UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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32

Guidry forced himself to drive the limit. Steady Eddie, sticking to his lane and signaling well in advance of every turn. He forced his mind to slow down, too. Take your time. Look at the big picture. Don’t miss anything.

Ed’s house was in the middle of nowhere. Good. No nosy neighbors, no visitors dropping by for a chat or a cup of sugar. Cindy’s friends wouldn’t call the cops. Those kids had been around, they understood how the world worked. If they hadn’t bolted already, they would scatter when they sniffed the shit they were in.

So Guidry had time. Ed’s housekeeper wouldn’t report to work and find the bodies until tomorrow morning. Or maybe Ed didn’t employ a housekeeper. Maybe it was Leo who’d mopped the floors and scrubbed the toilets and fished the golden hair of youth out of the drains. And that indignity was why he’d turned on Ed and made his grab for the brass ring.

Guidry didn’t take it personally. Leo saw his chance and jumped. But Guidry needed to know if Leo had negotiated a price for him in advance. He hoped Leo had been acting on impulse when he pulled the trigger, because if not .  .  .

Had Leo talked to someone about Guidry? Did he spill the beans that Guidry was at the Hacienda? A good-faith gesture, proof that Leo had the golden goose in hand?

No. Leo wouldn’t do that. Giving up Guidry’s whereabouts would’ve made him disposable. Leo wouldn’t have cut himself out of his own deal. Guidry hoped not.

He checked the speedometer. The needle had begun to creep. Easy, now. He’d be at the Hacienda in ten minutes. He’d have Charlotte and the girls packed up in twenty. He’d have them in the car and the car back on the road and the road singing beneath the tires all before the blood on the floor of Ed’s library had stopped steaming.

They had to get out of Vegas. Not too far out of Vegas. A motel in one of the little dried-out desert towns that littered Highway 90 like molted snake skins, a safe place where they could wait out the day.

A day was all they needed. Because Ed might be dead, but Colonel Butch Tolliver, degenerate gambler, was still alive. His plane would still fly out of Nellis tomorrow evening at seven o’clock, with Guidry and Charlotte and the girls aboard.

Why wouldn’t it? Colonel Butch had been paid up front, Guidry assumed, and wasn’t waiting for Ed to give the go-ahead. Ed would have used a cutout to make the arrangements. Probably Colonel Butch didn’t even know from where in heaven his bread was falling.

Guidry glanced at the manila envelope in the seat next to him. The paperwork was clean an hour ago. With luck it would remain that way.

You’re staying here tonight. You’ll be safer.

Ed’s last words. Guidry hadn’t pondered them until now. What did they mean? Maybe that Seraphine had tracked Guidry to the Hacienda. Maybe that Guidry’s time, if he didn’t turn the car around right now, was already up.

He didn’t turn the car around. The girls would be asleep already. It was almost ten-thirty. Guidry would carry them to the car, one on each hip, the way he’d carried them that first night in Flagstaff. He could still feel the dense warmth of them, Rosemary’s soft cheek against his rough one, Joan’s breath on his neck. He could still see Charlotte, at the top of the steps, smiling down at him.

Guidry remembered the first time she smiled at him. He remembered the first time he made her laugh. The diner in Santa Maria, Pat Boone on the jukebox, not long after Guidry had launched his devious scheme. The laugh started in her eyes, and in that first spark he caught a glimpse of her from beginning to end, her past and present and future, the little girl she’d been and the old woman that one day she’d become.

This is going to work, he remembered thinking. I hope this works.

What kind of father would he be? What kind of husband? A lousy one, Guidry had to admit, let’s be honest. He knew nothing about being a father and a husband. But he planned to give it everything he had, everything. That was a price he was prepared to pay.

And who could say? Maybe twenty or thirty or forty years from now, Guidry would look back at the man he’d once been, that sharp-dressed fella sitting in the Carousel Bar at the Hotel Monteleone in New Orleans, and barely recognize him, just some old acquaintance whose name he could no longer recall.

The southern end of Las Vegas Boulevard. The runway lights of McCarran just ahead. Across the street reared the Hacienda’s neon cowboy on his bucking bronco, waving hello, good-bye, hello, good-bye. Guidry parked as far from the sign as he could get, in the darkest, most deserted corner of the lot.

You’re staying here tonight. You’ll be safer.

Guidry realized that he had it wrong. Those hadn’t been Ed’s last words. Ed’s last words had been, Leo! Wake up, for God’s sake!

The girls had left their Disney book in the backseat. True-life adventures of the creatures who lurked and maneuvered in darkness. Secrets of the Hidden World.

He stashed Ed’s gun in the glove box and went straight up to Charlotte’s room. He knocked lightly. How the hell was he going to sell her this late-night, last-minute dash?

He knocked again. To calm his nerves, he picked out a place for them to live in Saigon. A cream-colored town house with tall, arched windows and wrought-iron balconies, on a cobbled lane shaded by palms. He didn’t know if the streets were cobbled in Saigon, and his imaginary town house bore a suspicious resemblance to one on Esplanade Avenue in New Orleans. But Indochina had been a French colony, had it not? So maybe.

A garden in back where the girls could read and play and spread out a blanket for picnics, with a little bubbling fountain and the bougainvillea spilling over the stone wall like foam over the lip of a beer mug.

He tried the knob. Unlocked. Guidry didn’t turn it. As long as he didn’t open the door and step inside, as long as he didn’t switch on the light and see with his own eyes the empty beds, the naked hangers, the missing suitcases, he could continue to pretend that Charlotte and the girls were still here.

But he knew they were gone. Of course they were gone. That last kiss. Good-bye, Frank. Guidry had known right then what was happening, but he’d just refused to believe it. Of course Charlotte was saying good-bye. She was too smart to stick around, to trust a man like him a second time. It was one of the reasons he’d fallen for her in the first place.

Though maybe Rosemary hadn’t been able to sleep and the three of them had trekked down to the café for cookies and warm milk. Maybe they were on their way back to the room right this minute.  .  .  .

Oh, the power of self-deception. What superhuman strength, what feats of derring-do.

He opened the door, switched on the light. Beds empty, hangers naked, suitcases missing. Of course Charlotte and the girls were gone. Of course.

Guidry thought he’d prepared himself for the pain. No. Not even close. He’d expected a blow, a blast, a ripping, and a tearing. Hunker down, weather the storm, let it pass. Instead the pain inside him was like a dark tide, rising inch by inch, with nothing to contain it but the far edge of his life on earth.

He didn’t bother going back to his own room. He could buy a new toothbrush. If Charlotte had left him a note, he didn’t want to read it.

In the hotel lobby, a bellhop noticed Guidry.

“Mr. Wainwright,” the bellhop said. “I wondered where you were. I loaded the ladies into a cab to the bus depot, half an hour ago. They were in some rush. You better .  .  .”

And then the bellhop put two and two together. Oops. He realized that poor Mr. Wainwright had been abandoned.

“Oh, jeez, Mr. Wainwright,” he said, “I just figured .  .  .”

“Don’t worry, Johnny, I’m meeting them there.” Guidry gave the poor kid a reassuring smile. “Life couldn’t be peachier.”

Guidry walked across the parking lot. Made it all the way to his car with the smile on his face, the tide of pain rising, rising.

“Frank.”

From the shadows emerged a man, his face so white it seemed to glow. A ghost. Maybe Cindy had been right about the afterlife after all.

“You’ve got me confused with someone else, friend,” Guidry said.

The ghost stopped ten feet away and lifted a gun. Guidry felt relief, not fear. Charlotte and the girls were safe. They’d escaped Guidry in the nick of time. Only he and he alone, right now, was going to die. Any grievance that Guidry might have had against God and the universe was instantly forgiven.

“Car,” the ghost said.

Guidry didn’t understand. “What?”

“The car.”

“You want the car?” Guidry said. “Help yourself.”

“Get in. You drive.”

Now Guidry got it. Somewhere out in the desert, a hole had been dug for him, his grave awaited. Well, forgive him if he declined to make his killer’s job easier.

“Forget it,” Guidry said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The ghost moved slowly around to the passenger side. A breath, a step. A breath, a step. At first Guidry thought he was missing his right hand, but no, the hand was just slipped between the buttons of his suit coat. The ghost was hugging himself, bent over like he had a stomachache, but he kept the gun on Guidry.

“You work for Carlos?” Guidry said.

“What do you think?”

“Who killed you?”

“What?”

“You look like a ghost.”

The ghost managed to get the passenger door open. The dome light clicked on and lit him up. He looked worse than any ghost. Guidry doubted there was a drop of blood left in him.

“Are you Paul Barone?” Guidry said.

“What do you think? Get in.”

In the confines of the car, Guidry might be able to wrestle the gun away from him. Or might be able to get to Ed’s gun in the glove box. What, though, was the point?

“I told you,” Guidry said. “I’m not driving you anywhere.”

“New Orleans,” Barone said.

“What?”

“Get in. You drive.”

“You want me to drive you to New Orleans?” Guidry said.

Barone wasn’t making any sense. He tried to climb into the car but slipped and fell to one knee. When he tried to pull himself up, he slipped again and dropped the gun. He stayed down on his knee this time, head bowed, like he was praying.

Guidry came around to the other side of the car. He kicked the gun away. He saw that the bottom half of Barone’s shirt was soaked with blood, the front flaps of his suit coat soaked, too, his trousers soaked all the way to the crotch.

He really was missing a hand. That’s what Guidry thought at first—a bloody stump hooked onto the door handle. But then he realized that the stump was a hand wrapped in a bloody bandage, fingers with bloody fingernails poking out the top.

Barone didn’t look up at Guidry. His breathing sounded like a dead leaf scraping down the sidewalk when a breeze blew.

“I’m going to kill her,” Barone said.

Guidry considered again how close to the fire he’d dragged Charlotte and the girls. It was unforgivable. He was unforgivable.

“Too late,” he said. “You’re out of luck.”

“She tipped you,” Barone said.

Guidry crouched so that he could hear him better. But he kept his distance. If this was Barone, or someone like Barone, he might have a last sting left in his tail.

“What did you say?” Guidry said.

“She tipped you in Houston,” Barone said. “She tipped you here.”

“Who?”

“She knew what she was doing. Bitch. All along.”

Guidry realized that Barone had to be talking about Seraphine. The guy was off his rocker. “Seraphine never said a word to me,” Guidry said. “Not here, not in Houston.”

“I’m going to kill her,” Barone said.

“You’re not going to make it out of this parking lot,” Guidry said.

Barone seemed to know it. Head hanging lower and lower, breath barely scraping along. “Carlos will find you,” he said. “He always does.”

“Long may he search,” Guidry said.

“If he can’t find you, he’ll go after her. He knows how to hurt you now.”

Seraphine had been trying to kill Guidry for the past week and a half. He lacked much sympathy for her.

“Seraphine’s not my problem,” Guidry said. “I’ll be just fine.”

“Not her,” Barone said.

“Who then?”

Finally Barone turned his head to regard Guidry. Stick a few gallons of blood back into him and he’d look like half the guys Guidry had served with overseas. He’d look like half the guys in New Orleans. Just another one of Carlos’s boys. Guidry had probably bumped shoulders with him a dozen times.

“The woman,” Barone said. “Her kids. Carlos knows how to hurt you now.”

For a second, Guidry’s lungs wouldn’t fill. His heart wouldn’t pump. He could feel all the machinery inside him seize, the belts shredding and the gears grinding.

Charlotte. The girls.

Barone had tailed Guidry to the Hacienda. He’d seen Charlotte and the girls. Which meant that he’d probably told Carlos about Charlotte and the girls.

“Carlos can’t hurt me,” Guidry said.

“You know he doesn’t like to lose,” Barone said. Not a warning, not a threat. Just a fact so plain and obvious to both of them that it hardly needed to be said. “Help me up.”

“The woman’s nothing to me.”

“Help me up,” Barone said. “Get in the car. You drive. New Orleans.”

“Carlos will never find them,” Guidry said. “He doesn’t know her name. You don’t know her name. They’ll be fine.”

Barone didn’t answer. Dead, finally. He let go of the door handle, one bloody finger at a time, and sank to the pavement.

That night Guidry stayed in Henderson, half an hour south of Las Vegas, at a motel attached to a bowling alley. Guidry’s room shared a wall with the bowling alley. He lay in bed, listening to the whunk of the ball hitting the lane and then a couple of seconds later the sharp ceramic clatter of flying pins. Whunk! Crash! Over and over again.

That wasn’t what kept him awake till the wee hours, though, the whunk and the crash. What kept him awake was the stretch of silence in between, the anticipation, the wait for the other shoe to drop.

Whunk.

Charlotte and the girls would be fine. Carlos had no way to track them down. Sure, he’d send someone out to the Hacienda to nose around. But all the employees there assumed that Charlotte’s last name was Wainwright.

Crash!

Whunk.

The bellman knew that Charlotte had taken a cab to the bus depot. The cashier at the bus depot might remember Charlotte, too, might remember the attractive lady with the two well-behaved little girls who’d bought a ticket on the late bus to Los Angeles.

Crash!

Whunk.

But so what? Charlotte was a needle and Los Angeles was the biggest haystack on the West Coast. Though it was possible that someone might recognize Charlotte at both the bus depot in Las Vegas and the bus depot in downtown L.A., and then .  .  .

Crash!

Sleep came. Dreams came. A dream strange in that there was nothing too strange about it. Guidry was back at the Monteleone, talking to old Mackey Pagano again. The same conversation they’d already had.

I’m in a bind, Frankie. I might be in a real bind.

I’m sorry, Mack.

A new dream bled into the old one. Guidry was a kid again, fifteen years old. He knew exactly how old because he stood on the sagging porch of the shitty little house in St. Amant saying good-bye to Annette. She was eleven years old when he left home for New Orleans. Two months later, Christmas Eve, their father got drunker than usual, felt meaner than usual, and beat her to death with the fireplace poker. Normally their father used the fireplace poker on Guidry, but Guidry was no longer around—he’d hightailed it to the big city and saved himself.

Why you gotta go, Frick?

Sorry, Frack. I’ll send for you when I have a big, fancy house.

Guidry had returned to visit that moment every single day for the past twenty-two years. What would he give, to turn back the clock and live it out differently? He hoped the dream might let him, but it wasn’t that kind of dream.

So long, Frick.

So long, baby.

Guidry killed the next day—Tuesday, departure day—without too much trouble. He slept late. He went next door to the bowling alley for a hamburger and a couple of beers. Whunk. Crash! He read the morning paper. The hue and cry about the assassination continued: Find the truth! Carlos, in New Orleans, raged. At the Warren Commission, at Guidry.

At six o’clock the cab dropped Guidry at Nellis. He handed the corporal at the gate his pass. The pass looked official. Maybe it was. The corporal picked up his phone. He said a few words that Guidry couldn’t make out. He put down the phone and wrote something in his log. He wrote and he wrote. If a couple of MPs were lying in wait to arrest Guidry, now was the time for them to pop out of the cake.

The corporal finished writing and handed the pass back to Guidry. “You know where you’re going, sir?” he said.

“I’m thumbing a ride with Colonel Tolliver tonight,” Guidry said. “Know where I can find him?”

“Try the BOQ. Bachelor Officer Quarters, straight ahead, last building on the left.”

“Thanks.”

Guidry slipped the pass back into his pocket. Once he walked through that gate, once he climbed aboard the plane and it lifted off the tarmac, he’d be a free man.

Would Carlos go after Charlotte and the girls? Would he find them and kill them? Would he do worse than that? Would he make them pay for Guidry’s sins?

Guidry didn’t know. He’d never have to know. In Vietnam, thousands of miles away, he would be a free man again. He could choose to believe whatever he wanted to believe.

The corporal had better things to do than watch Guidry stand there. “Is there a problem, sir?” he said.

Guidry thought about the question. He shook his head. “No.”