Good People

JACK TOOK A HANDFUL of the douchebag’s hair and dragged him up the steps of his building. At the moment the street was clear, but it was just after five, an hour when people walked their dogs and fired up their grills. No point hanging around.

He opened the door to the entryway, then yanked the guy in and flung him at the wall. He didn’t have time to get his arms up, and hit hard. Staggered back, dazed, that sheep look, like if he blinked enough the badness would go away.

Jack slapped him openhanded, whack, right across the cheek. Same thing he’d done to the Star, and with the same reaction. Fear and helplessness crept into Tom Reed’s eyes. Fear and helplessness were good. They were loud emotions, static that interfered with thinking. The stupidest thing this guy could do was to open the door and let himself be taken into a private space, away from prying eyes. What he ought to do was run for the street, yelling his lungs out. But fear and helplessness kept him from thinking properly. “Open the door.”

Jack followed, waited until they were in the living room and the door was closed behind them. Then he drove the butt of the pistol into the guy’s right kidney.

Tom Reed collapsed like every muscle had failed at once. He hit the floor fetal, clutching at his side and his belly and wheezing a thin animal sound. His legs spasmed like a frog’s. Jack turned to snap the dead bolt shut. He stood for a moment, watching the man writhe, and then he said, “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”

HE COULDN’T MOVE, couldn’t think. A dark sun burned in his back, spitting lances of flame, gobs of lava that burned and sizzled. Tom fought to breathe, just to breathe, the world wobbly and wet before his eyes. He could see the pattern of the hardwood floor, smell the earthy dirt of a thousand footprints. From somewhere came a crisp metallic snap. The lock being twisted. It was the scariest sound he had ever heard.

Tom grunted, gasped. The voice was above him. The man from the Sedgwick platform. Big, not fat. With a gun. A guy who knew his name. He tried to force his thoughts into order.

The man said, “We haven’t met, but I feel like I know you, Tom. Amazing, the things you can learn about somebody by going through their mail.” Paper fluttered down. White paper, with something printed on it. “You know what that is? It’s a Visa receipt. The kind they send when you make a remote deposit. It says you paid down fifteen grand in debt last week. Fifteen thousand, four hundred twelve dollars and fifty-seven cents, to be exact.”

Their mail. He’d noticed it was empty the day prior, and Anna had mentioned something about it as well. They’d assumed it was a new carrier, just a typical post office glitch. Now he understood. This man had been stalking them for days.

“What kind of a person can pay fifteen thousand, four hundred twelve dollars and fifty-seven cents at once?” A boot nudged him. Tom pulled away from it. The motion made the world spin, but at least the level of pain seemed to have stabilized. He found he could draw air. He gulped it, trying to clear his head.

“I’ll tell you, it would take a real asshole. We’re talking grade-A stupid here, the kind of person who had everything handed to them their whole life and thought they deserved it. The kind who could find four hundred grand and think he gets to keep it.”

Tom put a hand on floor, tested it. The shift spilled boiling oil down his spine. Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees, half-expecting to get beat back down. But he couldn’t just lie there.

“You think that’s the way the world works?” The voice nearer, coffee breath in Tom’s face. He blinked until he could focus, see the man bending down, the gun still in his hand. It was a big chrome thing, heavy. “You think four hundred grand lands in your lap and you get to keep it? Do you?”

Tom coughed, straightened his back. Tried to imagine lunging into the man, throwing him against the door, wrestling the gun from his hand. Tried, but couldn’t make himself believe it.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you bedtime stories, for Christ’s sake? You find a chest of gold, you better know there’s a monster guarding it. That’s the way the world works. You want something, you have to take it from someone like me.” He swung the gun up fast, leveled the barrel so that Tom could stare down into the darkness. It looked enormous. His body throbbed and his head ached. The man said, “Do you think you can do that?”

Tom forced his gaze upward, away from the gun. The guy looked Polish, had that wide pork chop face and dark hair. The thought led to another, and he scrambled for it. A name. Jack Witkowski. The man in the suit had asked if Tom knew a Jack Witkowski.

The man smiled. “Good.” He holstered the pistol, then held out his right hand. Tom took it, clambered to his feet. Nausea swept through him, making his whole body tremble, but he forced himself to stand straight.

An hour ago, he’d have answered differently. He’d have hedged or tried to lie. Pretended ignorance. Now, though, he was suddenlyand profoundly aware of two simple facts. First, he was in shit deeper than he’d ever imagined. Second, Anna would be home soon. “It’s in the basement.”

Tom pictured it, concrete ceilings and walls, a solitary window at the far end, the dingy light of a single overhead bulb carving a slow attenuation to shadow. He imagined a body facedown on that dirty floor, a camera panning out on a slow tide of blood flowing from what was left of his head. An image borrowed from a Scorsese film, only it would be his body, his blood. Then he thought, again, of Anna. “This way.”

It took enormous effort, but Tom forced himself to turn his back on the man and the gun. His wounded kidney sang with pain. He took one step and then another, eyes darting. The pattern of the wood grain, the smell of his own sweat, the dings and cuts in the molding, every little thing seemed to hold enormous portent, and yet there were so many of them, the world so very present that he couldn’t possibly sort through it.

The back stairs smelled faintly of trash. He started down, the wood squeaking and groaning with every step. There were cobwebs in the corners, and scraps from where a garbage bag had split a year ago. His mind like it was watching from a distance. He watched himself fumble to turn on the light, dusty yellow like faded lace. Saw himself walk to the back, past the washer and dryer, past the furnace, to the plywood hatch that covered the crawl space. He turned to look back at the man following him.

Looking at Jack snatched away that comfortable distance. Put him back in his body. Tom stared at the broad shoulders and ready posture, the pistol out and steady. Jack looked like a man at ease, a man who did this for a living. Tom said, “My wife and I, we’re trying to have a—”

He took a breath. Maybe once he gave up the money, this would all be over. Jack Witkowski would take what was his and leave them alone. They could go back to their old life, to bills and work hassles and making dinner and watching reruns, all the silly moments that took up a day, took up a life. Every precious thing they had thought they wanted to get clear of.

Tom stepped forward, gripped the edges of the plywood panel, lifted it up and off, then set it against the wall. A musty smell rose from the darkness. He squatted and reached in. His hand fumbled for the strap of the bag. Nothing. He started patting around in the crawl space, hand clanging against the metal of pipes, triggering spills of dust. He leaned in to the shoulder, felt in both directions, thinking maybe they had just tucked it farther than he remembered. Nothing.

Tom ducked down to peer into the dim space. As his eyes adjusted, he saw chalky piles of dust, abandoned spiderwebs, the faint, slick darkness of the pipes. But no duffel bag. It simply wasn’t there. He stared, trying to understand.

Everything stood still. Tom crouched on the ground with his head in the crawl space like a child hiding. Some part of him praying that by not seeing the threat behind him, he would make it somehow go away.

JACK WATCHED the man stiffen. Idiot civilian. Most guys, a solid kidney blow taught every needed lesson. But not this stupid son of a bitch. He still felt entitled.

“No, wait, please!” Tom Reed spun on his knees, hands in front of his face. He looked desperate, had that animal panic, all darting eyes. “It was here. I swear, it was here.”

“We got robbed,” Tom blurted. “Earlier this week. They didn’t find the money then, but they must have come back. They must have realized they’d forgotten the basement. We didn’t notice because they didn’t go into either of the units, but they must have come here and—”

“Tom.” Jack spoke slowly. “Who do you think broke into your house?” He shook his head. “You want to do it the hard way, we’ll do it the hard way. Now lay the fuck down.”

For a long moment, the man just stared at him, the blood draining out of his face, a thousand horrors flowing in to replace it. Nothing was scarier than the monster you conjured in your own head. He started to argue, but Jack moved the pistol from his face to his stomach. “Now.”

Slowly Tom Reed lay down on the dirty floor. He unfolded his knees from beneath him, then eased himself back onto his elbows. Held the position for a second, then rocked onto his back. He extended his arm. His eyes were on the ceiling, but seemed like they saw through it.

Jack eased the hammer down on the 1911, but kept it on Tom Reed’s stomach. He put the ball of his size-twelves on the guy’s arm, just past the elbow. Leaned in hard. The guy’s lips were moving without sound, something rhythmic and steady, a prayer, maybe, or a promise. The old tightness came back, exhilaration and fear and a surge of power, of living on the thin edge of life, where the world was made minute by minute. He let the moment stretch, let the man’s fear thicken and curdle.

DON’T BE AFRAID, don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, oh God, what’s he doing, why is he, his leg, why is he, oh God, is he, he can’t, oh God, don’t be afraid, don’tbeafraid, dontbeafraid,dontbea—

The man slammed his foot down, and Tom’s world exploded. “We put it in the crawl space, we put it in the crawl space, I swear to Christ, we put it right there!” Screaming the words to fight the agony.

The second time he noticed the sound, just as bad as the pain, a meaty horror with a slick-sick backslide as his knuckles ground concrete. A crack, like breaking a twig, and his little finger was twisted all the way over. He looked at it and felt something heave in him, fought not to vomit, the pain, the pain, the burning shrieking jagged-glass ragged-edged pain.

The third stomp caught the edge of his wedding ring, the stainless steel band they’d picked out at a jeweler’s off Michigan Avenue, caught it and deflected most of the force, but it was enough, enough, more than enough. Tom stared and fought against the black spots in his vision, thinking of his ring, his ring, his wife, his sweet ring and wife, Jesus, Anna, she would be home soon.

“I swear to fucking Christ,” screaming, bellowing, eyes bugging, “we found the money in his kitchen, in the flour and the sugar and we put it in a duffel bag and took it down here, just my wife and me, and we haven’t fucking moved it, I swear, I fucking swear. I don’t know where it is, no matter how much you hurt me, I fucking do not know, because we put it in the crawl space.”

The man raised his foot again. Narrowed his eyes and paused. He was looking down, and Tom put it all in his eyes how he’d never been more sincere in his life, never. To make Jack believe. To keep that foot from coming down again. Heartbeats lasted decades; just the cool of the concrete, and the smell of blood and dust and bleach, and the inferno that was his hand.

Then Jack lowered his foot. Slowly. He took his other off Tom’s arm, and dropped to a squat. Held the gun loose and casual, and Tom considered going for it, but the mere thought of moving his fingers made him almost vomit. Jack stared, hard features hollowed by the overhead light, eyes more suggestions than anatomy. Finally he said, “Huh,” and stood up, stepped back. He ran a hand through his hair.

Free to move, Tom rolled over on his side, cradled his left hand in his right, holding it gently, like a limb that had fallen asleep, only instead of pins and needles, it was spikes and sawblades. His fingers were bloody and torn, savaged by the concrete. The little one was clearly broken. There was a wicked gash in the index finger. They were red and swollen as sausages.

Slowly, trying to use only his stomach muscles, Tom sat up. He was dizzy, and his head ached hollowly. “I swear,” he said. “I swear, we put the money down here. I don’t have any idea where it is.”

Jack nodded slowly. “You know what? I believe you. You don’t know where it is.” He squatted down beside Tom. “But you know what else? I bet Anna does.”

His hand hurt furiously, in steady pulses tied to his heart. His head too. As he grasped at the straws of consciousness, his first thought was that he hadn’t had a hangover this bad in a long time. Had he fallen asleep on the—

It all came back. Tom’s eyes snapped open. He sat up sharply, but a slap of pain thrust him back. Slow. Take it slow. He was in a chair. A La-Z-Boy. Will’s apartment, their downstairs unit. He was sitting with his hand propped up on the arm. Alone. Where was Jack?

The fantasy played itself out in a fraction of a breath, a flickering horror show: Anna’s arm extended, her mouth wide, head thrown back, Jack raising that foot. Another: Jack throwing her to the ground, unbuckling his pants, his wife screaming for help, while Tom lay unconscious in the chair . . .

He sat up again. The pain came in a white wave, and he made himself ride it, eyes closed, teeth clenched. The pain didn’t matter. If she was here, he had to help her, had to get to her. Even if she wasn’t, she would be soon.

A sound came from down the hall. The refrigerator door opening. Jack was in the kitchen. He must have felt safe with Tom unconscious, left him here. Just lucky timing. Tom stood, holding his left arm in his right. The world wobbled, then slowly steadied. Now what?

He might be able to make it out the front door, but what if Anna came home before he could get the cops here? He could try her cell phone, but what if she was on the El, or the battery was dead?

No. He couldn’t leave until he knew they were both safe. So what then? The phone was no good; the extension was in the kitchen. His cell was in his bag, but he didn’t see it. The room was spare, just the chair, an entertainment center, a TV, a lamp. His eyes roamed the fireplace, the shelves, the hallway. His toolbox. He’d left it in the hallway after looking for the drugs.

He didn’t let himself think. Just ordered his feet to move. One step. Two. Heart racing, Tom bent down by the orange plastic toolbox. The latches were unfastened. Thank God he’d been in a hurry the other day. He reached for it, automatically using his closer hand, his left. The broken pinkie grazed the lid. Stars burst behind his eyes. He wanted to gasp, to howl, to scream curses and kick the wall. He held his breath and didn’t make a sound.

Don’t stop, you don’t have time, go, go, be strong. Teeth grinding, he forced his right hand into motion. Opened the lid gently. Inside the top tray lay a collection of small tools: needle-nose pliers and a current detector and a miniature flashlight and a handful of misfit screws. And a four-inch Buck knife. Tom picked it up with two fingers. He’d originally had the hammer in mind, but this was better, faster and concealable. Carefully, he lowered the lid of the toolbox.

He heard a noise from down the hall and jerked upright. It took a minute to process the familiar pop and hiss. Jack had gone to grab a beer, like this was no big deal. The rush of anger that brought was amazing, hundred-proof hate at the sheer arrogance. The guy had clearly written Tom off as nothing.

Lips twisted, Tom took the few steps back to the chair. He opened the knife and slid it gingerly into his front right pocket. Then he sat, closed his eyes, and waited. He might be down, but he wasn’t nothing.

JACK TOOK A LONG SWALLOW of Old Style. The cold beer slid easy down his throat. He glanced at his watch, saw it was nearly six. The woman would be home soon. Almost done.

He walked down the hall. Tom Reed was still in the chair. His position was a little different, though, and his breathing didn’t have the regularity that came with unconsciousness. His left hand burned red, angry flesh and drying blood. “You awake?”

The guy didn’t answer, but his eyelids twitched. “Yeah, you’re awake.” Jack stepped past him, to the front window. Glanced out at the quiet block. A pretty little street. Vintage graystones and two-flats, a couple of bungalows stuck in between. Plenty of trees, but still in the middle of things, restaurants and bars an easy stroll. The people walking dogs smiled at each other, stopped to chat. “Lemme ask you, what does a place like this run?”

“Half a million dollars.” He whistled, traced the woodwork of the molding with the palm of his hand. “You know the house I grew up in, my dad bought for something like thirty grand? A little place off Archer, with a postage-stamp yard and a crooked roof. My brother and I shared a bedroom until . . . shit, until I moved out.” He sipped his beer. “It was a big deal, though, him being able to buy at all. Most of the Polacks we knew were renting.”

“Better hope you’re wrong.” Jack rolled his shoulders to loosen them. Long jobs were the hardest. Too much time for foul-ups. A neighbor looking through the window, a civilian growing a spine, you never knew. Forty-three years old now, and more work than he could remember. Time to quit. Once he and Marshall split the money, he was heading for Arizona. See if Eli was still interested in a partner for his bar. Jack unclipped his mobile phone from his belt, flipped it open. The reception was fine. “I know, I know, it’s a bitch. Hard to believe something like that. But it’s funny how money changes people. Even people you trust.”

Jack finished the beer in a long swallow. “You’ve got a building in a neighborhood that runs half a mill.” He set the can on the ground, then stomped it flat. Saw Tom Reed wince at that. He chuckled, then bent to pick up the can and slip it in his pocket. “You’ve got a job that pays solid bank, and a good-looking wife.”

“I’m just wondering, why would you take the money?” He paused, locked eyes with the guy. “I really want to know. I mean, what is it you want”—he gestured in a circle—“you don’t already got?”

“Okay, sure, it’s tempting. Money is always tempting. But you had to know life didn’t work that way, right? In your heart? I mean, it was a bag full of money.”

“That’s the problem with you people.” Jack cracked his thumbs. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t have taken it. I would. Did, as a matter of fact. But I didn’t tell myself it wasn’t hurting anybody. I wanted it, so I took it. You get my meaning?”

ANNA FLIPPED ON HER BLINKER, waited for a white construction van to pass, then put the Pontiac in reverse, turned the wheel hard, and backed into the narrow space. Before she moved to the city, parallel parking had seemed like an arcane art. Now she could do it in her sleep.

The sidewalk was dappled with spring sunlight, little patches of flowers beginning to bloom beside the road. A red BMW was offset by an explosion of white tulips, and a flowering bush half obscured a black Honda, the engine running, a man inside fiddling with a cell phone. She strolled easy, thinking about Tom’s voice as he’d suggested they go to a hotel. He hadn’t seemed worried—just the opposite, in fact. Like he’d solved a problem that had been bugging him, and wanted to celebrate. Odd.

Still, a hotel sounded nice. They used to do that every now and then, check into a place downtown just for the change. A vacation in their hometown, complete with big fluffy robes and a swimming pool. It had been years. Should be fun.

She climbed the steps and dug for her keys. Checked the mailbox out of habit—nothing, again, which was getting ridiculous—and figured she’d pack her green bikini with the blue flowers, order room service and a movie.

The door to the bottom apartment yanked open, and a burly blur came through it, a man, she could see that much as she threw her hands up in panic, and then he grabbed her, fingers steel on her arm, and yanked her inside, her feet tangling, struggling just to stay vertical as he half pulled, half tossed her through the open door. She took three or four steps to catch her balance, and was opening her mouth to shriek when she saw Tom starting to force himself up from the overstuffed chair, his hand held at an awkward angle. What was he doing here? What was going on?

There was blood on Tom’s left hand, and the way he held it was odd, a swollen mess, the pinkie off-kilter. Her nerves felt like she’d bitten metal. She gasped, one hand covering her mouth, and started forward. Then she saw the look on his face, and stopped.

Sometimes it felt like they had known each other for a hundred years. She knew his every gesture, every expression. She could render them in her mind: the easy smile, tilted a little to one side, that drew crinkles around his eyes. The half-lidded head loll, lips barely parted, as they made love in the night. His precise squint when reading, meant not to bring the words into focus but to put the rest of the world out.

She had never seen the look that was on his face now. She recognized fear around the wide eyes. Pain marked in the press of his lips. And concern, concern for her, in the cock of his head and the readiness of his body. But there was something else too. A guardedness like a metal gate drawn across a store window. And through the slats of that, a sharp and sparkling accusation.

She turned, her lips curling in a snarl at this creature, this monster who had hurt her husband, who had smashed his hand and drawn a screen across his eyes. She found herself staring directly into the barrel of a big gun. The hole shallowed the depth of field until everything behind that black circle was just blurry shapes, and one of those blurry shapes said, “Anna, where did you take my money?”

At first, when Jack had yanked open the door and snatched Anna, snapped her into the room like he was cracking a whip, Tom had reacted on instinct, struggling to get out of the chair. Ready, as always, to catch her should she fall. But then their eyes had met, and he saw what was in hers. She had taken the money.

She had taken the money and she hadn’t told him. As a result, he’d been held at gunpoint on the dirty basement floor. He’d had his fingers smashed and broken. Had a gun held to his belly by a man clearly willing to pull the trigger. And worse than the consequences was the action. His wife had betrayed him.

Jack’s left hand lashed out in a wicked slap. From his chair, Tom saw her head jerk sideways, saw the force ripple through her body, and he leapt to his feet without thinking, instinct mingling with pure hate. But Jack was a move ahead of him, the gun swinging over to point at his chest. Tom thought about going for it. Wanted to. But there was no way he could cover the distance.

Jack nodded, kept the gun where it was, but looked at Anna. “Let’s try this again, honey. This time, if I don’t like your answer, I’m going to shoot your husband. Now, where—”

Tom’s mind was racing. Once they gave him the money, there was no reason Jack wouldn’t kill them. They’d seen his face, heard him talk. And for a man who was used to pulling the trigger, what were two more bodies? He would have to move first. Soon. The weight of the knife in his pocket was a comfort. His fingers screamed to reach for it, but he made himself stand still.

“Let’s go.” Jack gestured. Tom moved to the entryway of their building. Through the glass doors of the vestibule he could see their porch, and beyond it, the street. A woman walked by with a dog, a blue plastic bag dangling heavy from one hand. Normal life, ten feet away. It made him want to scream.

Anna opened the door and started up, Tom following, and behind them Jack. Like they were landlords again, just showing the place to a prospective tenant. Two baths, plenty of street parking, a washer and dryer in the basement. Want to see the back porch, or would you rather just shoot us? Panic thoughts he didn’t have time for. The steps fell away one at a time. His legs tingled, and his palms itched. Soon. He’d never used a knife in anger before, wondered how best to hold it.

But when Anna opened the door, hope quickened in Tom’s chest. Besides the usual squeak of the hinges, there came a series of three quick beeps. The alarm system.

“Goddamnit,” Jack said, his voice irritated more than angry. He stepped forward and put the barrel of the gun under Tom’s chin, then turned to Anna. “Turn it off.”

It was the best chance he was likely to get. Tom dug into his pocket, fingers grazing the ridged plastic of the handle, twisting his body at the same time, his first thought to get out of the line of fire, his second to bring the knife up. Time went liquid, and he could see everything at once without any of it really registering, a twitch around Jack’s eyes as he sensed Tom’s motion, the counter-slosh throbbing of his head as he jerked back fast, another beep from the alarm panel, Anna’s mouth opening to scream, the faint hitch as the knife snagged the edge of his pocket, slowing him down. His chin passed over the gun even as Jack pulled the trigger, a roar like the world breaking, but no pain.

Then he had the knife clear of his pocket, and lunged forward, not planning anything fancy, just stabbing underhanded as hard as he could. He saw Jack twisting too, left arm coming down, and Tom tried to adjust, to make it to the stomach, but Jack was too quick, his forearm slammed into Tom’s hand, weird with resistance and suddenly wet as the blade cut flesh. Jack roared and spun, bringing his gun hand up in a gut punch. The breath blew from Tom’s lungs, and he struggled to swing the knife again, but Jack stepped into him, a hard shoulder-check that knocked him back. His feet caught, and then he was down, the knife bouncing away. Jack dropped to crouch on his chest, the gun unwavering on Tom’s forehead. He was panting, and his eyes blazed, and something wet dripped onto Tom’s face.

MARSHALL JERKED UPRIGHT IN HIS SEAT, one hand on the shotgun, one on the door handle, lips open, leaning forward, poised, waiting. To a civilian, that might have sounded like anything, a firecracker, a truck backfiring, but he knew it for what it was. He waited to hear the second shot.

Nothing. He sucked air through his teeth and stared down the block. One shot. That was strange. The plan had been that after Jack got the money, he’d tell Tom and Anna to lie down, then put a bullet in each of their brains. Nothing personal, just business.

Maybe Jack had needed to kill one of them to coerce the other. Marshall leaned back in the seat. One shot wouldn’t bring the cops. Neither would a second or a third, most likely. It was the kind of neighborhood where people never assumed the worst.

Still. If he was wrong. If one of them had managed to get the gun away from Jack or get to a phone. Sitting on Will Tuttle’s block with an illegal shotgun and half the police looking for him? Bad place to be. The smart thing would be to take off. But the money was inside that house. He knew it, knew it in his gut. If he left now, he cut himself out of the take.

JACK’S LEFT ARM THROBBED, a heat timed to his heartbeat. Without taking the gun off Tom, he twisted his arm to get a look. Shit. It was a pretty good slash, five diagonal inches across the top of his forearm, the skin puckered and pulled away to reveal pink tissue. Blood came free, and wiggling his fingers sent shocks down his spine.

Where had the fucker gotten a knife? If it hadn’t snagged as he was pulling it out . . . Jesus. Something nagged at him, but he couldn’t place it. No time. Things were getting out of hand. “Now.”

He nodded, stood slowly, his eyes on Tom. “Let’s go.” Forcing the pain away. Let them think he couldn’t be wounded, that he was stronger than they could imagine. Fear was good. He tried to think things through, see every angle. The gunshot would have been heard for a block. Marshall would have heard it. Would he split?

The toolkit. He’d noticed it downstairs, in the hallway. Of course. That was where the knife came from. Tom had seemed so cowed, Jack had figured him for a wimp. Turned out the guy had a backbone after all.

She nodded, her eyes on his as she backed toward the counter. A good-looking woman, seemed smart. A shame. Jack looked back and forth between her and Tom, his adrenaline running, tuning him up. He could feel the faint ache in his toes, the heat in his armpits. City sounds came through the windows, the bark of a dog, a faraway siren.

She hesitated, then stretched to pass the screwdriver. When his fingers touched it, it knocked from her hand and clattered to the ground. She froze, then bent, picked it up, shaking. She passed it to Tom.

“You know what to do,” Jack said. Tom turned to face the wall. With his good hand, he stretched the screwdriver above his head and went to work on the return vent. The table rocked slightly as he moved.

Jack watched, gun level, mind steady. Probably two minutes, maybe three, since the woman arrived. Figure another few to get the cover off and dig out the money. His ears buzzed in the aftermath of the gun blast, a rhythmic whine that rose and fell. Tell the couple he was going to tie them up, to lie down. With a .45, one shot each would be plenty. Collect the brass. The guy had the vent cover off, finally.

What else? His gloves should cover him on fingerprints. He’d been bleeding up and down the hallway, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. The cops could match his 1911 to the one at the club, but it would be going over the Skyway Bridge on their way out of town. The whine grew louder, and he realized it wasn’t in his ears, but outside, sirens. As always, there was that moment of automatic panic, but he put it aside. Chicago was a big city.

Still, there was something missing. Something right in front of him. Jack stared at Tom, saw the guy digging as far as he could. Looked at the wife. She stared back at him. Why did that seem wrong? Wasn’t it human nature to be looking up at her husband? Especially if he was pulling money out of the wall? It was almost as if she were—

The sirens stopped, and Jack realized what he’d missed. “Oh, you cunt.” How had he not seen this? Had he been that distracted by pain and surprise? It was only the sirens stopping that triggered him. The cops did that when they wanted to roll up quietly. Screaming sirens to get close, then silence for the final approach. The alarm had a panic code.

Tom Reed was frozen, his right arm lost to the shoulder, his neck twisted to look down at his wife. Anna stood straight-backed, defiant. Jack sighted down the barrel of the 1911. “I still have time to kill you.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. His eyes darted over the kitchen, taking in the windows, the rear door. The cops might be a mile away. They might be a block. No way to know. His cell phone rang. Marshall. He grit his teeth.