to make a quick trip to the grocery store,” he said. “Pick up some milk. Be back in ten minutes, tops.”

And then, right before he left the room, because he couldn’t resist:

“I think there’s some more good news coming, Beth. I just have a feeling. A really good feeling.”

GARY ARRIVED AT MICHIGAN MINI STORAGE AT JUST AFTER FIVE P.M. HE drove down the alleyway, past the long row of blue overhead doors, and brought his car to a stop in front of locker 151. He walked over to the door and grabbed the lock dangling from the front.

He stared at it, puzzled.

The lock had been changed.

Earlier, when he’d picked up the gun and the ten-thousand-dollar down payment, the lock had been a black padlock with a combination dial. But the padlock on the door now had no combination dial. It was a plain gray Master Lock with a hole on the bottom for a key . . . a key that Gary didn’t have.

Gary stepped back and looked at the number painted on the front of the door. Number 151. He was at the right locker.

He got back in his car and made a loop around the building. Near the parking lot out front was a small office; he’d been too preoccupied to notice it last time he was there. Gary parked his car and exited. Through a window, he could see a college-age kid standing behind a desk inside.

The kid looked up when Gary opened the door. He was tall and lanky. Wispy light brown hairs covered his upper lip and cheeks. He wore a black Led Zeppelin T-shirt and distressed jeans.

“The lock on one fifty-one was changed,” Gary said. “I need to access the locker.”

“The lock was changed?”

“There was a black combination lock on the door a few days ago,” Gary said. “Today there’s a different lock.”

“What number was it?”

“One fifty-one.”

“One fifty-one, sure, yeah. You the guy I talked to on the phone?”

“The phone? No.”

“You’re not the guy who rented the locker?”

“No. Someone else rented it. They left a package inside for me and gave me the combination. I need to get the package, but the lock has been changed.”

“Huh,” the clerk said. “That’s weird.”

“What?”

“The guy who rented the locker called us and said he didn’t need it anymore. Told us to cut off the lock and throw it away. So we did. That lock that’s on there now is one of ours. We padlock every locker that’s not being rented. Keeps out homeless people, squatters.”

“When did this phone call come?”

“This morning. I changed the lock right after he called.”

“What happened to the package that was inside the locker?”

“There wasn’t one. It was empty.”

Gary felt a sense of unease in his gut, a discomfort that bubbled to life like indigestion.

“Listen— What’s your name?” he asked.

“Brian.”

“Listen, Brian. You need to be honest with me. Was there anything inside the locker when you cleared it out?”

“Nope. Nothing.”

“You have no idea how important this is. If you’re lying to me—”

“I swear, I’m not. I don’t know what you’re getting at, man, but there wasn’t a single thing in there when I opened it up.”

Gary paused. Something was wrong. Something was gravely wrong.

“I need to see inside the locker,” he said.

“You want to see the locker?”

“Please. I want to see for myself.”

Brian shrugged. “It’s not rented out now. No reason I can’t show it to you.” He grabbed a key ring with about twenty small copper keys on it.

“Follow me,” he said.

They walked down the alleyway to locker 151. The entire walk, Gary felt his stomach doing somersaults, his mind tumbling backward and forward. Deep down, he knew what had happened. He tried to deny it, but deep down, he knew.

When they reached locker 151, Brian inserted a key into the lock and pulled it off. He grabbed the door’s handle and yanked upward, sliding open the door.

The eight-foot-by-eight-foot room was dark—not pitch-black, but close to it. Just enough daylight crept inside for Gary to see the cement floor, the corrugated tin walls, the overhead lights hanging from the ceiling.

He could also see that the room was empty. His worst fear was confirmed. There was no package inside.

Gary stood on the edge of the room and stared inside for what seemed like a very long time. He looked around as if he didn’t understand the sight in front of him. . . . But he understood it perfectly, of course. He knew exactly what had happened. There was no money, none at all.

“He screwed me,” Gary said, his voice a whisper. “I can’t believe it. He screwed me out of the money.”