The distant chimes from city hall’s clock tower rang out. It was seven o’clock and Carl was losing patience, but a slow breath in and out seemed to help. Valet attendants came and went, but none had climbed into Tom Wallace’s Mercedes, and the number of cars in the lot had diminished by half. Carl lowered his window to let the cool night air flow in—he was growing tired.
Just then, one of the attendants returned to the lot and headed toward Tom’s car. Instantly alert, Carl sat up straight and watched closely.
Come on, already. Get in his car.
The Mercedes headlights flashed, and the attendant opened the door and climbed in.
Yes! It’s about time.
Carl started the Edge, pulled out of the hourly lot, and followed several car lengths behind the Mercedes. Sliding into an open spot along the curb, he waited until he saw Tom exit the hotel lobby, hand the attendant a tip, and climb into his car. After pulling out onto Columbus Drive, Tom made several turns and merged onto the Eisenhower Expressway.
Good, looks like he’s finally heading home to Oak Park. Now to get ahead of him and be waiting when he pulls into the garage.
Carl moved into the far-left lane and zoomed past Tom. He doubted that Tom noticed him, and the man was obviously too preoccupied with hate to pay anyone else an ounce of attention.
Once he’d exited the freeway, Carl drove north on Oak Park Avenue until he arrived at Chicago Avenue. A left and then another left three blocks later put him on Forest Avenue, the street Tom Wallace lived on. Carl had been there before when he was hired for the job. He remembered that the garage was behind the house, and it was constructed of cinder block and stucco, relatively soundproof, especially once the overhead door was lowered. Carl hadn’t made up his mind yet what he’d do with Tom, or where he’d put him, but one thing was for sure—Tom Wallace would never arrive at work the next day.
As fate would have it, Tom lived in a corner house. All Carl had to do was park along the street, tuck the shotgun at his side, and scurry into the back yard of the Wallace home and wait for Tom to arrive. Carl estimated he was five minutes ahead of Tom, so the wait wouldn’t be long. He blended into the darkness at the side fence, an easy ten feet from the overhead garage door, and watched for headlights. Tom would have to pass him to pull into the garage. Carl double-checked the shotgun—it was loaded and ready to fire.
He heard a car approaching and saw headlight beams bounce off the pavement. Seconds later, the front of the Mercedes came into view, and Carl pulled back to remain hidden. Through the passenger-side window, he saw Tom reach up to the visor and press the remote. The door lifted, and Tom inched his car forward. Crouching, Carl ducked in behind the car just before the overhead came down. He’d made it in unseen.
Tom killed the engine and opened the driver’s-side door. Carl listened as the car’s back door opened and closed.
Must have grabbed something from the back seat. Now he’s walking away, so that’s my cue. He’s headed for the house.
Carl leapt out from behind the car with the shotgun drawn on Tom. “Stop right where you are. One wrong move and your body will look like a sieve.”
“Can I turn around?”
“Yeah, go ahead and face your killer.”
“What the hell are you doing, Carl? I told you to never contact me again.”
“Always the arrogant bastard with a chip on his shoulder, aren’t you? Guess you haven’t noticed that this shotgun is aimed at your heart, and I’m a damn good shot.”
“What do you want?”
“The money you owe me, of course. I ought to shoot you right here and now, but then I’d have to search your entire house for your cash supply.” Carl waved the barrel of the gun toward the door as he approached Tom. “Open it and go inside. Stop five feet ahead of me, and keep in mind that I have a hair trigger. That’s figuratively and literally true. Now move.”
“I don’t have any cash here!”
“Shut up and do what I said. Don’t take me as a fool, Wallace, because I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”
Tom lifted his hands. “Okay, fine. Just don’t get an itchy trigger finger with that gun.”
“Now you’re coming to your senses. Where’s the money?”
Tom jerked his head toward the stairs. “In the safe in the master bedroom closet.”
“Then lead the way.” Carl pressed the barrel of the shotgun into the small of Tom’s back as they walked up the stairs. “Which way?”
“Left.”
Carl pushed Tom forward. They entered the oversized bedroom and turned right.
“That’s the closet.” Tom pointed at the double doors. “The safe is inside.”
“Good. Open it, and if you try anything funny, I’ll blow your brains out. Understand?”
“Yes, but you have to give me a second. It’s a combo lock. I need to think, so just stay calm.”
“You’ve got two minutes.”
Tom knelt at the safe and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “You’ll never get any money if you don’t let me open it!”
“Shut up and make it fast. Any games to kill time and you and that safe will explode into small pieces.”
Tom began to panic. He tried the combination twice without the door opening. He pleaded with Carl to give him room.
“I can’t think with the barrel of that shotgun pressed against my temple.”
Carl stepped back several feet and pointed the gun directly at Tom’s midsection. “Now concentrate.”
A third attempt worked. The click confirmed that the number sequence was finally entered correctly.
“There, I have it.”
“Move aside.”
“I still need to use my palm print as a secondary method to open it. Give me a minute.” With his hand against the palm reader, Tom waited until the light turned green then grasped the lever and lifted it upward. The door swung open.
Carl saw a dark object and heard a loud crack. Tom had spun and fired a handgun.
It took only a split second for Carl to realize he’d been hit. “You son of a bitch!” He pulled the trigger, and the shotgun rang out. He’d hit Tom on the left side with a shot that pierced vital organs, his heart, and left lung. Toppling over dead, Tom dropped the gun and lay motionless. Carl ran to the bathroom and pulled down his pants. He was lucky. The bullet had hit the muscle of his outer leg on the right side—a through and through. No matter what, he had to stop the bleeding. He ripped open the medicine cabinet in search of gauze pads and medical tape but found nothing except prescription bottles, which he set on the countertop. He’d probably need them later. He knelt at the cabinet under the sink, pulled out everything, then tore open each vanity drawer but found no gauze or tape. His final option was the closet at his back. Carl turned the doorknob and found what he needed on the shelf above the towels and washcloths.
“Finally. Damn, this shit hurts, but I’ve got to stop the bleeding.” He glanced across the bedroom at the dead man lying in the closet. “Asshole. I would have killed you, anyway, but I wasn’t expecting to be shot in the process. There better be plenty of money in that safe.” He’d look closer once his injury was addressed and the bleeding stopped. “And as long as I’m here, I’m taking those jewelry boxes too.”